By Greta Chen
Runner-up of 2019 Winter Prose Competition
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Dear Mom,
I am writing to you even though I know you will never read this. Mom, I am writing to you in a tongue that is not your own even though I know it was the first indication that you did not belong, the language of the first words that turned you away.
In Beijing, you introduced me to your friends, saying, Zhè shì wǒ de nü'er. This is my daughter. They glanced at me before turning back to you and asking, Tā tīng dé dǒng ma? Does she understand? Yes, I wanted to reply, I understand.
See, this is something we have in common: We understand better than anyone that home sometimes swallows you whole before spitting you back out—calls it rebirth, calls it salvation.
—
When I was in fifth grade I used the f-word on the playground. You were so angry you couldn’t even look at me, slammed the door and refused to speak to me for the rest of the week. I was a child repeating the things I heard on TV. I didn’t know the wretched hope inside you—the same hope you saw on my face every time I smiled.
When I was in kindergarten I skipped naptime every day to read a picture book about a mouse who was teased for her long, intricate name. Chrysanthemum. I understood that flower child, how pride and shame feel kind of the same sometimes. Mother, did you name me rain because you knew that one day I would be baptized? That my mother country birthed me backwards, and I am homesick. I cough up heritage. I speak silence.
—
The first time I yelled back, I must have been eight. The tears, the storm, my mouth an open floodgate. Nothing I do will ever be enough.
Duì bù qǐ. We only know how to show love through success, through opportunity. You always told me to Nǔ lì xué xi. I didn’t come here for you to play around.
How could I tell you that everything I do is for you, that I live in constant fear of disappointing you? Would you still love me if I wasn’t your perfect daughter?
You need to work hard.
Okay, Mom. Wǒ huì nǔ lì xué xi.
—
Two summers ago, I consumed my passport in the airport on the layover in Chicago. My stomach is swollen with a language I don’t remember but can’t forget. My Chinese is the rusting of railroads built decades ago by the hands of immigrants. My Chinese is a spirit wedged between vocal cords; it searches for a sentence but finds only dishonor.
Two springs ago, I flew by myself for the first time. College decisions came out in a place where I was alone and afraid. Sitting on the floor of the airport, I read letter after letter that told me I was not enough, and I did not call you because I was scared you would do the same. To be your daughter is to be insecure, is to be the cracked glass of a windowpane.
—
If fate permits, I will have inherited something other than loss. There will be a history we can share.
They say home is where the heart is, but I have yet to find a home, which is to say, I have lost my heart. I was born starving and you broke your body for me. I am sorry I looked for love in all the wrong places—Mother, we share the same hunger. I can’t promise to stay, but I can promise to love you.
I can’t promise to stay, but I can promise to love you.
Critique
Thank you so much for your submission to our Winter Story Contest! What stood out to us most about this piece was the emotional genuineness. It’s clear you were speaking from the heart and that added volumes to getting your story across to us. I am going to very quickly run through a few vague critiques before we get into the nitpicky stuff :)
Primarily, we would have loved a little more to this story. The conciseness is important given that it’s a letter, but by stretching the length out just a bit you could have added so much more imagery. Focus on that old cliché: showing but not telling. You’ve got some great scenes here and if you spun in some imagery you’d really throw us in there. That immersion plus your already amazing emotional depth would be a home run.
Going with that added length, you could also include a few more scenes from childhood. What you already have is great and says a lot about your relationship with your mother. Adding more would say even more. Of course, there’s a good balance between length and depth. At this point, we think to find that balance you could add some more content.
Here’s some detailed feedback on a line-by-line basis:
First of all, even though I know this isn’t truly a thesis, your line “We understand better than anyone that home sometimes swallows you whole before spitting you back out—calls it rebirth, calls it salvation” was gorgeous and I feel like it really set the stage for the rest of the piece! So call it a thesis if you want—if not, great start at establishing the story’s themes.
This is a personal preference, but I would have loved for your anecdotes to be in order. Instead of fifth grade to eight years old to two summer ago, how about starting with age eight and building up to two summers ago? It would add some structure to the story.
“College decisions came out in a place where I was alone and afraid.” This is nitpicky, but “in a place where” is a kind of difficult phrase to swallow. How about “Two springs ago, I flew by myself for the first time, alone and afraid. College decisions came out and I sat on the floor of the airport, reading letter after letter…”
Again: intriguing, raw piece. You did a great job of giving us a clear idea of the complex, beautiful relationship you have with your mother. As always, these comments are just suggestions and ultimately your work is your own!
Thank you again for your submission!
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