NONFICTION 8 Lunar New Year Dinner and Red Envelope Emojis by Courtney Cheng
POETRY 22 kantha by Marianne Jones
FICTION 24 The Hickory County Fair Calf Scramble by T.S. Parnell
NONFICTION 34 Searching for Abdul Basit by Joshua Lim
POETRY 50 Tending to the Floribundas by Will Wells
POETRY 52 Hutch by Stephen Swain
FICTION 54 ASTRAY by Bruce Golden
CONTRIBUTORS 58
[ FOREWORD ]
This year I’ll get better grades. This year I’ll finally get in shape. This year I’ll get a better job. This year I’ll fall in love and finally be loved
in return. This year I’ll have enough money to take my dream vacation. This year I’ll get a pet. These are the types of hopes that roll around in the consciousness of humanity at the turn of a calendar’s pages, and this fall brings no different sets of aspirations to my students and myself, I am sure. Fall is the time when we who live in academic communities reset our goals, and resolutions like those many others make on December 31 seem to float into our classrooms on the warm August air.
The phrase, “If wishes were horses, beggars would ride” comes to mind— an old saying that means you must act on your wishes if you want to see them come to fruition. Simple enough.
But for my part at least, having a goal and concocting a plan to achieve it are not the only steps in the process toward following one’s dreams. The difference between hope and achievement is being ready to act, and that is the bit that presents more of a challenge typically. There must be a conscious jumping off into the new unknown. Parents of young children might remark, “oh, he’ll X when he’s ready” about any number of developmental milestones, and we adults are no different.
Popular culture has long embraced the importance of readiness; think about the many hit songs that feature the idea—”Get Ready” by the Temptations released in 1966 comes to mind, as does the 2017 Taylor Swift song, “...Ready for it?” and dozens more that drift easily through my mental playback. I doubt we’d sing about it so much if it was something that came easily. If we look to sacred literature, there are well more than 100 Bible verses that focus on some type of readiness, and about half as many in the Quran. Buddhist teachings on mindfulness use readiness as a central concept, and the Bhagavad Gita encourages readiness without attachment to specific outcomes. Surely a survey of other religions and philosophies would reflect back to us how enchanted humanity is with discovering how to be ready for our lives and futures.
Here in BSR’s tenth volume, we are ready for you.
Happy reading,
Sara Wigal, Editor
Sunrise
By: Ana Reisens
Somewhere the sky has opened.
I love you; I hope you know this.
The night fades like a distant ship; we need not speak of it.
Just listen. The starlings sweep the sky; the wind brushes our skin.
I breathe. You breathe.
Perhaps this is a greater gift than anything the sun may bring.
Lunar New Year Dinner and Red Envelope Emojis
Courtney Cheng
February, 2022. I was twenty-eight. Five days before Lunar New Year, my partner and I
were invited to a dinner celebration by one of our closest friends in business school. She was an international student from Taiwan, someone I would have loved to celebrate with given our shared heritage. My answer, however, was an immediate no. COVID was sweeping across Los Angeles for the nth time. I was still reluctant to turn her down, so I asked my partner—Jesse—to do so on our behalf.
He texted her back without hesitation then turned to me. “Can we do something to celebrate Lunar New Year?”
My knowledge of typical Lunar New Year dinner menus was limited to fish (年年有魚, “every year, there’s fish”) and noodles and nián gāo
Photography: Justin Bautista
(
年糕, rice cake), which I’d picked up from the mix of traditions and stereotypes I’d consumed over the years. I knew enough to know my family’s traditions were off par from the course.
“That’s a lot,” I hedged.
“You don’t have to cook. We can order food or something.”
Logically, I knew this was a viable option. Jesse and I were both in our second year of business school at UCLA not getting enough sleep. Emotionally, I didn’t feel that ordering takeout was a viable or an acceptable option. Ordering takeout, especially in response to the first time someone outside my family asked me to celebrate Lunar New Year with them, felt like a betrayal to traditions I felt I should have as pillars of my identity. Those traditions, I imagined, were of home-cooked meals, red envelopes, and cleaning house at the right times before and after the new year so you didn’t sweep your luck away. Never mind that my own immigrant parents had brought takeout home to my brother and me. That was our tradition, not a broader Taiwanese nor Asian American tradition, and I wanted to give Jesse a true Taiwanese and Asian American experience.
“You can’t get takeout on Lunar New Year!” It felt shameful to admit my family had.
“Then you can make just one special thing.”
“You can’t just do that. You have to do the whole thing, or it’s just not legit.” My arguments were based solely on what I believed to be the principle of the matter.
“Okay. I don’t want to make too much work for you. I just thought it’d be nice for us to celebrate together because I’ve never celebrated it before.”
Jesse is not Taiwanese American, or Asian American, or Asian. He is Mexican American. Crosses hung over two doorways in our shared home. Spanish was more commonly heard during phone calls than Mandarin. He made us quesadillas native to his family’s home in Northern Mexico and carne asada tacos more often than I made any Asian-inspired dish. His identity felt rooted firmly in his culture, family, and upbringing. In contrast, I felt like a reluctant banana. A child of immigrants unable to hold a full conversation with her parents in their mother tongue, ripened by the whiteness I had grown up around despite the years I’d BARTed around the Bay Area drinking boba with my Asian American youth orchestra peers who had similarly grown up in white suburbia.
“You’re not,” I said. “I’ll cook dinner for us to celebrate Lunar New Year.”
“Only if you have time,” he insisted.
“I have time—I don’t have class on Tuesdays.” I did not have class on Tuesdays, but I did not have time. I forced the time into existence on Outlook: two hours to research dishes, one hour to find and order ingredients from Weee! delivery, four hours to cook, and one and a half hours to eat. This was the only way I could ensure Lunar New Year would remain a priority.
BFebruary, 2000. I was six, holding aloft a limp, green cloth dragon with my classmates. Our little hands and heads held the creature aloft as we followed in a line behind our teacher through the school hallways. I remember the dragon had been more medieval European than classical Asian with a snout that was thin rather than boxy, eyes beady rather than blinking. My steps felt a confusing mix of excitement and concern. I was eager for the festivities, proud to have a little taste of my culture experienced at school. Yet, I also worried about seeming too enthusiastic. It was obvious that I was the only student who would celebrate this holiday at home, and I was already the class goody two-shoes. I didn’t need another reason to seem different.
“Is it cute enough? Is it too serious? Is it too cute though? Is it not serious enough?” I knew the questions were code for, “Are these too Asian?” and “Are these American enough?”
A variation of this feeling recurred each year in school. In January, 2001, I began gifting my classmates candy-filled red envelopes like Valentine’s candy grams during Lunar New Year. This was likely my parents’ idea, but now that I had graduated from goody two-shoes to teacher’s pet, I wasn’t above the small popularity boost that came from bringing my peers candy. A core memory persists from these years. Me standing with a fishnet bag of gold foil-covered chocolate coins at 99 Ranch, counting classmates based on my memory of the classroom desk arrangement. A bag of redwrapped lucky candies sitting in the grocery cart. My mom hovering nearby as she counted red envelopes through their plastic wrapping. There was always one red envelope design that had a cute, smiling cartoon drawing of the zodiac animal each year.
My parents and I would debate which design would be most suitable for
my classmates. “Is it cute enough? Is it too serious? Is it too cute though? Is it not serious enough?” I knew the questions were code for, “Are these too Asian?” and “Are these American enough?”
I enjoyed these 99 Ranch excursions and being my class’s red envelope distributor until January, 2004. As a fourth grader that year, I had earned the ability alongside the fifth graders to purchase sour worms or gummies for a dollar as Valentine’s candy grams. These would then be delivered to the appropriate friends’ classrooms on Valentine’s Day. I bought my five closest friends candy grams and gave them red envelopes, but only received two packets of sour worms in return.
In fifth grade, we began studying American history in class. I remember anxiously anticipating our unit about the first Chinese immigrants who’d come to the U.S. to work on the transcontinental railroad. I felt drawn to these Chinese laborers. Reading those passages aloud in class made me feel seen. It didn’t matter that I was Taiwanese and not Chinese, that they worked in abysmal conditions, or were treated horribly. They looked like me. I looked like them. I received one packet of gummies that year.
Memories of family celebrations at home are mild in comparison. One of my parents, my brother, or myself might get a haircut from the Vietnamese woman working at the local Supercuts the week prior. My mom would maybe cook mí fěn (米粉, rice noodles), or we’d get takeout from Three Brothers from China. Options in our white inland east Bay Area town were limited. Our parents gave my brother and me hóng bāo (紅包, red envelopes). The hóng bāo, which were often envelopes leftover from my elementary school classroom giveaways, turned into bank transfers after my brother and I moved out after high school. As the years went on, celebrating meant texting gōng xǐ, gōng xǐ (恭喜,恭喜, best wishes) to my parents and xīn nián kuài lè (新年快樂, Happy New Year) to our extended family. Add red envelope emoji. Add corresponding animal of the zodiac emoji for extra festivity.
I came to appreciate and expect the pattern of reduction and quietness, the simplicity of the symbols and practices my family maintained. I missed the attention I received each year in school but did not miss the accompanying emotional turmoil. I had no other point of lived comparison beyond the larger, louder traditions I saw on the Taiwanese news channels my parents watched, so I thought this was what it meant to celebrate Lunar New Year in America: quietly, without fuss, without fanfare.
BI was nineteen when I started baking and cooking with my Asian American friends in college. We made exclusively western dishes. More than a third of the student population at UC Berkeley at the time was Asian or Asian American, but it was still challenging to find Asian ingredients without a car to get to the 99 Ranch in Richmond a few miles north of campus. It was easier and more popular on Instagram to make American, French, or Italian food. My parents noticed this and poked fun at me by claiming I must have been European in a past life.
The only other times my parents had referenced my identity in such a way were when I was in elementary school. They would remind my brother and me that we were ABCs, American Born Chinese kids. ABT, or American Born Taiwanese, had yet to enter the vernacular. These callouts came after my brother and I had refused to speak Mandarin or behaved in another way that signaled to our parents we had become too American. “When people look at you, they know you’re Asian and will expect you to speak Chinese,” they would explain in Mandarin. “But I am American,” I would think to myself in English while I imagined rolling my eyes, waiting for them to finish lecturing so I could escape to my bedroom.
My identity otherwise went unacknowledged. My parents didn’t force my brother and me to continue attending Chinese school, study Mandarin at home, or not speak English to them. We went to Taiwan just three times as a family. I was barely nine for the first two trips, so they felt like adventures where I left behind the chores at home and routines of school to board a plane to a foreign country where I rode public transit and ate out almost daily. My parents’ asks of me in Taiwan to dutifully greet relatives and light incense and honor my ancestors at certain times throughout the day felt like interruptions.
I was twenty-one on the third trip. It was an abrupt five days for my paternal grandfather’s funeral. I was old enough to understand this trip was not an adventure, that the actions asked of me during the funeral ceremony were important. But I was still not wise enough to understand the context nor significance of my actions since no one explained them to me. And then we were home again. After each visit, I returned to California where I spent my preteen and teenage years collecting European interests like British boy bands and highbrow literature in my English major courses. I basked in my American-ness.
I was twenty-two and fresh out of college when I finally felt the freedom
to explore and become more aware of my Asian-ness. American school systems were no longer my primary environment of influence. I began to be more intentional about incorporating Asian flavors into my cooking and baking. This became easier tactically as chefs like Melissa King and Molly Yeh gained popularity on Instagram, and I moved (back) out of my parents’ suburban neighborhood to Berkeley, with a car. This was never difficult emotionally. It felt like relief. My taste buds, despite my parents’ jokes and all the French cafes I’d frequented in college, still preferred the flavors they had grown up with. I sought to knead myself back into my identity through the sauces I used and the doughs I made in my kitchen.
I learned to make dense, spongy mochi muffins with crispy, browned edges that baked with an almost caramel aroma inspired by Third Culture Bakery—a Berkeley-based institution founded by two men from Indonesia and Taiwan—with Thai coconut milk and Japanese mochiko flour. I played with black sesame seeds to create soft, moist scones—a creation that incorporated the earthy, subtly sweet taste of my favorite Taiwanese flavor into my mom’s favorite western pastry with a texture that was closer to Starbucks banana bread than an English scone. I taught myself to flavor cookies, muffins, and frosting with matcha powder, transforming the bite of the powder’s bitterness with just enough sugar into a flavor that contrasted with and complemented American cocoa powder.
I regularly and eagerly made the forty-minute drive home to share my culinary creations with my parents. The kitchen became an outlet to explore my Asian American culture through food, a safe space where I could relax into the pride I felt in expressing myself as a Taiwanese American and Asian American.
BMarch, 2020. I was twenty-six. COVID. Anti-Asian hate. China virus. Asian elders attacked in Oakland, mere miles from my home in Berkeley. Michelle Go in New York. It was easy to doomscroll in those early days when panic ran abound and it was forbidden to step beyond your front door. I was quarantined with my acquaintance of a roommate, so I made regular calls to my friends and family. COVID came with scientific facts and figures that made the virus easy to discuss despite our collective fear of the illness. Anti-Asian hate had facts and figures that elicited anxiety, numbness, and incomprehension that made the topic easier to not acknowledge. Grocery stores were one of the few places that remained permissible
to go, even if the bread, pasta, and potato shelves were often empty. Food delivery remained an operating service. My friends could not come over to eat, but I could still bring food to them, so I busied myself in the kitchen for three to six hours every weekend making elaborate Asian recipes I found online. Then, I would spend another two to three hours driving around the Bay Area making socially distanced deliveries of my food.
In my singular tiny pot, I made níu ròu mìen (牛肉麵, beef noodle soup) with tender, slow-cooked beef and broth flavored with the slightest hints of star anise, five spice, and soy sauce. I experimented with yeast to make the fluffy outsides of savory steamed ground pork and minced chive-stuffed bāo (包, bun) and sweet purple yam-swirled mán tóu (饅頭, steamed bun). I kneaded dough by hand to make a Chinese bakery staple bō luó bāo (菠蘿包, pineapple buns) stuffed with a buttery sweet coconut filling and craft a beloved Taiwanese street food cōng yóu bǐng (蔥油餅, green onion pancakes) by rolling minced green onion within layers and layers of thin dough to create the salty, flaky final product.
It gave me a sense of purpose to hunt for specific ingredients at Berkeley Bowl with my homemade face mask and return home to don my apron, to reconnect with myself during a turbulent time in a way that kept my community fed, my health safe, and my brain, hands, and heart occupied.
BSeptember, 2020. COVID. Anti-Asian hate. Articles about the record highs and percent increases of anti-Asian hate crimes made the headlines every week. My social media was filled with this language but in real, albeit virtual, conversations, my community remained silent and solitary in our assumed fear, anger, and stress.
I moved to Los Angeles for business school. The schedules for recruiting and structures of student organizations within the space of school felt, even on Zoom, rigid and corporate. You could hear it in the language people used before you saw the company they featured on their LinkedIn profile, see it in the demographics of those around you before anyone uttered a single word.
I felt doughy from my six months of making distanced deliveries of homemade bāo and mochi muffins and matcha cookies. The collective isolation that had been forced upon us had sheltered me from external influences and given me space to expand into my new, softer, Asian American self. Now I was thrust back into the world, back into systems of higher
education and corporate America that were unkind to people who were different from the majority. The politics and social systems in school ate at me. I felt I was losing a bit of myself each day just to remain upright, and I didn’t know who to turn to for support. My new classmates—including Jesse—were too new; my community from home wouldn’t fully understand the pressures I faced.
My schedule didn’t afford me time to retreat to the kitchen to recoup, so the work of affirming my identity and value began consuming my emotional energy. The pride I had taken in my culinary creations now barely registered as an aftertaste. It felt foolish to define my Asian American-ness upon my ability to make noodles and buns when I felt obligated to validate myself whenever I was the only Asian American in the room. This happened often.
I hung up my apron.
B
March, 2021. I was twenty-seven. COVID. Anti-Asian hate. The Atlanta spa shooting. I do not recall celebrating Lunar New Year that year, but I remember vividly crying on a Zoom call our school program had organized for Asian American students and allies to process the news. I had been trying to share my reflections in the open space when the tears came.
Part of me felt like I was eleven again, sitting in my fifth grade classroom thumbing ahead to the page of our history textbook that contained the sparse paragraphs about the Chinese laborers. This time I saw myself in the women who had been killed. Part of me felt like I was six again, standing under that limp green dragon, uncertain I wanted my peers to know how I truly felt. This time I thought I did want my peers to know.
But I had gotten used to silence. I was used to being alone. I wouldn’t have raised my virtual hand if I’d known I was going to sob. I remember vaguely what I’d managed to say: When I was growing up, I never felt like I’d found a place where I felt I fully belonged.
B
February, 2022. I was twenty-eight. COVID. Anti-Asian hate. Christina Lee. The constant news instilled a fear for my safety, yet I had gone twenty-eight years of my own life escaping targeted racism. I also ate predominantly American food like supermarket spaghetti sauce from Ralph’s despite knowing the preferences of my taste buds. I did not feel Asian enough
to claim solidarity, to feel the anger and fear I did. The past two years had taught me how food was no anchor for my identity. Especially not when daily interactions implied that light-skinned East Asian Americans were favored when they chose to be stereotypes of themselves, outspoken about dining at Asian restaurants but silent about community and solidarity. These people were my community, but I did not feel at home with them. I sought out different spaces for different identities and still received questioning second glances. It became clear that my identity had never been a sauce or a dough or even the flour you scatter on the counter before rolling out the dough to make bāo. My identity was the dust of the flour that remained after you’d finished the rolling and the kneading and the steaming. The dust you would take a wet rag to sweep into the trash.
Yet against the foil of my partner with his Spanish fluency, his Oaxaca cheese and adobo peppers in our kitchen, his knowledge of the cultural traditions that came from his family’s Catholic background—I hated being the reluctant banana. It felt unacceptable to bear witness to the depth of his identity while I watched mine disappear. My years of shunning Chinese school, refusing to speak my parents’ native language, of not having asked my parents “why?” from a place of curiosity rather than rebellion when they told me to do anything in Taiwan now haunted me. I felt resolutely American, although I knew I was not. I felt fear for my safety while reading the news, uncertainty about whether I should conduct myself differently for self-preservation. There was always a persistent underlying sense that something wasn’t right.
I had asked Jesse to turn down our friend’s Lunar New Year invite because of my COVID precautions. I hadn’t told Jesse my family had gotten takeout for Lunar New Year because I wished I had more traditional practices to share. My insistence to make a multi-dish Lunar New Year dinner at an inconvenient time stemmed from my conviction to claim equal cultural weight within my relationship, to make space for the emotions I had denied for years, and to embrace my identity through the one strong connection I had with it: the kitchen.
BTo ring in the Year of the Tiger in 2022, there would be salmon flavored with dark soy sauce and fresh ginger and scallions, crispy Chinese yu choy sum in a bed of oyster sauce, thin glass noodles stir fried with pork belly and napa cabbage, and sticky red bean nián gāo (年 糕, rice cake),
recipe courtesy of one of my Chinese college baking friends. On Monday afternoon, I spent the break of my three-hour Zoom class unpacking the Weee! delivery of our dinner ingredients. On Tuesday afternoon, I put on my apron as Jesse sat on Zoom calls to complete group assignments in our living room.
The nián gāo went into the oven first, then the rice into my TaTung rice cooker, and the crispy glass noodles into a pot of water. I washed the baking supplies for the nián gāo: chopped ginger, garlic, scallion, yu choy, shiitake mushrooms, and napa cabbage while listening to class readings. By the time the nián gāo was done, I had yet to turn on the stove, but sweat already dripped off my forehead.
Jesse asked if he should cancel his remaining meetings to help.
“No.”
I cursed when the fish splattered me with hot oil. The finished noodles were dumped unceremoniously into one of my massive Pyrex mixing bowls, the only bowl large enough to contain its volume. I found three weathered Cuties in our fridge and retrieved my plush tiger to decorate the table.
The kitchen was a mess. My entire being felt sweaty and spent. Before me was a table laden with Chinese-Taiwanese dishes, set with a cultural mismatch of chopsticks and forks. The food was beautiful, even if sloppily plated. I sent photos to accompany my texts of 新年快 樂 (Happy New Year) and red envelope emojis to my family chat. My brother joked to save him a bowl or two; he’d be there in six hours after he drove down from Sunnyvale. My parents sent back their compliments with celebratory emojis: faces with hungry tongues and tigers.
I wished I was still close enough to drive home, bearing the entire meal. I wished I was there to share these stupidly plated noodles and the betterthan-store-bought nián gāo and this memory with them.
B
I spent dinner consulting Google and battling shame to answer Jesse’s questions between bites. “What does ‘Every year we have fish’ mean? Do you still receive red envelopes? What other dishes are common at Lunar New Year?” I felt every inch of my reluctant banana self with limited stereotypes and no foundational knowledge to give depth to the culture, recipes, and history I’d sought to create. It felt like such a descent to have gone from purchasing red envelopes with my parents at 99 Ranch and
receiving a new red envelope every year to receiving reused red envelopes and now logging into my bank account to confirm I received my red envelope money via transfer.
I felt embarrassed to confess I had grown up on Lunar New Year takeout meals when I had so recently rejected the idea for our own dinner. I remember my mom would apologize those years when she came back with our takeout order from Three Brothers from China—always the same four dishes of seafood chow mein, sauteed green beans in black bean sauce, spicy fried pork chops, and white fish with baby bok choy—and reminisce about the elaborate spreads her mom, my wài pó (外婆, maternal grandmother), would cook for the new year. One of the family favorites had been my grandmother’s prawns in ketchup sauce. My mom hated those prawns, but she remembered wistfully her mother’s soups and vegetables and slow-cooked meats that she lamented lacking the skill and patience and right ingredients in America to make.
It made me sad to hear my mom relive these memories. As a child, I mourned that I would never enjoy one of my wài pó’s famous Lunar New Year meals, but even in my young selfishness, I grieved more for the meals and the years my mom lost with her mother after she had immigrated to America. I couldn’t imagine a version of my life where I wouldn’t see my mom for years, a time when I would decide to leave home and not return for any holiday traditions or meals or celebrations, a reality where the traditions I carried out for my family were more of my own creation than born from the fond memories I had made with my parents. Retelling these stories as an adult as I was already creating my own traditions away from home made the grief taste more bitter.
Then Jesse asked about the nián gāo that he loved. I told him also about the canned red bean I had used to flavor it. I didn’t originally like this sweet, sticky red bean dessert topping when I had first tried it with condensed milk on shaved ice. On hot summer weekends during elementary school, I would make this late afternoon treat after spending hours with my parents pulling weeds or laying down new mulch or watering the plants, or with my brother playing catch on our patio or riding our bikes around the court we lived on. As a family, we’d gather around the kitchen counter with the fluorescent lights off, to preserve electricity and avoid generating more heat, and take turns cranking our little blue ice shaving machine by hand. It was the cold dessert of choice, particularly if my dad declared it too hot to boil boba. My dad and brother enjoyed both equally, but my mom fa-
vored red bean more than the condensed milk while I preferred the condensed milk over the red bean.
Years after we retired our little hand crank shaved ice machine, I began to prefer the red bean to the condensed milk in fancy boba drinks my brother would bring whenever he came home to visit our parents and in puffy baked bō luó bāo (pineapple buns) that one of my best friends would buy for us from little Cantonese bakeries in downtown Oakland.
BDinner took closer to two hours than one and a half. As Jesse cleaned the kitchen, I texted our Taiwanese friend: 恭喜, 恭喜, 新年快樂 (Best wishes and Happy New Year), how was dinner?
She and some other classmates had ended up doing a potluck—some homemade dishes, some takeout dishes from restaurants like Din Tai Fung. Did you do a dinner with Jesse?
I sent her the same photo I had sent to my family earlier with the forks lined up next to the chopsticks and my plush tiger sitting proudly next to our Cuties.
Wow, looks so good!
I didn’t tell her that I’d forgotten to purchase the pork belly for the noodles, so I’d made a last-minute substitution with a half-used package of hickory smoked bacon that Jesse had bought because it had been on sale at Ralph’s. The noodles came out with a smokier flavor than what the calledfor rich umami oyster sauce and white pepper—like its black pepper cousin but with thinner granules and a subtler kick—should have given it.
I think I preferred my Taiwanese American amendment to the recipe’s original intent. I think a true Taiwanese person might have been suspicious of the Americanized flavor. I think if I confessed this substitution to my parents, they would wave off my worry and assure me, “Bù yào gào sù rén jiù hǎo le. (不要告訴人就好了。It’s okay, just don’t tell anyone.)”
kantha
By: Marianne Jones
Hindu texts say the universe is a continuous fabric woven by the gods and the lord of tatters returns a whole cloth in exchange for a rag. The unschooled women in Bengali unspool discarded saris to recount their lives in kantha embroidery. Forbidden even to speak their husbands’ names, their voices are heard as soft and persistent as mourning doves in every stitch.
The freedom quilts of America called out from slave to slave.
Lacking books, they read the constellations of cotton and thread, color and shape: a language unknown to their learned masters.
When the quilters of Gee’s Bend pieced together the ragged slices of their lives into whole cloth, they were not thinking they would be praised for their ability to combine survival and beauty. It was just what you did: it is more than the body that needs to survive.
Every day I stitch words together. Hunched over paper, I join phrases in blocks, join shape to shape contrast light to dark striving for the transcendence of those women with their calloused hands and curved spines.
The Hickory County Fair
Calf Scramble
TFICTION ]
welve-years-old is the minimum age to enter the annual calf scramble, but none had
T.S. Parnell ever taken home a calf. The fifteen-, sixteen-, and seventeen-year-olds were more experienced, and usually faster and stronger. Caleb Duskin caught one at thirteen, but he already had a mustache and played linebacker on the junior varsity football team.
Lily Parsons turned twelve on July thirtieth, the day before the deadline to enter one’s name in the drawing to participate. Two days later, after the ten names were drawn, Lily’s mother received the phone call.
“Hello,” Mabel said. She tucked the landline receiver between her ear and shoulder. She needed both hands to make sure the scrambled eggs wouldn’t burn. “Mhmm–oh, she did, did she?”
Photography: Thomas Oldenburger
Lily glanced up from the Goosebumps paperback she read at the dining room table. George Parsons, her father, folded down his newspaper and looked at Lily over the top of it. They always spent Saturday mornings reading together at the table while they waited for breakfast.
“What’d she do?” George asked Lily.
“She put her name in the calf scramble,” Lily said.
George chuckled out his nose. “Oh boy.”
“I’ll let her know… thanks, Phil,” Mabel said. She hung up the phone and turned toward the dining room. “Lily Grace?”
She didn’t yell. Mabel Parsons never raised her voice to Lily or her husband George. She never had to.
“Yes, Mama?” Lily said.
Mabel walked into the dining room carrying a skillet of steaming scrambled eggs. “I just got off the phone with Phil Gunderson from the 4-H Club,” she said. “He says you put your name in for the calf scramble.”
Lily didn’t know what to say. She thought, in that moment, it might have been a better idea to tell her parents before she put her name in the drawing. Her father saved her from the awkward silence.
“That’s my girl,” George said, shooting a wink in Lily’s direction.
“Yes, she is,” Mabel said, “and she’s my girl too. Also, apparently, the first twelve-year-old girl to have her name drawn in twenty years, according to Phil.”
“Well, how about that,” George said.
“No,” Mabel said, “Do you know why there hasn’t been a twelve-yearold’s name drawn in twenty years? Because twelve-year-old girls don’t put their name in for the calf scramble in the first place.”
“The rules say any twelve-year-old in the 4-H Club can try,” Lily said.
“They also say the fair ain’t responsible if you get sent to the hospital,” Mabel said.
“You ain’t gettin’ sent to the hospital, now are ya, kid?” George said.
Lily didn’t show a single change in her face. No emotions displayed.
“Lily,” Mabel said. She sat at the table and spoke to Lily on her level. “I love you. I know you want to do this. I’m just worried. There’s a lot that could happen. It’s not entirely safe, even for the bigger kids. And you don’t have any experience roping cattle.”
“She helped round up all the piglets at Craig’s farm up the hill,” George said, “and she chased that runaway sheep all the way from the fairgrounds to the National Guard Armory last year. Lily’s the one that actually caught
the damned thing.”
“That sheep was no bigger than a labrador,” Mabel said. “These calves are four or five hundred pounds each.”
“I can do it, Mama,” Lily said.
Mabel cracked a small smile. She let out a sigh and looked her daughter straight in the eye. “I know you can, sweetheart. It’s just—”
“She’s worried about you gettin’ hurt, baby,” George said, “that’s all.”
“You don’t need to worry, Mama,” Lily said, “I got a plan.”
B“You won’t even tell me?” Tommy asked.
Tommy Craig and Lily practiced in the pig barn at the fair. Lily pretended to be a pig on her hands and knees. Tommy stood behind her, gently tapping her sides with his show whip. Tommy still liked to practice as much as possible, even though he’d been showing pigs for five years already.
“Can’t risk it,” Lily said.
“I’m not gonna steal your plan,” Tommy said. “We’re pig farmers. We don’t need a calf. I only put my name in because my brother did it when he was fourteen, too.”
She wondered if the piggy knew it was going to be sold off to certain death. She thought about Wilbur and Charlotte. She thought about Babe. She thought about the sausage patties she had for breakfast.
Lily shifted her weight for a moment to scratch her nose, then put her hand right back down to stay in position. The straw on the ground crackled under her weight. The smell of mud and manure mixed with the scent of funnel cakes drifting in from the midway. Lily didn’t mind it. She tried to hold still so Tommy could keep practicing.
“I trust you, Tommy,” Lily said, “but this one’s got to be just for me. It’s about more than winning a calf.”
Tommy gave Lily a whack on the back harder than he intended.
“Ouch!” Lily yelped.
“Sorry!” Tommy said. “That’s for not telling your best friend your
top-secret plan. I’m good now. That’s enough practice.”
Lily stood up and brushed the straw and dirt off her jeans as Tommy’s show pig snored happily next to them. In a few hours, it would be paraded around the show barn. Tommy would guide it with his show whip, tapping its sides and back depending which way he wanted it to trot. Potential buyers would look it over. The top bidder would take it for butchering. Tommy and Lily watched as its wiry-haired side rose and fell.
“Pop says not to name ‘em,” Tommy said. “Makes it too hard to sell ‘em when they got a name… knowin’ they’re gonna be turned to bacon and all. Makes ‘em feel more like pets than livestock.”
Lily didn’t utter a word. She kept her eyes on the pig. She wondered if the piggy knew it was going to be sold off to certain death. She thought about Wilbur and Charlotte. She thought about Babe. She thought about the sausage patties she had for breakfast.
“Don’t name your cow if you catch one,” Tommy said. “You’re not going to catch one. Twelve-year-olds never do. But if you get drawn again when you’re my age, and you catch one, don’t name it.”
B
Every year, the week of the Hickory County Fair, the grandstands filled the most on Wednesday night. Tuesday was always the rodeo. Thursday was the tractor pull. Friday was the demolition derby. Crowds came for all those events, but they also cost a few dollars for admission. When a lemon shake-up kept going up in price by a quarter each year, folks didn’t want to spend more at the fair than necessary. So, Wednesday was always the fullest. Wednesday was free for spectators. Wednesday was the calf scramble.
Lily stood by the rails on the inside of the arena. Next to her, in a straight line, stood the other nine kids. Each wore Levi’s, boots, and a plain white t-shirt. Johnny Murphy and Alice Richards both wore cowboy hats. Tommy Craig wore the same green and yellow John Deere ball cap he wore every other day of his life. Lily had pulled back her hair into a single, thick braid. She kept her hands tucked in the front pocket of her overalls.
The bleachers buzzed with chatter and excitement as Phil Gunderson, head of the 4-H Club, introduced each participant. Lily’s eyes scanned the seats looking for her mother and father. A glint of mischief sparkled in them. When Phil announced Lily’s name, the sound of a cowbell erupted from the bleachers above the lackluster applause. Her eyes shot toward it. She saw her father standing five rows up from the front. He held his
right arm high in the air, ringing the bell as hard as he could with a grin plastered across his whiskered face. Next to him sat Mabel. Her lips curled into a small smile. Lily thought she looked a little worried, but certainly not angry. George gave Lily a typical dad’s thumbs up. Never embarrassed by him, Lily returned the gesture.
“Once someone has their hands or their lasso on a calf, no one else can touch it unless it gets loose again,” Phil instructed. “Remember, the calf isn’t yours until you get it inside the pen at the front of the arena. Understood? All right! Then let’s get started. Ready? Set? Release them calves!”
The scramble didn’t start off in chaos and commotion. It never did. Just like every year, the four calves stayed together in their herd. They trotted out of the trailer and down the ramp into the arena together. As the first few kids walked toward the calves, they moved along the edge from corner to corner of the arena, which spread out roughly to half the size of a football field.
After about five minutes of following the herd, Johnny made the first definitive move. He approached at an angle and shot toward them in the corner at a sudden sprint. He only grazed one’s tail with his hand, but his try split the herd into two pairs. Then the contest really started.
Two of the older highschoolers chased one pair of calves. None of the kids were fast enough to catch them on foot from behind. Even if one of the kids was a star on the track team, it just wasn’t possible. Everyone who ever watched a calf scramble knew you had to intercept them by getting into their path from the front.
That’s what Alice did. One calf veered from the railing and ran straight through the middle of the arena. Alice sidestepped at the last second and collared it with both of her arms. She wrapped them tight around its neck and held on for dear life. She tried to wrap her lasso around its head as it pulled her. Her boots dragged the ground, kicking up dirt along its path. Alice lost her grip and hit the ground hard, knocking the wind out of her. The crowd gasped and held their breath until she picked herself back up a few seconds later. They gave her a cautious applause as she limped over to the railing to rest a moment.
While the others repeatedly ran and chased the calves from one side to the other and back again, Lily didn’t move. As the chaos ramped up around her, she watched calmly from where she stood.
In the stands, George turned to his wife. “Do you think she’s scared?” he asked.
Mabel shook her head. “Like she said… she’s got a plan,” she said. That secret plan was exactly what filled her mind in that moment. The others resorted to brute force and endurance. It was their instinct. They’d seen every person before them compete in the annual calf scramble the exact same way. And it would work eventually. The calves would get too tired. The bigger kids who managed to last long enough, without getting knocked down too hard or trampled, would rope and drag them to the pen. That’s why a twelve-year-old didn’t stand a chance. Or that’s what everyone thought.
The calf that threw Alice to the ground doubled back along the far railing. It approached the spot where all the kids started—where Lily still stood. It sprinted and huffed, kicking up dust and darting its eyes like it was running from a predator. Before it cut back toward the inside to dodge her, Lily cupped her hands around her mouth and let out a low, guttural sound.
The crowd hushed. Mabel stood, her gaze fixed on Lily.
George nudged Mabel with his elbow. “What was that? The cow?”
“No,” Mabel said. “That was Lily.”
George scrunched his eyebrows and narrowed his sights. “Huh? What’s she doing?”
Mabel let out a soft chuckle. “She’s… she’s mooing.”
Lily mooed again. A hum of laughter started to build as the crowd realized what was happening. The other kids joined in the erupting laughter— everyone except for Tommy Craig. He watched in anticipation, because when Lily mooed for the third time, the calf slowed down.
“Mmmooooo!” Lily moaned from the back of her throat and up through her nose. The calf slowed to a walk. It stared at Lily. The crowd grew quiet until a complete hush settled over the arena.
The calf walked slow and steady directly toward Lily, with a hint of apprehension. It stopped five feet away from her and mooed as if it were talking back.
“What the— ” Johnny said.
The other three calves mooed in a huddle at the corner of the arena. The crowd turned their heads in unison, like they were watching a tennis match, toward the mooing cows and back to this strange little girl.
Lily dropped her lasso to the ground. She extended her arm with her palm up. The calf hesitated long enough for the spectators to take a collective gasp, then it walked forward and put its chin in Lily’s hand.
The moment was so shocking, the other nine wranglers stood there gawking, jaws on the ground, as the rest of the calves walked over to Lily like she was their own mother. It would have been easy for any of the other competitors to rope one, but none of them could look away from what was happening. It was hypnotic.
When all four calves gathered around Lily, she pulled the first’s head toward her face. She bent over, put her mouth to its ear and whispered something into it. Then she pulled back and let go of the animal.
Lily turned and started walking toward the pen at the front of the arena. Her stride was abnormal. She brought her knees up too high and kicked her feet out behind her at the ankles. Her steps were out of sync with the rest of her body—or at least it seemed that way watching a person doing it. Once she was halfway to the pen, everyone realized she was strutting like a cow.
The four calves followed closely behind Lily, keeping only a step or two off her heels. When she reached the pen, she pulled open the gate. The hinges squealed as it opened like the chains on a playground swing. Then, two by two, the calves entered the pen. Lily swung the gate closed.
Silence stayed settled over the arena a moment longer, before the crowd erupted in a roar. Everyone got to their feet. George Parsons rang his cowbell so hard, Mabel’s left eardrum buzzed for a week.
Lily stuck her hands back in the front pocket of her overalls and gave a tight-lipped smile to her standing ovation.
BFor the first time, a twelve-year-old had caught not just one calf in the 4-H Club Hickory County Fair Annual Calf Scramble, but all four.
This was against the rules, of course. After catching one calf, a wrangler could not go back for another. And although Lily never technically caught one (they followed her willingly), it was decided that she would have to forfeit three of the calves to other kids. Those other nine competitors, George and Mabel Parsons, and Lily met with Phil Gunderson to discuss it. Lily conceded to the idea under one condition.
“And what’s the condition?” Phil asked. “You can’t keep the money for their sale at next year’s fair, if that’s what you’re hoping for.”
Lily gave him an incredulous look.
“Absolutely not,” she said. “I don’t want them to be sold at all.”
“Excuse me?” said Phil.
“They can’t be sold for butchering. They have to be kept as pets. I promised.”
“Promised who?” George asked.
“Josie, Betty, Louisa, and Sue.”
Tommy rubbed the back of his neck and chuckled.
“Oh, God in heaven,” he said. “She named ‘em,”
“Named who?” Phil asked.
“The cows,” said Tommy. “She named the cows.”
Phil looked back at Lily, his face distorted in absolute confusion. “You promised the cows they wouldn’t get sold to a butcher?”
She nodded a single, definitive nod.
“Well, why would you go and do a thing like that?” Phil was befuddled in a way he’d never experienced before.
Lily looked him straight in the eyes. “How else was I supposed to get them to follow me to the pen?”
B
By the end of the meeting, Lily’s demands were met. She got to choose who received the other three calves, deciding it would be best to give Sue and Betty to two of the younger kids. She gave Louisa to her best friend, Tommy Craig, and kept Josie for herself. All signed a handwritten promissory contract that they would keep and raise the heifers as pets, never to sell them for butchering.
After walking out of the meeting, George and Mabel hugged their daughter tightly.
“That was incredible, kid,” George said.
Mabel kissed Lily’s cheek and smiled, “What a plan, Lily Grace. What a plan.”
As the fairgrounds began to empty, a few families lingered, approaching Lily to commend her bravery and creativity. Some asked how she did it. She knew she couldn’t provide a satisfying answer, so she stayed coy with a simple shrug.
Later, as the fair lights dimmed, Lily sat with Tommy on the hood of her father’s truck, looking out over the barns and quieted carnival rides.
“Did you really believe it would work?” Tommy asked. “Leading up to, I mean. How’d you know?” He sounded completely sincere—still full of awe from the evening’s events.
Lily shrugged, watching the stars begin to pepper the night sky. “Some-
times, you just have to learn to speak someone else’s language,” she said. “That’s all we really want—a little understanding, whether we’re cows or people.”
Tommy nodded, cracking the slightest smile. “You’re quite persuasive.”
Lily laughed, still looking at the sky. “Maybe,” she said. “Tonight, I’m just happy to know that Josie and the others are sleeping peacefully. That’s enough for me.”
As they sat in silence, the soft mooing of their calves nearby gave the gentle reminder that sometimes the boldest acts are the acts of kindness.
Searching for Abdul Basit
Joshua Lim
Masroor sat facing me across the coffee table in his little rented flat in Klang, the
town which contains one of the largest refugee populations in Malaysia. He leaned back in his chair, watching me eat the food that his wife had prepared, his hands clasped around one knee, deep in thought. It was May, 2021—more than a year since Abdul Basit’s incident.
“How did it all start?” I asked him after I had eaten and thanked him profusely for the meal. “I want to write the whole story so that people can hear about what happened to Abdul Basit. Can you tell me everything from the beginning?”
“Yes, brother,” said Masroor with a smile, “Brother, no one has ever interviewed me in ten years here.” His English was not perfect, but he was far more fluent than most other refugees,
Photography: Abdul Ridwan
Pakistani or Burmese or otherwise.
I took out my pen and notebook. Masroor poured me a cup of tea, poured one for himself, took a sip and began.
B
Masroor Ahmed received the call just before he got off work on that particular Tuesday. He was a lorry driver’s coolie, which meant eight hours of lifting and loading goods until his thighs and back muscles started to hurt, but he did not complain because he needed the money. As a refugee, I should be happy just to get a job here in Malaysia, he reminded himself. Not everyone manages to find work.
“What do you mean, gone missing?” he said into the phone in Urdu.
The voice on the other end squawked some more.
“I’ll go and check on him as soon as I can,” said Masroor. He hung up, put the second hand Nokia back into his pocket and walked up to his superior, the Indian lorry driver, who was lighting a cigarette beside his parked truck.
“Boss, we have finished today?” asked Masroor. His English had improved greatly ever since he fled Pakistan to Malaysia five years before, but he still did not understand a shred of Malay. His superior did not speak great English either, but they managed to communicate well enough.
The lorry driver grunted.
“Thank you, boss,” said Masroor. His mind was whirring with questions after that call from Abdul Basit’s co-tenant. Where is Abdul Basit? Where has he disappeared to for the past week? He forced himself to focus. First get my wages, then go look for Abdul Basit.
The paymaster paid him twenty ringgit.
Masroor accepted it without argument. It had always been this way, and he had learnt that no good would come out of arguing and trying to claim his promised payment of three ringgit an hour. At least I’m not like some others who can’t find a job, he reasoned. This way I have a source of income and I can feed my family. He thanked the paymaster and left quickly, heading towards Abdul Basit’s apartment.
BTwenty-six-year-old Abdul Basit had recently gotten his UNHCR papers labeling him as a recognized asylum seeker, so he was feeling pretty upbeat as he walked back home from work. He had come from Pakistan
three years ago. He was sharing one of the cheap rental apartments with other refugee families in the poor end of Klang Town, and he glanced carefully around as he walked down the road back to his flat. It was 8:00 p.m.
People did not like to come to this area of Klang. On the streets, you could see tall Africans, big-bearded Pakistanis, and a myriad of Myanmar refugees coming and going all the time. There were legal Indonesians and a handful of Malaysian citizens living here too, but an overwhelming number of the lodgers were non-citizens—legal or otherwise—and the police were well aware of this.
Maybe I should move closer to Mohamed Shoaib’s place, thought Abdul Basit, recalling a friend’s house where he and Masroor had dinner the previous night. Shoaib lived in an area with more Malays (and therefore less police).
He forced himself to act casual when he saw a police car rolling down the street. In the darkness, you may pass as a local Punjabi, he remembered Masroor’s advice.
Abdul Basit was familiar with the stories of what happened to refugees who were caught by the police. No matter if you were stopped in a roadblock, caught in a surprise house raid, or intercepted while crossing a street, if you were an illegal refugee with no papers, to the border or to jail you would instantly go. He and Masroor both had their papers from the United Nations agency, as did many other refugees, but it was never safe to be caught in the company of those who did not.
Abdul Basit wasn’t surprised when the police car slowed down and stopped him, but he wasn’t too scared either. After all, he had his papers.
“I.C.?” said the policeman, rolling down the window. Identity card?
Abdul Basit shook his head and pulled out his wallet.
There were two officers in the car. Both of them got out and approached him cautiously, as if expecting him to make a sudden movement. One wore a small, well-trimmed mustache, while his partner was clean-shaven.
“UN papers, sir,” said Abdul Basit in English. He, too, knew no Malay.
The mustached officer studied his photocopied copy of his documents and frowned.
Abdul Basit did not carry the original around with him for fear of losing it.
“There is problem with your papers,” said Officer Mustache. “You need to come to the police station.”
Abdul Basit stared. “What?”
“Your papers have problem,” snapped the clean-shaven officer. Most policemen did not speak great English either. “You must come to police station with us. We need to check.”
“Sir, I get my UN papers last week from UN office!”
“We will check at the police station.”
Abdul Basit tried to explain, “The original is at my friend’s house. I go and take for you. The house is very near.” He pointed in the general direction of Masroor’s lodgings, no more than a few blocks away from his own.
Officer Clean-Shaven raised to his full height, one hand reaching for the baton hanging from his belt as if daring him to resist. Abdul Basit looked from one stern face to another. Calm down, you have UN documents, it’s going to be alright, he tried to reassure himself.
“Please, I go and get my documents for you, sir.”
“Sit inside,” ordered Officer Mustache.
Abdul Basit got into the backseat of the police car. The two policemen returned to their seats, revved the engine, and the car sped away from the apartment buildings.
B
When Masroor reached Abdul Basit’s flat, it was the other tenants who answered the door. Abdul Basit shared the rent with three other refugee families, each family taking one room, with himself sleeping in the living room. The lady who answered the door was the mother of the Punjabi Sikh family.
“Abdul Basit is here?” asked Masroor in English.
“No,” said the woman, “he hasn’t come back for many days.”
“I am his friend,” said Masroor. “I am looking for him.”
The woman recognized Masroor from his previous visits. She led him to the pile of bags and clothes beside the living room couch that constituted Abdul Basit’s belongings.
“We need to pay rent soon,” she said. “Abdul Basit needs to pay also. I thought he was staying with his friend. But he never come back, so we get worried.”
“I know,” said Masroor. “Your husband called me on my phone.”
He fumbled with the bags, which contained mostly clothes and necessities. Abdul Basit left his important documents and money in Masroor’s place for safekeeping and kept his phone and wallet on his person at all times. There were always bad apples around, especially in this neighborhood. The blankets were folded neatly, but there was no sign that his pos-
sessions had been touched or tampered with by anyone.
“When is the last time he is here?”
The woman counted on her fingers.
“Eight days ago. He go out and didn’t come back.”
“Morning or evening?”
“Morning go to work, evening didn’t come back.”
Masroor tried to recall. Eight days ago, he and Abdul Basit had dinner with Mohamed Shoaib and his family. Or was it nine days ago? He counted again. Yes, nine days ago was the dinner, and he had left early with his family, leaving Abdul Basit chatting with Shoaib.
“The night before that, what time did he come back?” he asked.
The woman thought about it.
“Abdul Basit normally come back very early,” she said. “I remember he come back very late that night. I hear him come in, very late. Maybe two o’clock or three o’clock. Next day he go to work and never come back.”
Masroor knocked on the door of the other Pakistani family sharing the unit and asked them the same questions, receiving almost the same answers. As the woman watched, he pulled out his Nokia and called his other Pakistani friends who possessed cell phones, asking them about Abdul Basit. None of them knew a thing.
Time to ask Mohamed Shoaib, Masroor thought to himself, pocketing the phone and running out of the door. Abdul Basit, where are you?
B
The police car turned off the road before reaching the police station. Abdul Basit’s heart sank. He had heard many stories, but until then, he had not experienced it himself. One of the stories he remembered was from a Rohingya refugee family, stopped by a roadblock while traveling in a car.
“Did you have documents?” Abdul Basit had asked the father.
“No,” was the answer. “But we had 150 ringgit, and they took it all.”
Abdul Basit had expressed his anger at that injustice, but the Rohingya man only smiled. “Better than me and my family sent back home or to jail,” he said.
Home.
They got Abdul Basit to stand on the sidewalk.
“You are illegal,” said Officer Mustache, who seemed to be the more senior of the two. “If we bring you in, you will be jailed and deported.”
“Sir, that is my true document, it is photocopy—”
Officer Mustache folded up the copy and put it away in his own pocket. “I can take it. If you don’t have documents when we bring you to the station, we can send you back to Pakistan. Do what we say, we will let you go.”
Abdul Basit said nothing.
“Wallet,” commanded Officer Mustache, and Abdul Basit handed it over.
Officer Clean-Shaven patted him down and searched his pockets, while Officer Mustache combed through his wallet and took all his money. Abdul Basit watched his few notes disappear into the senior officer’s pocket. The only thing they did not touch was his secondhand Samsung. Officer Mustache took some time double-checking the compartments, evidently unsatisfied with the amount. Then, he spoke to his partner in Malay.
Abdul Basit listened, not understanding. Officer Clean-Shaven nodded in acknowledgement and shone his flashlight in Abdul Basit’s face, making him squint.
“Perfect,” said Officer Mustache in satisfaction. “You must come to police station.”
“You said—”
“Do you want to go home?”
Abdul Basit fell silent.
The wallet returned to his pocket, the police car sped off to the police station, leaving no trace behind in the darkened road.
BMohamed Shoaib was home when Masroor knocked.
“Masroor!” called Shoaib. He was a portly old man who had brought his entire family with him from Pakistan. “What a surprise! Why are you here?”
“Abdul Basit is missing,” said Masroor. His urgency made Shoaib’s expression change instantly into one of concern. “He has been missing for eight days, since the day we had dinner in your home.”
“Why, we must find him!” cried Shoaib. He shouted to his wife, telling her that he must go find Abdul Basit, and within five minutes they were on the streets, Masroor telling Shoaib everything he knew.
“We must go to the police to ask!” said Shoaib.
Masroor grimaced.
“Let’s call Brother Andy first. He might know how to help.”
Brother Andy worked with a non-governmental organization that helped the refugees in Klang, and he knew Masroor personally. A Malay-
sian was the best person to ask for help in situations like these. Masroor and Shoaib stopped beside the road and rang his number.
“Brother Andy!”
“Hello, Masroor!” came the familiar voice on the other end. “I’m sorry if it’s a bit loud here, I’m outstation right now. Is something wrong?”
“Yes, Brother. Abdul Basit is missing for eight days, Brother. We don’t know what to do, Brother. He did not go home for eight days.”
There was a pause at the other end. “Say again?”
Masroor repeated himself.
“He is nowhere to be found?”
“No, Brother.”
“Does he have his documents?”
“Yes, Brother. He got a photocopy inside his wallet.”
“Alright, at least he’s registered. You could try going to the police station and making a missing person report.” Masroor must have hesitated too long, for Brother Andy continued, “Don’t worry about the legal part of it, if there’s anything, I’ll see what I can do with the UN office, okay? Bring his original documents and go find the police first.”
“Thank you so much, Brother.”
“Good luck, Masroor.” End call.
Mohamed Shoaib was rubbing his hands anxiously. Masroor grimly put the phone in his pocket. “The police,” he said under his breath.
B“Kneel!” shouted Officer Mustache.
When Abdul Basit was slow to respond, Officer Clean-Shaven kicked him behind the knee, forcing him to the ground. By then they had handcuffed him, and the metal was biting painfully into his wrists. Abdul Basit groaned and sat in a kneeling posture, while Officer Mustache took a chair.
They were inside the police station. They had breezed through the outer rooms so fast that Abdul Basit wasn’t sure what they looked like. The policemen had brought him straight into one of the unadorned inner rooms, looking more like a jail cell than anything, and told him clearly that he was a criminal.
“Sir, I am not a criminal!”
Officer Mustache took out a file of records and started scanning the pages. “You are a suspect. There was a robbery last night in the place where you stay, Bayu Heights. You stay on the fifth floor; the robbery happened
on the fourth floor. The woman said the attacker is a tall Indian man. I suspect you are the criminal.”
Abdul Basit could only gape. He struggled for words, as the policeman flipped the page and took out a drawing.
“This is the drawing from the woman’s description,” said Officer Mustache, showing it to him. “This looks like you!”
Abdul Basit stared at the paper.
It was a well-sketched face—clearly done by a good artist—that did not resemble Abdul Basit at all. The forehead was higher and flatter than his own. The man’s features were drawn like a regular Indian, but the face was long-shaped, while Abdul Basit’s was rounder. And the portrait had a tiny goatee, whereas Abdul Basit sported a sizable beard.
“Sir, that is not me!” protested Abdul Basit. “Look at my beard, and the face!”
Officer Mustache turned the paper around and frowned. “It looks like you,” he said resolutely. “They drew this following the description.”
Officer Clean-Shaven spoke in Malay.
Officer Mustache grunted back in Malay. Although Abdul Basit did not know the words, he knew the meaning clearly enough when Officer Mustache folded up the drawing and handed it back to Officer Clean-Shaven and made a shooing motion.
“Sir!” cried Abdul Basit. “When did the crime happen?”
Officer Mustache turned back to his notes. “Yesterday, midnight.”
Abdul Basit felt hope rising in his heart. “I was not at home at that time!” he cried. “I was at my friend’s house, eating dinner! You can ask my friends! I am not a criminal!”
He saw the kick coming a second too late. Officer Clean-Shaven’s leg slammed into his face, sending him thudding to the ground. With his hands cuffed behind him, Abdul Basit could only groan and writhe, feeling blood trickling down his nose.
“You still deny it?” shouted Officer Clean-Shaven. “You are definitely the criminal!”
Abdul Basit rolled over slightly and saw the two police officers shaking hands, clearly congratulating themselves on their success. He saw his phone and wallet disappear into a plastic bag. They were speaking in a mixture of Malay and English terms, so he overheard the words “record time” and “case closed” before he was dragged up roughly again.
BMasroor went alone, for Shoaib did not speak a word of English and had no documents— a deadly combination for a refugee. He had never been inside a police station (he thanked Allah for it) but as he stepped through the doorway, he felt a nervous tingle that would not go away. No refugee ever wants to go to the police unless absolutely necessary.
There was a fat officer sitting behind a desk, scribbling on some paper. After some deliberation, Masroor decided to approach him, mentally marking him as Police A.
“Excuse me, sir?”
Police A looked up, frowning. “Apa?” he said. What?
Masroor put on a smile. “I want to make a missing people report, sir.”
Police A reached behind him and took out a slip of paper with a number. He started giving instructions in Malay, losing Masroor completely.
“I’m sorry, sir, I don’t understand.”
Now Police A looked at him properly, squinting at his face. “Bangladesh?”
“Pakistan. I am a United Nations registered asylum seeker,” said Masroor. He took out his own documents and showed them to the officer, who cast a quick look and handed it back. “I want to find my missing friend. His name is Abdul Basit.”
“What?”
Masroor handed over Abdul Basit’s photocopied documents. They had made multiple copies for further safety.
Police A glanced at the name.
“Missing when?”
“Eleventh July,” said Masroor. “Eight days ago.”
Police A’s frown grew deeper. He seemed to mull it over, then he pushed back his chair and went to the back with the documents, calling to someone in Malay. He spun back as an afterthought. “Wait at the side,” he said.
There were seats for people waiting in line for their turn. Masroor obediently sat down on the nearest seat. No sooner had he sat down when a side door opened and a tall Police B walked out. He saw Masroor and stared at him.
“You! What do you want?”
Masroor gestured at the empty desk. “I... I want to make missing person report—”
“Pakistan?”
“Yes, sir. UN registered asylum—”
“Who asked you to sit down? Stand at the side!”
Masroor leapt off the seat instantly. He chided himself. He told you to wait, not to sit. Masroor, you’re going to get yourself in trouble if you don’t listen clearly to instructions.
“You have a number?”
Masroor showed his slip.
Police B frowned and walked past him into the back, where Police A appeared and returned to his seat, giving him a side-eyed glance.
Masroor waited patiently by the wall while the clock kept ticking. He double-checked that he had Abdul Basit’s original documents with him. After ten minutes, Police C walked out and called his number. Masroor quickly moved up to the counter.
“Missing person, sir,” said Masroor.
Police B came out and started talking in Malay, and Police C replied with an irritated expression. Then Police C asked, “Where are your documents?”
Police B passed him the papers.
Police C frowned, then turned to Masroor.
“Oh, this man is a criminal. He was wanted for robbery and attempted rape. He has been arrested and sent to jail.”
B
Filthy, smelly, cramped—all words to describe Sungai Buloh Prison.
The first policeman that handled him at the prison struck him in the face and laughed.
“Rapist,” he sneered. “Get used to being in prison. You will be here for twenty years.”
Abdul Basit glared at him out of his swollen face. He had borne kicks and beatings in the police station, but he could still see out of both eyes. “I am innocent, I have UN paper—”
The next blow sent him staggering. The police officer laughed, then shouted in Malay. Other officers came and grabbed Abdul Basit by the arms. They dragged him into a side room and punished him for talking back, screaming in Malay all the time.
The other men in the large jail cell inched away when the policemen threw Abdul Basit in among them, a limp figure bruised and bloody. “This is a rapist!” shouted one of the officers, stomping on Abdul Basit’s foot one
last time. “You all must be careful!” Their laughter echoed down the corridor behind them.
Abdul Basit pulled himself up against the bars.
Around him were Indians, Malays, Pakistanis, Indonesians, people from all races and countries, both legal and illegal, in here for assorted reasons, too many men squeezed into one cell. It stank horribly of sweat and filth. The floor of the cell was damp with mud and nameless dirt. Through his watery eyes, Abdul Basit could see the other men keeping their distance from him, some giving him dirty looks.
“I am not a rapist,” he said to no one in particular.
No one answered.
I am not one of them, but I’m locked in here with criminals. Allah, protect me.
“There is a mistake,” Masroor insisted. “Why is he in jail?”
Police B read from a folder. “Breaking In, Robbery, Attempted Rape, Possession Of Weapon, and having a fake identity document.”
Masroor pointed at the documents in Police C’s hands. “But that is Abdul Basit’s UN documents, sir. He got it from the UN office last week.”
Police C shook his head. “This looks like a fake,” he said. “Illegal refugees with false documents is a very big crime. We will keep these papers for further investigation.”
“It is a photocopy, sir. We have the original.”
Police C glared at him, but Police A asked a question in Malay from the number counter, and Police B shook his head. Police C handed the papers back to Masroor.
“He will still need investigation,” said Police C. “The evidence is strong. The victims have identified him as the robber. The case is closed.”
Masroor was speechless for a long moment. He stood in the middle of the police station, fumbling with the papers in his hands, trying to find something to say. He could feel the gazes of the policemen on him and see the distaste in their eyes.
“Don’t waste our time anymore,” said Police C, turning on his heel.
As he walked away, Masroor heard him snort and comment to the others in Malay. He understood not a single word, but he knew they were talking about him. He could almost guess their words. Refugee. Illegal. Who cares about them?
Brother Andy, he told himself. I must call Brother Andy.
B
The only source of water in the prison was from the pipe beside the toilet bowl. The rest of the toilet itself was unwashed, black-stained—in other words, the cells were only marginally cleaner. Health? Good luck with that. They were fed nothing but gruel, barely enough to keep them alive. Abdul Basit saw men so sick that they could hardly move, only dragged out by the guards when they looked almost dead.
Violence from guards was commonplace. Most of what they yelled was in Malay anyway. Abdul Basit did not understand a word. He watched them beat other men and learned quickly. The guards might not kick your face, for you had to be presentable before the judge when your time for trial comes, but they would not hold back kicking anywhere else.
Abdul Basit’s time turned out to be two weeks. He spent most of that time clinging to the walls or the bars, praying over and over that Allah would hear him in the depths of a foreign jail. Aside from the danger of the guards, violence among inmates happened every day, and Abdul Basit did not wish to be stabbed, beaten or worse.
“Ya Allah, protect me...”
B
Masroor’s first thought when he finally saw Abdul Basit was: Allah help us.
Two weeks had done a lot to the man who was once tall and full of flesh. Abdul Basit looked like a tree that had been sucked dry and thrown into a pigsty. His clothes were grimy—the orange jumpsuit that all detainees were made to wear—and his bones were sticking out through his skin. His face was sallow and pale, his hair and beard unkempt. He was barefoot on the cold floor.
He came in through the doors of the courtroom dragged by two police officers, still with his hands cuffed behind his back. His head was lowered, and he did not notice Masroor standing inside.
Masroor made straight for him, but a policeman stopped him before he got within any close distance. “Apa hal?” said the policeman gruffly. What do you want?
“Please, sir, I just want to speak to him,” said Masroor, pointing at Abdul Basit.
“No talking to the criminal.”
“Please sir, I need to talk to him. Just talk only.”
“You want to talk to him, it is a hundred ringgit,” said the policeman.
Masroor looked desperately past his shoulder. “Please sir—”
“A hundred ringgit to talk to him.”
Masroor took out his wallet and gave the policeman the money. The officer pocketed it and gestured at the mineral water bottle in Masroor’s hand.
“That water?”
Masroor glanced at Abdul Basit, noting his weak appearance with a sinking heart. “Can I give him the water?”
“Then you have to pay. Another fifty ringgit.”
“But—”
“Do you want to give him water? This is the rule. You have to pay fifty ringgit.”
Masroor looked at the money he had left in his wallet.
“Sir—”
“Go back and sit down.”
Masroor took out three notes. “Sir, I only have thirty ringgit, take it all. I just want to talk to him and give him this water.”
Abdul Basit glanced up at Masroor’s voice. The moment he saw his friend, he dropped his head and began to weep. The policeman said something in Malay, and the other two stepped forward to block Masroor from touching their prisoner.
“Basit,” called Masroor.
Tears were streaking through Abdul Basit’s beard and dripping to the ground.
“What happened? How did it come to this? You didn’t do the crime, right? Are you alright? Where is your phone and wallet? Did you show the officers your UN documents?”
Abdul Basit shook his head.
Masroor wasn’t sure which of the questions he was answering. “Brother Andy is trying to find a lawyer for you,” he told him. That was true, although Brother Andy had expressed the difficulty of finding a lawyer willing to represent a Pakistani refugee in a Malaysian court. “Brother Andy is still outstation, so I am here to ask the court to give us more time. We know that you did not do the crime. We will try to find proof to fight in court. Just trust Allah and stay strong.”
“If you want to get him out,” said the officer, “there is an easier way,
no need lawyer.” Masroor could hear the underlying implication as clear as if the officer had just delved into his pocket and waved money in front of his face.
Abdul Basit said something in Urdu. Masroor leaned in. “What?”
“Masroor... I want to go home.”
The words hit Masroor so hard, he couldn’t think of what to say.
Abdul Basit looked up and met his gaze. His eyes were glistening, begging, pleading with him. The eyes of a broken man. “I want to go home. Please bring me home.”
Home, thought Masroor, wanting to chuckle in spite of himself. Home?
“Time’s up,” declared the policeman. “Give him the water and go back.”
“Hang on, brother,” Masroor urged, as the other officers took the water bottle on the prisoner’s behalf and began pushing him back away from Abdul Basit. “Stay strong, brother! We will get you out! We will find a way!”
BMy cup of tea sat untouched. I had been jotting down notes for the past half hour, but towards the end my pen did not move as I sat there listening to Masroor recount what had occurred—things that happened some time ago but would be remembered forever. Uttering the final words of his story, Masroor leaned back in his chair and stared into the distance.
“This country is not our home. Why should we expect them to treat us any differently?”
“How did it end?” I asked. “Bail or bribe?”
“I don’t know, but it was six thousand dollars,” said Masroor. I winced at the amount.
“Brother, we had to get a lot of help. Brother Andy helped us contact friends in Ipoh. It was a few months, and then we gave the money to the police and we got Abdul Basit out.”
Abdul Basit was now living in Ipoh with some Punjabi friends, and he was graciously willing when I asked to interview him about his experiences through a video conference call. His voice trembled a little as he spoke, and I do not know if it was caused by my weak internet connection or his emotion.
“I give thanks to Allah that I was found,” said Abdul Basit. He looked thinner than in his photos—Masroor said that he has not yet gained back the weight he lost. “I saw many who were lost inside, Brother, but there was no one to look for them.”
“Doesn’t this make you angry?” I said. “That the police treat refugees like this?”
Abdul Basit shrugs and smiles sadly.
“This is the way it is, Brother,” he says. “This country is not our home. Why should we expect them to treat us any differently?”
Tending to the Floribundas
By: Will Wells
When he turns the spigot, the kinked hose flails the lawn –a green constrictor wracked by a seizure. Somehow it matches his mind, badly shaken by envenomed words from the night before, her silence since then driving him outdoors. Simple annoyance had tightened its grip, squeezing nurtured resentment into wrath. Now, even water seems to seethe with rage.
In August drought, the roses need watering, those overbred and fragile ornamentals, reputed to stand for love, and therefore prone to aphids and untimely death. He hates the pruning and spraying, the wounding thorns, but cursing them solves nothing. Maybe if he breaks down clods and lays a pebble border, he will look up to find her face abloom in the kitchen window.
Hutch
By: Stephen Swain
After it happened, I tried to imagine a body in my head— bone and blood and flesh and skin. We couldn’t bury you, so we chose roots instead. We planted lilacs alone by the fence, probably too late, an honest, shallow gesture.
But the image and those branches remained bare, skeletal, icy in dirt under the weight of snow the next year, they became the only reminder of life untethered.
You are an unboxed, unfinished puzzle, an abstract of neon, scarred only with potential, bits of breath and light in the day that never come together, a radiance that exists outside the bounds of others.
Held by nothing, you’re undone with infinite gifts— the grace of your mother and an all-too-familiar stubbornness. I like to think I’d know you better than I know myself. Sure, it’s better to have loved and lost, but it’s hard to lose or love what you never held.
After and beyond conception, somewhere in the ether, you exist as water since those lilacs never bloomed either. Constant, in rain clouds we keep you, shapeless, to fit the space around us, unbound and endless. We’ll find you like mists are restored to seas. Together, forever specters. Always. Eventually.
ASTRAY
Bruce Golden
Fatigue only pushed them onward. Concepts of time diffused in their wake. Hun-
ger atrophied—a hollow thought redressed by expectation.
On and on and on they soared through the comforting cold of liquid space. Above them the great void; below the dense, rocky base of the world; ahead only blackness. Gliding up, then down, the congregation moved as a single entity, graceful behemoths linked by a shared resolve.
But the longer their pilgrimage progressed, the warmer their environs became, the more unorthodox their course seemed. Uneasiness circulated throughout the cluster. At first, it was only a feeling, a vague sense of apprehension. Then, a solitary voice cried out.
“ Let us turn back and make for more temper -
Photography: Charley Aldea
ate currents .”
For the first time since the journey began, their communal purpose wavered. Doubt and indecision spread unspoken.
“We must keep going,” called the master pilot. “Follow me, my brothers and sisters. Follow me to a better world.”
“I’m no longer certain,” said another. “Why must we do this?”
A greater world awaits us—a world so wondrous and bountiful that it defies imagination. All you must do is follow me.
“There is no longer a place for us in this world,” said the pilot with authority. “It has been fouled by those with no reverence for the true order of things. We are a spiritual minority wallowing in the swill of a soulless majority. But have faith, brothers and sisters. A greater world awaits us—a world so wondrous and bountiful that it defies imagination. All you must do is follow me. Follow me through the depths of despair and into the light of never-ending bliss.”
A swell of assent surged through the congregation, and its collective intent was fortified. The master pilot increased his speed, relying on renewed hope to sustain them. Conviction and a shared allegiance drove them on.
“It won’t be long now,” he assured them. “When the time comes, do not fear. The threshold to the new world may seem bewildering, even painful. Suppress the pain. Ignore the strangeness of it all. Instead rejoice in what lies ahead. Drink from the pool of righteousness I offer you, and have faith. Above all, have faith.”
Onward they swam through the foreign waters that grew more and more tainted. On and on until the brine tasted of silt and the base of the world grew closer… ever closer. When it was nearly close enough to reach out and touch, misgivings were resurrected. The congregation looked to their leader for guidance. He accelerated. They followed.
With the suddenness of a predatory attack, they broke through the surface of their world into the blinding light of the void. A solid mass clutched their bodies and held them immobile. They struggled desperately to breathe, crushed by their own monstrous weight. The void and its brightness were familiar, but the gritty firmness beneath them was terrifying.
Dozens cried out.
“Fear not!” commanded the master pilot. “This is the threshold. Bear witness to the strength of your brothers and sisters, and trust in that in which you believe. A new world awaits us. Have faith!”
WELLFLEET, Mass. – Frantic efforts to save more than forty pilot whales that beached themselves on a stretch of Cape Cod sand failed yesterday. Dozens of volunteers tried to keep the small whales wet with buckets of water, and attempted to push some back out to deeper water. However, those that were pushed out returned to the beach with a mysterious single-mindedness. All forty-six whales died. Scientists say pilot whales are highly sociable mammals that travel and feed together in large pods, and have a “follow the leader” social structure. While no one knows exactly why whales beach themselves, it’s theorized the animals lose their sense of navigation while feeding or following a sick animal that has gone astray.
FICTION
Page 24
T.S. Parnell is a multi-genre author from Indiana. His work has been featured in Suburban Witchcraft and Sheepshead Review, as well as shortlisted and a finalist in various contests. He is currently at work on his debut novel. When not writing or reading, he can be found exploring used and local bookstores or sitting in the back corner of a movie theater. He lives in Wichita with his family. Connect with him at tsparnell.com.
Page 54
Bruce Golden’s short stories have been published across more than two dozen countries and 40 anthologies. His novel The Omega Legacy looks at A.I. through a post-humankind lens. His book Monster Town, a satirical send-up of old hard-boiled detective stories featuring movie monsters of the black & white era, has been stuck in TV series development hell for some years now. His latest book, The Tower Jockeys is part satire, part memoir, and based on his time in the U.S. Army as one of America’s last draftees. It’s been referred to as “the Catch-22 of a new generation.”
NONFICTION
Page 8
Courtney Cheng is a proud Bay Area native currently living in Dallas. She holds a BA in English Literature from UC Berkeley and an MBA from UCLA Anderson. Beyond writing, she holds a wide range of hobbies including dancing bachata, baking Asian American fusion desserts, playing violin, and kickboxing.
Page 34
Joshua Lim is a medical student and writer of speculative fiction from Klang, Malaysia. His stories are published in Fantasy Magazine, PodCastle, The Dark, The Deadlands, and more.
POETRY
Page 6
Ana Reisens is a poet, writer, and avid enthusiast of all things winged and wild. Her poems have been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, and you can find them in The Threepenny Review, Crannóg, and The Bombay Literary Magazine, among other places. She lives in Spain, where she enjoys long walks in the woods and is always in search of her next meal.
Page 22
Marianne Jones’ work has appeared in Wascana Review, Room, Danforth Review, and several anthologies. Her poetry has won awards from The Canadian Authors Association, Northwestern Ontario Writers Workshop, The Word Guild, Writers Digest and the Poetry Matters Project. In 2010 she was named International Christian Poet Laureate by the Utmost Christian Writers Guild. Her novel, Maud and Me, (Crossfield, 2021) won the Best Fiction award from The Word Guild. Marianne lives in Thunder Bay with her husband Reg.
Page 50
Will Wells’ most recent full-length volumes of poems include Odd Lots, Scraps & Second-hand, Like New (Grayson Books, 2017) which won the 2016 Grayson Book Prize and Unsettled Accounts (Ohio Univ./Swallow Press, 2010) which won the Hollis Summers Prize. His piece here is drawn from his current working manuscript, Enduring Damage. He has poems forthcoming in Birmingham Poetry Review and Crab Orchard Review and in current/recent issues of Tar River Poetry, Southern Poetry Review, Notre Dame Review, Alabama Literary Review, Comstock Review and Cumberland River Review.
Page 52
Stephen Swain is currently an English teacher in Illinois and lives (hides) in the cornfields of Iowa. With an undergraduate degree in Secondary English Education from Millikin University, he completed an M.A. in English Literature at DePaul University. You will often find him teaching, reading, writing, and/or lost. You can also find him @stephenjswainwords on Instagram.
ABOUT THE ARTIST
Elisabeth McNary is an artist based in Nashville TN. She currently studies with a major in Art Studies at Belmont University. Much of her art is centered around nostalgia and finding the beauty in the intricacies of everyday life. See more of her work or contact her on Instagram, @ _liz_art.
FROM THE ARTIST
“In a fast-paced world, it is easy to be impatient when waiting for what you want—but we are not always ready to receive it. Like a cuckoo bird waits for the right time to emerge, we also should learn to live with patience. What we want is not always what we need in the moment. This cuckoo clock symbolizes being patient and prepared, not just eager, to act when the time is truly right.”
