Stuffed

By Claire Chen, age 11, New Jersey.

Stuffed, stuffed, the house is stuffed
With stuffed toys that need to be thrown out
A waste of space
I am told to get rid of them!

But when I look around
Memories abound
First, the dozens of stuffed Pokemon
Evoke memories of family trips to Japan
I cradle an Eevee, a treasured prize won
With bated breath at a claw machine in Tokyo
I squeeze Lapras, the comforting pillow I hugged
On the 18-hour flight to visit family
I can almost still hear my brother’s high-pitched shrieks
During our made-up game of Pokemon Dodgeball
Can I let them go?

Next, the stuffed shaved ice from Singapore
Its name—Ice Kachang* —reminds me
Of Singlish and its foreign yet endearing sounds
English, Mandarin, Hokkien**, and Malay smashed
Into one bizarre hodgepodge
Intelligible only to insiders
Like Singlish, I am a mash
Of American and Asian
Do others understand me?

Then, a stuffed chocolate bar
A souvenir from Hershey
During my grandmother’s first and last visit
Before the chemotherapy failed
The only stuffed toy she ever bought for me
Mum says Grandma never bought her stuffed toys
But that time, she got one for me
Isn’t it a souvenir of her?

Stuffed, stuffed, my mind is stuffed
Stuffed with memories I want to keep in
Precious treasures
That only I hold in my heart

Notes:
*Kachang is the Malay word for nuts
**Hokkien is a Southern Chinese dialect

By Claire Chen, age 11, New Jersey. She adds: “My parents were born in Singapore but I was born in America. My family visits Singapore or Japan nearly every year because we have family in those countries. I speak and write both English and Mandarin, but it takes a lot of time and effort to learn Mandarin in America and I find it very difficult. My mother wanted me to learn Mandarin so I could understand her culture better. However, when we visit Singapore, they do not often speak Mandarin. They speak a version of English that they call “Singlish.” It is a mixture of several local languages, mainly Mandarin, Hokkien (a Southern Chinese dialect), Malay, and English. Singlish can be quite confusing for me—something I mention in my poem.”
“I was inspired to write this poem, titled Stuffed, because I have a lot of stuffed toys and my mum often talks about getting rid of them to reduce clutter in the house. But these items all have histories and meaning to me.”

By Divya Rejeev, grade 6, California

When I arrived home after a vigorous session of P. E., I could barely walk straight. My legs felt like noodles, and my stomach was doing somersaults. I headed straight to the pantry and spotted a lone granola bar sitting like a hidden treasure in the corner. Famished, I tore it open, collapsed onto the jet-black leather couch, and took a massive bite.

Crunch

Not the satisfying crunch I expected. My mouth froze. A sharp jolt shot through my gums—my already wiggly tooth now hung by a minuscule string of my gums.

Looking back, I admit that as a child I was a tad bit dramatic over even the smallest scrape, sting, or bump. When I was five, I tripped over a stepping stone one fateful afternoon, cut my knee, and had to be carried to urgent care. To be fair, it wasn’t all in my head—I ended up with five stitches and a follow-up visit the next week.

After that, I began expecting the worst in every situation. I screamed at the sight of spiders no bigger than a breadcrumb, hollered if a honeybee came within a foot of me, and treated paper cuts like full-blown injuries I’d now brush off without a second thought.

So when my first loose tooth arrived, I didn’t exactly handle it with grace.

With a mix of euphoria and fear, I rushed towards my mom. “Mom, it’s loose!” I exclaimed, jumping up and down on the plush off-white carpet. My mom hastily turned off her favorite Netflix show, Designated Survivor, mid-episode and stared at me with wide eyes. “Okay… I guess I’ll have to pull it out! Then the tooth fairy will come!” she said, motioning for me to come closer as she was heading to the closet for the mini tooth-shaped container in which she said she would put my first pulled-out tooth.

But the thought of my tooth being yanked out sent me into full panic mode. “No! Anything but that!” I cried, flailing like a fish out of water, my arms and legs thrashing in every direction.

My mom’s eyes widened as she watched me thrash around the room. For a moment, she looked caught between stifling a laugh and offering moral support. She took a steadying breath and said, “Oh, Sai,”—using my nickname with a warm smile—as she knelt down to my level, her hands outstretched like a warrior bracing for a fight. “This is a big moment! However, if we don’t pull it out now, it’s only going to get worse—and the tooth fairy might not be too happy if it’s still hanging on tomorrow.”

Her voice was gentle, but there was a familiar sparkle in her eyes—a glimpse of nostalgia, remembering the excitement and chaos of when my older brother lost his first tooth.

Six-year-old me wasn’t having it. “Don’t, don’t!” I hollered. “Get away from me!” Exasperated, my mom sighed. “How about this, show your fingers from one to ten when I pull. The higher the number, the greater the pain.” Reluctantly, I agreed, and prepared for bloody doom.

Then, I saw my mom’s finger reach towards my mouth, hearing her say, “I’m gonna pull in 3, 2…1…”

Plink

I blinked, surprised at how painless it felt. I stared at that tiny tooth, the perpetrator of all my panic. I wondered, how could I have been so scared of that little thing? I figured that I was more grown up than I’d thought. After all, I had just survived losing my first tooth with absolutely no tantrums. Lost in thought, I headed towards the bathroom, put some ice in my mouth, and went on with my day as if nothing happened.

By Divya Rejeev, grade 6, California. Divya comes from a South Asian ancestry, and  aspires to become a writer.

By Katacha Díaz, Oregon

During my childhood years of growing up in Peru, as the first-born grandchild in the family, I spent a great deal of time with my loving and nurturing paternal grandparents. Papapa and Mamama patiently indulged me with clever age-appropriate answers to my many questions. I was intrigued by my grandparents’ art collection—serene landscapes and stormy seascapes kept me entertained, but I was most fascinated by the formal portraits of our family members and predecessors. Little did I realize we had such illustrious relatives in our family tree, for the family to commission portraits from popular artists of the time.

My Mamama and Papapa on their Return Voyage from Europe, 1953

Recently I spent time organizing my own family memorabilia, collected over the years, and found myself transported back in time to childhood days at my grandparents’ sprawling house in Miraflores, a suburb of Lima, Peru (see below). The family had gathered at Sunday luncheon to celebrate my grandparents’ return home from Paris. Papapa had served four years as Peru’s ambassador to France.

The Author as a child at her Grandparents home in Miraflores, Lima, Peru. 1948.

This particular day is etched in my memory. Papapa stood beside me while I gazed wide-eyed at the painting of a smiling beautiful young woman. “Is she another of our famous relatives, I asked him?” Papapa shook his head and smiled. “This is a copy of the world famous painting by Leonardo da Vinci, the Mona Lisa. Mamama and I saw the original painted on wood, at the Louvre Museum in France. We found our oil-on-canvas copy at an art gallery, during an evening stroll along the Ponte Vecchio in Florence (Italy).”

“Mona Lisa” Replica. Illustration by Daemion Lee. Oregon.

Papapa and Mamama showed me photo albums and art books collected during their European travels. These were filled with photographs of renowned paintings and illustrations with captions, along with artist biographies and exhibition notes. I learned the difference between an original piece of art and a reproduction, like the one in my grandparents’ house. Later, we stood by the floor globe in Papapa’s study and charted the voyage of the replica Mona Lisa. Our Mona Lisa had traveled inside a wooden crate from Europe across the Atlantic Ocean and through the Panama Canal to reach Peru!

Growing up in the exotic land of the Incas, I was impressed by my grandparents’ eclectic art and stamp collections, the leather-bound books, and encyclopedias lining the walls of the library where my grandfather spent hours reading and writing. Mamama and Papapa’s home opened a whole new world to explore and study during my sleep-over adventures. Five decades ago, following in my grandparents’ footsteps, I visited la bella Firenze, walking across the beloved 16th century Ponte Vecchio, peering into the windows of the art galleries, goldsmith shops, and souvenir sellers. And I imagined Papapa and Mamama enjoying a romantic afternoon stroll along the picturesque bridge, the only one in Florence that was spared from destruction during the Second World War. I was transported back in time and reconnecting with my dear Papapa and Mamama missing their presence in my life.

Ponte Vecchio, Florence, Italy. Illustration by Daemion Lee, Oregon.

All these years later, I am grateful for my childhood memories of Peru, and the way that a painting or a photograph can keep my grandparents in my life, even today. In my kitchen I keep a watercolor painting of sunflowers in a Tuscan (Italy) field, which I found along the Ponte Vecchio. It keeps the memories alive and is good for my soul. Who could ask for more?”

Katacha Díaz is a Peruvian American writer and author. Wanderlust and love of travel have taken her all over the world to gather material for her stories. She has been published in many outlets, including in several issues of Skipping Stones. Katacha lives in the Pacific Northwest, near the mouth of the Columbia River, USA.