Editor's Note:

In the eighteenth century, Samuel Johnson opened a letter by saying he didn't have time to be brief. In more recent times, writer Jim Heynen puts it this way: "Brevity is a challenge. It demands care, clarity, and control."

In each of the following essays, students from the University of Iowa’s Writing Center take the time to be brief by sharing personal stories for our magazine, Voices, about education, family, and travel.

In "Accepting and Improving," Chris Coppess, who is pursuing a master’s degree in special education, reflects on the culture of writing itself by detailing his own struggles with the process as a student with a learning disablity.

In "Food," Cindy Hseuh, a graduate student of linguistics, offers a tribute to her Taiwanese father by remembering his talents as a cook. He knew, she writes, what each daughter loved to eat and "he offered different food periodically so that none of us would think he was biased toward any daughter."

Aki Katsuo, a Fulbright scholar studying science education, takes his reader to "The Hachijo Island," a place for political exiles during the Edo period, which has turned into a gloriously isolated vacation spot for many Japanese people today.

In "Roaming Time" by Chao-Yang Lee, a graduate student in film studies, remembers the sweetness of ordinary pleasures during a visit to a mountain village far away from the manic city of Taipei. After eating a peach, she writes, "My mouth just couldn’t stop smiling."

Li Liu, a graduate student in industrial engineering, makes observations on specific aspects of American culture that were foreign to her before coming and are now becoming commonplace. Her essay is titled "Life at the University of Iowa."

And in "The Day My Baby Came to This World," Li Pengxiang, celebrates his son’s birth – an event he remembers with pleasure vividly.

Our thanks to all contributors.

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by Chris Coppess

When I was younger I was embarrassed of my writing. My writing ability was like having an open sore. I was very self-conscious of it. Writing to me is like going on a diet and exercising program. They have common characteristics. They all take dedication and determination for improvement. My experience is one of writing only what I have to. But to make real improvement I need to write considerably more than I do. What I need to do is to have a weekly writing routine that will foster self-improvement. This is comparable to a weekly workout routine that improves physical fitness. In the past I have started and stopped these routines like New Year’s resolutions in March. Writing ability atrophies as much as muscles do if you’re not consistently working on it.

Last semester was my first semester back in college in eight years. I felt that the writing I did last semester was more difficult than I remember. I feel that my mechanics in spelling and grammar were weaker then they once were, or maybe I have forgotten valuable writing strategies. On the other hand maybe I am realizing that I never developed very strong writing strategies. However I believe with practice I can improve.

As I have gotten older the guilt about writing has diminished because I understand that writing takes work and know one can’t just sit down and write without revisions. People have the illusion that good writers can express themselves by writing without making revisions. I have had an illusion that writing should be easier then it is.

The amount we are able to change our bodies is controlled by the methods we use, dedication, and determination. My writing is controlled by dedication and determination for improvement, and learning writing strategies. There are things that we cannot control like genetics that dictate to what point we can shape our bodies. My learning disability (this affects my reading ability and writing ability) is kind of like genetics when it comes to reading and writing. This has established limits regardless of how hard I work at changing. It affects me more in the mechanics of writing, spelling, grammar, but thank God not the creativity. I have to be realistic and not create unattainable dreams, but that does not give me the right to give up because who really knows where the limits are. Writing will never be easy. I just want to improve.

by Cindy Hseuh

A couple of weeks ago, we had some Taiwanese guests in our apartment. They were talking about whether to go back to Taiwan during the summer break and urging each other to book the ticket as early as possible. For me personally, it is unnecessary to spend my time and money on such an itinerary. However, if there was something too attractive for me to reject in Taiwan, the only candidate would be food – in all of its varieties.

Food makes me think of my father. He was not a professional cook, but the best amateur I knew of. Here is the story: My grandfather served the government as a public relations manager for almost his whole lifetime. According to my grandmother, they had to treat guests all the time. Some fifty years ago, when there were not as many different styles of fancy restaurants as today, people had banquets at their houses. Therefore, my grandmother spent most of her lifetime cooking. She always wanted her children to aid her in the kitchen. Gradually, her children learned a lot about cooking, and my dad was the most talented one.

Frankly speaking, for a kid, to have a father like that was not exciting at all. At that time, kitchens were women’s castles. People regarded it a frivolous thing that the husband, instead of the wife, cooked for the family. We were safe as long as we didn’t announce that odd situation in our family to others. However, when we were summoned to purchase the food with my dad, there arose a challenge. Whether contending with hordes of women around food venders, or carrying loads of food on the streets with my dad, I was always praying not to see any acquaintances. When meeting some classmates and being asked why it was my dad rather than my mom who did the grocery shopping, we smiled reluctantly and explained, “My mother is sick.”

Most of the people who loved cooking were gourmets and so was my dad. Sometimes we ate out, and there came another sort of trouble. For some reason, even in the restaurant, my dad kept busy working in the kitchen as he did at home. When he had some fantastic cuisine, for example, he would go to the kitchen to ask for the recipe. If the dish was not satisfactory, he couldn’t help but to talk to the chef or offer some advice. The most terrible thing was that he would stroll around tables to check if there were some novel and fantastic dishes. As this scenario was playing itself out, we sisters responded simultaneously by lowering our heads and concentrating on eating as quickly as we possibly could so that people wouldn’t assume we knew that person.

It was not until I left home for the university that I knew how lucky I was. Every time I was about to go back home, around once per month, I would call my dad and tell him what I would like to eat. My hometown was a small harbor with mountains surrounding it on three sides. Before entering into the downtown area, the bus would pass a tunnel. As soon as we approached, my heartbeat got faster and my adrenaline increased dramatically. On my way home after getting off the bus, I walked quicker and quicker. At the sight of a table of food after stepping into our house, I was in heaven.

In comparison with fathers in America, most fathers in Asia are more conservative and quieter. Very seldom do they say how proud they are of their children. In addition, daughters seem to be more intimate with their mothers than with their fathers. In this regard, food is the best language between my dad and us.

Not only was my dad good at cooking, he also knew what each of his daughters liked to eat. Considerate and careful, he offered different food periodically so that none of us would think he was biased toward any daughter. He wouldn’t cook the same dish so frequently that we felt tired of it. Even for something which he bought rather than made by himself, for example, ice cream, he realized what our favorite flavors were.

In my dad’s eyes, the only food I could handle cooking well was fried vegetables. When he got sick and I kept him company in the hospital, I asked him to teach me how to cook. He always replied, “Sure, I will after I go back home.” In terms of food, that was the first time, the only time, and the last time he let me down deeply. He never went back home to his castle again. So I was forever a daughter who couldn’t cook anything but fried vegetables.

After my father died, we sisters dreamed of him pretty often. I always laughed at my sisters because in their dreams, there was always food, while in mine, there was also something I thought at the time was more valuable like conversation or reading. Some six months after I came to America, my dreams changed; I was in the same boat as my sisters. Whether going to the food market with my dad, or helping him out in the kitchen, all of my dreams were about food.

It is a real privilege for us to be able to go there for it is less than an hour by flight from the Tokyo metropolitan area. A trip to the Hachijo Island is literally an escape for people living in the big city. Indeed, the island was recognized as one for internal exiles in the Edo period in Japan. Interestingly, most of exiles were sent to the island not for criminal but political offences, which means that most sinners were intellectually active. Before those exiles arrived, there were only a few people feeding on fish living there and no agricultural food productions and no educational institutions. Once the exiles arrived, they introduced various utilities such as schools, distilleries, political associations and so forth. Together with the fact that the land had mild weather and a lot of rainfall every year, ancestors of the island must have enjoyed their lives quite well.

Nowadays, the island has a reputation by word of mouth as one of the best “inner sancta” for metropolitan residents because of its semi-tropical conditions and convenient location to Tokyo because of modern transportation.

We used to rent an old house there and spend a couple of weeks every summer and winter. Five years ago, my friend took a job in the U.S. and asked me to take over his rental house. He liked the building so much and wanted someone he knew to take care of it so that he could visit when he was back in Japan. I was working at the Tokyo Science Museum at the time and was interested in an old architecture as well as Hachijo’s wonderful climate. My wife also liked the island very much. When we visited there the first time, I decided to take over the lease. The house was built in the 1900s and has a huge oak beam running through the center of the ceiling. The landlord of the house is a retired fisherman. The good old Japanese traditional wooden frames provide a natural air conditioning system that takes in the sea breeze and puts muddy and humid air out of rooms.

In spite of its isolated location, floating in the middle of an oceanic current, the island has never suffered from drought. The two mountains, Hachijo Fuji and Mt. Mihara, that each dominate in the East end and in the West end, produce a lot of clouds from tropical wind blowing in from the south and that rain becomes a source of natural mineral water. Hachijo-Fuji is a dormant volcano and at its feet are a lot of hot springs whereas Mt. Mihara is extinct and holds many waterfalls and rivers. Another notable feature is the coastline of the island that is actually a watershed of Kuroshio Current, the warm and rapid current that is a part of the central oceanic stream. The line provides one of the most rare fishing conditions where one can find ocean-ranging fish such as tuna and bonito.

One day in the winter I saw that someone had just caught a tiger shark with his rod cast from a breakwater. Though I missed the whole drama, I saw the end: he looked so proud of his catch that day.

If I open the box of memory and search for a happy moment in the past years, the first one that emerges is a fragment located in the summer of 1998. Though the date is not clear, the memory is still fresh.

I was sitting on the back of a truck with a group of people in the Mountain Service Club, an organization to encourage exchange between university students in Taiwan and indigenous people. We were on our way to visit an indigenous tribe, who lived 1,700 meters above sea level. I was like a curious child enjoying the new scenery that I had never seen in the maniac Taipei City. The sky was azure and the shape of leaves on the trees changed with the altitude we reached. About halfway to our destination, the weather started to change. Suddenly, after the thunder, the rain poured like a flood. At this moment, I did not feel afraid, but instead, amazed at the mysterious power of nature. We stopped at the house of an indigenous family whom some of my friends were familiar with. They greeted us with innocent smiles and treated us to a bag of fresh peaches that they had just picked. I had a bite of the peach. My mouth just couldn’t stop smiling. It was the most delicious peach that I had ever eaten in my life.

After the rain stopped, we got on the truck again and waved goodbye to the indigenous family. The truck returned to the bumpy road, but we were exhilarated. As the truck passed by a picturesque lake, my heartbeat was stronger than ever. Meanwhile, the sun broke through the clouds and shed a bunch of sunrays. I saw a rainbow hanging in the sky.

by Li Liu

After the 24-hour long journey, I arrived at the Cedar Rapids Airport. I was so tired that I didn’t get as excited among the heap of “foreigners” in a “foreign” country as I expected before. After people in a Chinese Christian church helped me settle down, I began to observe and think about this small city that I was going to stay in for about four years. The environment was clear and peaceful, and every house was different in style and looked beautiful. My favorite site here was the Iowa River because I grew up in the countryside that was full of water and fish. People called it a homeland of fish and rice. I walked to the campus, so I had the chance to go along the river, which rendered me a sense of warmth and comfort. The downtown area was small without large stores, which made me feel like I was moving from a huge city to a small town. Although many people told me Chicago was different from Iowa City and unique, I still haven’t had get a chance to go there.

I should say, if I hadn’t come to this foreign country and this foreign place, I would have missed tons of wonderful things that I could never experience in my home country. The first is Christianity. The people who picked me up from the airport and provided me with temporary housing were dedicated Christians from China. I was really shocked by their words and prayers though they were nice people. It was impossible for me to accept that people from China could really believe in God and so faithfully. Later on, I learned that churches were almost a tradition, a culture, and a community to American people. Now church is an important way for me to learn English and American culture. I go to the New Life Church in Coralville almost every Sunday. The music, the lectures by the pastor, and the speeches by church members are all so interesting and new to me. I quite enjoy the peaceful atmosphere in it although I am not a Christian.

Another thing is that many Americans have both stepfathers and stepmothers. I was surprised by this just the same as they were surprised that I was going to be separated from my husband for more than half a year. They guessed I was going to divorce because of the long separation. In fact, separations between couples in China are quite common. They may work or study in different cities. I never think that separation is the real reason for divorce.

Because of language and cultural differences, I had a difficult time both studying and living at the beginning, and I still can’t say that I have fully adapted to them. I eat the same tasteless American food and have difficulty communicating with “foreigners” every day, which make me feel badly depressed and frustrated. What makes things worse is that I have almost no good friends here and miss my friends back home. I really hope I can finish the degree as soon as possible so I have the chance to enjoy my normal life and delicious food when I go back to China. My favorite things in China are to enjoy a scalp massage while getting my hair set at a salon, playing cards, eating snacks, and hanging around in the downtown area with friends.

I have mixed feelings toward people here. On the one hand, they are polite and nice people. For example, my Speaking and Writing Center teachers try to encourage me, uplift me, make fun of me, and help me with not only language and but also cultural confusion. My advisor seems so understanding and gives me some good advice on how to survive. My dear classmates care about me so much that they give me help whenever I am brave enough to ask for it. On the other hand, some Americans are proud, mean, and discriminating, which sometimes makes me really angry. Just as my Writing Center teacher taught me, these people are “idiotic Americans.”

by Li Pengxiang

“Who is Ding Xuanlin’s spouse?”

I stood up and walked over to the delivery room. “I am.”

“Your child -- a boy.”

I saw a baby with long hair and pink skin on her arms. He was crying. Oh, my baby. He was so cute and vulnerable. I could not hold back from touching his face and feeling his hair. “How is his mother?”

“She is good,” the nurse said, “but your baby suffered from suffocation a little bit during delivery. Pediatricians will take care of him for the next four hours. If nothing abnormal happens, he will be reunited with you after that.”

“Thank you, Miss,” I said.

One hour later, my wife came out on the stretcher. She looked tired but happy.

“How is it going?” I asked.

“It is OK,” she said. “Did you see him?”

“Yes, very cute.”

“Sure!” she said and a beautiful smile appeared on her face.

Thank God, my baby was fine and was delivered to his mother’s ward at about 8 p.m. that night.

On August 2, 2002, I left them to study at the University of Iowa. It was a really hard time for us to be separated from each other. I missed them so much that I often dreamed of them.

My wife sent me baby photos. I pasted them on the board of my office, so I could see him every day. When I called home to China, I liked talking to him, even though he could not understand what I said. But sometimes he answered me with screams, which made me very excited.

Now it is about ten months after his birth. But I can still remember that day so clearly that it is like something that happened yesterday.