by Do Hyun Han, South Korea

A cloudy but warm day. My home felt a little hot. I opened the windows for fresh air and I smelled the taste of spring. The smell made me think of taking my kids to a nearby park. During the winter they were cooped up inside for too long. I urged my wife to prepare the children to go out for fun.

However, since my wife is writing her dissertation, she insisted that she would go to the library while the kids and I were going out to the park. I gave her a ride to the main library. I told her that I would return to the north entrance at 6:30 to pick her up. After dropping her off, I was about to go to Willow Creek Park which is located near my home. But as soon as I headed there, my daughter began to whine that she wanted to go with mom. "Papa, I want to go to mom’s school. I don’t want to go back home." She cried so terribly that I could not explain my plan and soothe her. When I turned to the left at the junction of Riverside and Burlington, she even tried to stop me from driving. I was scared and worried about our safety. I ordered her to sit on the seat. After driving for about five minutes on Benton, I arrived at the park.

In the park, there were some facilities for children such as swings, slides, a carousel, a sandbox, and two soccer fields for large children, too. When we got there, already two kids and a baby were playing. I said to my daughter, "Would you like to play on the slide?" She answered yes and stopped crying. She ran to a slide, the bigger one of the two. The slide had two ladders and two sliding boards. One ladder was like a stairway–convenient and safe for small children, but the other one was exactly like a ladder–more risky and adventurous. The same for the sliding boards–one safe, the other risky. I did not allow my daughter to climb up the risky ladder. But the adventurous sliding board was not dangerous for her. Interesting that she forgot her mother so soon. I could not stop her crying, but the slide surrounded by fresh spring could. Last year when I was here without my family, I dreamed of this day when my kids would play at this park. How exciting to see her play here now! The slight touch of spring made my dream come true earlier.

After about ten minutes, a van arrived at the park. Three women and five kids got out of the van. The kids rushed to the adventurous slide which my daughter was enjoying. While I was soothing my son on a swing, I did not pay much attention to my daughter. However, when I turned my sight to her, I was surprised to see her in another kid’s arms. The kid was a little larger than my daughter. She looked like she was enjoying the freshness of early spring. My daughter was laughing and speaking something to her. I did not think they could communicate in words well because my daughter’s English was not good enough. Surely my daughter just uttered something incomprehensible. English did not seem important for them. I had never seen my daughter play with Americans in such a good mood. The American kid over and over again helped my daughter climb the ladder and together they slid down, my daughter sitting on her lap with the girl’s arms around her.

Last semester I sent my daughter to a preschool so that she might make friends and learn English. After one month, she would not go there. She did not like her preschool and preschool friends. She said she was afraid of them. Finally, my wife and I gave up sending my daughter to her preschool. But now, spring has rid her of her fear of strangeness. Moreover, it has made my daughter laugh in an American kid’s arms. Ah, spring not only erases her fear, but clears the barriers of language, color, ethnicity, and citizenship. Truly I wish a spring of nature would bring a spring of mankind. Strangeness and fear among nations, races, and classes would be melted by spring. Nature is the teacher for humankind, not just for artists.

* * *

by Snjezana Markovic, Yugoslavia

I was born in Sarajevo, Bosnia and Herzegovinia, part of Yugoslavia, and I lived there almost all my life. I said "lived" because now is war there and even though I would like to be in my town, I cannot. That is the sad part of my life. Sarajevo was a beautiful town and I cried watching it die. The town is not just streets, lights, buildings–a town is people and the atmosphere they create. Sarajevo had all that, it had soul. The people from Sarajevo were well known as a good people, who will help you in any situation. I miss those people, because some other people are there and some other rules are there, which I don’t understand. The only thing that I can do is talk about my town before the war and keep all good memories that I have. I am saying all good memories because if I am thinking about Sarajevo only good memories come into my head.

I had a lot friends and we were always together. We used to go during winter time together to a lot of mountains which are surrounding Sarajevo. There we went skiing, or just playing with snow. Also, sometimes we were going together with our parents on picnics. I used to go with my parents and my older brother camping. We bought a tent and stayed in some quiet village place for one day, just for fun. Sarajevo was a big city, so we had a lot of opportunities for fun. You could go swimming, skating, jogging, or whatever you want.

In 1984 the fourteenth Winter Olympic Games were held in Sarajevo, so we had a lot of new buildings and stadiums for any kind of sports. Sarajevo was a town full of life. Music, theater performances you could find everyday. Poetry evenings, conferences were part of Sarajevo, too. All of this creates people’s souls and their way of understanding things.

Somebody might ask, why is war there if everything was just perfect? If people were so kind and full of understanding, how come they are killing each other now? On those questions, I just can say my point of view. I think that politics is a dangerous thing and if you play with that you play with fire and you can burn yourself. That’s what just happened there–people started to play with politics and now they have a big war fire. Who are people who begin war? Some extreme fundamentalist groups spread ideas, and ideas like disease spread all over the countries. Once war starts, it is not easy to stop it and not easy to find who is guilty. I think we are all guilty. We citizens of Sarajevo are guilty. Different nationalities which lived together many years become enemies, just because of politics. My town is now well know all over the world as a town of horror. People who were lucky, like me, left the town but the others are still there. Those others didn’t have the choice and luck to go. When you are there, even though sometimes you don’t want to fight and you don’t think like some other people around you, you have to be with them. Fear, survival, is one of the things why people are still fighting. If someone frightens your family, to kill them if you are not on their side, what will you do? You don’t have a choice.

Now the ethical, moral question comes. Is it moral to kill somebody to save your life? Do those people have a conscience or not? There is no right answer on this and that is the problem. War is not just a black-and-white situation–it is something more. My opinion is that too many things are in the "game." I think to judge somebody we have to know a lot of information and try to put ourselves in the situation of those poor people. Only in that way we can understand something. War is confusing because we are confused with questions–which side is right and which is wrong. There is no such thing, because everybody loses in some way. There is no winner in the war, just losers. I feel very sad because the war is still in my city, country, and I can’t do anything about that. I’m hoping that one day Sarajevo will be the same like before, a town of poetry, music, a town full of life. Sarajevo has to feel peace again, has to live again.

* * *

by Noriko Takuma, Japan

I’ve always liked my family name, Takuma, in my country, Japan. It’s unusual and sounds "cool" because the sound reminds people of bravery in Japan, due to the phonetic similarity between my name and the word takumashii, which means "being brave." My elementary school has a school song including the word takumashii, and every time we sang the song, boy classmates would shout it toward me. I felt good the boys connected me with the word by teasing me.

The name also made my identity to a great extent. I used to have a sense of honor as a member of the Takuma family, especially at school. My older sisters and I went to the same schools from elementary to senior-high, and we all did well at school. Some teachers of my sisters recognized me as a sister of the Takumas by my family name and some of them by my appearance. Even a few teachers who didn’t directly teach my sisters stopped me and said, "You are another Takuma sister. I’ve heard that you are doing just as well as your older sisters." I felt like I was an honorable member of the three excellent Takuma sisters. My mother has a great deal of humility and hardly ever shows off her daughters, but I can remember one occasion that she looked very proud of us. When her friend was jealous of her and joked that it wasn’t fair for my mother to have three good children, my mother told this to me smiling. Even though I didn’t feel pressure to be as good as my sisters, I felt rewarded by the smile on her face.

In contrast, my first name, Noriko, is very common for Japanese women. When I learned my parents chose this name for my second sister, I was old enough not to be upset about this fact. This sister used to tease me by saying that she was born much more beautiful than our parents expected and then they gave her a different name which was more appropriate for her. I don’t know if her insistence is true or not, except for the fact that I was, in a way, handed down the name. I accused my mother in a cynical tone of voice, "I’ve gotten my name just like the way I’ve gotten old clothes from my older sisters. I’m given something that’s useless for my sisters. I am always given a hand-me-down." My mother wasn’t disturbed at all and explained that she still wanted to give the name to me after she didn’t give it to my sister because Noriko was such a good name. Well, I’m not dissatisfied with this answer.

In Japan, you go by your first name among your friends, but except for that, you always expect to be called by your family name. Therefore, even though my first name didn’t get much attention because of its being common, I wasn’t bothered by this. Since I came to the U.S., my first name has gotten much more attention than it did back home. It always identifies me because of an American custom that people call others by their first names. While I didn’t have any special feelings toward my name "Noriko" before, I’ve come to pretty much like my name here. Because my name is Japanese and sounds different from American ones, I feel as though I am someone special and feel I stand out when my name is addressed. I’m pleased with the way people look at me as if I were so deter-mined that I could come to the U.S. from Japan. This pleasure is something I didn’t feel with my first name back home.

When I’m called by first name here in the U.S. I feel like the whole of my inside is called instead of my skin or the outside part of me. On the other hand, as I try to recall how I felt in Japan by being called by my family name, I feel that the surface of my body was called up and as if I represented my family. I can say that because of the way of using family names in Japan, it is natural for people to extend a person’s identity to his or her family name. In the U.S. I feel that I am a complete individual, even more so because I have come here all alone. I don’t have my family here either to rely on or represent. When I work hard it is I who is rewarded. When I don’t make enough effort it is I who suffers from that. I feel here that I’m developing more of a sense of individualism.

* * *

by Sylvia Cruet, Puetro Rico

FADE IN: INT.–CLASSROOM–DAY

INT.–HIS OFFICE–DAY

As a humanities requirement, and because I want to try taking acting classes again.

MARK

What do you mean? Had you taken acting classes before?

CRISTINA

Yeah! When I was twelve I convinced my mom to register me into a Dramatic Academy because I wanted to be an actress.

MARK

Did you act in any plays?

CRISTINA

I did a Chinese comedy called Me Liang. I played a villain, the professor.

MARK

Where are you from?

CRISTINA

From Spain, and you?

MARK

(smoking a cigarette)

I’m from Oregon, but I came from California.

CRISTINA

But you don’t look like you’re from Oregon.

MARK

That’s because of my long hair.

CRISTINA

I always wanted to go to California. You know any good school in communications in California?

MARK

USC, the University of Southern California, is very good.

CRISTINA

I don’t know how to say this, but you remind me of someone, someone very special. Maybe you’re going to think that I’m a weird person, after I say this to you.

MARK

No, you are not weird. Come on, tell me.

CRISTINA

You look like Jesus Christ.

MARK

What, I do!

CRISTINA

Yes, you are! Your long hair, facial features, body, and also your height.

CRISTINA

I know that nobody knows how Jesus Christ really looks.

MARK

Yeah!

CRISTINA

But you remind me of him. I guess it is because I came from a Catholic family, and we have photos of Jesus Christ in every place. No, that’s not it. I’m trying to think why you remind me so much of him. There has to be a reason.

MARK

Nobody has ever told me this before. I’m not the only man in the country with long hair.

CRISTINA

I know, it’s not just your hair; it’s everything. Of course, your hair is the main key here. You must think I’m weird now.

MARK

No, you’re not.

CRISTINA

(stands up)

Yes, I am. Well, I have to go now.

MARK

Well, thanks for coming to my office. I hope you enjoy this class! I’ll see you next week.

CRISTINA

Bye.

by Siew-Siew Gan, Malaysia

I’ve always been afraid of serpentine creatures. Unfortunately, my elder sister, Chiau Chiau, was crazy about earthworms. She loved to play with them, especially when she was gardening, and that was the only time I would quit bugging her. Normally, she dug out as many earthworms as she could. Then, she picked the longest one and announced, "Ladies and gentlemen, let the magic show begin!" She held the two ends of the worm with each hand and she started pulling the worm in opposite directions. Her goal was to stretch the worm as long as possible and spring it back immediately. Sometimes she overestimated the flexibility of the worm and "split" the poor worm in half. Still, she held the two halves in her palm, twiddled them, and flashed them across my face.

My most horrifying experience was yet to come. One afternoon, Chiau Chiau was sweeping the floor. My brother, my second sister, Ling Ling, and I were watching TV in the living room. When Chiau Chiau was at the front of the bathroom, she yelled, "Hey, guys. Come and look." All of us thought it must have been something interesting. We rushed to her. We saw her point to something on the floor. A two-inch, tiny earthworm.

"Arr. . ." I yelled. "Earthworm!"

"No," Chiau Chiau said. "It’s a snake."

The word "snake" intensified my fear.

"No!" I denied. "It’s clearly a tiny earthworm. You’re just trying to scare me!"

"Nonononono," she said. "It’s a baby snake."

"Yeah," my brother grinned. "It’s a baby snake."

Ling Ling said nothing but laughed. I started to get confused. Chiau Chiau said again, "Look at the way it moves. It’s definitely a snake. And you know, it’s coming after you."

"MOM!" I knew Mom was not at home. Still, I yelled for her and I dashed toward the front gate. The gate was locked. I grabbed onto the bars; I kicked them and I hit them. I only wished I could turn into a puff of smoke and float through the bars. I wanted to escape from this ghost house.

My screaming alarmed our nanny in the kitchen. She ran to me and tried very hard to separate me from the gate.

"S. . . S. . .SNAKE!" That’s the only word I could say.

I cried for that whole afternoon and evening. I had never felt so exhausted. Chiau Chiau got an angry lecture from Dad and Mom. I didn’t enter the bathroom again for three years.

* * *

[untitled]

by Fred Chang, Taiwan

Keelong City, which is a small prosperous city in northern Taiwan, is the place where I was born. Because Port Keelong brings in a lot of business activity, it has several times more people than Iowa City does even though the former is smaller in area than the latter.

My parents ran an import store downtown, but we lived in the suburbs on a small hillside two miles from downtown. During the daytime, we would all stay in the store after school. We children–my brother, my sister and I–had a lot of friends from other stores in the downtown area. We usually played together. In the evening, we probably stayed in the store and watched television or talked. The store was always closed around 10 p.m. After then, our family would all walk or sometimes take a taxi home to the suburbs.

I was raised in this city until I was eight. Then, my family moved to Taipei City, the capital of Taiwan. Taipei City is a little bit larger than Iowa City, but it was much more crowded and had a population of 1.5 million, and 2.5 million now. Compared with Keelong City, it was not only more prosperous and developed, but also much more civilized. So, when we moved to Taipei, I maybe looked like a country boy, but I did not feel like one. Maybe I was too young to sense it then.

The reason I said I looked a little bit country is because of my behavior and my language. I think behavior and language are mutual influences everywhere in Taiwan to a certain extent because there are four different language groups over there. They are the Native Taiwanese, the Taiwanese, the Hukanese, and the Late Immigrants. Different groups of people speak and behave differently because of cultural differences.

The Native Taiwanese, which has nineteen different tribes, have been in Taiwan for several thousand years. Their culture is quite different from other groups’; even different tribes have different languages and traditions. In general, those people are quite honest and righteous.

The Taiwanese, who speak Ming-Nanese, from Ming-Nan province, China, are the major group in Taiwan. Before the Late Immigrants came, most people in Taiwan spoke Ming-Nanese. So, Ming-Nanese is also called Taiwanese, and those people from Ming-Nan province at that time are now called Taiwanese.

The Hukanese, who speak Hukanese and have 25% of the population of Taiwan, from the northeastern region of Kanten province, China, are the second largest group in Taiwan. The characteristics of the Hukanese are that they live simply and work hard even though they are rich. They spend money only when it is necessary and save money for their children.

The Late Immigrants came to Taiwan with the government during the Chinese civil war (1947-1949), after Chiang’s government lost the civil war and moved the government to Taiwan. The Late Immigrants include people from all the different provinces in China. Thus, there are more than a hundred different languages in this group. However, Mandarin was taught as an official language in China before the civil war. So, these people could speak Mandarin, but most of them had their own accents. Since the governors and the other Late Immigrants all spoke Mandarin, and Mandarin was the official language before the civil war, this language became the official language in Taiwan even though the Late Immigrant group is the smallest group of the four.

My father was a Late Immigrant. He spoke Mandarin with an accent. And my neighbors all spoke Taiwanese. Thus, my Mandarin might be kind of a mix of my father’s accent and a Taiwanese accent. Besides, my behavior might be also influenced by my father’s culture, local (Keelong) culture, and my mother’s culture (my mother was from a Taiwanese farmer’s family). Compared with those people from Taipei, who spoke a kind of standard Mandarin and live in a big and more civilized city, I was a little bit different, I think.

Sometimes, at home, I spoke to my father in his accent to please him, but I never spoke that way in public because people could not understand it. After my father passed away two years ago, I started to use my father’s accent with my wife because I missed him, and I am proud of being his son and speaking his language.

* * *

by Jeremy Meccage, United States

Being away from home helps one to realize what he or she may have taken for granted while living at home. In my case, I realized how special the physical environment was.

I am from Billings, Montana. Billings is located in south central Montana, minutes away from the Rocky Mountains and settled along the Yellowstone River, the longest free-flowing river in America. This steadily growing city is enveloped by mountains to the west, plateaus to the north, and hills to the south. The mountains west of Billings find altitudes of nearly 10,000 feet. From a distance these mountains look as though they have been peeled from a painter’s canvas and placed in the horizon. They look to be coated in ocean-blue oil paint topped by glistening angel-white snowcaps.

In stark contrast to the colorful mountains, the plateaus cutting the north face of the city are dry, dull and carry the characteristics of a beach whose sand particles have been petrified. These crumbling, rocky, sandstone structures rise to heights of about 300 feet and give the slew of houses settled on them a view topped only by the forest ranger’s fire lookout in Yellowstone National Park.

Parallel to these plateaus on the south end of town slithers the rapid-flowing Yellowstone River, whose rainbow trout make their way to the mother river, the Missouri. This river lies at the base of a small group of wheat-covered rolling hills, which could be mistaken for a small mountain range–by an Iowan.

* * *

by Scott Martin, United States

We walked from the warming house to the rink. Our coach pushed us towards the center of the ice for the face-off. I skated fast and stopped hard at the center circle, trying to intimidate my opponents. My teammates followed, lining up on my left and right. Our goalie was in position, his two defenders ready in front of him. Parents and friends lined the outside of the rink outside the icy surface. We were all waiting for the drop of the puck.

I looked forward at the opposition from the center of the rink. The goalie was banging his stick on the ice, skating around in his crease. The defensemen talked with one another, pointing to our side of the ice. Their offensive players stood together, looking at our goalie, making strategies. My eyes ran back and forth between the players, trying to figure out what they were thinking.

My heart ran faster as the referee skated to the center dot. I readied myself for the face-off. My opponent did the same. I slapped my stick on the ice as the referee closed in. The whistle blew as he brought the puck from his pocket and over our sticks. I poked around with my stick, jockeying for the best position. The opposing center did also. The warning from the referee meant little to us, we were too busy challenging each other. He finally stopped our competition and got the puck ready again. One glance at his partner and the puck was dropped. The game had begun.

* * *

by Mai Asaka, Japan

Home is your strong foundation.

Flowers give you a little enjoyment.

Home suddently becomes shiny in bloom.

Friends bring you different colors and smells.

Home feels it difficult to suit them but welcome in

a grateful manner.

Sewing machine makes home cherished.

Home is surrounded by the working sound in

a silent night.

Warm dinner takes fatigue away.

Home is such a comfortable, lovable place.

Many things outside home.

Open mind, let’s go out to see, try, and

challenge them.

My turn to show such a strange world.

Keep healthy.

Someday, I will invite you to my own house.

Might be similar to where I used to be.

You are my strong guidance gently protected in my

mind wherever I go.

by Jin Wang, People’s Republic of China

I have been an avid reader since primary school. When I was a little boy, one of the happiest things for me was my father brought me to his company’s workers’ club on the weekend. I liked playing table tennis very much at that time, so I was always excited when I could play on one of the formal, standard, wooden tables there, which was much better than the table made from bricks in our school. But the more important thing for me was I could wander around a whole line of book shelves standing back to back across the room from the tables in the same big hall. I usually played table tennis first because I was not able to refuse the attraction of the table and rackets. After a while, I would disappear into the book shelves. Over there, I could find several shelves of foreign or Chinese fiction; several shelves of biographies of all kinds of famous people, like Albert Einstein, Winston Churchill, Abraham Lincoln, and so on; several other shelves of scientific books, such as different kinds of introduction books about astronomy, geography, physics, chemistry, and so forth, which I liked the most. I was also fond of reading fairy tales at that time. My father often checked out some books for me during school vacations. Once, I remember, he brought home a book: The Collection of Green Fairy Tales. It was so attractive that I spent a whole Sunday reading and finishing it. I should say it was one of the most impressive books that I had ever read during the entire reading experience.

I also read some other collections of fairy tales and a lot of scientific introduction books from that club’s book collection before and after I went to middle school. I should owe to those readings my imaginative thinking and diverse interests in humanities and sciences. After I went to the university, I devoted most of my spare time to reading. I bought so many books when I was at Wuhan University for six years, which resulted in a collection of three to four hundred books. It was one of the best private collections among my cohorts. I am very proud of it, even though I am consciously aware that some of them have never been opened again after I bought them, signed my name and the date on the inner cover and printed a special stamp over the name and date. I always bought books even though my wife sometimes reminded me with irony: "Please don’t buy books any more until you read all of those that you’ve already got!"; and even though my mother kept warning that there was no room for me to store the books. But I kept buying and buying until I had to pack all of them in cases and store them in the closet just before I left for the U.S. I love books and spend all my time and money on books. I know I will read them some time, which I can’t imagine now but I believe in. I believe that I will get some time, so special and so precious that I could spend all my time on books, "all my time," not all my spare time.

* * *

by Hsiang-Yin Chen, Taiwan

Here is a picture always in my mind. Sunlight makes the rice field shine like gold. Like standing on a prairie, you cannot see any end to it. It’s really wonderful that everyone has a different sense of the same thing, but it’s more impressive when you see a picture that has exactly the same feeling as you have.

The painting is very simple. A large part of it is covered with a rice field. There are two narrow tracks between the field. Now it’s almost a hot summer. The rice grows so long that you cannot see the tracks clearly. You may only differentiate the tracks by the density of the plants. A few trees are on the upper right corner of the painting. Behind the trees we find a small house. The house, built in red block stones, is a farmer’s house. You can imagine that the people living there are very nice.

Watching the painting from a long distance makes me feel comfortable. There is nothing that disturbs me. All I can see is peace. Oh, yes, I remember once I was standing in such a prairie; my heart was full of joy, the joy of living. As the sunset is coming, the light is moving across the ground. By the color of bright yellow and dark green, we feel the beauty of sunlight. The light makes colors diversified. Yes, it’s the picture always in my mind, like a reverie.

The painting is so simple, but the simplicity shows great power. Our eyes have been accustomed to complex lines. Every day you see thousands of lines and curves. You never know that your eyes are so tired of complexity until you see the great power of simplicity.

If you go to see the painting again, you will be surprised to find that every stem of the grass is painted clearly. How much time did the painter spend on it? Why was he willing to do that? Through the painting you can realize that the painter’s attitude to life is very serious. Our life is like the painting: it looks easy but is actually difficult.

Where does the fire come from? How did the painter keep the passion to draw every leaf and stem? Both the art work and life need real love of life, the real enthusiasm of life. Only with a mind’s eye can you see the light of usual sight-seeing. Only with peace in the deepest part of your mind can you have the patience to paint the whole prairie. Actually, we all can make this kind of beautiful painting: all the appearances of common things reveal their extraordinary faces with the true love of life.

I know that the scene of this painting is a place near Taipei. The painter lives there. Everyday, he sees this rice field and also the highway beside the field. Although many cars run on the highway, he still feels and enjoys the beauty of the ground. Just like every real nice piece of art always starts from the practical side of life, he started to paint the scene which he saw every day.

* * *

by Hsiang-Yin Chen, Taiwan

The day the airplane took me away

through the window I saw you

Tears came from my eyes:

You’re so small, so crowded

but so green,

You make every effort to grow us up

That’s the first time I understood you.

Oh, Formosa, my island

How can I forget you?

Wherever I live, Whenever I dream

I never, never will forget you.

* * *

by Juanita Limas, United States

Cold and alone, the wall sits. The colors of each brick seem as though they were carefully chosen from a watercolor palate of browns and oranges. Its surface is rough to the touch. Scratchy and uneven, as I run my hand over its surface it leaves my hand feeling roughened up and abrasive. Its layout is clearly precise. Carefully measured, each brick was placed almost in perfectly alternating directions, enabling one to clearly see the perfect lines running vertically and horizontally. The bricklayers, ever so mechanically, guide each brick on top of each other. They spread the mortar that bonds each brick to each other before carefully placing another brick on top. Another spread. Another brick. And another spread. And another brick. Click. Spread. Click. Spread. Over and over. Repetitively, but with much precision, the bricklayers work to smooth the building of the wall.

The occasional dark oranges dart out at first glance. It often reminds me of an unprimed and unwaxed car: dull without a gloss or shine, but the seemingly blah appearance is deceiving. Gentle contact of human skin glides over its surface feeling like sandpaper. It reminds me of stubbornness and abruptness. Ironically, the paths to the future, namely computers, line up along it, ready to tap into the wall’s secrets. Unified and strong, each brick is linked together, as one, fiercely resistant to change.

* * *

by Michael Phung, Vietnam/United States

On a spring day in April, 1985, I had an appointment with Dr. John. My counselor, Tony, who worked at the Young House took me to the hospital. The Young House was a group home for Asian-Americans refugees and that was where I lived for almost two years.

When we got to the hospital, we approached the elevator right by the entrance. We were headed to the fifth floor where I was to have a physical check-up. On our way to the doctor’s office, I was overjoyed to ride on the elevator because I had never ridden on an elevator before. Matter of fact, I had never seen one either. I thought it was pretty awesome just to be on it. We got off on the fifth floor and headed to the office.

We checked in and waited for about twenty minutes. I saw a woman and her children playing with some toys such as G.I. Joe, Transformers, etc. In the opposite corner of the room, there was a woman reading People magazine. I got bored of waiting. I asked Tony if I could go outside to get on the elevator again. He said all right, and that I should not be gone for too long. I went back to where the elevator was located. I wanted to get back on it again, but I forgot which button to push. There were two of them that looked very familiar to me. I did not know why, but they did. One was an elevator button and not far from it there was a fire alarm. I did not know what a fire alarm was. I stood there pondering which button to push. Finally, I decided and went ahead and pulled the fire alarm.

Boy, was that a blunder in my life. Instantly, I heard noises and I did not know where they came from. I got scared and I ran back to the office. When I opened the door, the secretary asked me "What happened?" I did not answer her question because I did not understand what she said.

I was a little nervous and trembling. I did not know what I was doing. I tried to use sign language, explaining to Tony. He understood what I was trying to say. I was impressed. I guess all the years that he worked at Young House and had experienced a lot of sign language of non-English speaking refugees must have helped. Tony walked up to the secretary and explained what had happened.

I sat there looking down to the floor. I could tell that all those people in the room were staring at me. In a way, I did not care because I did not know much English then and I figured that everyone makes mistakes. I happened to make a big one. At that moment, I decided to get up and walked towards the window to get some fresh air. I noticed that down on the street, many cars stopped to let patients across the street.

At the same time, the nurse phoned down to the hospital’s basement, asking someone who was in charge of fire hazards to turn the alarm off. The noise stopped; however, I was still frightened. I could not wait to see the doctor. For the first time in my life I was eager to see a physician because I wanted to get away from those people around me. I could not handle the humiliation anymore.

Anyway, it took about thirty minutes for the physical exam. They took my blood pressure, heart rate, X-ray, checked my eyes, ears, mouth, etc. By the time the physical exam was over, I just wanted to go home and hide under the blanket for the rest of my days without talking to anyone.

When we get home, Sister James, who was in charge of Young House asked me, "How was the exam?" I responded to her that it was okay and then I ran straight to my room. She could tell something was wrong because I usually gave her a hug whenever I saw her, because I was her favorite kid and I was the youngest and the cutest in the group.

At dinner time, Tony asked me if it was all right to tell about the incident. I said okay. After everyone had heard about the story they laughed so hard. A couple of weeks before I came, they had tricked one kid, who was new at Young House, to pull a fire alarm at two o’clock in the morning. They told him that if he wanted to get permission from Tony to go outside to smoke at night, then just pull on the alarm. He did not know what the alarm was. He pulled it just like I did at the hospital.

After dinner, I headed straight to my room to do my homework. I was ready to leave an unpleasant experience behind me for good. Sometimes I look back at my past, and I can not believe how I stupid I was.

* * *

by R. O’Boyle, United States

My dream began.

I am submerged

drifting in consciousness

harbored in my closed eyes and shallow breathing

Slow, deafened wailing

calling me into living room

Ran out there

velvety blackness, her standing silhouette

with mouth agape, no sound.

"what?" I murmured.

Mom moved to the front door

still dark, a shadow

wanting the silence, sound became her whole body

sound and shadow

never heard her voice that sound before

that pitch.

I didn’t know who she was

It seemed to trip back my way

to the middle of the living room

to me.

Grabbing my arm

Help her.

My comfort?

Still howling.

Why?

Gotta find out. Fast.

Go look through the narrow window

of the door

What! Another shadow

periwinkle embers under early spring moonlight

Two figures peeking and creeping

Howling and screaming.

Still.

A man holding his five pack

One beer in fist

Six empties

at the foot of our porch.

Rage.

Awoke for real

No! You have to fall back asleep!

Protect Mom.

Be there.

Alongside her.

That screaming

her ex-boyfriend and friend

Turning, walking away

leaving only threats behind.

"I’ll get you bitch."

Heard through

the open screen windows.

It all stops

the screaming is done.

* * *

by Hendrata Putra Suwito, Indonesia

When I was four years old, I went to a play group called "Taman Bermain" in Taman Remaja. Taman Remaja is about 10,000 meters square and it is located in the middle of my city. Taman Remaja was built in 1967 as a public recreation area. It is like Disneyland, but it is much smaller than Disneyland.

I went to Taman Remaja four times a week by car, becak, or motorcycle. A becak is a tricycle and it uses manpower. A becak can bring four passengers. The driver of a becak is in the back and the passengers are in the front. It is really comfortable riding in a becak.

My class started at 4 p.m. My classroom was in the middle of Taman Remaja; actually, it wasn’t a classroom because there weren’t any doors, chairs, permanent blackboards, and so on. Our class was held in one of the gardens in the Taman Remaja. We had to bring our own seats when we came to the class. We formed a circle and the teachers were standing in the middle of the circle.

I think there were about 40 students in the class. We were four years old. Each of us wore a uniform when we attended the play group. The colors of the uniform were dark blue, light brown, and light green.

In that play group, I met a lot of friends and I had two good friends; they were Andik and Lie We Liang. We sat next to each other in the class. I was the biggest among us and Lie We Liang was the smallest one. Sometimes, Andik and I disturbed Lie We Liang by hiding his chair. We liked to disturb him because he cried a lot.

There were one teacher and three teacher assistants in the class. They were really nice persons. The teacher’s name was Mr. Kresno and the others were Mrs. Kartika, Mrs. Widya, and Mrs. Suzy.

Mr. Kresno was a young man; he was studying psychology in Widya Mandala University. He was a really patient man. He taught us well. One of his methods was showing pictures such as animals, cars, scenery, temples, beaches, and buildings. The other method was bringing some interesting tools such as small house, toys, and square blocks, so we were interested in learning the lessons. He usually asked each of us to build the square blocks into any kind of form.

Twice a week, we sang "Melatiuku," "Nenek Moyangku," "Balonku," "Bintang Kecil," and so on. We usually stood up, walked around the class, and held our friends’ shoulders when we were singing the songs. It was great fun. I loved those songs very much, especially "Nenek Moyangku." Those songs were happy songs; they had a fast and funny intonation.

Mr. Kresno was an artist, too. Before the class ended, he always drew some pictures for us such as a mountain scene, a lake, a bird on a bench. His pictures were really amazing. It seemed that he was used to drawing. He drew fast and matched the colors nicely on the pictures.

There were a lot of kids’ games and teenager games in this place: they were boom-boom cars, a small train, a monorail train, small boats, race cars, and so on. Once a week, we played one of these kids’ games. It was really great fun playing those games.

* * *

by Chikako Washizu, Japan

My mother was born in Tokyo in 1939. Her father worked for the national railroad, and later became a station manager. My mother came from a large family, having an elder brother and three younger sisters. They frequently moved around eastern Japan due to Grandpa’s job. They stayed in each place for such a short time that my mother could not make even a single best friend. Despite the many school transfers that bothered her studies, she was smart enough to enter the Morioka First High School, which was the most prestigious school in the Iwate prefecture. The school had a long tradition and people called the school building "White Castle." In those days, maybe only one third of the students were female in that particular high school. She was proud of being a student of the school, and happy to study there. However, a bad thing happened in her last year. Grandpa told her that they had to move again. She was eager to graduate from the school, so she asked Grandpa if she could live in a boarding house. Yet he did not allow her to do it. They were not that poor, but since they had many children, it would not have been easy to pay her lodging fee.

A few years later her brother took the entrance examination for the public medical school, but he failed. Then Grandpa collected a lot of money from his relatives and friends, and got him to enter the expensive private medical school. "My turn will be next," my mother thought. She was good at mathematics and chemistry, so she wanted to go to a pharmacy school. Yet Grandpa told her that she could not go to college. "If you went to college, your three sisters would also want to go. But we are not rich enough to let our daughters have a college education. So please give it up. I have made your brother go to the medical school, because in the future he can help all of you, his sisters, instead of me," said Grandpa as an apology to her.

Nevertheless, she took the entrance exam for the pharmacy college in secret, and passed it. When she showed Grandpa the college acceptance letter, he got angry and tore it in front of her. That was a horrible story. Even now wherever she tells this story to me, she cannot help having tears in her eyes.

So, after graduating from high school, my mother became a teller in a local bank. There she met her future husband, my father. According to her, he looked like a man who enjoyed life and had a cheerful personality which always made people laugh, even though he worked so diligently that he had a reputation as a promising young salaryman. On the other hand, despite being pretty, brilliant and a little tomboyish, my mother in her early twenties was straight and rather naive about men. Perhaps their different personalities attracted them to each other.

One day she visited his house and met his mother. My mother was surprised how meagerly they lived, the small house, the dirty furniture, and a dim light. His mother looked old in a shabby kimono, but she was tremendously kind to my mother. There was a warmth which her own family did not have. When my mother and father decided to marry, Grandpa strongly opposed this marriage. It was because my father only had a mother (his father died when he was a child), and was very poor. Nevertheless, they finally married without Grandpa’s consent. My mother was twenty-three and my father was twenty-seven.

I saw their wedding picture once. It was a small black and white snapshot. When I suggested she hang the picture on the wall, she said, "No, the picture is not as fine as other wedding photos." I scarcely heard anything about the story of their wedding nor their honeymoon, but I know they were tremendously happy. Two years ago when my mother and I were cleaning out the closets at home, she found a small brown envelope, and with a happy and shy smile she showed me something written on the surface of it. It was a tanka, the Japanese traditional short verse poem, which my father wrote for her during their honeymoon. The tanka was so beautiful. It told me of his love that was brimming over toward her.

They waited for four years until I, the first daughter, was born. Before that, my mother went to a Shinto priest, whose spiritual power her mother really believed in, to consult about her inability to conceive. The priest performed a purification in front of a huge altar, and told her not to worry about it because she would be pregnant in the near future. Just as the priest predicted, she soon became pregnant, and I was born on the festival day of that shrine.

Since then, I became a bridge between Grandpa and my father. I was the first grandchild for him. Grandpa often visited our home to eat dinner with us. Until he died (when I was in the fourth grade), he was always very gentle to me. I remember his smile, and hardly believe that he was such a strict father to his children.

In my last year of high school, my father said to my mother that they could not afford college tuition for me. However, my mother was against his idea, and insisted that if I wanted to go to college, they had to let me do it as a parents’ duty. One year after I left home to go to Tokyo for college, my sister chose a college in America. Those several years were the hardest time for our parents to send enough money to each of us, in addition to paying the loans for the house and the business which they owned. At last they had to sell the house. Until I married I was not told about their suffering, so I went to college without any concern. They had never let us think that we were in needy circumstance while supporting our college lives.

* * *

by Wong Cheng-Yoke, Malaysia

If not for the kindness of my friend, Kathi, I don’t think I might have had such a great experience getting involved in a class of an elementary school, Lemme, which is completely different from those in my country.

Last Friday, Kathi invited me to visit her daughter’s school. Before my first visit to an elementary school in the United States, she told me that the kids might have tons of questions to ask me since I was the first Malaysian student they encountered. And she suggested that I could share something about the school life in my country that the kids might be interested in. I kept nodding and couldn’t help feeling more and more excited when I started to imagine what was going to happen to me–how would the kids treat a "stranger"? What did they think about Malaysia? Would they ask me questions that were beyond my knowledge? Although that was an informal visit, I am convinced that it was a valuable experience.

The night before the visit, I spent some time wondering what I could give them–both materials and impressions. I guessed that the kids must be surprised or even find it unbelievable if I told them the kids in my country wear uniforms to school. So, I decided to sketch the uniforms for elementary and secondary school, paint them in appropriate colors, and show them to the kids the next morning. Besides that, I also thought about giving them some colorful Malaysia stamps that I have from the mail that my family and friends sent me. A little piece of stamp didn’t mean much, but I did hope that they would like it.

Finally, the day that I was looking forward to had come. As soon as I entered the main entrance of the school. I was attracted to the lively pictures sticking on the walls. They were all drawn by the students, with their amazing imagination. Some of the pictures were just a big pink heart, with some explanations underneath. (They were there in accordance with Valentine’s Day.) The others were some houses, trees, people, or some things I had no ideas about at all. That is a kid. They always have something in their mind that goes far beyond an adult’s explanation.

After passing the hallway, a special "classroom" caught my eyes. Actually, it isn’t a classroom. It is a space that is specially designed for the use of story telling. The students were sitting on the staircase while a teacher was standing in front of them, telling them a story, with some smiling and attractive expressions on her face. I could tell that they enjoyed it so much that they didn’t notice us when we passed by.

Then, we arrived at the classroom that we planned to visit. Mr. Onor, the English teacher, guided us to our seats. The students’ desks and chairs were arranged into a circle for a particular function.

After a brief introduction by Karen, Kathi’s daughter, the kids began pouring questions on me. "What TV programs do you have in Malaysia?" "What kind of music do you listen to?" "What sports do the kids in your country play?" . . . I didn’t think that my answers could satisfy them, but I tried my best to give them a superficial picture of Malaysia. As I asked them about what they thought about my country, unsurprisingly, they responded with the words such as "forest," "jungle," and followed by an interesting question, "Do you have many wild animals in the jungle?" "Yes, we do." I was amused by their big eyes and open mouths as I answered them. Hopefully, I didn’t mislead them to associate Malaysia with wild animals.

Mr. Onor also posed a question about the respect of the students toward a teacher. I told him that in most of the schools in my country, the students stand up and greet the teacher as the teacher enters the class. When the class is finished, they will stand up again and thank the teacher. "That is great!!" I couldn’t help smiling when I heard his envious claim.

At the same time, I circulated the stamps that I brought them. The kids were so polite that they picked only one piece for themselves.

The kids’ curiosity was interrupted as their teacher pronounced a shift to the next agenda. The students started to tell the stories that they wrote, one by one, without any hesitation. Their presentations were followed by their peers’ feedback, which impressed me so much. Every time a student finished telling his or her story, there were hands waving in the air, showing the students’ eagerness to share their feelings or opinions. They began their sentence by the phrase "I like. . . : in which I could feel their sincerity. But the responses such as "I like the way you write it," "I liked your ideas of writing about family," or even "I like the way you read it," I think that they are helpful and imperative to the kids’ self-esteem. They might learn how to appreciate their own works as their peers showed interest and appreciation. Although their writings were not perfect–and it’s unnecessary to be so–they all had the same opportunity to learn other’s different ways of writing by listening and sharing.

Being one of the members of the classroom, I enjoyed the harmonious atmosphere there. Just before I was about to leave, a little girl came over and thanked me. I shook her hands wholeheartedly. I also thanked Mr. Onor for giving me a great opportunity to visit his class. I couldn’t find a better word to express my appreciation except "thank you." But merely the word "thank you" is certainly insufficient to express my feeling. I bet this great journey will remain vividly in my memory for a long time.

* * *

by In-Ching Lu, Taiwan

My home is in an apartment house in Taipei. The apartment-house is built by a school for the teachers and their family. My mother became a teacher of that school before I was born. It is a beautiful apartment-house located at the foot of the mountain. There is only a stream between the apartment-house and the school, so I could go to the school to play basketball. When I was a child, my father frequently took me fishing. The fish in the stream are small. Most fish are about 10 cm long. We used to eat fried fish on Saturday, but we stopped going fishing several years ago because the fish died out.

It is very good to live in such an environment except for the neighbors. Most of my neighbors are teachers. When I started junior high, the neighbors became my teachers. It was a problem. Whenever I met the teachers on the way home after school, I had to bow to all of them. If I didn’t pay attention to the teachers in the classroom, the teachers would tell my mother because they cared about me so much. That is why I kept avoiding seeing my neighbors while I was living in such a fishbowl. After entering the university and getting used to talking with adults, I can finally relax when I meet my neighbors.

Since my home is not in the center of Taipei, I didn’t know much about Taipei until my university classmates took me to the famous spots such as shi-lin night market. In fact, that market is quite near my home, but my parents seldom took us children to eat the famous dishes there. My father told me, "The dishes sold in the market are not clean." My father, who teaches Parasitology, believes the eggs of the parasites can fly here, there, and everywhere. However, when my classmates took me to that market, they told me, "The more dirty the dishes are, the more delicious they become." It’s funny to stroll in the night market, especially when I got tired of remembering the biological terms. The waiters in those little food stores have an excellent memory. They can remember all the names of the dishes ordered by my classmates. That’s why we like to make jokes with each other, "The waiter might get better grades than you if he had a chance to study Biochemistry." Sometimes the night market is crowded with people and the energy gained from the food you just ate will be used up while you are trying to pass the tide of people. Once I took my mother to eat there. After getting home, she told me, "The dish is really delicious but I don’t want to eat there again. It’s a pleasure only for you young people to take such an exercise there."

Talking about food, it is easier to get food in Taipei than in Iowa City. Maybe that is because of the high density of population in Taipei. You can find Seven-11s, bakeries and restaurants on many streets. The bakeries profit because they display well their beautiful bread and cakes in the windows to attract the busy and hungry workers who have to go home late for the traffic jams. When I was in Taipei, one American told me, "You haven’t seen really fat people in Taipei yet." He meant that "fat people" in Taipei are not fat in comparison with some fat Americans. I guess one of the reasons is the high density of population. In the crowded bus, people must spend a lot of energy in struggling to the bus door while getting off the bus. On the crowded streets, people also have to drive here and there to find a parking place.

Since Taipei is crowded with people and cars, it’s really noisy and the air is polluted. In addition to the problems with the environment, there are also problems with the economy and education. Because the capital is located in Taipei, people who do not agree with the plans made by the government sometimes demonstrate on the street to show their opinions. Five years ago, people seldom showed opinions in this way. Taipei changed a lot in the past few years and it is still changing. I think it is not good enough now but it will be better in the future and I will do my best to improve it through education, for it is my homecountry–a place where I grew up.

* * *

by Eric Neubauer, United States

As I step out the door I feel the wind catch against my baggy jeans. They pull around my leg like a parachute wrapped around tree branches. My shoes feel firm against the concrete. My Airwalks, a certain brand of shoe especially made for skateboarding, are snug around my feet and ready for action. I drop my board and put my foot on and give one push. As my leg muscle reacts and my body straightens up, I am off.

The first obstacle I conquer is a curb. All I must do is roll off of it, but sometimes that is a challenge. I must bend my legs to absorb the minor drop and lean forward to maintain my balance and then back as I start to roll again. The first obstacle, challenge, has been conquered. It may have been small or just simply basic, but my emotions swell. Joy and happiness make my body tingle; I am skateboarding again.

Now as I roll down the street I hear the whir of my wheels on the concrete, The grains of the cement begin to grow together and then become a blur as I speed up. My back leg steps off the board and pushes with all of its might. It is like a struggle for power between my foot and the concrete. My foot pushing and the concrete refusing to move pushes me onward. The struggle keeps me going on.

The wind is going against me and seems to be blowing much harder, but it is really because I am going so much faster. Either way that does not matter because I have reached my destination. I am at the spot that I have been pushing onward for. I look over the area. The concrete seems to shine and glisten under the sun. There is a set of 5 stairs with a handrail on the right side. The handrail is covered in paint and the markings seem to spell out a warning. It says "Beware, Many have tried," leaving my mind to wonder why this is. Has someone tried to slide down it before but met a horrible fate? Either way I heed the warning and decide to stay away from the rail. From here I look to my right and I see an open space, but at the end of it there is another set of 3 stairs. They look less intimidating, if not a little more friendly. To the left of that there is a curb that has turned black from being waxed with candle wax to provide much enjoyment to a skateboarder. The curb is about 5 inches wide and about 20 feet long, but it drops down into a slope about 5 feet from the end. It is like a long plateau that has come to an end with a slight downslope that gradually becomes steeper with the distance. Taking all of this in, I push off and launch myself down the 5 stairs. My back foot pushes down on the tail of the board and my front foot moves forward. My back foot is sucked up and the board levels out. It seems to be stuck to my feet, but the only thing that is keeping it there is gravity. Gravity is pulling my body down and the board is caught in the middle and being maneuvered by my feet. It is like a puppetmaster pulling the strings to control his happy little puppet. I have the control. As the ground approaches I bend my knees a little more to absorb the shock of the landing, and I make sure to lean forward a little to keep the motion going instead of falling backwards and cracking my cranium on the cement.

The next obstacle I wish to conquer is the curb. I’m moving in on it quickly like a bullet moving into the target at the end of the range. I spot where I want to put my board down and slide. I’m attempting to slide the curb backside, which means I will be sliding it backwards. As I set my board down on the curb I feel it begin to slide. Friction scrapes against my board. I had been deceived. The curb was not as smooth or as waxed as I had thought. My board sticks to the curb, but my body still has the same momentum. In an instant I will be flying through the air with no control over where I will land or what I will land on. As my body begins to take flight a few things flash through my mind. Pain is definitely one of them, but my mind clears and starts to think of how I’m going to get out of this. I turn my body around and now I seem to be flying as if I were Superman. In one second or less my flesh is going to be ground to a pulp by the rough cement. When I make contact my hands grab the ground and I skid by the spot leaving some skin there. My shirt has flown up in the commotion and my side scrapes across the ground as I try to roll over and get out of this predicament. When my body finally comes to a complete stop like a vehicle at a stop sign, I start to feel things. There is a warm wet feeling on my elbow. There is blood dripping down. Somehow I scraped it in all of this mess. My hands ache but do not bleed. They have been through this many times before. The calluses are torn but no blood is present, just another bruise and a little throbbing.

My eyes scan the area and look for my board. It is exactly where I left it. Right on the curb. I pick myself up, grab my board, throw it to the ground, and step on it. As I start to ride away I think to myself "I better try that again. I think I’ll get it next time."

* * *

Wen-Huei Chang, Taiwan

It is hard to live in the States without driving a car, and it is hard to drive a car without having any accidents all of your life. When it happens, what should you do? Well, according to my experiences, there are three things you have to keep in mind: (1) Let the police handle it. Even though you want to make a deal with others in private, you should still call the police and tell them what happened; (2) There are always two sides of a story. You should get as much evidence as you can to support your words, and had better find witnesses who will be able to testify for you; (3) Don't forget there are many people in this society who earn money by suing others. Some attorneys are looking for cases to file and only charge the plaintiffs if they can win the trials. To prevent the unnecessary law suit, get everything written on paper.

It looks like I already assumed that people are nasty when dealing with car accidents. Actually, I just want to say that people tend to over protect themselves under those kinds of situations. So, it's not a bad idea for you to think of this point and try to protect yourself a little bit more. Following are some experiences of mine which I hope can give you a general idea about what could happen in car accidents.

The first accident happened last Summer when my friends and I were driving a rented car in Illinois. We were trying to pull our car out of the parking lot after we had had breakfast in a McDonald's. When my friend was backing up our car, he spotted another car was in reverse too, so he stopped to let the other go first. Somehow the other one didn't notice that our car had already moved out from the parking space, so he kept on moving his car until hit our car and made a scratch on it. As soon as we all got out of the cars, the young man who hit our car said his insurance company would not cover the damage without a police report. He asked if we wanted him to call the police and we said yes. So we let him make the phone call all alone and didn't know that he told the police that his car was hit by our car. Fortunately, there was a truck driver who saw the accident when he was walking toward the McDonald's from the other side of the parking lot, and he also sat beside the telephone and heard what the young man told the police. So the truck driver volunteered to be our witness when the police came.

How lucky we were to have the witness save us from a big trouble. But we should try to find the witness when the accident happened in case there was no volunteer witness. That's the first thing I learned from this accident. Another lesson is never, never, never, ever let the other party call the police alone. Otherwise, the first record the police will have is his/her side of the story.

The other accident also happened last summer during the same trip when we were in Maine. I was driving south on the highway with my wife sitting beside me and my friends sitting in the back. It happened when I saw the car in front of mine swinging and slow down its speed, so I moved to the left lane in order to pass her car. Just a few yards before I approached her car, the lady in that car made a sudden left turn like she wanted to make a U-turn and hit the right side of our car. After this accident, both of our cars stopped in the median of the highway (the zone which divides southward and northward roads).

As soon as we got out of our cars, the lady apologized to us and claimed she had some trouble with her car alignment, and she told the police the same story later on. So the police told us not to worry about this accident since it was the other party’s responsibility. All we had to do was to fill out the accident report and send it to our insurance companies and the government’s traffic department. So we just went to Hertz and got another car (we were driving a rented car from Hertz) to continue our trip.

Three weeks after our trip, we all thought the things would be just fine as soon as they had done the paper work. I got a phone call from Hertz’s insurance company telling me that the other party changed her words and claimed that this accident was my fault. She said the only reason her car would hit my car was because I wanted to take the next exit and suddenly pull my car to the right lane. Anyway, she told a reasonable but a fake story for trying to get some coverage from Hertz. (Hertz’s insurance company told me that this lady didn’t have insurance to cover her own damage, and that probably was the reason why she changed her words.) So I told the insurance agent my side of the story and told him that according to the skid marks on the road and locations of our cars after this accident, the lady’s words couldn’t be true. Two weeks later, I made a phone call to the agent and he told me that he got the police report which supported my words. So he was going to collect the coverage from the other party. Anyway, I still got the letters from Hertz for the last eight months which kept on telling me that they didn’t get the coverage, and if they failed to collect the money without suing, I would be responsible for this damage. I really didn’t like the situation for the past few months. I always thought if the lady wanted to get some money to cover her damage so bad and pressed a charge to me, the trial would be held in Maine. How could I go all the way to Maine to defend myself? By the way, where could I find a lawyer cheaper than the cost of car damage?

Finally, the case was closed last month. The insurance agent told me that the police have a complete report for this accident, including the scene of accident, the brake print, and the first testimony of the lady right after the accident happened. The chance for the lady to gain some benefit from Hertz or me was very limited, so she finally gave up and her insurance company paid the coverage for our damage. Anyway, it turned out to be good that she didn’t choose the other to file a charge against me; otherwise, she might have gotten what she wanted if I had preserved my insurance claim and just sent the bill to my insurance company to avoid the trouble of defending myself in court. And that’s probably what she wanted.

I think I have learned too much from these accidents and I hope I will never go through these again.

* * *