Finally Seen

by Kelly Yang

I know how much she needs me. I’m all she’s got left. Which is why some feelings are too hard to even tell her. Instead, I catch them and tuck them behind my cheek. Lao Lao says that’s the way to succeed in China.

But the thing about some feelings is… they just won’t go away. Instead, they form a tight ball at the base of my throat. Where they sit and they wait, planning their escape from the thread. And one day, just when you least expect it, they shoot out like a rocket.

I feel a tug of guilt thinking about it, but Aunt Jing said it was necessary. She and Uncle Hu both live in Shenzhen, which is about twelve hundred miles away from Beijing, and they both have 9-9-6 tech jobs. A 9-9-6 job means you work from 9 a.m. to 9 p.m. six days a week. They’re the envy of the country, because they make the most money. But it also means there’s no way my aunt can be a tea brewer for my lao lao.

He was a magazine editor. Even after he “retired” he kept going into the office. He said working was the best way to stay young, but Lao Lao secretly suspected it was so he could keep eating lunch at his favorite fried dumpling place next to his office. My lao ye had heart disease and diabetes. He used to joke that at his age, heart disease and diabetes were like stamps in a passport—signs of a life well lived. I wish Lao Ye had had actual stamps in his passport, though, and more time to get them. But at seventy-two, he had a stroke in the taxi on his way home from work.

Every movie and TV show I watch is always talking about the American dream. I’m still not sure exactly what it means, but I think it means something like this: To be able to buy any kind of Frappuccino you want. To have a nice home and fill your bed with a lot of pillows, like you have a thousand heads. To say I love you, all the time, to your family. And not be embarrassed.

“Sometimes you have to do the hard thing and remove yourself from a bad situation. Even if it means parting with what you want most. Do you understand that?”

“It means your blood is made of iron will and determination. Your backbone is built from the sacrifices and impossible decisions of all those who walked before you. You have a duty to them to protect your heart. Never let yourself be treated that way, over ice cream. It isn’t worth it. You understand?”

“He may look like an organic farmer, but the pesticide he spews sometimes…” I look at Carla funny. “Millie! Lina! Come on, we gotta run!” Mom says in Chinese. Pete scolds Mom. “Quit yakking in Chinese! Speak English.” “See what I mean?” Carla asks.

Now, class, we’ll be starting our language arts unit this morning with a special Book Tasting.

a reading oasis. Light streams in from the windows on all sides. There are comfy little reading nooks everywhere and even a reading tree house! Mrs. Hollins, the librarian, waves at us and walks over from shelving the books. “Hi, Ana! I thought you were over at the middle school! How are things going?” Mrs. Hollins greets Mrs. Ortiz. “Going well! This is Lina. She’s my new student, and you know the book I think would be perfect for her? Flea Shop by Catherine Wang!” “Oh, I love that book! And you’re in luck, someone just returned it—I’ll go get it!” Mrs. Hollins turns and walks over to the returned-books pile.

The bulletin boards are decorated with gold and blue ribbons, our school’s colors, and the big bold letters at the top say BOOKS ARE SLIDING DOORS AND MIRRORS!

Mrs. Hollins walks back with my book. She hands it to me. To my surprise, it’s a thick book, not a little picture book, which was what I thought she was going to give me. As I thumb through it, I realize that there are comics inside! “We call this a graphic novel,” Mrs. Ortiz tells me. “I think you’ll really like it. It’s about a ten-year-old girl who moves to the US and helps her parents manage a flea market shop!” “It has so much heart!” Mrs. Hollins adds, putting a hand to her chest. “And humor! I laughed and cried!” I ...

I gaze apologetically at Mrs. Hollins, because I’m not sure if she has a no-laughing-out-loud policy in her library. But her face blooms brighter than Pete’s azaleas.

“This isn’t just a book,” I tell her. “This is us.” Mom glances at the book in the rearview mirror as I explain. “You think that just because Hazel goes to fancy sleepaway camp, that’s cool. Guess what? In this book, the girl and her parents live inside a flea shop! Every weekend, they have to go searching at garage sales, looking for valuable junk!” Millie doesn’t say anything. But she gazes curiously at the smiling Chinese American girl on the cover.

“Let me explain something to you,” Mom says. “We’re immigrants, which means if there’s ever a choice between something easy and something hard, we pick the something hard.”

“Let me tell you something about mistakes. A professor of mine once told me a mistake is progress you can’t see. Every time you make a mistake, you’re learning. You’re growing. And if you want to find a new path, you’ve got to be willing to make lots of mistakes.”

Mrs. Hollins looks up from her desk. She’s eating a sandwich. I gaze at her apologetically and do a little awkward wave as I slink into the bathroom. The inside of the library staff bathroom smells like lavender. I dive into one of the stalls and am relieved to see that the doors are pristine. No writing here. As I walk out, Mrs. Hollins makes her way over. “Hi, Lina,” she says. “How are you liking Flea Shop?” I hug it tighter, nodding. I need Cat Wang now, more than ever, especially after what just happened in the bathroom. She’s the only one who understands! I hope Mrs. Hollins doesn’t make me return it. “Oh, good,” she says. “Say, I heard from Mrs. Carter today that you’re a great artist. Would you like to help me with an art project? I’m making some posters for the library!”

“That happen to you, too? Me too. I went to live with my grandparents one summer in London,” she says. “My parents were moving houses. I was terribly homesick the first week, until I discovered Yorkshire pudding.” She waggles her eyebrows and even though I don’t know what Yorkshire pudding is, I decide in my mind that it tastes something like tang hulu, which is absolutely delicious. Sweet and crunchy, and warm in your belly… like the feeling of connecting with Mrs. Hollins over our joint experience. I guess that’s the power of books. “Hey, Lina. I want you to know that you can come in here anytime you want.” Mrs. Hollins looks into my eyes. “Even during lunch, so long as you promise not to get ketchup on the books.”

“Now why would you take all the roots out?” Pete asks Mrs. Muñoz. “The roots feed the worms. The worms feed the soil. The soil feeds us. Without the soil, we’re goners! We only have five generations of usable topsoil left in the world—once that’s gone, the world becomes a dust bowl. Soil’s our best shot at reversing the devastation to the planet—I

“No, you’re not getting it. The earth is dying!” Dad walks over with his wheelbarrow. “When the last topsoil runs out, we’ll have to farm with chemicals. Which are going to run into our lakes and groundwater, causing cancer and God knows what else. So don’t tell me to keep my voice down.”

Pete’s right. The soil feeds the soul. So does opening up to a friend.

I dance because I want to show my sister this is why we dance—to have fun, not for views. To celebrate. Like me saying my first sentence to Finn—in English! And writing on Mrs. Hollins’s poster! And now it’s hanging up high in the library! I dance for kicking Jessica out of my head! And for finally making a friend! Okay, so he’s a boy. But he loves to read!

Pete mutters under his breath to me and Millie, “Can you believe it? Our Earth is in crisis mode—in 2020 alone, sixteen freshwater fish species went extinct—and people still can’t separate their trash.” Pete sure is a walking encyclopedia of science knowledge. “People. We overfish, overexploit. Do before we think. Use too much of everything—cups, straws, plastic forks—wasting the Earth away!” He turns to me. “Which is why we need more microregenerative farms, like this one, near urban centers. As the world gets hotter and we have more extreme weather, there will be less water. And food will become a serious problem. Now if we’re smart, and we farm smart—I’m talking cover cropping, mulching, composting, and taking care of the soil—we can actually store carbon in the soil, reversing the effects of climate change.”

But that’s not why I love the scene so much. I love it because like Lao Lao, Jordan’s grandpa also just moved to a senior center. And like me, Jordan says that makes him sad. I stared so long at that panel.

I feel my whole body relax at being understood. A great book says all the words for you that you’ve been holding in, all sewn up inside.

“I like,” I say in a small voice. Mrs. Carter sits up eagerly. She leans closer to me and encourages me to elaborate. “Oh yeah? What did you like?” “It… really…” I pause, trying to think of how to put it. The book was like a warm blanket for me. When Cat struggled with English, I felt less alone. When she messed something up with a customer, it made me feel like less of a dope when I got a red squiggly line replying to one of our customers. Most of all, when she worried about her future, I felt more secure in mine. Because she’s a big author now. It fills me with hope that I could be someone too. Even here in this new land, where i-e isn’t after c. Where blue isn’t always a color. Where Mama says we don’t have the same options as everyone else.

I think about the big bulletin board in our library, declaring BOOKS ARE SLIDING DOORS AND MIRRORS. For so long, I thought I was all alone. Lao Lao was the only door that ever stayed open for me. Her world view was my world view. But now with these books, I’m starting to unlock many more… and I realize I have a lot more in common with other people than I thought.

came here because you said I can check out what I want,” Jessica says, hugging Drama by Raina Telgemeier. “Is that a graphic novel?” Jessica’s mom gasps, and tries to pull the book from her daughter’s hands. “What did I say about graphic novels? They’re not real books!” Whoa. Now I understand why Jessica’s wound up tighter than an erhu. Her mom is beyond! “Yes they are!” Jessica protests. “All my friends are reading them! Mrs. Carter’s doing a whole unit on them!” Jessica’s mom rolls her eyes dramatically. “That’s another reason why we’re switching schools! You should be reading the classics. To Kill a Mockingbird. Tom Sawyer. Huckleberry Finn.” “But I want to read Drama!” “Yeah, I know you want to. I want to be at the Four Seasons Maui right now, getting my nails done and sipping pineapple sodas, but instead I have to go to yet another diversity and inclusivity meeting at the District. You think I want to listen to the superintendent talk about how we need more representation in the PTA?” With that, Jessica’s mom snatches Jessica’s copy of Drama from her hands and reshelves it in the biography aisle. The student librarian in me scowls.

Then she teaches me a trick. With her pencil, she circles the i in the word guilt. “I want you never to forget the i in guilt,” she says. Then she looks into my eyes. “I want you to repeat after me, I am important.” I repeat the words, “I am important.” “Yes, you are. You and your hopes and dreams.” Her own eyes grow misty as she continues. “As immigrants, we are burdened with a lot of guilt. For leaving our loved ones. Leaving our home. Sacrificing so much, or watching our parents sacrifice so much. But I want you never to forget the i in guilt.” She reaches for my hand. “It’s in there for a reason. And it’s not any smaller than the other letters. Your dreams matter. You matter. Never forget that.”

“Sure! First rule of writing a graphic novel: Decide what you want your story to be. A happy story? A sad story?” I chew on my lip, trying to decide. Finally, I say, “I want my book to be sliding door.” With that, I take a deep breath… and tug my invisible thread free. I begin to tell Finn everything.

Carla gives me a hug. She reaches into her lab coat and pulls out my copy of Pie in the Sky. “Thank you for this. My mom finished it last night.” “What she think?” I ask. Carla lingers by the side of the car. “She loved it. We finally talked about my dad,” Carla says. “She asked me if there was still a hole in my heart as big as the pie in the sky.…” “And?” I ask Carla. “I told her there isn’t, because Dad lives there now,” Carla says, patting her chest. “And I want him to have the softest, happiest place to live.” I smile at Carla. What a wonderful, beautiful sentence in English. I try to remember the light of this perfect moment so I can draw it in my graphic novel. “She hugged me and said she’s not quite there yet, but she’s working on it,” Carla tells me as she gets into the car. “And that’s something.”

There is freedom in truth. Yes, there is pain. But there is also joy. The joy of not being afraid to talk about it… the courage to not erase it.

“You know the secret?” he asks. “Some crops, like beans, they restore the soil. Others, like tomatoes, suck out the nutrients. By rotating and mixing them, with flowers and shrubs, I create what’s called agroforestry.” Dad turns to me and explains in Chinese, “Agroforestry is planting based on what each crop can and cannot do for the soil. It allows the soil to thrive.”

Wrapped in Mrs. Ortiz’s warm arms, I think about how powerful it feels to have what I’ve lived through acknowledged and recognized, and no longer have to keep it all in and suffer all by myself. To open my door, just for a second, so the world can slide through.

“Your readers are waiting,” Mrs. Ortiz says with a smile. “I know I am. You want to give it a try tomorrow?” It fills me with gratitude that Mrs. O believes in me with all her heart. I think back to what I was like when I first came to her class. Mrs. Ortiz gave me so much more than just English. She gave me the confidence that I can make it in this country, if I just try hard. Slowly, I nod.

Mrs. Ortiz gave me so much more than just English. She gave me the confidence that I can make it in this country, if I just try hard. Slowly, I nod.

“I’m glad you’re all fired up,” Mrs. Carter says. “This is exactly why I want you to read books—to see the world through someone else’s eyes. I can tell you as a Black person, I have had moments just like this… where I’ve wondered, did this really happen? How could this happen to me? It’s so easy to brush these experiences under the rug. But I am so proud of Catherine Wang for shedding light on them, so that we all learn and grow. Sometimes an experience that seems impossible to us is actually the lived experience of many other people. And by understanding that, we all become more empathic human beings.”

“Divisive?” Mrs. Carter’s eyebrows jump. “It’s a book about a Chinese American girl who runs a flea market shop. I’m sorry… what’s divisive about that?” Principal Bennett steps in. “Mrs. Scott has… concerns. About the relevance of this text to our students.” “Can’t you see? It’s not relatable. It’s not appropriate!” Jessica’s mom cries. My cheeks roast, hearing that. Flea Shop is the most relatable thing I’ve ever read. As for appropriate, if she thinks Flea Shop’s not appropriate, I hate to think of what she thinks about my life.

“No, we will talk about it right here, right now,” Mrs. Scott insists. “Because I won’t have my daughter exposed to another minute of that isolating trash.” “Isolating trash? I have never seen kids more excited about a book before! They are riveted. They come to school every day begging to know what happens next. I have kids in the class who want to take the book home—” “And do I need to remind you how it is you have copies for every kid in the class?” Mrs. Scott cuts in, pointing a finger at our class. “That didn’t just happen. I made that happen. I expected you to pick a book like Stuart Little or Huckleberry Finn, not some immigrant book!” “Well, immigration happens to be a part of the Common Core. And our nation,” Mrs. Carter says flatly. Finn lets out a hoot next to me. Go, Mrs. Carter! he mouths. I exchange a small smile with him, even as the worry mounts. “That’s up to me to teach my kids, as their parent. It’s not the school’s place to teach immigration,” Mrs. Scott reasons. “I want you to stop the read-aloud and hand back all your copies of Flea Shop.” “That’s not the way things work—” Mrs. Carter starts to say.

We fly into the library later during lunch. “They can’t just do that!” Finn roars, begging Mrs. Hollins with his eyes. “They can’t just ban a reading and yank the books away! Midsentence!” I dig my nails into my palms. It’s enraging, what just happened. After Mrs. Carter walked back inside, she collected our books, promising each and every one of us that this wasn’t over. Still, the books were gone. I shake my head, disturbed on so many levels. As a student librarian. As an Asian American. As a new immigrant, whose life mirrors those of the characters Mrs. Scott called “isolating trash.” “I am so sorry. I’ll tell you the same thing I told Mrs. Carter when she emailed me this morning—it’s unacceptable,” Mrs. Hollins says, shaking with just as much fury. Mrs. Hollins tells us that this kind of book banning has been happening in schools all over the nation, though she never expected it would happen at Winfield. “It’s flat-out censorship. And the only way to stop it is to speak up!” “But how? Where?” Finn asks. “Come to the school board meeting,” Mrs. Hollins says. “There’s going to be an emergency one in a few days. Tell them how much you love this book. They’ll want to hear from the kids—the community. Tell them why this matters.” Finn nods, fired up. But I swallow hard. Me? Speak at a board meeting? I’m too chicken to even speak up in class. I still haven’t uttered a single word to the rest of my classmates since the first day of school. And we all know how that turned out....

She says that each person who wants to speak will have two minutes. It’s important to not dawdle because the two minutes will go by like that. I do not believe the two minutes will go like that. I believe the two minutes will be like two long years in space, trying to figure out how to land my spaceship safely back on Earth.

I remind myself that fear and courage are two sides of the same bath bomb. This time tomorrow, I hope my courage side lathers.

The next speaker up is Mrs. Carter. “Unlike Mrs. Scott, I view my job as not to push a specific world view, but to prepare children for the future. The future is made up of people from all walks of life, all ethnicities, and, yes, all different colors.” Mrs. Carter glances at Mrs. Scott. “This is a fact. We need simply to go to the Census Bureau to see this fact. Books like Flea Shop are so incredibly valuable because they allow children to step into the shoes of another person from a different culture and understand what they’re going through. I think of reading as giving kids a toolbox for the future.” She turns to face all the people in the audience. “So I ask all of you in this room, do you want your children to have as many varied and powerful tools in their future toolbox as they can… or to just give them one wrench?”

Sometimes the truth is so powerful, it takes up all the air in the room.

“Good evening. I am not a parent in the school district. I am a homeschooling mom. I chose to homeschool my daughter because I thought I had all the tools. But recently, I realized… there are some tools I can’t give her, because I don’t know that she needs them… until she does. Conversations we can’t have, because neither of us can find the words. Until we read them. Books are an important bridge.” She takes a long, deep breath and looks over at Mrs. Scott. “Believe me, I know how you feel. I know the fear of being powerless in a world you can’t control. A world you don’t, at times, understand.” Mrs. Muñoz pauses. “Three years ago, I lost my husband. For the last three years, I’ve been running. I thought that by avoiding certain hard topics with my daughter, I was shielding her. Now I realize it takes courage to admit I don’t have all the answers—none of us do. But if I’m afraid to have the conversations, if I’m afraid to read a children’s book… what possible hope do I have of giving her the courage to deal with life?”

“When your kid disagrees with the way you see the world, nothing hurts more. That’s God’s honest truth. You feel like you’ve failed as a parent—how did I not raise someone who gets me? What did I do wrong?” Finn’s dad takes a long breath. “The answer is, nothing. Because kids are not clones. Do I wish that my son and I could talk our heads off about football all day long? Absolutely,” he admits. Then a small smile forms. “But I also raised a reader. When I got home, you know what I did? I ordered a new copy of Fumble to replace his copy that I threw in the pizza—and I ordered myself a copy. And you know what? I kinda like the kid in the story. The kid can’t play football to save his life, but he’s funny. And he cares about his family. And I do too.” Finn’s mom smiles. I can see Finn blinking furiously under his glasses—he’s so moved. “So I thank you, his school, for having books like Fumble and Flea Shop on your shelves. Thank you for making this place bigger. So that the kids who go here… don’t just get exposed to one tiny slice of life. And the adults don’t either.”

My heart thumps in my chest as I grab the mic. Staring out at so many strangers, each and every one of whom speaks English better than me, I feel my knees wobble. But adrenaline pushes me forward as I remind myself that I have worked too hard and waited too long for this moment. And I rip out my invisible thread.

Hi. I am Lina,” I tell the school board members. “I go to fifth grade at Winfield Elementary School. This my first year in America.” I look over at Finn, who gives me two thumbs up—keep going!!! “I used think America is like Simpsons,” I start to say. “But then I arrive, and it is very different than Simpsons. My parents work a lot harder than Homer and Marge.” I get a big laugh from the audience. My heart skips a beat. They think I’m funny! “And my sister and I are not like Bart or Lisa. Instead, we worry many things, like will Mom sell enough bath bomb for rent? Will Dad come home for dinner instead of work, work, work? Will we see our grandmother again?” I glance at the audience and see a few people with their hand over their heart. Looking down at my notes, I swallow hard. “Will the other girls stop writing about me on bathroom wall?” I ask in my timid voice. I keep my gaze steady on the board members, not daring to peek over at Jessica. Not even as the room erupts in whispers and the temperature climbs. I push on with my speech. “I don’t know answers. But I know I am not alone in these questions. Cat Wang also have same questions. She make me feel less alone,” I tell the board. “This why I need this book. Because my life more like Flea Shop than Simpsons. For me, this book is mirror. For other kids, it is sliding door.” I turn to the audience. “A door to see real life.”

An amazing thing happens when I turn around. I see Mom and Dad standing up for me, clapping wildly. Dad snaps a pic of me on his phone. He looks like he’s about to burst into tears. One by one, my classmates start standing up too! The claps sweep across the room, like an ocean wave. My sister does a little dolphin from her seat, and I giggle. I look over at Mrs. Hollins, clapping so thunderously loud, it makes my student librarian heart swell. Mrs. Ortiz makes a heart gesture with her hands and cheers for me from her seat as Mrs. Carter dabs her eyes. I beam back at all the love and support in the room. I try to understand what this feeling is pounding in my heart. That’s when I realize it’s the feeling of finally being seen. Never in my entire life have I truly felt it before, until now.

Thank you for your time this evening, and, Lina, I hope you know…” I turn around. “We are honored to have you in our school,” he says. “Thank you for speaking up.” My throat chokes with emotion as I nod back.