Snow - By Julia Alvarez
Our first year in New York we rented a small apartment with a Catholic school nearby, taught by the Sisters of Charity, hefty women in long black gowns and bonnets that made them look peculiar, like dolls in mourning. I liked them a lot, especially my grandmotherly fourth grade teacher, Sister Zoe. I had a lovely name, she said, and she had me teach the whole class how to pronounce it. Yo-lan-da. As the only immigrant in my class, I was put in a special seat in the first row by the window, apart from the other children so that Sister Zoe could tutor me without disturbing them. Slowly, she enunciated the new words I was to repeat: laundromat, cornflakes, subway, snow.
Soon I picked up enough English to understand holocaust was in the air. Sister Zoe explained to a wide-eyed classroom what was happening in Cuba. Russian missiles were being assembled, trained supposedly on New York City. President Kennedy, looking worried too, was on the television at home, explaining we might have to go to war against the Communists. At school, we had air-raid drills: an ominous bell would go off and we'd file into the hall, fall to the floor, cover our heads with our coats, and imagine our hair falling out, the bones in our arms going soft. At home, Mami and my sisters and I said a rosary for world peace. I heard new vocabulary: nuclear bomb, radioactive fallout, bomb shelter. Sister Zoe explained how it would happen. She drew a picture of a mushroom on the blackboard and dotted a flurry of chalkmarks for the dusty fallout that would kill us all.
The months grew cold, November, December. It was dark when I got up in the morning, frosty when I followed my breath to school. One morning as I sat at my desk daydreaming out the window, I saw dots in the air like the ones Sister Zoe had drawn—random at first, then lots and lots. I shrieked, "Bomb! Bombl" Sister Zoe jerked around, her full black skirt ballooning as she hurried to my side. A few girls began to cry.
But then Sister Zoe's shocked look faded. "Why, Yolanda dear, that's snow!" She laughed "Snow."
"Snow," I repeated. I looked out the window warily. All my life I had heard about the white crystals that fell out of American skies in the winter. From my desk I watched the fine powder dust the sidewalk and parked cars below. Each flake was different, Sister Zoe said, like a person, irreplaceable and beautiful.
Soon I picked up enough English to understand holocaust was in the air. Sister Zoe explained to a wide-eyed classroom what was happening in Cuba. Russian missiles were being assembled, trained supposedly on New York City. President Kennedy, looking worried too, was on the television at home, explaining we might have to go to war against the Communists. At school, we had air-raid drills: an ominous bell would go off and we'd file into the hall, fall to the floor, cover our heads with our coats, and imagine our hair falling out, the bones in our arms going soft. At home, Mami and my sisters and I said a rosary for world peace. I heard new vocabulary: nuclear bomb, radioactive fallout, bomb shelter. Sister Zoe explained how it would happen. She drew a picture of a mushroom on the blackboard and dotted a flurry of chalkmarks for the dusty fallout that would kill us all.
The months grew cold, November, December. It was dark when I got up in the morning, frosty when I followed my breath to school. One morning as I sat at my desk daydreaming out the window, I saw dots in the air like the ones Sister Zoe had drawn—random at first, then lots and lots. I shrieked, "Bomb! Bombl" Sister Zoe jerked around, her full black skirt ballooning as she hurried to my side. A few girls began to cry.
But then Sister Zoe's shocked look faded. "Why, Yolanda dear, that's snow!" She laughed "Snow."
"Snow," I repeated. I looked out the window warily. All my life I had heard about the white crystals that fell out of American skies in the winter. From my desk I watched the fine powder dust the sidewalk and parked cars below. Each flake was different, Sister Zoe said, like a person, irreplaceable and beautiful.
Another Mystery - By Raymond Carver
That time I tagged along with my dad to the cleaners-
What'd I know then about Death? Dad comes out carrying a black suit in a
plastic bag. Hangs it up behind the back seat of the old coupe
and says, "This is the suit your grandpa is going to leave
the world in." What on earth could he be talking about? I wondered.
I touched the plastic, the slippery lapel of that coat
that was going away, along with grandpa. Those days it
was just another mystery.
There was a long interval, a time in which relatives departed in this
way and that, left and right. Then it was my dad's turn.
I sat and watched him rise up in his own smoke. He didn't
own a suit. So they dressed him gruesomely
in a cheap sport coat and tie,
for the occasion. Wired his lips
into a smile as if he wanted to reassure us, Don't worry, it's
not as bad as it looks. But we knew better. He was dead,
wasn't he? What else could go wrong?
I touched
his hand. Cold. The cheek where a little stubble had
broken through along the jaw. Cold.
Today I reeled this clutter up from the depths.
Just an hour or so ago when I piked up my own suit
from the dry cleaners and hung it carefully
behind the back seat. I drove it home, opened the car door
and lifted it out into the sunlight. I stood there a minute
in the road, my fingers crimped on the wire hanger. Then
tore a hole through the plastic to the other side. Took on of
the empty sleeves between my fingers and held it-
the rough, palpable fabric.
I reached through to the other side.
What'd I know then about Death? Dad comes out carrying a black suit in a
plastic bag. Hangs it up behind the back seat of the old coupe
and says, "This is the suit your grandpa is going to leave
the world in." What on earth could he be talking about? I wondered.
I touched the plastic, the slippery lapel of that coat
that was going away, along with grandpa. Those days it
was just another mystery.
There was a long interval, a time in which relatives departed in this
way and that, left and right. Then it was my dad's turn.
I sat and watched him rise up in his own smoke. He didn't
own a suit. So they dressed him gruesomely
in a cheap sport coat and tie,
for the occasion. Wired his lips
into a smile as if he wanted to reassure us, Don't worry, it's
not as bad as it looks. But we knew better. He was dead,
wasn't he? What else could go wrong?
I touched
his hand. Cold. The cheek where a little stubble had
broken through along the jaw. Cold.
Today I reeled this clutter up from the depths.
Just an hour or so ago when I piked up my own suit
from the dry cleaners and hung it carefully
behind the back seat. I drove it home, opened the car door
and lifted it out into the sunlight. I stood there a minute
in the road, my fingers crimped on the wire hanger. Then
tore a hole through the plastic to the other side. Took on of
the empty sleeves between my fingers and held it-
the rough, palpable fabric.
I reached through to the other side.
Lurlena, Sturgeon, Missouri - By Amanda Lucier
“In this picture, Lurlena cries in the back of the family car after losing the contest for Carnival Princess at her school. She spent the day getting ready, with a new white dress and new shoes. The winner was decided based on whose parents bought the most tickets, and Lurlena’s family could only afford eight dollars worth. This moment breaks my heart, and I’m sure Lurlena understood just how unfair life could be. It was amazing to be this deep into her life that she didn’t care about being photographed.”
“Many of my days are spent driving around, hoping to find feature pictures for the paper. During graduate school, I met a kid, Dacota, on one of those drives, and there was something magical about him. Gradually I became more involved with his life, and started spending time with his extended family of cousins who lived in Sturgeon. Mo., a small town about an hour outside of Columbia. Working on this project was in some ways the opposite of newspaper work. I had no definite sense of the “story” I was covering, just a feeling of wonder and a certain freedom to make whatever pictures I wanted to. The story of the secret lives of these children slowly unfolded. I was immediately accepted into the family, and could come and go whenever I had the time. This is the story I dream of returning to, over and over again, as the kids get older. In all of this chaos there are these quiet, reflective moments that resonate with me.”
“Many of my days are spent driving around, hoping to find feature pictures for the paper. During graduate school, I met a kid, Dacota, on one of those drives, and there was something magical about him. Gradually I became more involved with his life, and started spending time with his extended family of cousins who lived in Sturgeon. Mo., a small town about an hour outside of Columbia. Working on this project was in some ways the opposite of newspaper work. I had no definite sense of the “story” I was covering, just a feeling of wonder and a certain freedom to make whatever pictures I wanted to. The story of the secret lives of these children slowly unfolded. I was immediately accepted into the family, and could come and go whenever I had the time. This is the story I dream of returning to, over and over again, as the kids get older. In all of this chaos there are these quiet, reflective moments that resonate with me.”