Teenreads.com - Winner of the 2001 Claudia Ann Seaman Poetry Award for Young Writers

Winner of the 2001 Claudia Ann Seaman Poetry Award for Young Writers

"Fishbowls and Rice"
By Jodi Stelley

Step into another world
through these doors lie the secrets of the orient
all you can eat for only 8 dollars
diverse, foreign,
wonderfully exotic (to a point, of course, that Americans can handle)

the Great Chinese Buffet
special tonight
7.50
all you can eat
i watch the goldfish swim in their pond built of
plastic rocks
dodging the pennies that the little boy next to me tosses onto the water
his pale white face babbling to his mom something about a wish
a wish
i wish
that people would stop looking at me
i wish that we had gone for fast food
not chinese
american
I’m not chinese
my slanted eyes
my dark hair
stop staring at me
I’m not chinese
"i can’t translate the menu for you, im sorry"
"no, i do not know martial arts"
"yes i speak english"
"don’t give me chopsticks, i have no idea how to use them"
"what is my favorite food? what do i recommend?"
the rice
i recommend the rice
everyone will recommend the rice-
white
pure
untouched
naive.
eat the rice.
it wont make you sick
it will make you full.
it will make you happy.
and you can pat yourself on the back and say you did something different tonight
ate cuisine from another country that is on another continent
far far away
and it was an
experience.
you liked the rice.
you are now an expert, and you will recommend the rice.

i sit at my table
watching the waiter stumble through the english
asking what we drink
i listen to my mom ask questions
too complicated
words too big
he looks at me for relief
his eyes tell me that he expects me to understand her
the people sitting behind her stare,
expecting me to understand him
i look at the table
"water please"
he is skinny
all oriental people are skinny
except me.
his skinny oriental body runs off to the kitchen

i glance around
heads of hair
brown and curly, brown and straight
blond, blond and curly
straight blond, natural blond,
bleach.
natural curls, fake curls
very fake curls
obviously graying
trying to hide the fact that they are obviously graying
bent over their plates of exotic food
makeup
pale skinned girls wearing too much makeup
i look at my mother
her curly brown hair and pale skin
blue eyes
i tuck my dark straight hair behind my ear and stand up
i think about the rice
i think about the multitude of choices that lie before me
eggrolls, noodles, colorful seafood, rice
breaded chicken, chicken in sauce, chicken in soup, rice
i take a little of this
and a little of that
tiny portions that spot my plate like some abstract picture i saw in my art book
their grease runs into each other in the center
how pretty
i move on
the person behind me is giving me looks for taking too long and not taking food
his green eyes are annoyed and agitated
he doesn’t understand
-its so pretty
i move on
grudgingly
i move on
i avoid the pan of rice and

take in the experience
lost in the aroma that floats through the air
chinese food
fried to the customers taste
golden brown and dripping
so all those weight-conscious people can gasp and
take out their clean, white napkins
and soak in the evil liquid-
ah yes, once again, safe from the enemy
now, to enjoy this meal...

i am caught
i am standing in a ring
surrounded by spectators
i am the only oriental customer
and the world of caucasian people look on
what will she do next?
the rice is the most popular
the heavy favorite
i consider it
if i choose to pass on the rice
the white, pure, rice
i will have to do some form of tae kwon do or
something
to my seat
kicking, punching, whatever it takes
to justify my act
i casually walk to the pan of rice
knowing that the conversations that hum around my ears are
just a cover up,
they are all wondering what i will do
i stare at the rice
i reach for the spoon
my heritage balanced on a scrawled line
echoing the stories that the mirror tells me
and a thin manila folder of official papers giving order to
my beginnings
my first three months all in a pitiful packet of white papers that are stapled in the corner
to eat the rice or to not eat the rice
i stare at it
it stares back at me
it glows
its pure white glow
its tiny grains glisten all
independently
united
to make its beauty
its strong glow that draws in the masses
i feel the spoon in my hand

warm, metal greasy from the fingers of the last person to take part in this ritual
i dig into the pan
scooping out the beautiful matter
i bring it to my plate
my mouth waters
closer
closer
and i watch it as i am knocked from behind
and the rice,
the precious, white, pure rice
descends to the dirty tiles that lay beneath my reebok sneakers.

Jodi Stelley
New Hamburg, New York