Between Two Worlds, sample chapter

 

Chapter 1   

“VARIG flight 27 for Miami with a stop in São Paulo now departing from Gate 2.” The breathy intercom voice might as well have been a hideous cackle, the way Cristina Larson’s stomach clutched. She did not want to get on that plane.

“Não!” Márcia drew out the Portuguese word in a long moan. She embraced Cristina, and soon both girls were sobbing. “A year is so long! You’ve got to write to me. All the time. Promise?”

Cristina nodded and groped for a tissue in her pocket.

“Tell me all about your birthday,” Márcia continued. “It’ll be wonderful having your quinze anos in America!” 

Cristina wasn’t at all sure that was true. Her Brazilian friend probably imagined that Rum River, Minnesota, was right next door to Disney World Why did their year in the States have to be now? Why couldn’t it be last year or next year—any time but the year of her fifteenth birthday?

“Come on, Cristina. I want to hug Márcia, too, and we have to go.” Cristina’s older sister, Bete, stood by her side. 

Márcia gave Cristina another squeeze and kissed her on both cheeks, then kissed Cristina’s right cheek one more time. “For luck,” she whispered. They both knew what kind of luck she had in mind.

Everyone hugged and talked at once. There were so many last minute things to be said and not enough time to take turns. How Cristina wished she could stay! She hated good-byes, hated pulling up roots and going to America. It might be “home” for her parents, but western Brazil was the only home Cristina wanted.

Márcia’s mother dabbed her eyes with a tissue. She gave Cristina an extra kiss for romantic luck as well. Cristina giggled despite her tears. She was sure Tia Dalva had no idea that the “luck” Cristina hoped for was the tall handsome son at her side.

Vicente’s dark eyes met Cristina’s, and his strong arms wrapped around her. Then he took her shoulders firmly and kissed her on both cheeks. Her skin tingled, and for a brief moment Cristina wondered how long she could get away with not washing her face. Tio Zé and Cristina’s father hugged and slapped each other soundly on the back as they said their own farewells. 

The voice on the intercom repeated the boarding call. Cristina picked up her carry-on bag. It was heavy with all the treasures she couldn’t force into her suitcase, but couldn’t bear to leave behind. Her feet shuffled reluctantly through the gate after Bete. The black tarmac reflected the heat of the Brazilian sun. She stopped half way to the plane and looked back at the terminal. It seemed like she had done this a hundred times before. It never got any easier. Vicente had his arm around Márcia who rested her dark, curly head on her brother’s shoulder and waved a last farewell.

“I hate good-byes.” Cristina clenched her teeth and started up the steps to the plane.

* * * 

The corridor of Rum River High School was noisy and crowded with strangers. 

“What are you looking at?” The girl at the next locker glared at Cristina. Cristina snapped her mouth shut to keep from answering back and jerked her eyes away from the girl’s tight neon outfit. Her cheeks felt hot, and she knew they were as bright as the other girl’s top. The girl slammed her locker and swept away.

“If she doesn’t want to be looked at, she shouldn’t dress like that!” Cristina muttered. She rubbed her nose and shook her head at the stale smell of tobacco the girl had left behind. A horrible thought scratched at Cristina’s mind. She glanced down at her outfit and looked anxiously around the corridor.

Most of her fellow students were dressed in T-shirts and jeans. Some were wrinkled; some merely limp. Cristina wondered if Americans had ever heard of the electric iron. Here and there were one or two others in loud, tight outfits.

Evidently it was some American idea of bacana--‘cool’ or whatever the ‘in’ word here was. But Cristina wasn’t impressed. She and Bete had stayed up late last night carefully ironing their jeans so they would look good for their first day. It was nice not to have to wear uniforms for a change. 

Christina shook her blond hair back from her face and tilted her chin. She closed her locker, but the door didn’t fit right. So she slammed it. She wished Bete were with her now, but the seniors’ lockers were all at the far end of the school. She wondered how long it would take people to learn to call her sister “Bechee” instead of “Betty.” She sighed and arranged her face in what she hoped was a confident smile and stepped into the flow of students.

"Christina!" At the squeal of her name, Cristina turned and was smothered by Lisa Connor's enthusiastic welcome. "I just knew it was you! I've been dying for you to get here. I’m so sorry I was gone for the weekend. I couldn’t help it. My parents made me go to this stupid old family reunion. It was so bo-oring!" 

Cristina blinked twice. Lisa had been her best friend in fourth grade—the last time the Larsons had spent a year in the States on home assignment. Their families had been friends since before the girls were born. Lisa wrote occasionally, and their parents exchanged Christmas cards. Their annual photographs showed how much the girls had grown. Lisa's letters sometimes made Cristina feel like she was a trophy that Lisa liked to pull out when it suited her. "I have a good friend who lives in Brazil," she could boast if someone's Grandmother made a trip to Europe or something.

Lisa’s gush of words came to a pause, and Cristina realized she was supposed to respond. "That’s okay. I was busy unpacking and getting settled," she offered.

"Oh, never mind. You're here. I can't wait to introduce you to everyone. You remember Ann."

Lisa turned to a tall girl at her side with meticulously applied makeup. Her long, softly curling hair, a shade darker than Lisa’s gold, was brushed in a style that looked a little odd to Cristina, but she wore it with a kind of confidence that said it must be “in.”

"Oh, yes, I remember Ann," Cristina replied. How could I forget? The month before they returned to Brazil Lisa went off with Ann and told her all Cristina’s secrets. "You aren't going to be here any more; I have to have other friends," Lisa had explained as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

Ann’s lips pulled back to show her upper teeth. Cristina thought it was supposed to be a smile. 

"Is that the kind of earrings they’re wearing in Brazil these days?" Ann asked. Cristina had studied the picture that had come from the Connors last Christmas and made sure she wore a pair of large clunky earrings like Lisa had on in the picture. Now she noticed that both Lisa and Ann wore long, dangling earrings that swayed gently when they turned their heads.

"Why, yes," she replied. She hoped her face wasn't giving her away by turning red. 

“Oh, how cute!” Lisa crooned. “I used to have some almost like those.”

“Come on, Lisa. We have to get to English.” Ann sounded impatient.

“What do you have now, Cris?” 

Cristina consulted the schedule she had been given in the office. “Uh ... I have English, too.” 

“That’s great!” Lisa squeezed Cristina’s arm and pulled her toward the English room. Ann joined them. Her face was unreadable behind her makeup.

More Books about TCKs

 Third culture kids (TCKs) are those who spend a significant part of their growing up years in a culture different from their parents’ home culture. Like Cristina Larson in Between Two Worlds, they often find that they belong to neither one culture nor the other. They make up a ‘third culture’ of those who move among different worlds. These books will help you to understand more about that third culture.

Fiction:
When Africa Was Home by Karen Lynn Williams, illustrated by Floyd Cooper (1991). New York, Orchard.
 My own daughter’s strongly identified with this picture book about a family missing Africa when they have returned to the United States.

Homesick; My Own Story by Jean Fritz (1982). New York, Putnam.
 Popular children’s author Jean Fritz was born in China in the 1920s. In this fictionalized version of her life she describes how she thought she was American until she got there and realized she didn’t fit in.

Bloomability by Sharon Creech (1998). New York, Harper Trophy.
 Thirteen-year-old Dinnie has no intention of enjoying boarding school in Switzerland, but she discovers the richness of cross-cultural living.

Jakarta Missing by Jane Kurtz (2001). New York, Greenwillow.
 Dakar isn’t the only one in her family to long for Africa during the year they spend in Cottonwood, North Dakota. Although I found the ending unsettling, the struggles are all too real.

The Real Plato Jones by Nina Bawden (1994). London, Hamish Hamilton.
With a Welsh father and a Greek mother, Plato Jones feels “all mixed up... When I’m there, I want to be here, and when I’m here I want to be there! It’s as if I were split in two. And I don’t know which half is me.” (p.93) It takes helping his Greek grandfather’s village in a major emergency to make Plato feel at home with the two sides of his heritage.

Non-fiction for adults:
Third Culture Kids; the Experience of Growing up Among Worlds, 2nd ed. rev. by David Pollock and Ruth van Reken (2001) Nicholas Brealey 
 Pollock and van Reken take a balanced look at the challenges and rewards of living cross culturally. This book is a must for anyone raising children between worlds or trying to fit in as an adult TCK. 

Letters Never Sent; One Woman’s Journey from Hurt to Wholeness by Ruth Van Reken (1995). Indianapolis, IN, Letters.
 Van Reken examines significant struggles in her own TCK experience in fictional letters to her family. They are enlightening, but painful to read. 

On Writing Between Two Worlds

My two daughters were born in Brazil, South America. When they were small, our neighbor celebrated her fifteenth birthday. In Brazil, as in the rest of Latin America, a girl’s fifteenth birthday is a special occasion to mark her change from a little girl to a young lady. I couldn’t help asking, “What if my daughter grew up in Brazil, anticipating her quinze anos, as it is called, and was stuck in the States the year she turned fifteen?” As it turned out, my daughters grew up in Africa. But the year my youngest turned fifteen, I told myself, “If you are ever going to write that story, it must be now, before you forget what fifteen is like.” Lots of my own feelings about not fitting in back in America after living overseas came into the story as well as experiences of my daughters.

Between Two Worlds

 The voice on the intercom repeated the boarding call. Cristina picked up her carry-on bag. It was heavy with all the treasures she couldn’t force into her suitcase, but couldn’t bear to leave behind. Her feet shuffled reluctantly through the gate after Bete. The black tarmac reflected the heat of the Brazilian sun. She stopped half way to the plane and looked back at the terminal. It seemed like she had done this a hundred times before. It never got any easier. Vicente had his arm around Márcia who rested her dark, curly head on her brother’s shoulder and waved a last farewell.

"I hate good-byes." Cristina clenched her teeth and started up the steps to the plane.

Keeping Secrets, sample chapter

 

Chapter 1

I remember what it was like Before. I flew over the ice like a swallow on the wind. Music filled my whole body, and I soared like a bird above the city of Johannesburg—eGoli—place of gold. I dreamed of gold medals and going to the Olympics someday.

But that was Before.

I was too young to know that life can collapse as fast as a skater can lose an edge and tumble to the ice. It hurts to fall, but you get up; you keep skating. You smile for the judges, and you don’t let them see the pain. That’s what winners do.

But sometimes, the hurt is too much, and you can’t get up. You can’t keep skating.

Then you lose.

* * *

The pounding pulse in my ears threatened to drown the announcer’s voice on the loudspeaker. “Please welcome our next skater, representing the Skating Federation of South Africa—Sindiswa Khumalo!”

“You’ll do great, Sindi,” my American coach, Trevor MacDonald, murmured beside me. “Just relax and have fun.”

Relax? Not likely with all those people watching. If they knew the truth, would they still cheer? I shook the tight, beaded braids that covered my head and tried to absorb the calm in Mac’s eyes. Breathe, Sindi. Breathe. Don’t think about home. Forget your parents. Focus.

I pushed away from the gate. My arms spread wide to receive the cascading applause as I skated a broad arc toward center ice. Mac’s voice sounded in my mind. Smile for the judges. Even he didn’t know my secret. I stretched my lips into an expression intended to sparkle.

I searched the stands for my parents although I knew they weren’t there. The friends I had made in a month of training camp cheered enthusiastically from the back rows. Someone whistled and stomped as if this was an American ice hockey game.

Ben. It had to be Ben.

The audience grew quiet as I took my starting pose—spine arched, head back, one arm raised like a graceful branch toward the high curve of rafters. I swallowed hard, but the smile never slipped from my face.

The music started—the theme from Out of Africa. I let it pull me across the ice, flowing in deep edges and vaulting in tight jumps. My spiral sequence went straight into a double-Axel/toe-loop combination jump. The double loop halfway through the program nearly tripped me up, but I bent my knee deep and held onto the landing. I didn’t expect to win—not in my first American competition. After all, this was Lake Placid, where some of the best skaters in the world trained. But I did hope to skate clean. My final combination spin went from position to position, perfect balance, perfect centering, thanks to Mac’s relentless coaching and hours of practice.

I had never skated better in my life.

The music stopped. I froze in my final position, eyes closed to hold back tears. If only my parents were here to see me!

I took my bow, smiling and waving while stuffed animals rained on the ice. I swept up a monkey and a fat hippo on my way to the gate. Little girls in matching blue skating dresses came on to clean up the rest.

Mac hugged me as my father would have. “Perfect! I am so proud of you, Sindi.” That was what my father would have said: I am so proud of you. Only he would have called me “Nyoni”—bird—for the way I flew over the ice.

“Get your skate guards on.” Mac took the stuffed animals from my hand. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”

I held his arm for balance while I wiped the slush from my blades and slid the plastic guards over them. A little girl in blue thrust a large plastic bag toward me.

I frowned at it. “What’s this?”

“Your presents.” She gestured at the ice.

“All these?” 

She giggled, and another little girl held out a second bag.

“You’re popular.” Mac handed me my blue warm-up jacket with the Lake Placid logo embroidered on the front. Tomorrow I would go home to South Africa, but I would keep the jacket forever. 

“Leave your gifts in the locker room and come on.” He led me out of the arena, down a corridor.

“What about the scores?” I trotted after him as quickly as my blades in their clunky plastic guards allowed. The next skater’s music already played behind us.

“They’ll be posted in the lobby. Don’t worry. It’ll take a few minutes. We have plenty of time.” Mac stopped in front of a room marked “VIP Hospitality” and ushered me in. A buffet table at one end was covered with salads and fruit. The smell of crisp, hot rolls tickled my nose.

“There you are!” A woman set down her glass of white wine and stood. She was as tall as Mac, and the skintight clothes on her long thin body made her seem even taller. Her hair was short and curly and very blond. Diamond earrings sparkled when she shook her head. She came toward me with her hand held out. “You were marvelous, Sindi. Absolutely marvelous!”

I shook her hand politely and glanced at Mac for a clue.

“Sindi, I’d like you to meet Amanda Etherington,” he said. “Amanda, this is Sindi.” He was grinning like this was a special occasion.

“Oh,” I said, suddenly understanding. “The lady who loaned me the dress.” I glanced down at the pink lace and chiffon studded with hundreds of Austrian crystals that my parents never could have afforded. “Thank you very much for letting me use it. I’ll take it off as soon as they have posted the results. But I think …” I glanced at Mac. “I think Mac wanted to have it cleaned first.”

Ms. Etherington waved a long elegant hand. “Forget the dress, darling. It’s yours. It’s perfect on you.”

I stared at her openmouthed before I could muster the presence of mind to say thank you for the amazing gift. A designer dress like this cost hundreds of dollars.

She led me to a chair beside hers. “Now sit down. I want to talk with you.” Everything about the way she moved and dressed said that she was young, but something about her face didn’t fit. A hint of sag? Tightness where there ought to be wrinkles? Under that blond hair color, I was pretty sure there was gray.

Ms. Etherington looked at me. “Mac says you have had a very good summer.”

“Well, I was only here a month, but I learned a lot. Mac is a wonderful teacher.”

“I know. He trains all my skaters. How would you like to stay here and train with him?”

“Stay here? In Lake Placid?” The beads in my hair rattled when I shook my head. “I would love to, but the Federation only sent me for a month. My family can’t afford—”

“Yes, yes, I know. But what if I were to pay your expenses? You could stay in the dorm again or live with a local family. I spoke to Jenni Cameron’s father about the possibility. I believe you girls are friends, aren’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am.” My stomach fluttered with excitement so I could hardly get the words out. Stay in Lake Placid? Train with the best? Jenni Cameron had introduced me to girls who had been coming to Lake Placid summer skating school for years. That had made all the difference between being an exotic stranger from Africa and having friends.

“You could go to school with Jenni. They make special arrangements for the skaters so you’ll have plenty of time to practice. I would pay for your coaching, your costumes, your entrance fees.”

“It’s called a sponsorship,” Mac put in, seeing my confusion. His eyes urged me to say yes.

I looked from him to Ms. Etherington and back, uncertain. “But what would I do in return?”

She laughed, a deep, guttural laugh. “You would work harder than you have ever worked in your fifteen years or I will send you straight back to South Africa.”

“I’m a hard worker!” I said.

“That’s what Mac has told me, and I was certainly impressed with the results today. I suggest that we try the arrangement this season.” She looked at Mac as if for agreement. He nodded. “And then we can re-evaluate.”

So I would be on trial. Coming here for the Federation was pressure enough, but this? What if she found out about my father? Would she still want me?

“I don’t understand. Why would you want to pay my expenses?” My parents had pulled themselves out of poverty before there was any such thing as affirmative action in South Africa. They would not want me to accept charity even though there was nothing I wanted in the world more than to skate and to train here with Mac.

Well, one thing.

Ms. Etherington leaned back in her chair. “Because I love skating, and a competition is always more fun when I have invested in one of the skaters. I think an investment in you could take me a long way. Maybe even to the Olympics.”

The Olympics? I had had dreams, dreams I never even told my parents, dreams that seemed far beyond possibility from my home rink in a shopping mall outside Jozi—Johannesburg. My heart pounded in my chest. This was my chance, my chance to go for the top.

“I’ll need to talk to my parents.”

“Of course you will.” She picked up her glass of wine and sipped. “And you’ll need to change your flight. Mac can make all the arrangements.” She was obviously not used to hearing no.

A timid knock sounded at the door. It opened and Jenni Cameron stuck her head in. “Excuse me.” A mischievous grin lit her face when she glanced at me. “Sindi won. They’re waiting on her for the awards ceremony and pictures.”

“I won?” My mouth fell open.

Ms. Etherington smiled. “Didn’t I say you would be worth the investment?”

On Writing Keeping Secrets

 

From 2005 to 2008 I lived in South Africa where I worked with children affected by HIV&AIDS in after-school clubs in Tembisa township. My hobby is figure skating, and I was thrilled to find a rink ten minutes from my home in Kempton Park. Skating is no longer and all-white sport. I found myself wondering: What if a promising African figure skater were worried that people would find out her father had HIV? What if the expenses of his illness forced the family to move from upper-middle-class Kempton Park to working-class Tembisa? What if my skater saw people mistreated because of the virus? How far would she go to keep her secret? Who would model living positively with HIV?

Talk about Keeping Secrets

A book club is a good way to talk about books with others. Here are some questions you might want to discuss after you have read Keeping Secrets. If you don’t have a book club, there are lots of online resources to help you start one. Or you can go to the discussion page on my website  and start a conversation there. I would love to hear from you. 

1. What surprised you most about South Africa as shown in this book?

2. Sindi points out several things her American friends would say or do. What differences do you see between the South African worldview and the American worldview Sindi has been briefly exposed to?

3. Sindi is afraid people will find out her father has HIV.  How would you feel if you lived next door to someone with HIV? Would you respond any differently if the person had cancer?

4. Why do you think Sindi’s parents aren’t willing to talk about HIV even within the family?

5. In the Prologue Sindi says, “It hurts to fall, but you get up; you keep skating.” In what ways is Sindi hurt by the things that are happening in her life? Why isn’t continuing to go through the motions of normal life enough to solve those problems?

6. How is Solly hurt by his father’s illness and death? In your culture, how do boys learn how to be men?

7. Why do you think Solly understands Sindi’s love of skating better than other family members? How difficult do you think it was for him to sell his skates? Why do you think he did?

8. How does her skating define who Sindi is? How does NOT skating affect her image of herself? Why doesn’t Sindi want her family to know when she watches skating on TV? 

9. Why does Sindi buy her mother a cheap vase for Christmas? 

10. In order to hide the family’s secret, Sindi cuts herself off from friendships. How do you think the different characters would have reacted if they found out?  Why?

11. In Chapter 21 Jabu ridicules Sindi’s suggestion that she should be tested. Why do you think she reacts so strongly?

12. Why do you think Jabu gets involved with someone like Makatso? 

13. Makatso jokes about HIV. In what ways do young adults you know take risks while denying that anything bad will happen to them?

14. Which characters model living positively with HIV? In what ways? Can you think of other difficulties where these ways of coping might be helpful? 

15. What is MakaLerato’s advice to Jabu (pp. 163-4)? Do you agree or disagree? Why?

16. Several churches are mentioned: Wonderful Words of Life in Tembisa; the Khumalo’s mostly-white former church in Kempton Park; the small Baptist chapel on the ridge in KwaZulu; and Uncle Njabulo’s Apostolic congregation by the river. How do they differ? Which would you most like to attend and why?

17. How is leprosy (Hanson’s Disease) in biblical times similar to HIV today? How are they different? How do you think Jesus would treat someone with HIV if he lived in your community today? Why would that encourage someone living with HIV?