| Chapter 1: | East Wind Blows |
I'm taken to the high pitched taunting rhymes of my childhood. “Chinese, Japanese, money please!” I turn my head toward the sound of irritation and in slow motion hear a small rock whiz by my ear narrowly missing my cheekbone. Up above the 8-foot grey concrete wall that completely surrounds our South African home leers a White boy's face, head poking over the top. His shoulders rear up as his arm cocks back for his second pitch at me. I run for the fig tree fully aware of the squelching soft figs bursting under my bare feet. I drink the sweet intoxicating smell, ripe as I lean my cheek against the rough trunk, my heart in my mouth. I peer through the leafy branches. He is laughing, a strange scary laugh, a laugh that makes me feel so helpless. His head disappears. I know he is reloading. Should I make a dash for the house or hold out?
He is unrelenting. His rocks and stones hit the leaves and branches. Cowering behind the tree, I lift my elbow over my head to protect myself from falling fruit. Then I see my aunt wild with rage. She picks up a fair size rock and drills it squarely at the boy's forehead. He falls backward with a thud not even registering what has occurred.
I rack my brain to try to recall how I felt in that moment. Was I happy he was hit or sad he was hurt? It had never occurred to me to throw a rock back. I am shocked at the violence in my youth. Why didn't I just run into the house? What does this memory tell me? Is my will my demise? Will I continue to subject myself to