The room is bathed in a buttery sunlight that trickles through the gaps in between the blinds. The sound of laughter from outside the window tip toes into the room, weaving between the dust particles floating in highlighted sunlight. In the room, a twelve year-old girl does her homework while watching other kids run around the playground below the old apartment. There are bars on the window because her family is living on the 17th floor; she can’t help but think the bars are there for some other reason. She lifts her chin upwards to taste the sunlight and licks the corner of her lips. The sound of breathing fills the room and the walls are pulsing. The arteries of the room are pounding. The room is alive and there’s something delightful abou-
“李向红! 你在干什么?”
Grace! Just what are you doing?
Shit shit shit. Her head snaps upwards. Sweat trickles into the heart of her palm and her heartbeat is trapped in her throat. She takes a deep breath, trying to swallow the air.
“I’m doing homework.” She turns to explain to her grandfather in Chinese, trying to keep the tremble out of her voice, the tremble out of her hand. She can’t meet his eyes. She can already see the hard disappointment that deepens the crows feet that line his eyes. Her grandfather was a man carved by hard times, a rice farmer during the Cultural Revolution who carried a tiny portrait of Mao in his wallet. Without looking, she can already see the snarl in his upper lip, the way his white wife-beater would stretch across his chest when he clenched and unclenched his fist. She’s still swallowing the air, cradling it in her lungs.
He doesn’t say anything, but she can hear what he’s thinking. She’s useless. The heartbeat of the room pounds. She’s a 妖怪, a demon. The heartbeat of the room staggers. She shouldn’t have been born in the first place. The heartbeat of the room shudders. What was the use of a first-born girl? The heartbeat of the room roars. If they were still in the village when she was born, there wouldn’t be a problem. The heartbeat of the room is deafening and there’s no more air in her lungs.
“Lazy.” He spits out.
The heartbeat of the room stops. There’s no more air in the room.
Then, a warmth. It trickles down her legs, soaking her pants. His eyes widen. Her heart sinks in her chest. She’s done it now. As if he needed any more proof that she was a baby. She glances down at her pants, but there’s no yellow. Instead, there’s bright red. It spiderwebs down her thighs and stretches over her calves, soaks into the wooden floorboard. She chokes down a sob. She has to remind herself that there’s not enough air in the room for that. He’s screaming now. He’s calling her a 妖怪, a demon. He’s telling her to get the fuck away from him even as he’s stepping closer. Smack. There’s a spark blooming across her cheek. He’s hit her. She tries desperately to breathe but there’s just no more air.
The door slams.
He’s gone.
The room’s heart starts beating once more. There’s air in the room. She can finally breathe again but she can’t move, glued to the plastic chair that her parents got on a discount from Costco last weekend by the proof of her womanhood. She knows from her seventh grade health class that she’s just gotten her first period. At least she didn’t pee herself. Someone laughs and she is shocked by the sudden sound because it’s laughter that comes from inside of the room – not outside for once. She realizes the laughter is from her and then she’s doubled over on the white plastic chair from Costco, shaking from the force of her joy. The room is finally breathing again. He has no proof that she’s a baby. But now he has proof that she’s a woman and that’s probably worse.
Outside, the kids at the playground are still laughing. The room is still bathed in a buttery sunlight. The dust is still suspended in yellow gold. She picks up her pencil and starts writing Chinese characters, homework her grandfather assigned her. Héng. Shù. Pié. Nà. Again. Héng. Shù. Pié. Nà. Again. The blood has dried on her thighs now. Héng. Shù. Pié. Nà. Again. Her hands cramp.
Is this what womanhood was supposed to be? Is she a woman now?
Thank you for reading the first part of Becoming Woman by our newest columnist, Amanda Chen! Stay tuned for more works by Amanda in the future and read more about her here. The second part of Becoming Woman is scheduled to be published next Tuesday, June 28th, 2022.