You’ll think this is the beginning of some meaningful mentorship, but it won’t be. In fact, Dante won’t say another word to you the rest of the summer. Not even when you ask him a direct question. But over time you’ll begin to see the power of his silence. And surprisingly, it will remind you of your old man’s silence.
A few months into your ninth-grade season, you’ll actually spot Dante in the stands at one of your games. He’ll be alone, eating popcorn, watching. You’ll be the starting point guard on the varsity squad—which is pretty legit for a freshman. And you’ll be having your best game of the young season. You’ll wave as you jog past him at halftime, but he won’t wave back. He’ll continue eating his popcorn. After the game you’ll climb the packed bleachers looking for him, but he’ll already be gone.
Your old man will be there, though.
And on the drive back to your apartment that night you’ll realize something important. Your old man is always there. And he always has been. And so what if he doesn’t say anything about how many points you just scored. How many assists. So what if he turns on his radio news show instead of breaking down the big win.
Maybe words aren’t what’s important.
Maybe words would just steal away your freedom to think for yourself.
What You Did This Summer
Your first class, on your first day of ninth grade, will be English with Mr. Howe.
Shuffle into the room with everyone else. Locate the desk with your name tag and take a seat. After Mr. Howe goes around the room, having everyone introduce themselves, he’ll ask the class to pull out a sheet of paper. And he’ll give you the first of the seventeen thousand writing prompts he’ll assign over the course of the semester.
“This one’s easy,” he’ll say. “All I want you to do is describe one thing you did this summer. And one thing you learned. You have fifteen minutes. Go!”
You’ll moan and groan with everyone else, but once you start writing, the summer will come pouring out. You’ll write about sleeping in the VW Bug and the cop knocking on the window and all the vendors you passed on the long walk and the way the old gym walls actually creaked on especially hot days and how the second half of the summer you got in all the games and the guys started calling you Mexican Buckets and fighting over who had to guard you. But the time you spent on the actual court, you’ll realize, was nowhere near as important as the time you spent in the bleachers. And you’ll devote all your remaining time to describing one seemingly insignificant moment.
During your last week at the gym, Slim offered to buy you a hot dog and Coke for lunch. He claimed he was tired of watching you scoop handfuls of generic granola into your mouth every day. “You a growing boy, man. You need a balanced diet. Now let’s go get you a hot dog and a Coke.”
“No, thanks,” you told him.
He looked at you surprised. “You sure? My treat.”
“Nah, I’m good,” you said. “But thanks.”
“All right,” he said, shrugging. “I guess you must really like that granola.” And then he walked away.
Truth was, you turned him down that day because you knew he didn’t have any money. He’d lost his security guard job at the start of summer. His shoes were falling apart and you heard he’d been evicted from his apartment.
Saying no, you thought, was the right thing to do.
But on the car ride home that afternoon, your pop shook his head in disappointment. He turned down his news show for the first time all summer. “When a man with nothing offers to give you something,” he said, “you take it.”
“You do?”
“Always.”
“Why?”
He glanced at you as he merged onto the freeway. “You just do, all right?”
At the time it didn’t make much sense. You saved Slim money. But as you write, you’ll begin to see it differently. And you’ll end the assignment by saying, “What I learned is that when a man who stays mostly quiet offers advice, you take it.
“You just do, all right?
“Trust me.”
The Difficult Path
GRACE LIN
When I was sold to the Li family, my mother let Mrs. Li take me only after she’d promised that I would be taught to read. “Her mother had fourteen other children starving and clinging to her, yet she was still insisting that I promise.” Mrs. Li sniffed and began a high-pitched imitation. “?‘Promise me that when she’s six, you’ll have her taught to read! On your ancestors’ grave! Promise!’?”
“You didn’t have to agree,” Aunty Wang replied peevishly. This was a story she had already heard many times.
“A girl! Learn to read! What a waste!” Mrs. Li continued, her annoyance at the past greater than Aunty Wang’s with the present. “Just because the mother had been a scholar’s daughter!”
“Then you shouldn’t have lied,” Aunty Wang said, rolling her eyes. She helped herself to some honeyed lychees I held.
“I thought she would never know!” Mrs. Li said. “I just said yes so that I could take the baby and go.”
I made a soft coughing noise and placed the tray on the table.