by Chris Baron
one news story after another
about “efforts to get thing back on track.”
Lola gives us a plate of pancit.
So I have this idea, I say.
Malia puts her hands on her chin
like a cartoon character.
Well, we used to have Shabbat dinner
every week, and lots of Calypso people
used to come, lots of other friends.
But we stopped when my mom got … well you know …
Malia eases up her cartoon face
and scoops up some noodles.
I thought we could have it again,
and this time you could come
with your family.
Like a reset?
Yes, and I thought we could
start off by surprising my grandfather?
I LOVE IT!
Lola shouts, startling us.
She’s smiling.
It’s time we all get together again.
The old and the new!
Putting Things Back Together
Over the next week,
we learn about all the little miracles.
The real wonder is the bridge,
Mr. Cohen says.
It was rush hour,
it should have been packed,
but everyone was at the game instead.
Baseball saved everyone.
My father makes plans
to repair Malia’s house
and the community center.
I go everywhere with him
like an assistant,
the front seat of his truck
filled with blueprints and lists.
We get ice cream all the time.
My grandfather sometimes comes,
repairing the metal work,
fastening hinges,
all the detailed work
that’s so hard to do.
And every night,
my mother tells us about how they
are rebuilding the city.
I tell her about Malia starting school
after winter break.
I tell her about my Shabbat idea
and that we want to surprise Grandpa.
Of course! she says.
Back to School
We go back on Friday
just a half day,
maybe to see
if we are okay being back.
I try to picture Malia
in the classroom, sitting in one of these desks.
Will she be okay?
She’s going to make everyone laugh.
Mr. Potts lets us talk
about the earthquake;
we can talk or write about our feelings,
and that’s what we do all day.
Some kids tell stories
about hiding,
some kids talk
about what they saw on TV …
and then something unexpected happens.
I raise my hand.
I WANT to talk about it.
I talk about the talent show,
and the plaster coming down,
and my grandfather.
When I finish and look around,
I remember that I haven’t said anything
out loud in a long, long time.
Maybe nobody remembers my voice.
I talk about Buddy finding us,
and then I look at Jordan,
and Martin, and that’s when it happens.
Martin stands up, starts talking about
how we had to move heavy shelves
so Mrs. Hershkowitz could stand.
We had to all do it together
just to get it to budge, he says.
I look at Jordan, fidgeting in his seat,
getting ready to tell his parts of the story, too.
At Recess
Martin puts a hand on my shoulder,
Baseball?
I look for words hiding in my gut
but they aren’t there anymore.
Okay, I say,
and Jordan hands
me his mitt.
Synagogue
Rabbi Rosenthal
hugs all of us,
and he’s not a hugger.
Then he hands
me a folder
full of work
I have missed.
See you next week? he says.
I smile.
He will, my grandfather says.
I will make sure.
World Series Returns
Game 3 finally happens.
It’s one of the biggest crowds
ever at Candlestick Park.
The fans are a little quiet,
we are quiet, too,
from our living room.
Everything’s changed just a bit;
baseball seems
a little further away.
My father wears his Maldonado jersey,
my mother wears his Giants cap.
The game goes fast,
and by the end of the eighth inning,
the A’s are up by 10;
even though the Giants come back
in the ninth a little bit,
the loss makes my father quiet.
When the A’s close them out in Game 4,
my father seems so tired.
I look at him.
I guess we know what the Giants are made of now.
My father stares,
puts his arm around me.
You know what?
Imagine what it must be like,
after everything that happened,
just to show up. I mean the earth shook,
and just a few days later,
they played baseball again.
I guess that’s not all that bad,
just to make it there at all.
Ancient Mysteries
On a Monday
after school,
I ride my bike to Malia’s house,
and we go down to the Sitting Stones
with a pile of paper
and a bag of markers.
We spread out a blanket
and write secret invitations for Shabbat.
It’s nothing fancy,
a few words and a heart.
Do you think they will all come? she asks.
I think so, I say.
I hope.
My mom is calling everyone,
telling them not to tell my grandfather,
but she thought it would be good
to write these little notes
to let everyone know that it’s back on again.
After a while, we take a break.
Malia stretches her legs, sings a bit,
dances around the pool,
and I sketch in my new notebook.
Will both your parents come?
Malia?
But she doesn’t answer.
Malia?
She’s standing at the pool,
her mouth open,
finger pointing.
I run over to where she is,
and I start pointing, too,
because there,
on the quiet shore,
half-buried,
is a green stone.
It’s my bareket.
I walk over,
reach down
to pick it up,
but Malia grabs my hand,
Wait! She points to tiny tracks
in the mud, smudges, like rabbit paws,
rounded little impressions.
She looks at me in the eyes.
Do you think?
I don’t say anything,
just reach down
and pick up the stone.
It fits perfectly in my hand.
We look at the pool
and across it
into the depths of forest,
both of us looking for something
we hope is real.
The Shop
On the way down to the
shop,
I notice there are still
so many cracks in the concrete,
bits of glass
along the side of the road,
but things are getting better
little by little.
I drop invitations to Mr. Dimitri
and Mr. Cohen and Mrs. Li.
In the shop
my grandfather is cleaning
his tools, wiping them
with an old rag
that smells like castor oil.
Grandpa, I need to show you something.
I pull out the bareket,
hold it in the center of my palm.
I thought it was lost?
We found it.
Well, sort of.
It kind of found us?
He smiles.
Life is a mystery, isn’t it?
You think you know everything,
but it’s mystery that makes us human.
That forest you go to, this stone,
all the way back to the Calypso,
the Dead Sea,
Prague,
and even before that.
Don’t forget what this feels like.
Don’t ever lose your sense of wonder.
He squeezes my shoulders with his giant hands
like he’s pressing the words into me.
Then, all at once, I put my hands
on his shoulders and squeeze right back.
Shabbat
C’mon, Grandpa, it will be sunset soon!
Alright, Etan, all right. He coughs, puts on his coat,
and we walk together away from Main Street
to our apartment building,
up the stairs,
down the hall.
I hold my grandfather’s hand
and open the door.
SURPRISE!
I feel his hand squeeze mine.
All around the table
are the faces of everyone we know,
the apartment packed,
the air filled
with all the voices,
smiles, and songs.
The table is laden with tinfoiled boxes of chocolate,
silver candlesticks,
baskets full of challah
and pandesal,
bowls of gefilte fish,
bowls of steaming rice,
dishes full of adobo,
platters piled with lumpia
circling around rich, red sauces;
steam rises from pans
full of brisket and vegetables,
Crock-Pots of corn soup,
and shining bowls of honey carrots.
Behind the table,
in tall chairs,
My mom and dad,
Mr. Cohen, Mrs. Li, Mr. Dimitri, Mrs. Hershkowitz,
and Lola,
and all around them their children,
their grandchildren,
talking and playing.
Mr. and Mrs. Agbayani beam
in fancy clothes,
and there, between them,
I see Malia,
in a purple dress,
a flower in her hair,
and a long, red scarf
wrapped all the way up
and over her eye.
She pulls me over,
hugs me,
then smiling,
she punches my shoulder,
whispers, We did it.
I smile.
She leans over.
See you tomorrow
at the Sitting Stones?
Yes, I say,
right after synagogue!
Unexpected Guests
My father takes Grandpa’s hand,
walks him to a chair
right next to Mrs. Li.
He tries to talk
but Mrs. Li doesn’t let him
because Jordan is at the door,
standing there with his mom and dad.
For a moment everyone stares,
but my father walks over,
embraces them, says words
no one else can hear.
Jordan walks over to us,
holds up a blue binder
with a Giants sticker on the front.
I brought my cards!
Blessings
And all at once,
we feel a sudden shift in the light,
the sun moves behind the mountains
and the ocean beyond.
My mom raises her arm,
and everyone finds a seat,
little kids on the floor like it’s a picnic,
Me, Malia, and Jordan
at a small card table.
Mom lights the candles,
looks around,
her face bright
in the warm glow.
She covers her eyes
and recites the blessings;
everyone joins in
the best they can.
The old and the new mix together,
making something
completely new,
making something
together.
Author’s Note
Just after 5 P.M. on October 17, 1989, the San Andreas Fault slipped, and Loma Prieta Peak in the Santa Cruz Mountains south of San Francisco became the epicenter of a magnitude 6.9 earthquake that lasted an astonishing fifteen seconds. It tore many parts of the Bay Area apart and damaged transportation infrastructure, including the top span of the Bay Bridge, which collapsed. The earthquake took place during Game 3 of the 1989 World Series between the San Francisco Giants and the Oakland A’s. Everyone was at the game or tuning in, so the earthquake was seen all over the world—with live footage from the Goodyear Blimp. The earthquake was devastating, but it showcased the courage, resilience, and humanity of the people of the Bay Area, who came together during the crisis.
Years before the earthquake, as a seventh grader living in the Bay Area, I didn’t understand earthquakes. I was afraid of them. From the very first drill, during which I had to dive under my desk, to the first time I felt the ground shake, I remember thinking that the world was being unmade. The Magical Imperfect recalls those times, and how at a time of personal challenge and upheaval, when even the earth is not safe, healing and hope can come from surprising places.
The fictional town of Ship’s Haven, like many of the towns in the southern San Francisco area, was founded by immigrants dating back to the gold rush. In the story, the town received an even greater influx during a newer wave of immigration. This was a time when most second-generation children of immigrants commuted to larger cities for work, while many of first-generation immigrants and refugees formed tighter communities and smaller businesses to survive.
Many of these immigrants came through Angel Island. The Angel Island Immigration Station was put into operation in 1910. It became widely known as the “Ellis Island of the West.” The immigrants to the United States mainly arrived there from China and Japan, but also from the Punjab, Russia, the Philippines, Portugal, Australia, New Zealand, Mexico, and Latin America, as well. It is important to note the historical and deeply complex challenges that faced the many Chinese immigrants who came via Angel Island, dealing with a range of issues, including the Chinese Exclusion Act of 1882 and various others that severely limited immigration all the way until 1965. However, many other immigrants came to Angel Island from Russia and the Philippines, and among these immigrants were several hundred Jews, fleeing Nazi rule in Germany, Austria, Poland, Hungary, and Czechoslovakia. Different groups of immigrants were treated differently. A stunning and comprehensive history of Angel Island immigration can be found in the landmark book Angel Island: Immigrant Gateway to America by Erika Lee and Judy Yung (New York: Oxford University Press, 2010).
While there are a few stories about Jews who successfully made it, there are many more stories that are not well documented and are waiting to be discovered.
Angel Island became a California State Park by 1963.
Malia has severe atopic dermatitis, also known as eczema, a skin condition that causes rashes that itch and swollen, dry, and scaly skin that can cover your entire body and can cause depression, isolation, and immeasurable discomfort. My wife, who is also a Filipina, has had to work through her eczema for most of her life and all of our married life. It is something that our family struggles, learns, and loves our way through almost every day.
I hope that this book lights the way for others to come to a better understanding of conditions like eczema, and that it will help others find compassion and perhaps even hope. Just like the characters in the book, no matter who we are or where we come from, we can all experience the healing power (and magic) of friendship and love.
About the Author
Chris Baron is a professor of English at San Diego City College. His first novel, All of Me, was a Southern California Independent Booksellers Association bestseller, A Book Riot Best Children’s Book About Kindness, and an NCTE Notable Book. Newbery Medalist Matt de la Peña called it, “Beautifully written, brilliant, and necessary.” Chris Baron lives in San Diego with his family. Visit him online at chris-baron.com, or sign up for email updates here.
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