“The Stand”
by Kathryn Silver-Hajo
Mom trilled along with Joan Baez, black vinyl spinning, bare feet tapping on green linoleum, razor-sharp chef’s knife in hand. She had on her plum-and-tangerine Marimekko dress, brown hair twisted into a bun, as she prepared chicken tikka masala. She was always cooking something exciting, while my friends were having Salisbury steak with mashed potatoes or TV dinners (which I secretly liked too). I knelt on a stool by the big butcher block watching, not allowed to manage blades yet.
When she brought home a kid-sized version of that Marimekko, I wanted to wear it forever, to be gentle and graceful the way she was now, but strong and fierce sometimes too. One day I’d make moo shu shrimp by myself, chop up a big pile of scallions, black mushrooms and Chinese cabbage. We’d go to Sun-Sun Grocers for vegetables and hoisin and oyster sauces for seasoning, stop by the bakery for two pork buns, two coconut. Our reward, she’d say.
But right now, I had other things on my mind. It was my first day of second grade and they’d made us stand, hands over hearts, pledge allegiance to the flag, one nation under God. I knew she wouldn’t be pleased about that, that I should tell her, but she looked so happy, dicing onions, palming pungent spices.
My mother was pure wildflower honey as long as no one crossed her, but if you bellyached, she’d breathe fire through clenched teeth, shut you down without a word. But she didn’t like religion, didn’t like the man telling her what to do, didn’t care for what the American flag stood for either, especially when they started sending combat troops to Vietnam, napalming villages. There had to be a way to tell her without rattling her. I’d lower my eyes, say everyone else did it. What choice did I have?
The kitchen glowed with aromas of cumin, cardamom, garam masala, garlic and ginger as she ground and pounded with mortar and pestle, her voice sweet melancholy. I wanted that moment to last forever, but the record skipped and she sighed, washed her hands, removed the tiny bit of lint from the needle. I breathed deep, said, Mom?
She flung off her apron, strode outside and down to the school, autumn chill be damned. When she returned, head high, she said she’d informed the principal that our family didn’t believe in that pledge and they were never to make me do it again. She cupped my face in the redolence of her hands, said, You always have a choice, darlin’, even when it’s hard. I stroked a wayward tendril of hair hanging over her shoulder, relieved it wasn’t me she was mad at.
I didn’t want to recite that pledge either, say things I didn’t really understand, so next day when my classmates stood at straight-backed attention, I stayed seated in my little wooden chair silently mouthing, I have a choice, cheeks burning hot as kanthari peppers.
Kathryn Silver-Hajo’s work appears in Atticus Review, Centaur Lit, CRAFT, Emerge Literary, Ghost Parachute, Milk Candy Review, New Flash Fiction Review, Pithead Chapel, Ruby Literary, The Phare, and other lovely journals. Her stories were selected for the 2023 and 2024 Wigleaf Top 50 Longlists and nominated for Best of the Net, Pushcart Prize, Best Microfiction, Best Small Fictions, and Best American Food Writing. Kathryn’s books include award-winning flash collection, Wolfsong, and award-winning YA novel, Roots of The Banyan Tree. She lives in Rhode Island with her husband and curly-tailed pup, Kaya. More at: kathrynsilverhajo.com; facebook.com/kathryn.silverhajo; twitter.com/KSilverHajo; @kathrynsilverhajo.bsky.social; instagram.com/kathrynsilverhajo
by Kathryn Silver-Hajo
Mom trilled along with Joan Baez, black vinyl spinning, bare feet tapping on green linoleum, razor-sharp chef’s knife in hand. She had on her plum-and-tangerine Marimekko dress, brown hair twisted into a bun, as she prepared chicken tikka masala. She was always cooking something exciting, while my friends were having Salisbury steak with mashed potatoes or TV dinners (which I secretly liked too). I knelt on a stool by the big butcher block watching, not allowed to manage blades yet.
When she brought home a kid-sized version of that Marimekko, I wanted to wear it forever, to be gentle and graceful the way she was now, but strong and fierce sometimes too. One day I’d make moo shu shrimp by myself, chop up a big pile of scallions, black mushrooms and Chinese cabbage. We’d go to Sun-Sun Grocers for vegetables and hoisin and oyster sauces for seasoning, stop by the bakery for two pork buns, two coconut. Our reward, she’d say.
But right now, I had other things on my mind. It was my first day of second grade and they’d made us stand, hands over hearts, pledge allegiance to the flag, one nation under God. I knew she wouldn’t be pleased about that, that I should tell her, but she looked so happy, dicing onions, palming pungent spices.
My mother was pure wildflower honey as long as no one crossed her, but if you bellyached, she’d breathe fire through clenched teeth, shut you down without a word. But she didn’t like religion, didn’t like the man telling her what to do, didn’t care for what the American flag stood for either, especially when they started sending combat troops to Vietnam, napalming villages. There had to be a way to tell her without rattling her. I’d lower my eyes, say everyone else did it. What choice did I have?
The kitchen glowed with aromas of cumin, cardamom, garam masala, garlic and ginger as she ground and pounded with mortar and pestle, her voice sweet melancholy. I wanted that moment to last forever, but the record skipped and she sighed, washed her hands, removed the tiny bit of lint from the needle. I breathed deep, said, Mom?
She flung off her apron, strode outside and down to the school, autumn chill be damned. When she returned, head high, she said she’d informed the principal that our family didn’t believe in that pledge and they were never to make me do it again. She cupped my face in the redolence of her hands, said, You always have a choice, darlin’, even when it’s hard. I stroked a wayward tendril of hair hanging over her shoulder, relieved it wasn’t me she was mad at.
I didn’t want to recite that pledge either, say things I didn’t really understand, so next day when my classmates stood at straight-backed attention, I stayed seated in my little wooden chair silently mouthing, I have a choice, cheeks burning hot as kanthari peppers.
Kathryn Silver-Hajo’s work appears in Atticus Review, Centaur Lit, CRAFT, Emerge Literary, Ghost Parachute, Milk Candy Review, New Flash Fiction Review, Pithead Chapel, Ruby Literary, The Phare, and other lovely journals. Her stories were selected for the 2023 and 2024 Wigleaf Top 50 Longlists and nominated for Best of the Net, Pushcart Prize, Best Microfiction, Best Small Fictions, and Best American Food Writing. Kathryn’s books include award-winning flash collection, Wolfsong, and award-winning YA novel, Roots of The Banyan Tree. She lives in Rhode Island with her husband and curly-tailed pup, Kaya. More at: kathrynsilverhajo.com; facebook.com/kathryn.silverhajo; twitter.com/KSilverHajo; @kathrynsilverhajo.bsky.social; instagram.com/kathrynsilverhajo