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  Who was Martin Luther King, Jr.?

  Who is the head of your local government?

  According to the Constitution, a person must meet certain requirements in order to be eligible to become president. Name one of these requirements.

  What is the chief executive of a state government called?

  Who wrote “The Star-Spangled Banner”?

  Where does freedom of speech come from?

  What is a minimum voting age in the United States?

  Which president is called the “father of our country”?

  What Immigration and Naturalization Service form is used to apply to become a naturalized citizen?

  Who helped the Pilgrims in America?

  What is the name of the ship that brought the Pilgrims to America?

  What kind of government does the United States have?

  How many times can a senator be reelected?

  19 May 2009

  Dear Meena,

  I tried cutting Kentucky into different pieces of my morning toast, but I just made a big mess and Mamaw got on to me. I should’ve done it BEFORE I put the blackberry jam all over it. I’m stupid sometimes. Plus, Kentucky is shaped too weird to be cut out easily.

  Have I ever told you that you are a real good hand at drawing? Well, you are. You’re, like, the best artist I know. You said in one of your letters that you weren’t good at anything, but you are good at SO MANY things. Especially writing and drawing.

  COUNTDOWN: In ONE MONTH I will be in New York City!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

  I got to thinking (and worrying): your mom doesn’t like for you to be around boys much, so is she going to be cool with you hanging out with me when I’m in New York? I sure hope so. Tell her Mamaw is going to be with us all the time, and she’s welcome to come with us, too. The more the merrier, I always say.

  Today we had a little warm spell and it seemed like we could see the little green buds heating up on the tree branches and showing themselves in the bright light that washed itself out over the mountains.

  Daddy had come home for a few days, just to visit us and to look for work back here at home, so we decided to all load up and go over to Cumberland Gap, which is a big national park about an hour from here. I have been going there all my life, and it is one of my favorite places in the world.

  Have you ever learned about Daniel Boone in your American history class? He was an explorer who opened up the west by building a trail through the Appalachian Mountains called the Wilderness Road (which goes right through my county and is only about a mile from our house). The main gap through the mountains was Cumberland Gap, and since it was lined up with another gap called the Narrows, this became the easiest way for people to go west, and millions of people passed through that gap back in the 1700s and 1800s.

  Now the park is mostly just woods that are being protected from ever being cut down or mined or hurt in any way. There is a nice visitor’s center there with a little museum, and all kinds of good creeks and overlooks (from one you can see three states), and a cave that takes two hours to go through, and picnic areas, and an old Civil War fort. But the best thing is all the trails. My favorite place of all is the actual gap that the pioneers passed through. I love that trail because it’s so quiet, and you can’t hear anything but birdcall and the sound of Gap Creek falling out of the mountain. The best thing of all is that Mamaw, Daddy, Mom, and I walked along the trail and let each other be quiet. Usually there are all kinds of tourists there who are making a big racket and not paying the place the proper respect, but today we were the only people there. So we walked along in silence and just looked at the world, which is coming awake with springtime. Sometimes we’d get separated a little bit, and everyone would do their own thing. At one point I was down by the creek skipping rocks, and Mamaw was up on the mountainside looking around on the ground for signs of herbs and plants that might be coming up, and Mom and Daddy were sitting on a little bench holding hands and whispering to each other. I love to see them like that. I sat there and listened to the creek, and then I could hear something else that started out so low I couldn’t really make it out, but then I knew: Mamaw was singing as she walked the mountain. This is what she sang:

  I sing because I’m happy

  I sing because I’m free

  His eye is on the sparrow

  And I know he watches me

  His eye is on the sparrow

  And I know he watches

  I know he watches me

  I listened to her, and the birds, and the creek, and I looked at the creek, and the trees, and the sky, and I thought this was how the world must have been before people had to worry about bulldozers taking everything away.

  I was so caught up in all this that I didn’t even notice that my parents had come down to sit beside the creek with me. There they were, on either side of me. I could tell by the way they acted that they had something important to tell me even before they said anything. So here’s what they said (I’m going to write it out like a play, like you do sometimes):

  MOM: River, we have something important to tell you.

  DADDY: We getting us a new house, buddy.

  MOM: We’ve been saving and saving, ever since your daddy has been working off in Mississippi, and we’ve finally saved up enough to buy us a little place.

  I was glad we’d have a house of our own, but I also didn’t want to leave Mamaw’s. I was perfectly happy right there — and told them so.

  DADDY: We need our own place, though, buddy. We’re going to try to buy a place as close to your mamaw as we can.

  MOM: The best part is that your daddy is going to be able to come home, River.

  DADDY: Yep. I have one more week to work down in Biloxi, and then I’m coming back.

  MOM: He got a job in Knoxville, working construction.

  DADDY: And now I can be around all the time, instead of just once every few months. That sound good to you?

  I nodded, and I meant it. But then I said how he was still going to have to drive two hours round-trip every day, and Mom said that was better than living all the way in Biloxi and only getting to come home once in a while.

  MOM: And, River, you need to know why I was sick for so long, too. Because it was the fault of the coal company.

  I said I knew that, too, but she went on anyway.

  MOM: They broke our whole family up. Your daddy had worked for them all those years, and then they just up and laid him off because the jobs were going to MTR sites instead of underground, like your daddy did. And then we lost our house on account of it. I was so worried over everything that I had those headaches all the time. And then your daddy had to go off, plumb to Mississippi. So I just gave up, and I ought not have. When the rockfall happened . . . when I almost lost you, that woke me up. That made me see that I had to live again. So I did.

  The whole time Mom said all this she capped her hand around my neck and ran her thumb back and forth on the skin between my hair and the collar of my shirt. She hadn’t touched me that way in a long time.

  Then we sat there a long while, being quiet and still and feeling the mountains on either side of us. And, Meena, it was the strangest thing, because I thought that not only could I feel the mountains, but I could feel the presence of all those people who had passed through the gap years and years ago, just looking for a better life. I guess they were all immigrants in their own way, just like you and your family. We all are, I reckon.

  After a while Mamaw came down from the mountain clutching a little handful of spring beauties. She said, “Look, the first flowers of the year,” and then she tucked them behind my mother’s ear, in her hair, and put her hand on the side of Mom’s face for a second. Then we all four walked out of the gap together and drove home with the windows down, smelling the spring.

  Yours,

  River Dean Justice

  P.S. I tried to answer the immigration questions and I only got like ten right. Those are REALLY hard questions. So your parents must be really smart
.

  P.P.S. Enclosed is a postcard I got you while we were at the gap today, to show you what it’s like. I hope you get to go there someday.

  June 4, 2009

  Dear River,

  Time is thick as glue. The past few days have felt like years.

  Everything went crazy 72 hours ago. When I came home from school, Mrs. Lau and Cuba and all the birds in their cages were on the street in front of the building. The birds were screaming and Cuba’s tail was drooping and Mrs. Lau said, “Mee-Mee, I’ve lived here for fifty-six years. How can they take my home away?” And that is what has happened. All the rent-controlled people in the building are out. We are homeless.

  I sat down on the stoop next to Mrs. Lau and tried not to look at her as she cried. She said everyone had gone to the senior citizen center, but she wanted to wait for us. Her hands were all crippled up and she looked very, very old.

  When Kiku came home from school and saw us, his face didn’t budge. It was like he had been expecting this. He ducked under the yellow police tape across the front door and disappeared inside the building. He came back with our suitcase, the pressure cooker, and his bicycle. We each took two birdcages and walked to the senior citizen center. When we got there, Kiku called Mum at work. Then he called Daddy, but the people at the catering hall said Daddy couldn’t come to the phone because he was working an important party. Then Kiku called Ana Maria.

  Mrs. Lau’s son came from Brooklyn with a big U-Haul, and they went back to her apartment to get her stuff. She gave me her son’s cell phone number, and when I tried to give her the apartment key from around my neck, she started to cry and said to keep it. Cuba kept licking her hands, and when I bent down to pet him, he put his paws on my shoulders like a hug. When they left the senior citizen center, he looked back and wagged his tail at me. I felt like my heart had fallen out and a big metal pan had been put in its place.

  When Mum came she was very calm and quiet. Kiku told her he couldn’t get through to Daddy on the phone and that he was going to get him on his bike. Mum said, “No.” Kiku said, “It’s not far. I’ve done it before.” Mum said, “You’ve done what?” Kiku said, “I’ve biked to Jersey to see Daddy.” Then Mum slapped him across the face. His cheek turned bright pink. She said, “You and your father are keeping secrets?” She was so upset she was shaking. I thought Kiku was going to run away, but he just said, “I’m sorry, Mum,” and then Mum looked at Kiku’s cheek and her lips went all wiggly and she hugged him and said, “Get Daddy.”

  And right at that moment, Ana Maria walked in. There was a man with her, her uncle, who shook Kiku’s hand. Kiku cleared his throat and said, “Mum, this is my girlfriend, Ana Maria, and her uncle, Rafael. You and Mee-Mee are going to stay at their apartment tonight, and I’ll get Daddy and meet you there.” He sounded like a man all of a sudden. Mum was completely shocked. She didn’t say anything.

  Poor Kiku. All of his secrets are out now.

  Kiku got on his bicycle and rode away and Mum and I went to Ana Maria’s apartment. Her family lives on the top floor of a building on Essex Street. It is rent-controlled and has been in their family for forty years. There is a big luxury apartment building under construction across the street. The jackhammers and cranes are really loud, every day, from 8:00 a.m. to 5:00 p.m.

  Ana Maria’s family gave us dinner and made us a soft bed on the floor and told Mum what a good boy Kiku is. They were so nice and Mum was nice, too, but I could tell she was uncomfortable. She tried to do the dishes but Ana Maria’s mum wouldn’t let her. And she tried to give Ana Maria’s daddy some money but he wouldn’t take it. It was like the Ramirezes’ being nice made Mum ashamed. She stayed awake all night and sat out on the fire escape wrapped up in her shawl. I watched her because I couldn’t sleep either.

  At 7 in the morning, Kiku and Daddy arrived. They had gotten a ride from a nice cook at the catering hall who has a 1971 El Camino. He put Kiku’s bike in the back of his car and drove them into the city. Mum and I were still awake, waiting for them.

  That all happened three days ago and ever since then Kiku has been calling rental places in Chinatown to try to find us a place to live. Everything is so expensive. When school ends in two weeks and Kiku graduates, we will leave Ana Maria’s apartment. We may have to move to New Jersey. I won’t see Ms. Bledsoe and Carlos and Valentina or paint the backdrop for Oklahoma next year. I won’t walk Cuba or clean Xie-Xie’s cage and I won’t get to hang out with Mrs. Lau. I won’t go to the Seward Park Library anymore. I wonder if the trees will miss me.

  In three hours we will go uptown to the INS offices, where Mummy-Daddy will do the swearing-in ceremony to become American citizens. I have been drawing tiny American flags on my notebook paper and taping them around toothpicks all morning so that Ana Maria can stick the toothpicks through apples and strawberries for the party afterward. It feels strange to think we will soon be citizens but we do not have a place to live.

  I have started reading David Copperfield for the second time. He goes through lots of troubles but ends up happy. I think it will be the same for us. Ever since I started writing this letter to you, I have felt sure of it. There is something about writing that always makes me feel like everything is going to be OK.

  Kiku and I called Mrs. Lau just now, and she said she is having a good time bossing her son around and that her daughter-in-law is making her favorite kind of chicken for dinner. They have a backyard, so Cuba and the parakeets sit outside in the sunshine for most of the day. Mrs. Lau said she had talked to Mai on the phone and they are going next week to see a lawyer at the Chinatown Tenants Center. She said she is so homesick for Chinatown she could die, but then she said she won’t give those rotten sons of _____ the satisfaction of seeing her dead. She said, “We’ll get back home, Mee-Mee. You be a good girl, now, and don’t worry.”

  It’s kind of fun staying with Ana Maria. Today she braided my hair in a new way. It looks like a ladder, starting at my forehead instead of at the back of my neck. She also showed me how to do eyeliner. It’s hard not to poke yourself, but it makes your eyes jump out of your face. Just like outlining a tree in black paint on a backdrop makes it easier to see from the audience. Ana Maria also loaned me this really cool tank top. She has the best clothes. She says you don’t have to be rich to look good, you just have to have a sense of style and be creative. I can see why Kiku loves her. And I think Mum is starting to see, too. Even though Ana Maria isn’t Indian, she is like us.

  There is something else I like about staying with Ana Maria and her family. Someone in the building plays the trumpet every night. I think it’s a woman, because it’s a light and quiet footstep walking up the stairs. First I hear that, then I hear the door to the roof opening. Then the ceiling creaks and I hear the footsteps walking right above my head. Then I hear the trumpet. Scales for about an hour, then a song. One long song that sounds so beautiful it hurts. The song swoops around the air like a bird. Someone standing on the roof, playing to the city, to the sky . . . Oh, River, the way it sounds twining through the shaftway. It’s like life, full of joy and mourning. Everything changing, this way then that way. I sat in front of the window last night and listened. I saw a man in the next building leaning out his window, watching the traffic on Essex Street. He was listening to the trumpet, too.

  When it got dark, I couldn’t see anything except my own face reflected in the glass. Listening to that trumpet, I felt like I don’t know what’s coming next, but whatever it is, it will just make me more me. It’s kind of weird because when I was sad about Dadi, on the subway platform, I heard a trumpet, too. Maybe it’s a sign of some kind.

  I thought I would be upset about losing all our stuff, our pots and pans and sheets and clothes. But I’m not. I feel like I have everything that really matters — Mummy-Daddy-Kiku. And there is always the library for books. Daddy says no matter where we go, there will be a library, because almost every town in America has one. Isn’t that amazing?

  I don’t know if Mrs. Lau
still has the PO box, so I don’t know where to tell you to send letters. I’ll go to the library every day and check for an e-mail from you.

  Remember how I told you about the statue of Gandhiji in Union Square? I will meet you there on Sunday, June 14, at 3:00 p.m. We don’t have a camera, but here is a little portrait of me so you will recognize me when you see me. I practiced drawing it last night when I was looking at myself in the window. I am using the pencils Dadi gave me. I have sharpened them so many times they are almost too small to hold.

  When you get here, I will be an American citizen, just like you. We will eat mangoes with chili pepper and sit on a park bench and watch the people go by. I’ll give you your birthday present and teach you how to buy a MetroCard so you can give me a tour of the UN. And I will show you my watch set to India time.

  Right now, in America, it is 8:00 p.m. and I am sending you telepathic thoughts.

  Everything is going to be OK. It is, it is.

  See you soon, River Dean Justice.

  Your friend,

  Meena

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Ardent thanks to the places where Meena’s letters were written: Sisters Bazaar, Mussoorie, India; Swamp Annie’s, Choteau, Montana; Gap Year College at IIIT, Hyderabad, India; The Flop, New York City; Knox College, Illinois; Spalding University’s MFA in Writing Program; two porches in eastern Kentucky; SIDH, Kempty, India; New York–Presbyterian, 10 Central. And ardent thanks to the people who fed Meena’s half of the book: Hilary Schenker and her inspired hands and eyes; Joy Harris; Terry Sheehan and the New York Public Library’s Seward Park Center for Reading and Writing (especially Senetta, Teresa, June, and Vasyl); the Chinatown Tenants Union (NYC); Naomi Shihab Nye; Sabrina Brooks; Ranjana Varghese; Karuna Morarji; Vinish Gupta; Mridu Mahajan; Jitendra Sharma and family; Sonu Vishnoi; Kapil Gupta and Tara Maria. For good eats on 10 Central: Sabs Shakley, Edelen McWilliams, Sam Zalutsky and Ed Boland, Matt and Lisa Lowenbraun, Liz Gordon, Kelly Van Zile and Andrew Grusetskie. Ashok Vaswani for his Hindi translation and penmanship. Much gratitude to the fine folks of Candlewick Press for making and supporting beautiful books, and to collaborator extraordinaire, Silas House, for writing the other half of this one. To my mother and father, as always. And to beloved Ann and Jim Gordon. To my grandmother, Sita Manganmalani, who was raised in Mussoorie, and to her mother, whose name has been lost. And to Holter, first and last reader, and my favorite human being for eighteen years and counting. — Neela Vaswani