Free Woman Who Could Not Forget by Richard Rhodes

Arches National Park in Utah, and to the Grand Canyon and then the Petrified Forest National Park in Arizona on our way home. This part of America had the most beautiful landscapes we had ever seen. The magnificent sandstone arches were so grand and impressive that they took our breath away. The color of the red sandstone under the sun was more bright and beautiful than any photos we had ever seen. I felt that Iris, in particular, was the one who was really inspired by these wonders of nature, as she was always curious about the world around her, and here were landscapes beyond people’s wildest dreams.
    It was when Iris was almost ten years old, in the fourth grade, that she began to derive a real joy from writing. Iris not only read books like a bookworm, but she enjoyed writing so much that she compiled her own stories and poems into a self-made “book” and proclaimed that she was the author. Her fourth-grade teacher taught the class to make a so-called “Poetry Book.” Iris showed me with passion what she wrote in her book. On the front of the book, bound by brownish wooden-patterned wallpaper, the title “Poetry Book, by Iris Chang” was displayed. On the first page, there was a Foreword wherein she introduced herself as a fourth-grade student and said she liked to write poems. On every page, she wrote with a pencil in the best neat cursive she could muster. Each poem or story had a title and date.
    On March 21, 1978, titled “I used to . . . A poem,” she wrote:
    I used to have tadpoles,
    But now I have baby frogs, . . .
    I used to write stories,
    But now I write poems. . . .
    The next was her prose on “The Wonderful World of Cat.” Then “A Haiku Poem” and a “Limerick,” which I believe her teacher taught the class how to write.
    There was also a description of “Loneliness,” which she wrote in several short sentences:
    Loneliness is a silent chirp of a cricket across a lake
    Where the leaves on the trees rustle at sunset.
    It smells like a violet patch.
    It sounds like wind blowing through the tall prairie grass.
    . . . .
    Reading her words, I could imagine that she was reflecting on what she saw in her surroundings and in her mind. In the summer of 1978, we had just moved to the big brand-new house at 309 Sherwin Drive in the Yankee Ridge Subdivision, which was more secluded; it was surrounded by woods, prairie grass, and cornfields. From the wide front windows of her second-floor bedroom, Iris could see the beautiful oak and maple trees lining the stream and the acres of cornfield. Indeed, the landscape could inspire feelings of loneliness, especially when we were separated from her accustomed surroundings. At the time, her loneliness was also compounded because a girl in her Chinese class had tried to ostracize her, and despite the fact that she had many other friends, this petty cruelty still hurt her. Fortunately, I completely understood how she felt, and she could pour her misery on me. We had endless talks, which I believed soothed her lonely sensitive feelings and gave her strength.
    It’s interesting to note that all the little things that happened during that time, Iris wrote into her stories and poems. For example, there was a little pond in the Yankee Ridge Subdivision that was not far from our house, hidden in the woods. During the spring it contained swarms of tadpoles. Iris and Michael were fascinated by the tadpoles. We helped them catch a bottle of tadpoles and brought them home. We put them in our fish tank, and the tadpoles eventually became tiny frogs—so small, like the size of a lima bean. The transformation of tadpoles to frogs amazed them.
    Iris loved cats, starting from when she was very little. When we moved into the new house in the Yankee Ridge, there was a tabby that always came to play with Iris and Michael. At first, we did not know why this cat was so friendly to them. We learned later that both of them saved the meat from the dishes I cooked to give to the cat.