A Cab Called Reliable by Patti Kim

mother. She told me to do this and do that, don’t do this and don’t do that, you’re good enough for this, but not good enough for that. I memorized the way she sounded, so that when I woke up, I could go to my notebook and record it.
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    Third place went to a Japanese girl, who wrote a diary comparing and contrasting her life in Kyoto with her life in Arlington; second place went to a boy, who wrote about his blind father reading him and his little brother bedtime stories in the dark; runner-up was awarded to an essay called “How to Save the World Through Arts and Crafts,” written by my classmate, Jennifer Beechum, whose father was a well-known painter of some sort; and I was awarded first place for my piece, “The Voice of My Mother.”
    My teacher returned it to me with a gold star on the top right corner of the first page. She said that it was a mature, honest, powerful, poignant, and sophisticated piece of writing, and I should give serious thought to becoming a writer some day. Jennifer Beechum and I were to read our writings during our graduation ceremony.
    My father could not attend my graduation ceremony, which was held on a Wednesday in the middle of the afternoon, because he was working in Washington, D.C. When I showed him my report card for the final marking period and told him I had won first place for a story I had written about Mother, he asked, “What did you say? What did you say about her?” To put him at ease, I lied and told him I had written about the time she made me mussel soup for my birthday.
    â€œI’m reading it tomorrow for graduation,” I said.
    Glancing at my report card, he poured more milk into my glass and said that graduating from elementary school was only the first step. Graduating from college, now that would be a real accomplishment. He looked at my report card again, pointed at all my A’s, and told me I was his only hope.
    â€œI hate milk,” I said.
    â€œDrink it or you’ll stop growing,” he said and put a spoonful of rice into his mouth.
    That night I went to bed early because I could not hold back my tears. In bed I told myself to stop or else my eyes would swell and reading with swollen eyes was impossible. Clearing my throat, I practiced saying aloud: “My name is Ahn Joo Cho, and my essay is called ‘The Voice of My Mother.’ I have written something called ‘The Voice of My Mother,’ which I will be reading to you today. ‘The Voice of My Mother,’ a prose poem by Ahn Joo Cho…” And I reminded myself never to say thank you. Why should I, like a leper, beggar, orphan, thank them for listening to me?
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    When the principal called my name, Ahn Joo Cho, as the recipient of this year’s Young Writers Award, I stood up and walked with bowed head to the podium where the microphone was waiting for me. Jennifer Beechum had already read her essay and she had received great applause that I did not think my reading would match. She had family in the audience, who clapped and yelped and blew sharp whistles her way. The auditorium was full. At the foot of the stage the school band was getting ready to play the closing song. My teachers were scattered throughout the room. The clock on the opposite wall read 12:30. I pulled down the microphone, cleared my throat, and in my most confident voice said, “This is The Voice of My Mother.’ She passed away a year ago.
    â€œChew on parsley if your mouth tastes old. Smear chicken grease on your lips so no one will think you go hungry. Boiled dandelion leaves with sesame oil and seeds make you go to the bathroom. Raisins soaked in soju relax your muscles. Chew gum, it’ll help you digest. But don’t chew gum like that with your teeth showing. Just like those country cows. No one wants to see your crooked teeth. When you smile, keep your lips together. Don’t scrunch up your