“Do you really think so?”
“Of course I do.”
That afternoon Shirley embarked on a campaign among the girls to elect Emily. She reminded them of all the pranks Tommy had played on them, of all the sterling qualities of the smartest student in their class, of why a girl, not a boy, should represent them. Mabel was a big help. Everybody looked up to her, so when she made Emily her candidate too, Emily had a chance.
When the secret ballots were counted, Emily won by a single vote, there being exactly one more girl than boy in the sixth grade.
To Tommy’s credit, he was the first to congratulate the winner. “Nice going, pal. You won fair and square.”
Shirley was thrilled. Emily came to school the next day with her hair in curls.
A week later, in the midst of rehearsing carols for the pageant, the principal came to make an announcement. “Boys and girls, I have wonderful news. This year for our Christmas Assembly we invited a special guest, and today he has agreed to come. Soon we’ll all have the privilege of hearing him. And Emily Levy, as your elected representative, will have the honor of presenting him with the key to P.S. 8. I’ll not keep you in suspense any longer. Our guest is Mr. Jackie Robinson!”
The cries of joy must have reached all the way to heaven, for just at that moment the first snow fell, swirling merrily outside the windows like confetti.
When the shouting had ended and the lesson resumed, Shirley found herself thinking how silly Emily looked in curls, rather like that batch of old springs Father kept in the basement. And each time her friend tried to get her attention, Shirley pretended to be solving the denominator. Then Emily passed her a note, which she pocketed without reading.
“Any questions?” Mrs. Rappaport asked.
Emily raised her hand.
“Yes?”
“I don’t have a question about fractions, but may I ask you something else?”
“Of course.”
Shirley wondered if Emily was going to do some showing off of her own.
“I’m grateful that my classmates have elected me their representative. But I think they would have chosen someone else if they had known that Jackie Robinson was going to be at the Assembly. I don’t know a thing about baseball. And Shirley knows everything there is to know about Jackie Robinson. So, if it’s all right with the class, I think she should be the one to make the presentation. Not me.”
Everyone clapped, but Shirley had never felt so ashamed. She was unworthy of Emily’s friendship. She did not deserve the goodwill of her class. Unable to speak, she hid her face in her hands.
The next thing she knew, Mabel was up and chanting.
“Hey, hey, you’re just great—
Emily Levy sure does rate.
Hey, hey, you’re the rage—
Shirley’s gonna be onstage.”
Now, two weeks of delicious anticipation later, Shirley sat between the principal and the guest of honor onstage before an assembly filled to overflowing. Every seat was taken by a student or guest. Teachers, like proud shepherds, stood against the walls smiling at their charges, who looked equally pleased to be herded there.
Pressed against the windowpanes were cardboard snowflakes the size of the moon. The sunlight filtering through them dappled the hall with shimmering lace. Overhead, paper garlands dipped from the chandelier, forming a canopy of red and green. At the back of the room were easels hung with paintings done by students—a snowman dancing, a Santa stuck in the chimney, a sleepy child searching the midnight skies, wooden soldiers come to life, a family praying over their holiday feast, reindeer soaring above the skyscrapers of New York, a babe asleep in the manger. In the air was the scent of pine.
As the kindergarten class led the singing of carols, Shirley captured the scene for her memories.
She looked at the giant spruce that dominated the stage. Twinkling with colored lights, shiny balls, white doves, jeweled icicles, and miles of silver tinsel, it was topped by a brilliant star and skirted with gifts wrapped in finery. Compared to this, the one at home was positively scrawny, but to Shirley, it was special just the same. For on each bough hung a picture of a clansman, a reminder of the courtyards so far away.
Shirley’s heart smiled as she recalled the night she and Mother and Father had trimmed their first Christmas tree. When it was done, Mother had announced, “Shirley, it is time you knew. I am with expectant happiness.”
“Amitabha! I’m going to have a brother at last.”
“Or a sister.”
“But in my dreams, it is always a boy.”
“Dreams or no dreams, it may yet be a girl.”
For a brief moment, Shirley had considered that possibility, then dismissed it with a smile. “Until the doctor tells me I’m wrong, it is a boy.”
She had begun to make serious plans. Yes, of course, naturally she would love him, cuddle him, feed him, walk him, diaper him, burp him, dress him, and be a big sister to him in every way. But as soon as possible, she would also teach him. How to speak—not just English but Chinese. How to write—not just the alphabet but characters. How to chew gum and blow bubbles. How to smack a homer and walk a yo-yo and skate backward. And she would tell him stories, the ones written in books, the ones that Grandfather told.
Most importantly, she would tell him about the life he would probably never know, the life she had once lived in Chungking. The taste of watermelon cooled in the well . . . the sound the willow branches made when the clansmen swept their ancestors’ graves . . . the fragrance of perfumed fans . . . the touch of the fortune-teller’s finger, tracing destiny along the palm of one’s hand . . . the view from the House of Wong as the sun set over the Mountain of Ten Thousand Steps . . . and especially the people who lived on that far side of the world, to whom they would always belong.
Then the lilting strains of “Silent Night” brought Shirley back to Brooklyn, and she searched the audience for her parents. When she spotted them in the third row among all the tenants of Number Four Willow Street, she winked. The tenants wiggled their fingers at her. She blushed. Her classmates found this most amusing, for they whispered among themselves, then orchestrated a frenzy of waves for all to see. Only Emily and Mabel refrained from embarrassing her.
Emily and Mabel, her best friends. The ones who should have been on the stage in her place. For Mabel knew more about baseball than she. And Levy, not Wong, represented the best mind and the warmest heart in all of the sixth grade.
Poised between laughter and tears, Shirley took a deep breath to catch the high note in the last refrain.
“. . . peace.
Sleep in heavenly peace.”
In the brief silence that followed the song, Shirley suddenly realized that her moment would soon come. How she had longed for it! But now that it was here, she felt unprepared—as if she had never pictured it, had not rehearsed it over and over again. Biting her lips, she looked anxiously at her hero, Jackie Robinson.
The handsome baseball player gave her a grand slam of a smile and put out all her fears.
Years later, Shirley could still remember the speech he gave, could still repeat word for word what she said when she handed him the huge golden key.
First came the words she had memorized. “To the Rookie of the Year, to the Dodger who made a difference, to the man who changed what has been, Mr. Jackie Robinson, a great American, I present on behalf of P.S. 8 the key to our school.”
Mr. Robinson bent down and took the key she held out. “Thank you, Shirley,” he said. “Thank you, everyone. I shall treasure this day.”
When the cheering and applause ended, he spoke again. “Remember what I said in my talk—excel. For someday you will all hold the keys to making America the greatest country in the world. Someday I hope to be sitting in an audience like this and listening to one of you giving a speech as the President of the United States. . . .”
The great Jackie Robinson turned to Shirley and patted her on the shoulder. “Perhaps,” he said with a smi
le, “it will be you, Shirley.”
Shirley shook her head and insisted loudly, “Oh no! Not me. Not me.”
“Do not be so pessimistic. Someday, Americans will elect a woman President.”
“Yes. But it cannot be me.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m not eligible.”
“You’re not?”
“No, sir. Mrs. Rappaport taught us that the Constitution of the United States clearly states that the President must be born in America, and I was born in China. But, Mr. Robinson, my brother who is not born yet, he can be President someday. He can!”
Only then did Shirley remember that they were onstage and everyone was listening. Now all she heard was laughter. Oh Merciful Kwan Yin, she prayed, make me disappear!
But Jackie Robinson would not let her go. He took her hand and raised it in triumph, shouting, “Hooray for the sister of our future President, Shirley Temple Wong, the American!”
The clapping that swept the hall seized her by surprise and she stood very still, wondering for a moment if she was imagining it all. No, this was happening. This was real. Instinctively, she bowed. When she lifted her gaze again, something was in her eyes and her vision blurred. Yet, as clearly as the flag that was draped from the balcony, she saw before her faces that had not been there a second ago. Grandfather, Fourth Cousin, Precious Coins and all her clansmen. They, too, clapped, just as they had done the night the Patriarch had given her an American name, at the dawn of the new year.
What a star-spangled Christmas this is! she thought. This year of 1947. The Year of the Boar. The year when dreams came true. The year of double happiness.
About the Author
BETTE BAO LORD based this novel largely on the days when she herself was a newcomer to the United States. She is the author of Spring Moon, nominated for the American Book Award for First Novel, and Eighth Moon.
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Copyright
IN THE YEAR OF THE BOAR AND JACKIE ROBINSON. Text copyright © 1984 by Bette Bao Lord. Illustrations copyright © 1984 by Marc Simont. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
www.harpercollinschildrens.com
Cover art © 1984 by Marc Simont
* * *
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Lord, Bette.
In the year of the boar and Jackie Robinson.
p.cm.
Summary: In 1947, a Chinese child comes to Brooklyn, where she starts to feel at home and to make friends when she discovers baseball and the Brooklyn Dodgers.
[1. Chinese American—Fiction. 2. Moving, household—Fiction. 3. Schools—Fiction.]
I. Simont, Marc, ill. II. Title
ISBN 978-0-06-024004-2 (lib. bdg.) — ISBN 978-0-06-440175-3 (pbk.)
PZ7.L8773 In 1984 83048440
[Fic] CIP
AC
* * *
Digital Edition APRIL 2019 ISBN: 978-0-06-285736-1
Print ISBN: 978-0-06-440175-3
1920212223PC/BRR7877767574
Revised paperback edition, 2019
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