Creative Writing

Mimicked from My Antonia’s Chapter XII

THE FOLLOWING WEEK had brought a chill, and by Thanksgiving Day the whole world about us was glazed with white frost, and the creek that once trickled between our house and the ones behind now remained still as if to calm itself from the summer long run. The earth was cold and lifeless, with nothing more to give but a satisfying crunch beneath the feet of those who carried on with their everyday lives despite nature’s rest.
On one of these crisp afternoons I agreed to take Antonia home with me from school to help with her English. It was the first time Antonia had been to my house, and she made it more evident with every revered step. She walked about carefully, examining each small detail of our moderately decorated dwelling. It took a few moments before I could attain her attention, which I instantly regretted. When she turned to look at me she did so with an angry accusing tone, her hair still partially in her face from the violent pirouette. She said with her brown eyes still shining through the dark veil: “Why you have so many things when my family have nothing?” I remained frozen in my new place against the kitchen counter.
After a long pause Antonia opened up into a sorrowful outburst of tears: “How not you help my papi and mami and brother?” I searched my mind forever for the right words to say, but I thought it weak of myself to consider giving her my things. If I really wanted to help, I would continue to work with her on her English so that one day she might provide for her own family.
We had settled down at the dining room table and opened our books. Although Antonia had always been eager to learn our language today she seemed elsewhere, and it wasn’t long before I realized I was doing most of the work on my own. She continued with her pitiful grievances more subtly now. “My mami so sad these days. She never cook like she used to. She say the people she work with are evil and don’t treat her good, so now when she come home she is too upset to make food. She hates it here.”
“You should be thankful you have what you do,” I interjected coldly. “Your family would be much worse off if they didn’t live off our taxpayers’ money.”
“You know nothing!” she responded fiercely. “We work twice as hard in Mexico to get half what you get! My family try to make living here in America but it’s not worth it, it’s no fair!”
“Then leave. Your mama’s job can be given to someone who appreciates the opportunity. We don’t need more of your kind taking all our jobs and money.”
It was at that moment when I heard the honking of her brother’s car in the driveway. Moments later I was left standing in the doorway watching Antonia and her brother pull away into the street in their poorly kept Audi. I told my father of the occurrence later that night at dinner, and told him how I wished they would never come around anymore.
My dad chuckled a bit between bights. “They aren’t bad people,” he said, now more seriously. “You just need to be more considerate of their position. You’re right to keep from giving in to their pleas, but think of how desperate you would act if we were ever in that predicament. It pains one to see their family suffer. Now go on and eat your food, I still want the flowerbeds worked some before it gets too dark.”