By Linda Sue Park
Tree-ear, an orphan, lives less than a bridge in Ch’ulp’o, a potters’ village famed for gentle celadon ware. He has develop into interested by the potter’s craft; he wishes not anything greater than to monitor grasp potter Min at paintings, and he desires of creating a pot of his personal sometime. while Min takes Tree-ear on as his helper, Tree-ear is elated–until he reveals stumbling blocks in his direction: the backbreaking hard work of digging and hauling clay, Min’s irascible mood, and his personal lack of know-how. yet Tree-ear is set to end up himself–even if it skill taking an extended, solitary trip walking to offer Min’s paintings within the desire of a royal fee . . . whether it capability arriving on the royal court docket with not anything to teach yet a unmarried celadon shard.
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Additional resources for A Single Shard
Naked and ashen, he leaped from the bed, and with a flying tackle, grabbed his wife around the waist, and they hit the floor. Cholly picked her up and knocked her down with the back of his hand. She fell in a sitting position, her back supported by Sammy’s bed frame. She had not let go of the dishpan, and began to hit at Cholly’s thighs and groin with it. He put his foot in her chest, and she dropped the pan. Dropping to his knee, he struck her several times in the face, and she might have succumbed early had he not hit his hand against the metal bed frame when his wife ducked.
My choices of language (speakerly, aural, colloquial), my reliance for full comprehension on codes embedded in black culture, my effort to effect immediate coconspiracy and intimacy (without any distancing, explanatory fabric), as well as my attempt to shape a silence while breaking it are attempts to transfigure the complexity and wealth of Black American culture into a language worthy of the culture. Thinking back now on the problems expressive language presented to me, I am amazed by their currency, their tenacity.
Had any adult with the power to fulfill my desires taken me seriously and asked me what I wanted, they would have known that I did not want to have anything to own, or to possess any object. I wanted rather to feel something on Christmas day. ” The lowness of the stool made for my body, the security and warmth of Big Mama’s kitchen, the smell of the lilacs, the sound of the music, and, since it would be good to have all of my senses engaged, the taste of a peach, perhaps, afterward. Instead I tasted and smelled the acridness of tin plates and cups designed for tea parties that bored me.