Kyi Aye - This Pride

She could hear it clearly. The trees around her could hear it too. Not far away in the “wild forest” where she and Mark were standing, a bird could hear it too, perched on a pine tree. It was as if all things were talking. Even the little cricket in early spring was chirping so sharply. Then she heard Mark’s honest, humble questioning.

"Susan, can I marry you?"

She knew very well that this was all Mark's plan. She had known Mark as a shy, chubby boy from a nearby field. He had walked to the fifth grade and was used to going to school. There was nothing surprising in someone who had known him since he was a child. Thanks to school, they had become friends. She was a cheerful girl. He was a chubby, shy boy from the audience who stared at her. She had known from the first day that his eyes were only on her.

“I want to get married too,” she said, throwing her head back. “And I’ll marry you…” He shivered. She felt his large hands tremble on her shoulders. A matter had been settled. She was going to get married. Of all the things she had to do, marriage was the first. Now Mark was pulling her. She felt the weight of his unfamiliar, angular, hard body pressing down on her. She wasn’t petite. Not even as petite as other girls. But she felt tiny in front of him. She enjoyed the strange sensation. But it didn’t move her as much as Mark kissed her passionately.

"I... I've wanted to meet you like this since the first day of fifth grade," he said.

"If you're playing with kisses, you're always picking on me," she said with a laugh.

"I hate kissing, I want you to cherish it," he whispered, still holding her close and quiet.

“I know,” she whispered. They were silent for a long time. She was leaning against Mark. Her restlessness had disappeared. She had had a hard time knowing what she wanted to do. In English class, old Professor Kim Ho had once said, “Susan, if you write, you can write…” But then her father took her to New York to see a play, and she wanted to be in it. For years she had imagined herself as a great actress, as if she were on stage, as if she were a character she could never be. She could be anything she chose to be. But then her hands were still there. She wanted to do things with her hands. Her hands, which wanted to work, seemed to touch things. They were things she could touch even more than the music her father had taught her. She was restless, not knowing where to put her hands. Because she likes and wants to do everything. She wants everything. So she decides to get married and have lots of children.

She paused in thought, remembering the head of Mary that she had made with her own hands. She remembered how her hands had felt when she had made that head the week before. Her hands were so agile and skillful. Susan happily called out to Mary. “Mary... look, you’ve got a head!”

Susan waited for Mary to come and see her. Mary was surprised and thought, “Susan, that’s so amazing, you’re the same as me.” While she waited, Mary reached out with her hands and tore the wet clay figure apart until nothing was left but a clay figure.

"Mary, you made me look so ugly, that's why I hate you," he said bitterly, then ran away crying.

Susan was speechless, too stunned to speak, and picked up the mud and kneaded it senselessly. But she knew from the feel of her hands that whether Mary liked it or not, the picture she had made was Mary's. Now Susan was coming to her senses, her palms burning and clenching.

“Mark,” she called. She pulled back so she could see his face. “If we were to get married and have a sculpture, would you mind? I don’t want the sculpture to come between us,” she said.

“I just want to do what you want to do,” Mark said. His soft, clear blue eyes carried a shy look.

"I'm not as pretty as you, Sue. I know. My parents and relatives aren't very pretty, and I'm not either. You're the most active girl in the whole city."

"Oh... it's nothing, what else am I besides the daughter of a poor professor?" she said lightly and cheerfully.

She felt like starting all at once. She kissed him again, quickly. Then she laughed and took his hand.

"Let's run," she said, and the two of them ran through the forest toward home.

"I'm getting married, I'm getting married," she thought, to the happy music of her gliding feet.

Her mother, Mrs. Gaylot, said, "Susan, I don't want you to marry someone so young. Once you get married, you'll be bound."

"I want to get married," said Susan.

Her mother said nothing. They were in the sewing room, sewing and sewing her evening dress. They were alone. After breakfast and after washing the dishes, they were always alone. Susan knew that her mother had something to say all the time. The words would have a subtle, sinister meaning. Because her mother was shy about talking about housing.

A year ago, when Mark first came to visit her, her mother tried to say something. Susan had come upstairs in the middle of the night, her face flushed with an inexplicable sense of triumph. Her mother was waiting in the room, her hair braided today for tomorrow's curls.

My mother said with sad eyes, "Susan, I want to tell you something."

"What, Mom?" she asked, looking straight at her mother.

"I'm only 18 years old." Suzanne felt her mother's embarrassment, and her heart beat faster for a second.

"Are you talking about Mark?" she asked eagerly.

“I say this for every young person,” my mother said.

" - Susan quickly said, "Don't worry, Mom, Mark and I are getting along. And I can take care of myself."

"Okay... Mom, if you understand what I'm saying, then it's over," Mom said, sighing.

Mother blushed and kissed Suzane hesitantly. When Mother left the room, her belt was hanging from her shirt, and the door closed, and the belt was already tied.

“My dear,” my mother called from outside.

"Give it... I'll do it," Suzan said, before removing it.

This morning, Susan was smiling half-evil. She had even laughed with Mark last night. "Mom, I have a few things to tell you. I want you to tell me that you two are really engaged," she said.

“Is it about me?” Mark asked firmly. “I can imagine, your father will raise his eyebrows and ask, “Why are you marrying my daughter, young man?” I won’t be able to say anything. I was really bad in his poetry class, you know that, Su.”

She laughed and said, "Mom won't care about that, oh... Mom will talk about life."

"What are the basics, huh?" he asked seriously, and Susan nodded and they both laughed again.

Now my mother is asking, "Are you going to stop adding little pleats to your shirt collar?"

"I've put the wrinkles in, Mom."

She sewed the long train of the dress together, and then sewed the bodice again.

Mom said hesitantly.

"The needle is very inventive, my dear. The way it is made is so fast that I don't think it will be accurate. But it's so accurate that it falls into place. My mother doesn't even know how it is made."

"My hands are the ones who know whether it's right or wrong."

Indeed, there is a feeling in her brain that can feel the rightness and wrongness of a line that has been drawn, and it cannot be answered. This feeling is present in many things. Especially when she is sculpting. But it is present in her when she is sewing a seam of a dress, when she is baking a cake, when she is planting flowers in a vase. Everything is already drawn in her head, how it should be, and her fingers obey that vision like quick, agile slaves. She added with a smile, “I must be able to sew my dress without mistakes.”

She could buy a ball gown if she wanted. Her father said, “Buy whatever you want, Susan,” and gave her a hundred dollars. “That’s the price of at least twenty lines of poetry. My God… my God… poetry is so expensive, isn’t it? Your son is not good at poetry, he works in real estate,” he said.

Her father was a professor of English literature at Easton College. They could barely make ends meet on that salary. Her father claimed that his real job was writing poetry. But he couldn't convince anyone to believe that. He said he didn't want her to spend all the money she earned from writing poetry on food and drink.

Susan gratefully accepted the hundred dollars and searched every store in town for a gown. The more she looked, the more she saw that she would have to make it herself. She wanted none of these things. She would have to make them herself. So she bought several yards of heavy, pale yellow satin. The satin was a bit white, but it was really a faded white. She had to pay ten dollars for the very fine, delicate lace. Another ten dollars was spent on a soft scarf.

"Would you like a shirt pattern?" the clerk asked.

"I don't want to," she replied.

When she looked at her body, she forgot that it was her wedding dress, or rather, that she had to be gentle. She forgot about Mark. She was doing something. Whatever she was doing, she was always drawn to it. Her body was like music, harmonious and satisfying. Susan looked at the silk fabric against her young and strong body.

Mom sighed, "Oh, that's beautiful."

Suzan heard a sigh and asked, "Are you tired?" "I'm not tired," her mother replied, covering her mouth.

The low-ceilinged sewing room was getting hot. Her mother pushed up her glasses and wiped her round, wrinkled face with the white apron of her blouse.

In the quiet room, over the music within her, Susan became aware of a strange sound. It was like a wasp scratching at a window. She shook her head.

Her sister Mary was playing Mendelssohn's "Consolation" slowly and carefully, without touching the treble clef, the key to the music. Susan paused for a moment, listening. The treble clef struck her ears, causing her great pain. She dropped her flute and went to the door.

While her mother was still saying, "What...", Susan continued on without stopping. Susan had to get there before she could. She had to get there before Mary could get to the place where the bed was raised. She was in so much pain that she quickly opened the living room door.

"Mary," she called softly. Susan was always gentle with her sister, who was five years younger than her. Mary, a dark-skinned girl, sat at the piano, her face pale, waiting. Mary's small, thin hands were spread out, fingers spread over the keys.

"Sister... I'll show you tonight."

Susan gently pushed Mary away from the piano and began to play the piano. She played that great song softly, full and sweet.

“Hey... Hey... Do you hear, the song says this. Don't be sad, don't be sad any more. Oh... Remember, the happiness you've had.” Now... Okay, click on the white button, not the black one, Hey.. Hey like this.”

Susan, relieved and happy to have overcome the musical error, played the piano. Mary was also lost in thought. She made the music sound as rich as possible and played it over and over again for her own comfort and pleasure.