From Bullet to Blue Sky 1 The sun was in the process of its morning stretch. While the residents of gated communities came alive to be greeted by the tropical heat of south Florida, the stragglers of the universe awoke to the sounds of a 9 mm dispersing its gun powder to the blue sky. The ghetto houses that sheltered these citizens were painted different colors; some exposed faded paint, and others told stories in graffiti, inspired by gang artists marking their territories. Roll bars protected the windows covered with filthy bed sheets that not even dogs would lie on. 231232Broken toy pieces scattered over the dead grass in the yard outside. The lanky, dark-haired girl lay in her bed twisting and turning, trying to catch a cool wave from the ceiling fan that spun and thumped overhead all night. She always heard the same dogs barking; her ears still rang from the sound of that gun. She still felt the warm, thin blood that stained her hands. She still felt a sharp, pounding pain along her left side; for every breath she took, the pain reminded her she was human. She had witnessed many shootings before; she had seen more blood in her days. Why was this shooting any different? It was because for the first time she was the victim. I understood her pain, for I was that girl. 2 It all started with Mr. Tangye in the fall of 2004. He was an inspiring math teacher, who convinced me that I had more to offer this world than I had thought. As the bell rang at Conniston Middle School, we marched like zombies to our classes. I passed through dark hallways of vandalized lockers with torn papers and ripped books scattered over the ground like a dump. I made my way past the miserable teachers and devilish students. The administrators surrounded the hallways like a S.W.A.T. team, commanding everyone to go to class, I walked into Mr. Tangye’s math class; he had a bright, white smile that hurt my eyes every time I looked at him. Before I could make it to my seat, Mr. Tangye handed me a paper that itched my fingers; it was a math test. I stared at that test, and I begged my brain to wake up! The other kids shuffled the paper back and forth on top of their desks or used it as a pillow on which to lay their heads. I secretly tried my best at every problem and flippantly turned it in. 3 As the bell rang, I dashed for the exit. I swiftly dropped off my homework, but Mr. Tangye caught me and pulled me aside to show me my test. He said, “You are the only one who has passed the test.” Then as Mr. Tangye showed my grade to me, he said, “You are on the borderline of failing or passing this class, I’d like to see you pass!” I listened to every word he said because I was tired of being perceived as an idiot. 4 As I finished out the rest of that day, all I could think about was whether to study or not to study. I hated being stuck between a world that offered happiness and stability, whose proverb was “anything is possible” and a world that followed the theory of Charles Da ...

1. From Bullet to Blue Sky
1 The sun was in the process of its morning stretch. While the
residents of gated communities came alive to be greeted by the
tropical heat of south Florida, the stragglers of the universe
awoke to the sounds of a 9 mm dispersing its gun powder to the
blue sky. The ghetto houses that sheltered these citizens were
painted different colors; some exposed faded paint, and others
told stories in graffiti, inspired by gang artists marking their
territories. Roll bars protected the windows covered with filthy
bed sheets that not even dogs would lie on. 231232Broken toy
pieces scattered over the dead grass in the yard outside. The
lanky, dark-haired girl lay in her bed twisting and turning,
trying to catch a cool wave from the ceiling fan that spun and
thumped overhead all night. She always heard the same dogs
barking; her ears still rang from the sound of that gun. She still
felt the warm, thin blood that stained her hands. She still felt a
sharp, pounding pain along her left side; for every breath she
took, the pain reminded her she was human. She had witnessed
many shootings before; she had seen more blood in her days.
Why was this shooting any different? It was because for the
first time she was the victim. I understood her pain, for I was
that girl.
2 It all started with Mr. Tangye in the fall of 2004. He was an
inspiring math teacher, who convinced me that I had more to
offer this world than I had thought. As the bell rang at
Conniston Middle School, we marched like zombies to our
classes. I passed through dark hallways of vandalized lockers
with torn papers and ripped books scattered over the ground like
a dump. I made my way past the miserable teachers and devilish
students. The administrators surrounded the hallways like a
S.W.A.T. team, commanding everyone to go to class, I walked
into Mr. Tangye’s math class; he had a bright, white smile that
hurt my eyes every time I looked at him. Before I could make it

2. to my seat, Mr. Tangye handed me a paper that itched my
fingers; it was a math test. I stared at that test, and I begged my
brain to wake up! The other kids shuffled the paper back and
forth on top of their desks or used it as a pillow on which to lay
their heads. I secretly tried my best at every problem and
flippantly turned it in.
3 As the bell rang, I dashed for the exit. I swiftly dropped off
my homework, but Mr. Tangye caught me and pulled me aside
to show me my test. He said, “You are the only one who has
passed the test.” Then as Mr. Tangye showed my grade to me,
he said, “You are on the borderline of failing or passing this
class, I’d like to see you pass!” I listened to every word he said
because I was tired of being perceived as an idiot.
4 As I finished out the rest of that day, all I could think about
was whether to study or not to study. I hated being stuck
between a world that offered happiness and stability, whose
proverb was “anything is possible” and a world that followed
the theory of Charles Darwin’s “survival of the fittest.” People
in my world struggled for everything—money, power, respect,
even the last piece of fried chicken. My world had an
underground feudal system to follow with rules to be respected,
lines not to be crossed. Although this world was violent,
senseless, crazy, it was my world. This unmerciful, savage
world … I was comfortable in it. I felt super-glued to this
world; I felt guilty leaving it behind, like a crack head quitting
dope. I silenced that inner voice that begged me to stay. I was
going to make it out of my world of hardship and struggle and
bullets.
5 When I got home, I was greeted by a warm aroma from the
kitchen, where I always found my mother. We greeted each
other in our usual exchange. After I gave my mother a brief
overview of how school went, I rushed to my room to study. I
was tired of the struggles, fights, problems, which by birth, I
did not deserve. I was going to be somebody; I was going to do
something with my life. I was not going to be another Al
Capone or Bonnie with a Clyde. I was going to be somebody the

3. way God intended. I was going to earn a living the right, clean
way, but in order to be somebody, I needed an education.I
would have to get an “A” on my chapter test in Mr. Tangye’s
math class. I had to do it. I would!
6 Four gruesome weeks passed. I slept, ate, and studied. The
morning of the test, I woke up early. I studied some more, for I
wanted to be alert in case an unusual math problem was on the
test. I left early that day to ask a few questions. Usually, I took
a longer route to school to avoid crossing enemy lines, but I
rushed through a shortcut. The shortcut led me to the back of
the school, where boys played basketball and girls double-
dutched after school, but the recess court was empty. No one
stood in the courtyard but me. My eyes locked on the formula
sheet I memorized. Suddenly, I heard a familiar sound as
gunshots sliced the morning air; tires screeched. As I walked
toward the school building, I felt something drizzle down the
side of my torso. I grabbed my shirt; something slightly tickled
me. It was wet. It was not sweat; it was blood. Three small
holes pierced my skin, leaving bloody trails racing down my
hip. I had been shot. It happened so quickly. I threw my paper
and books, bloody from my handprint, on the ground. I
screamed at top of my lungs, not because I had been shot, but
because I knew I could not take my math test, the test I had
studied so damn hard for. My memory faded before I collapsed.
A former fire rescuer spotted me on the ground and got help.
7 As I lay in my bed at home, I tried to crawl around my brain; I
wanted a reason why God led me to this path. I was not
connected to these savages, who shot me. These thugs just
wandered around the neighborhood trying to find an ordinary
person to become a victim, whose fate would carry a dark
message.
8 When I was shot, it did not overpower my life; it empowered
my spirit. As I got out of bed, I tried to convince myself I
should stay there, but I could not find any good reason. My
injuries were three-days fresh, but I was determined to take that
math test. I reached to find the strength from deep within my

4. soul to move. The pain gripped my side like 500 needles
repeatedly stabbing my ribs. I grabbed a chair so deeply that I
bent my nails backwards. My arms and legs shook. I screamed
with every movement I made, yet the agonizing pain only
intensified. I gripped my book as I walked out the door. Slow
steps minimized the pain. I gave my mother a kiss as the bus
approached the curb. She touched my arm and reassured me that
I could make up the test after I healed completely. I objected
because I was ready for this test now. I told my mom that
morning that I tried to better myself. This neighborhood, this
ghetto, hardship-world I lived in tried to bring me down; it tried
to kill me. I refused to allow it.
9 On a sunny day with blue sky above, I dropped my coins into
the bus depositor, found a seat, and quietly, painfully moaned
along the ride. My mother waved to me as the bus drove off.
She was staring at me with a satisfied expression upon her face,
for she knew she was raising a fighter, a winner, and a believer.
She was raising a somebody.
Amy Tan
1 The most hateful words I have ever said to another human
being were to my mother. I was sixteen at the time. They rose
from the storm in my chest and I let them fall in a fury of
hailstones: “I hate you. I wish I were dead.…”
2 I waited for her to collapse, stricken by what I had just said.
She was still standing upright, her chin tilted, her lips stretched
in a crazy smile. “Okay, maybe I die too,” she said between
huffs. “Then I no longer be your mother!” We had many similar
exchanges. Sometimes she actually tried to kill herself by
running into the street, holding a knife to her throat. She too
had storms in her chest. And what she aimed at me was as fast
and deadly as a lightning bolt.
3 For days after our arguments, she would not speak to me. She
tormented me, acted as if she had no feelings for me

5. whatsoever. I was lost to her. And because of that, I lost, battle
after battle, all of them: the times she criticized me, humiliated
me in front of others, forbade me to do this or that without even
listening to one good reason why it should be the other way. I
swore to myself I would never forget these injustices. I would
store them, harden my heart, make myself as impenetrable as
she was.
4 I remember this now, because I am also remembering another
time, just a few years ago. I was forty-seven, had become a
different person by then, had become a fiction writer, someone
who uses memory and imagination. In fact, I was writing a story
about a girl and her mother, when the phone rang.
5 It was my mother, and this surprised me. Had someone helped
her make the call? For a few years now, she had been losing her
mind through Alzheimer’s disease. Early on, she forgot to lock
her door. Then she forgot where she lived. She forgot who many
people were and what they had meant to her. Lately, she could
no longer remember many of her worries and sorrows.
6 “Amy-ah,” she said, and she began to speak quickly in
Chinese. “Something is wrong with my mind. I think I’m going
crazy.”
7 I caught my breath. Usually she could barely speak more than
two words at a time. “Don’t worry,” I started to say.
8 “It’s true,” she went on. “I feel like I can’t remember many
things. I can’t remember what I did yesterday. I can’t remember
what happened a long time ago, what I did to you….” She spoke
as a drowning person might if she had bobbed to the surface
with the force of will to live, only to see how far she had
already drifted, how impossibly far she was from the shore.
9 She spoke frantically: “I know I did something to hurt you.”
10 “You didn’t,” I said. “Don’t worry.”
11 “I did terrible things. But now I can’t remember what…. And
I just want to tell you…. I hope you can forget, just as I’ve
forgotten.”
12 I tried to laugh so she would not notice the cracks in my
voice. “Really, don’t worry.”

6. 13 “Okay, I just wanted you to know.”
14 After we hung up, I cried, both happy and sad. I was again
that sixteen-year-old, but the storm in my chest was gone.
15 My mother died six months later. By then she had
bequeathed to me her most healing words, as open and eternal
as a clear blue sky. Together we knew in our hearts what we
should remember, what we can forget.