Roy Zhu
“I gazed up at the tall, gray, concrete wall and the ramp that ran along the top of it. The rubber tires of
cars and trucks sped up the ramp and rumbled onto the Southeast Expressway. This wall cast a dark
shadow over the edge of Hudson Street and over the remaining red brick townhouses, blocking out,
forever, any possibility of sunlight-drenched living rooms. New immigrants from China and visitors to
Boston’s Chinatown see the wall as always having been there, supporting the ramp that was built so South
Shore residents could get home faster from their downtown jobs.” — Cynthia Yee, Hudson St. historian
Massachusetts Turnpike Authority initiates renewal. she cleaves streets like
Hudson, renaming them by her own ritual: I-90, the language of a higher power
shifting the hills from above. How does it feel? to be a part of commerce, to
tip your cigar out your window as you deposit ash on heads below. I-90 will
save you. Massachusetts Turnpike Authority ejaculates businessmen enthralled
by the space age: missile-quick shipping, leaded gasoline. Their cars spill oil,
rainbowed with possibility, into waters festering with industry. Dark tides of
asphalt numb the roots of trees. The businessmen are startled to see, in the
shadows of their well-tended yards, the weeds. Out sprout the roots of the
migrant weeds. In her calloused hands, the Chinese woman holds familiar
ailanthus leaves. For a second, it almost smells like springtime. There is no
springtime in a foreign land. Only rain at the wrong time of year. She sees
her daughter playing outside, making of the weeds, a child’s magic garden.
With a stick her daughter traces anthills, such miracles witnessed from above.
Deliverance, the preacher says, is the road to the city on a hill. So the road
to Boston delivers and delivers. The cars weave like Chinese women do in
the shops of white men: the garment district, such a tasteful name for sweat-
shops that dot the sweet, soft armpit of the city. On I-90, five lanes segregate
the air. Thickets of cars beg to be cleansed of the soft soil, the tiny patches of
azure, jade, gold, vermilion below. My city, the mother teachers her daughter
in Taishanese. My city? My city. Her daughter rolls such old words carelessly,
and Ma knows her own heart is old. The road slowly widens. Tears down
the cheeks of Chinatown. Her daughter learns two languages,
learns a third language all her own. The street of the goddess
of beggars. Cynthia is her name, the daughter of the goddess
of beggars. Ma is cramping from the sewing, her garden is
dying as the interstate ramp blocks out the sunlight. She
sings to her daughter in the moonlight, says, never
leave me, my child. Her eyes are masters of sacrifice
blessing the distance between them. Once I go, she
whispers, look for me in the wind that eddies
the ailanthus leaves. Then you may cry for me
light the incense, eat a rich man’s meal. Pour out
a portion of old Chang’s wine. Do as you know.
In autumn, her strong-boned daughter cries
Mother, mother as she walks up
the newbuilt road.
Roy Zhu is a junior Creative Writing and Environmental Science major who grew up in Greater Boston! His favorite poet at the moment is Rumi and lately he has been listening to Victoria Monét, Rico Nasty, and Kali Uchis.
