Tree Girl by Ben Mikaelsen Chapter 13

1. Highlight 5 vocabulary words that you do not know and write the definition in the margin.  (V).

2.  Ask 5 questions in the margins.  Label each with a (?)


3.  React to 5 events in the text.  Label each reaction with a (*). 


4.  Make 5 connections to the text, text-to-self · text-to-text · text-to-world.  Label each with a ©

5. Highlight 5 quotes that reveal characterization. Label each with a (0+<). Tell what each reveals.

The stunned little girl stared at me with big eyes, and I fell to my knees and hugged her desperately. The world blurred as I burst into tears. "Alicia, Alicia," I sobbed.

Alicia hugged me back, clinging to me. She was dirty beyond belief, and her tangled black hair was like that of a thousand other children in the camp. But this wasn't just one of the other children. This was my sister, and I kept hugging her until a hand touched my shoulder and I looked up.

A large woman stood over me with a small baby cradled in her arms. "How do you know this girl?” the woman asked accusingly.

I stood and lifted Alicia into my arms and spoke joyfully. "I'm Gabriela. This is my little sister, Alicia."

The woman looked at me as if she had seen a ghost. "You're Gabriela?"

I nodded.

"I'm Maria," the large woman said.

"Where did you find my sister?" I asked.

"Back in Guatemala, far south of the border. One day as I walked to market, I heard shooting ahead of me in the pueblo. People screamed, and I knew it was the soldiers. When I turned to run, I heard a baby cry. I found this girl and this baby hiding alone behind some thick shrubs. The baby was almost dead, so I took them both with me away from the pueblo and back to our canton."

I looked at the child in the woman's arms. "Is that the baby?"

The woman nodded. "She almost died. Is she your sister, too?"

I shook my head in disbelief, staring at the squirming infant. ''No," I said. "I helped her to be born, but I think her mother died. I don't know, because the soldiers came and I had to run."

"Did you see the massacre? Maria asked.

I nodded.

"How did you survive? You must have been very brave," she said.

I felt new shame. "I hid," I said, unwilling to talk any more of that day. I looked at the big woman, her skin dusty and cracked from the hot sun. Her hollowed face and sunken eyes told of how hard her long journey had been. "It'll be dark soon," I said. ''I can help you find a place to sleep."

"Thank you, Gabriela," the woman said.

''Can I carry the baby?" I asked, lowering Alicia to the ground.

Maria looked relieved as she handed me the small infant that had grown much since birth. She was dirty and her upper lip was crusted from a runny nose, but her skin was no longer pale. A brightness glowed in her eyes.

My mind struggled with what was happening. It didn't seem possible that this could be the same baby (185) I had helped to deliver. "Follow me," I said, leading Maria through the camp. Alicia clung tightly to my corte.

Carmen frowned when I walked into camp carrying a baby, and followed by a woman and a little girl. Already life was difficult. To feed this many more mouths might be impossible.

"Carmen, this is my sister and the baby I told you I helped to be born. Maria found them and brought them here."

Carmen extended her hand, concern heavy on her face.

"I'll find extra food," I said, feeling guilty.

"All of us will need to work harder," Carmen said not hiding the intent and sharpness of her words.

I looked at our small shelter. Maria was much bigger than Rosa had been. And now we also had a young girl and a baby. I hoped Carmen wouldn't mind. I went to her alone. "Letting Maria stay with us was the kind thing to do," I said.

"It's okay," Carmen said. "Just remember, Gabriela. Kindness can kill you in this place."

I nodded and left Maria and the baby in camp and took Alicia with me to find food.

Everywhere we went, Alicia clung to me. Even when she helped me to carry rice and bread, she held to me with one hand. Some of the aid workers smiled and tried to play with Alicia, but she remained silent and hid behind my corte.

That night after all of us had eaten something, we sat together on the ground beside our shelter, talking as I brushed Alicia's long hair. "Something's wrong with Alicia's voice," I explained to Carmen. "She can't speak anymore."

Maria shook her head. "Your sister only refuses to speak. I’ve heard her cry out your name, Gabriela, when she’s dreaming. That’s why it surprised me so much when you told me your name today. Somehow Alicia needs to find her voice when she's awake."

While we spoke, Alicia stared at the ground. I turned to Maria. "Do you mind if I hold the baby?''

Maria smiled and handed the baby girl to me. I rocked her gently in my arms as I explained to Maria all that had happened. (187)

When I finished, Maria told me her story. "Soldiers came to our canton six weeks after the massacre in the pueblo," she said. "Alicia and the baby were in the field with me that day, so I took them and fled north toward Mexico. We could not even return to our home first."

As Maria spoke, I cuddled the sleeping baby closely to my chest, proud that I had helped bring her into the world. "Have you given the baby a name yet?" I asked.

Maria shook her head. "We thought some mother had already named her, so we simply called her Little One.”

"There was never time to give her a name," I said.

Maria thought a moment. "If the baby no name, maybe we should call her Milagro. It’s a miracle she survived when so many others died.

. . ",:

I nodded in the dark. "Milagro is a good name,” I said. "Our little miracle." What had happened to Milagro truly was a miracle. I looked down at the little infant and also at Alicia cuddled by my side and I pulled them both closer. "Milagro's mother would have liked that name," I said. (188)

I reached out and ran my fingers through Alicia's long black hair. This day had brought me another miracle. "I'll never leave you again," whispered to Alicia, fearful that I might be making another false promise.

With three more bodies to feed, I pushed myself even harder to find food. Alicia walked everywhere with me, and always I had to make sure she was safe. Maria watched the baby and tried to find special foods for her.

Whenever I tried talking to Alicia, I saw her eyes glimmer with thoughts, but she barricaded those thoughts behind silence. Each night in camp, she sat, digging with a small stick in the ground or rocking back and forth as she gazed away toward some other section of camp or toward someplace known only to her.

It was more work feeding the five of us, but we survived. In months after Alicia’s return, the camp grew even more crowded. It hurt the most to watch the children, knowing that the war hadn't allowed them a childhood. They couldn't cry or play or laugh or shout. They feared each new day, mindful that they must always be still or die. Now those same children huddled alone, gazing at the world around them with frightened eyes. In the Ixil section, the main section, the Kakchikel, in our Quiche section, and in other parts of camp, mothers kept their children close to their sides and hushed their cries.

Alicia behaved the same way, clinging always to my side, refusing to smile, laugh, or speak. When she thought no one watched, she took a stick and hit at the ground. Sometimes she hit the ground so hard that her small knuckles bled. Her silence failed to hide the fear and hurt and the anger that she struggled with. Night after night I watched Alicia struggle with her feelings and thoughts, and I felt helpless.

One afternoon I picked up some old cloth rags from beside the dirt road and wound them tightly to make a small ball. I took the ball and rolled it to Alicia. At first she sat and stared at it, but after much coaxing she finally pushed it back toward me. After that it was nearly a week before she stood and kicked the ball, and still another week before she allowed herself to chase the ball.

Other children peeked out from behind their mothers' cortes and watched us. Slowly Alicia began to play, trying to keep the ball away from me or chasing me, but still she remained hidden inside her silent world without expression.

Each day I made time for play, even when we could find no food. We played in the mornings early before the heat came, and some days we also played in the evening after the sun had set. Alicia sometimes allowed a grunt when she kicked the ball, but nothing more.

One evening as Alicia and I chased each other, kicking the ball, a young boy approached. He walked slowly toward us, as if unable to resist the temptation of play. I kicked the rag ball to him, and he reluctantly, kicked it back. When I kicked the ball again, it rolled past him. He stared at it with a somber face for a moment, then walked slowly after the ball and kicked it back once again. After that, the boy, Alfredo, returned to kick the ball with us whenever he saw us playing. It was three days before he ran for the first time. It was longer yet before he laughed.

Still the other children only watched. (191)

The next child to join us was a tall, skinny girl named Laura. I doubted she was more than eleven or twelve, but her size and her haunted, serious eyes made her appear older. She kicked the ball with hesitant bunts, clenching her fists and biting at her lip in anger whenever the ball got away from her.

Kicking the ball straight wasn't important. Smiling was. Purposely, I pretended to miss the ball each time I kicked or I pretended to fall. Finally a faint smile creased Laura's lips. It was hard for me to laugh and act happy when inside I felt like crying, but it was good to see guarded smiles steal across the faces of those children who played and those who watched.

Each week more children found the courage to join us, and each day they kicked the rag ball harder and harder. Sometimes their kicks were fierce. It hurt me to think what memories caused such anger. Seldom did laughs or shouts escape their mouths, and then only by accident.

Because the rag ball kept shredding, I finally approached one of the aid workers who had come to recognize me. I gathered my courage and asked her, "Is (192) there anyplace you can get us a ball?"

The American aid worker shook her head. "This isn't a playground. This is a refugee camp."

"The children need to learn how to be happy again," I argued, afraid I might make the woman mad. "To be happy they must play, and to play we need a good ball."

"What the camp needs is more medicine and food," the woman said firmly.

"A ball is medicine," I argued stubbornly. "It makes children happy again."

The woman finally relented and promised, "I'll see what l can do.”

"Thank you," I said.

Each day I returned and asked the woman, "Did you find a ball yet?"

Each day she shook her head. "I'm trying," she said.

"Can you try harder?" I begged one day. "The children need to be happy today, not tomorrow. Please."

Maybe she wished to rid herself of me, I don’t know, but the next day when I returned, the woman went to the cab of her van and brought back a real (193) leather football. She called it a soccer ball.

"Where did this come from?" I asked.

She smiled. "From one of the other aid workers, who doesn't know yet that he donated it. Take care of this ball. There won't be another one."

"I will, I will," I promised.

I felt like the richest person in the world that evening when I presented the children with a real leather ball. Word spread quickly, and children from other parts of the camp came to play with us. To make sure the ball wasn't stolen, I left it with Maria when it wasn't being used. Nothing was safe if left unattended in the refugee camp. If Maria was too busy cooking or caring for Milagro, I carried the ball myself, and each night I slept with Alicia on one side of me and the ball on the other side. It meant too much to all of us for me to let it out of my sight.

Sometimes Milagro sat for hours with the ball between her small pudgy legs, rolling it forward and back between her knees. Maria and I always made time to play games with Milagro. We were her mothers now, smothering her with attention and extra food. She (194) loved when I found bullion cubes for her to suck on. Her dimpled cheeks and curls couldn't hide her strong will. All of her short life she had needed to be strong.

Alicia remained mute, stubbornly refusing to open her guarded world. I did find hope, however, when one night an old stray cat wandered through camp looking for scraps. Carrying a stick, Alicia walked deliberately up to the cat and crouched. I feared she would hit the animal, but instead she reached and gently stroked the small cat. She looked over her shoulder to make sure no one watched.

After that, Alicia saved a scrap of food each day. She would approach the cat when she thought nobody watched. We all learned to pretend we were busy with some chore when the cat wandered into camp.

In time, Carmen and Maria became close friends, sharing food and helping each other to gather fire, wood. I was nearly sixteen then, and realized that the war could continue on for months or years. None of us had wanted the camp to become our home, but we had no choice.

Maybe for this reason I, too, enjoyed sitting in the (195) evening and listening to refugees from our section of camp speak of other places, especially the United States of America. I liked to go and listen to talk about the great opportunities that existed outside of our hole of filth. I also hoped to see the teacher, Mario Salvador, again. Mario never spoke much, but he always had a smile for me, and I could tell that others respected his few words as I did.

No matter what was said each night about escaping to the United States, our discussions always ended with someone reminding the rest of us, "It's illegal and dangerous, and you'll need money."

For me, life was already dangerous, and earning money in a refugee camp was impossible because nobody had any. We had no fields to grow corn or coffee, nor had we any marketplace to sell anything. Everything in camp was begged or traded for, if not stolen. And where could we go for hope? Hope was not something to be handed out from the back of a truck like rice or beans.