Comparing Special Events in 'Market Day' and 'Suki’s Kimono'

“Hurry, Balam (bah-LAM)!” I struggled to catch up with my father. My neck ached from carrying the heavy basket of salt. Why did my brother get to carry the feathers? Thousands of people filled the canoes that would take us to the great Aztec market of Tlatelolco (tlah-tell-OHL-co). When we arrived, my father gave me a handful of cacao beans and ten quetzal (ket-ZAHL) feathers. “Buy a gift for your baby sister,” he told me. He and my brother went to trade jaguar furs, salt, feathers, and cloth for swords and copper axes. The air smelled like ripe fruit, incense, and cooking. My stomach rumbled. I passed rows of avocados, beans, chilies, peanuts, pineapples, potatoes, squash, and tomatoes—a rainbow of colors. Next to a pile of turkeys, I spotted someone selling tamales (tah-MAHL-ace). I spent one cacao bean on my tasty snack. I had never seen so many people from so many places. Some women wore their hair like little horns on top of their head; others had teeth stained red or black. A few people had lip and nose plugs. One man had jade in his teeth like my father did. Some people painted their faces, and others had tattoos. I saw clothes of every color and pattern. I followed the sound of music through rows of baskets, clay pots, and little clay figures. People were listening to a man singing a story to the rhythm of a flute and a wooden gong. A fight erupted at a nearby stand. Someone had tried to buy cloth with dirt-filled cacao beans. The market officers hustled the man to court. I spent the rest of my cacao beans on a cup of chocolate. The quetzal feathers would be enough to buy my sister’s gift. I wanted to get her something special, something that could be found only at the great Aztec market of Tlatelolco. I walked past sellers of jade, gold, feather jewelry, [and] pottery. . . . And then I saw it: a necklace made of tiny copper beads. It was the perfect gift for my sister.

On the first day of school, Suki wanted to wear her kimono. Her sisters did not approve. “You can’t wear that,” said Mari. “People will think you’re weird.” “You can’t wear that,” said Yumi. “Everyone will laugh, and no one will play with you.” “You need something new, Suki.” “You need something cool.” But Suki shook her head. She didn’t care for new. She didn’t care for cool. She wanted to wear her favorite thing. And her favorite thing was her kimono. Suki’s obāchan had given her the kimono. The first time Suki wore it, her obāchan took her to a street festival where they slurped bowls of slippery, cold sōmen noodles and shared a cone of crunchy, shaved ice topped with a sweet red bean sauce. Under strings of paper lanterns, Suki joined her obāchan in a circle dance. She followed her and copied her movements, trying to be as light and as graceful. She watched the other women and children who danced, especially those who were dressed in cotton kimonos like her. Later, Suki sat so close to the stage that when the taiko drummers performed, bom-bom-bom-bom, she felt like she’d swallowed a ball of thunder and her whole insides quaked and quivered. Before they left the festival, Suki and her obāchan stopped at a souvenir stand. There were many things to choose from, but her obāchan found the prettiest thing of all—a handkerchief of pale pink linen, decorated with tiny maple leaves and cherry blossoms. When she gave it to Suki, she said, “This will help you remember our day.” Now, it was time for school. Mother checked Suki’s obi one last time and took a picture of Mari, Yumi and Suki together by the front steps. Then, as she watched, the three sisters made their way down the block to their school. Mari and Yumi stayed several paces ahead of Suki and pretended they didn’t know her. But Suki didn’t mind. She turned and waved to her mother before she clip-clopped along in her shiny red geta, feeling very pleased in her fan-patterned blue kimono.