I'm planning for this to be different than my previous stories. For one thing, the povs will be girls and i'm not used to writing from a girl's pov before, so please be gentle. I mentioned the idea to my sis, and she seems to like it. I will also try to include a lot of things about Judaism, such as prayers, the way holidays are celebrated, etc. which i hope you guys will enjoy. And if anyone finds the story offensive, i apologize for that. I also know that not many asian people will be willng to convert to Judaism, but still sometimes it does happen, so please don't be angry or upset. Anyways, i'm hoping that this will be more of a comedy than anything else. Just something light hearted to read, yet educational. I hope that it achieves the goal.

Grace Liu

Darkness, then John Mayer’s song, “Vultures” grew. A mutter next to her. Gentle strands reached into her ears, the world is ready, and she is ready. “Morning already,” she says, her voice carrying exhaustion. Warmth leaves her body, lying next to her husband. Her hand reaches for the CD player, and brushes against a prayer book. She has to do her prayers, her morning prayers.

But today, what is today? She asks herself. Is it the 15th or 16th of June already? In two weeks, she and her husband will take a trip to St. Louis Missouri. The song continues to play, last of the melody passing her ears. She begins making mental notes in her head; what to do today? Take out the trash, go to grocery store, buy milk and Cocoa Pebbles for her son and daughter, today is also soccer game, final one, between her son’s team and a rival school. Will her husband be able to make it?

Her hand brushes across the alarm clock and John Mayer stops. I have to get the morning paper, she remembers. This week, it is her turn to get up early and do the chores. Next week will be her husband’s turn.

She looks out the window, watching the gold shine across the sky, touching the white clouds. Bright pinks decorate the sky. Sound of birds, mockingbirds, whisper across the neighborhood. She sees a few hop from tree to tree, the dark brown bodies and white tummies giving them away. Right, she has to get the paper. She walks out to the hall and to the front door. A dark brown jacket hangs on the coat rack. She puts it on and steps outside, feeling a light chill in the air, the gentle wind whipping her hair. Her hands cross across her chest, and her eyes narrow.
The newspaper is near; she is almost close to picking it up when something odd catches her eye. A shape is close by, of someone sleeping, the person’s head lying on the suitcase. Puzzled, she walks over and studies the person.

A loud scream bursts from her mouth.

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Once you go Asian, you'll never go caucasian

THis part will have a Jewish prayer. Jewish people also have a 'grace' of sorts, except we have specific prayers for meat, veggies, fruits, breads, and foods that don't fit into one of hte above categories. (I wasn't sure what eggs were considered so she recites a universal prayer for food.)

Grace Liu

“You don’t look happy to see me,” a voice breaks through her ears. Her head swivels towards the mahogany sofa, the pillows bundled up on either side. She feels the nails digging into her palms, crescent shapes marking the fleshy areas. She studies the person carefully, noting the expensive leather mini skirt, the high stiletto heels, a bathing suit top exposing a lot of cleavage.

She chooses to ignore the statement. “More tea?” She asks.

“Naw, that didn’t get rid of the headache…” A light clink and the person set down the cup on the table.

“I didn’t do the prayers…I have a busy day.”

“Keep it down, I have a headache,” the person commanded.

“My husband is coming the downstairs. I haven’t made breakfast for him nor for our kids.”

“Humph, you should never have married a Chinese man.”

Normally, she is not a violent person, but desire to hurt this woman, even if she is her sister, pulsed strongly through her veins. “At least he’s better than your husband!” She retorts, deciding to walk off.

“Ehh, he divorced me.”

She stops and turns back, focusing on the large painting in front of her. Colors of yellow and white dotted the landscape, a prairie, and tall flowers of bright pinks and yellows. In the middle are two people, a tall man of golden skin stands next to a fairer looking woman, their hands united. It is she and her husband. He painted that. “What did you say?” She mutters.

“He divorced me,” her sister repeats. She hears footsteps and sees her walk up to the painting. “Hmm, he’s still painting huh? Why did you marry an artist? Why not Matthew Goodblum? He was going to be a doctor.”

She shakes her head. “Why do you hate him so much? I’m happy with him.”

“He’s not Jewish though.”

“He converted after our marriage.”

“He wasn’t born Jewish,” she retorts. She walks back to the sofa and sits down, her leg across the knee.

“I’m going to make some breakfast Rachel,” she tells her sister. “Would you like to have breakfast with us?”

She hopes for a no answer, that Rachel has to go, but Rachel says yes. “I’d love to help, but I’m still recovering from yesterday,” she tells her sister. She lies down on the sofa, her fingers brush across the carpet.

Although she is tempted to ask what happened last night, she decides not to. She decides to do the prayers at breakfast. Soft snores can be heard from the living room as she walks to the kitchen. She decides to make some omelet for her husband. It has been a while since they had omelet.
She walks to the light brown counters and takes out a large sized pan. From the medium sized refrigerator she finds the egg carton and removes four eggs and a little bit of celery. She washes the eggs and just as she is breaking them into the glass bowl, a scream is heard.

She drops the egg, watching it smash into millions of pieces, the yellow yolk thrown everywhere, and runs to the living room. Her husband is standing beside the sofa, dressed in a bathrobe, his trunks visible. “Honey,” she calls out. She reaches him.

“Damn, what is she doing here?” He asks, turning to her.

“I don’t know. I found her sleeping in our porch.”

He is silent, and walks into the kitchen. She joins him there, watching as he makes the omelet for her. Light burning is on her cheeks. He doesn’t have to make the omelet, she thinks to herself. But then there is summer camp and their kids. “Are Serenity and Michael awake?” He asks, using a wooden spoon to lift the edges of the omelet.

“I’ll go check,” she tells him. She turns to check when eight year old Michael greets them.

“Hi,” he says. He walks to the table and lays his head on it, his eyes close.
“Michael,” she begins, already used to the cycle. “This is not the time to sleep. Didn’t you go to bed at eight pm?” She knows he didn’t.

His eyes open and she brushes his hair back, marveling at the black strands in her hands. “What are you making?” He asks, his head still lying on the table.

“Omelet,” her husband responds. He is turned away, his hands busy, strands of hair falling on his forehead. “Is Rachel going to join us?” He asks absently. She feels herself freeze. That’s right, Rachel told her she’d have breakfast with them.

“I’ll go wake her up,” she tells him. She walks over to the sofa and her hand touches her sister’s shoulder. “Wake up,” she orders. “Rachel, wake up.”

Groans are heard.

“Wake up,” she orders her once more.

“What?” Her sister mutters.

“Breakfast is ready.”

“Oh, save some for me, will you? I’ll be sleeping…”

“Rachel,” she persists, her hands shaking her sister. “Come on, wake up.”

“Leave me alone,” Rachel mutters, turning to the other side, her face away from her sister.

She didn’t repeat what Rachel said. Her husband already heard. She watches him prepare omelet and then divide it into four equal pieces, one for each member. None will be saved for Rachel. She wonders what happened to Serenity, but Serenity is not a morning bird. She is always late, always disorganized. Serenity is a year older than Michael.

As if sensing her thoughts, Serenity enters into the kitchen. “Hi,” she greets her family, a note of happiness in her voice. “Is that the infamous Aunt Rachel?” She asks.

“Yes honey, here’s your breakfast. Better thank your father.”

“Thanks daddy,” she says and the family dug into the breakfast. They simply ate breakfast, saving the talking for family dinners.

“Wait,” she says. Everyone stops and stares. “The prayers, we have to do the prayers.”

She notes the irritation in her kids’ faces. She begins. “Barukh atah Adonai Eloheinu Melek ha-olam she-hakol niheyeh bidvoro.” (Praised are You, Eternal One our God, source of the universe, by whose word all beings come into being.) Her husband and children repeat the prayer.

Everyone leaves the kitchen, gathering up the backpacks and she decides to drive them to summer camp, giving her husband silent thanks for his help. I really have to thank him tonight, she thinks to herself.

She walks up to the car and unlocks the doors. “Shotgun!” Serenity screams loudly.

“No fair!” Her son responds. “You always shout it out! Mom!”

“Honey, can you let your brother sit in the front?”

“Mom! Shotgun rules! Why do you take his side?”

“I’m not on anyone’s side sweetie.”

“Then let me have the shotgun,” Serenity insists.

“Why don’t you have the shotgun on the way back?” She suggests, hoping that the fighting will quell.

“Its not fair! I shout it loudly and he has to take it?”

“Then no one gets the shotgun,” she tells her kids.

Serenity pouts. She gets to the back to sit with Michael. Michael is quiet for a change. She sighs inside and drives to the summer camp.
She already senses that this is going to be a long day.

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Once you go Asian, you'll never go caucasian

This story contains one offensive word: goy. Rachel is a very close minded person, if you can't tell, and doesn't see her fault easily. I'm not calling anyone non-Jew or Asian a goy. Its simply Rachel's fault. If its offensive i'll use another word.

Rachel Steinberg

Construction crew is inside her head, the jackhammers, hammers, sirens, all-working at once. “Get away,” she whispers, her voice as deadly as assassin’s. The noise doesn’t stop. “Get the hell away!” She screams loudly. Colors of all sorts flood her vision. Breath of air escapes her. “Damn it! Do something!” Footsteps.

“Rachel?” A masculine voice. Her sister’s Chinese husband.

“What?” She moans.

“What’s wrong?”

“My head hurts you idiot!” She sits up, feeling the clothes begin to itch. “I hate these clothes! I hate these clothes! Do something!”

A chuckle. “Yelling at me isn’t going to do anything,” he says. He stands in front of her, his arms crossed against his chest. “You’d have to wait for Grace to help you out.”

“When is she coming back?” She changes the topic swiftly, not even bothering to apologize to him.

“Soon,” He says. He continues to stand in front of her, his arms still crossed. “Is there anything else you need?”

“No,” Rachel quickly says. Everything becomes shaky, an earthquake, her stomach growls in protest, something pushing up to her throat. Uh oh, she has to throw up! “Bathroom! I need to go bathroom!” She feels his hand around her shoulders.

Very quickly, he leads her down the hall, and at the end she sees the bathroom. At that time her stomach is in bad condition, needing to throw up. As soon as she reaches the bathroom, she begins to retch; her eyes are closed, unable to watch herself throwing up. Her fingers are shaky as they tap on the bathroom seat, to the tune of Pink’s ‘Getting this party started.’ Her hymn, the song that describes her best.

Finally it is over, She sits on her bum, her cheeks burning, panting loudly. She flushes and with the husband’s help she stands up, shaky on her legs. “Gently,” she chastises him, feeling his arms yank her up.

“Why don’t I just leave you alone to walk to the sofa?” He retorts. “According to her royal majesty, everything I do is bad! You walk to the sofa! Even if you are my wife’s sister, don’t expect me to ever help you again!”

“Wait!” She calls out, curiosity seizing her.

“What?” He demands.

“Your name, what is it?”

“I’ve been married to your sister for nine years and you don’t know my name?”

“So what? I can’t remember my ex-husband’s name! Besides you’re not the boss of me! You’re just not important enough!”

“You—“ he stops. “Ask Grace for my name. I don’t want to talk to you or take care of you!” With those words he left her sight.

She sighed, sitting down and wrapping her arms around her knees. What a nightmare, she thinks to herself. Waking up at her sister’s! How awful it was here! Didn’t this goy (non-Jew yiddish normally an offensive term)know how to take care of a lady? He was so rough! And he yelled at her, and she didn’t do anything to provoke such an attack! Oh, I want for my Aunt Fanny to be here, at least she could understand what is going on.

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Once you go Asian, you'll never go caucasian

Thank you for writing it. I enjoyed reading that.

I hope you guys are enjoying hte story. I really had fun writing this part down. For the most part, Jews are open minded to marrying non-Jews and most aren't cast out of hte family so to speak. Grace was shunned from the family, not cast out. Just like there are myriad of Christian people, there are myriad of Jewish people. Anyways, i hope this isn't offensive. Oh yeah, G-d is God. I've read somewhere that ancient Hebrew alphabet had no vowel sounds, so people spoke with consonants. Vowels were added much later. Vowels were never added to G-d or YHW.

Felicity Berson

Soft threads of Secret Garden. Her new live crew. “Ah, what a wonderful day,” she says, feeling the temperpedic mattress below her frame. “I’m awake, the birds are chirping. I should call Rachel, see if she wants to head to Galleria today.” Snap of fingers, quick, decisive. An old fashioned phone is brought. A rotary type, gold all over. She dials the number from memory, and the phone begins to ring endlessly. Finally, a message begins to play.

“The number you have reached is out of service. If you have received this recording in error, please hang up and dial again.”

“What?” Felicity says. She slams the phone down hard, uncaring if its antique, or how much it will cost. Felicity, otherwise known as Aunt Fanny by her numerous nieces and nephews, quickly stands up, the silk nightgown tight all of a sudden. “My baby,” she says, “Whatever happened to Rachel? Why isn’t she answering the phone? Oh my! What am I going to do?” She begins to pace back and forth, her heart a flutter with all sorts of horrid thoughts. What if Rachel is kidnapped and is being tortured or raped, or worse, non-Jews are doing it!

Secret Garden continues to play, the music sad and dramatic somehow. I’m going to call my nieces and nephews, she finally decides after thirty minutes. Perhaps they’ll know where Rachel is. She picks up her rotary phone and begins to dial numbers from memories.

She decides to call her nephew, Michael, first. Rachel is close to him, she recalls. They are like best of friends. “Hello?” A sleepy voice answers. Felicity curses herself silently. Michael always sleeps late. The earliest he gets up is ten in the morning. The latest, five in the afternoon. Right now, it’s nine in the morning.

“Oh, Michael, how are you?”

“Yes Aunt Fanny?” Michael asks.

“It’s a small matter, but have you seen or heard from Rachel? She has disappeared unfortunately…”

“Rachel…nope.” Michael answers. She is about to hang up, feeling helpless. “Wait, Aunt Fanny.”

“Yes?”

“Try Grace’s. Few days ago, she was telling me about moving in with Grace and her family.”

“What?” Felicity exclaims. “Grace’s? Are you sure? Why there? Why not with me?” Felicity knew why not with her. Felicity is a loner of sorts, the perfectionist that has to have everything her way. If someone moves in with her, Felicity knows that she cannot bear to have her things messed up.

“I don’t know,” Michael answers. “I’m not Rachel you know.”

“Oh, I know. It’s just that, I’m lonely. I don’t like living here by myself. Rachel knows I would’ve welcomed her with open arms.” Felicity lies. She knows that Michael knows that she is lying through her teeth.
“Aunt Fanny, I’ve stayed up ‘till seven in the morning, let me get back to bed please…”

“Oh, I’m sorry Michael. Sweet dreams.” Click of phone on the other end. She searches her memory for Grace’s phone, but for the life of her cannot remember it. What will I do? I don’t even know her married name! She sits down on her bed, murmuring to herself. Have I thrown everything away that has to do with Grace? What if I’ll never find her number, what if I’ll never find Rachel? Oh Rachel! My poor baby! Stuck with that foreigner and Grace!

She thinks of other relatives to call, other nieces and nephews, but at the end decides to call Rachel and Grace’s mother, Libya. Perhaps she knows Grace’s number or address. I cannot bear to let Rachel be there. She dials the number from memory, and it rings twice before a woman answers. Libya.

“Hello Felicity?” She says.

“Libya, sister, darling.” Felicity says.

“What’s up? Is something the matter?”

“I can’t find Rachel.”

“Oh, I see. She should be at Grace’s. At least that’s what Sarah said.” Sarah is three younger than Felicity.

“Darling, I don’t have Grace’s phone number.”

“I have their old number. I don’t talk with Grace anymore. Ever since she married that foreigner, I, it angers me Felicity. Why? Haven’t I raised her right? Only Sarah bothers to talk with Grace. G-d only knows why.”

“Darling, you know that Sarah’s youngest son married a Catholic woman few years ago.”

“It still isn’t right. Grace thinks she hasn’t made a mistake. But I know that she has. Why just eleven years ago, she was a beauty queen, had all sorts of Jewish boys as her suitors. But bam, in walks in that foreigner and she’s head over heels in love with him. Against my good wishes she marries him!”

Felicity groans inside. Very often, Libya talks about Grace’s marriage. She always loved playing the victim, Felicity remembers. “Darling,” Felicity interjects. “What is her married name?”

“Liu, I think. I don’t know if it’s Chinese or Japanese or something else. G-d only knows.”

“What of her husband’s name?”

“His American name is James, I think. I don’t know his Asian name.”

“Can you give me their old phone number?”

“Sure.” Very quickly, Felicity writes down the numbers and hangs up the phone. Time to call Grace Liu.

She dials the phone number and it rings three times before a masculine voice greets her. “Hello?” It says.

“Hi, this is Felicity Berson, does Grace Liu live there?”

“Yes. How do you know Grace?”

“Never mind that. Can I speak to her?”

“Just please leave a message.”

“Is Rachel there?”

Silence, then, “Yes.” Tight voice, angry.

“Could I speak to her?”

“Who shall I say wants to talk?”

“Aunt Fanny!” She exclaims. What an idiot! Can’t he do anything right? Why did Grace marry him?

A holler. Mixture of voices, then finally Rachel’s. “Aunt Fanny!” A scream. “I’m so sorry that I scared you! Please come over immediately! Grace’s husband, whatever his name is, he’s so rough!”

“Oh my baby! Did he do something bad?”

“He couldn’t help me stand properly! He can’t do anything right! Oh Aunt Fanny! Its awful here, Grace is away, and I have to be with this foreigner!”

“Calm my baby, calm down! Aunt Fanny is on her way!”

“Please hurry! Please Aunt Fanny!”

“I’m leaving right this minute. Please give me the address immediately and I will see you soon!” She quickly writes down the given address and hangs up the phone. She gets dressed quickly and gives the address to her personal chauffer. She is on her way, hang on my baby, she tells Rachel mentally. Your aunt is on her way.

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Once you go Asian, you'll never go caucasian