She stood in a busy crowd at her church. She was only four feet tall, but had small, flickering, round, brown eyes that seemed to wash you in an eerie but comfortable glow. All around her were bumbling adults talking in blurry and sporadic Chinese with a distinct haste to eat lunch. She looked like she was eight. She frowned, but that was more her normal face than anything else; whether she doesn't smile because she is not used to doing it, or because she has forgotten to, I don't know. But she looks lonely. Her mouth half-open, showing rows of petite teeth guarded by gentle pink lips; her hair braided and combed carefully, her clothes so clean and unruffled; a necklace of fake flowers around her neck; she constantly looks around from face to face, almost as if unsure of where she was, or what she was wearing, or what she was doing at all. Her pink rabbit doll hung limply in her hands, but all she thought of was trying to find her way through this massive maze of people. Finding, frowning, wondering. This girl was certainly quiet, confused and lost.
The area was so crowded, she couldn't tell which direction was to the exit and which one was to the entrance.
She trembled in noisiness, looking, sometimes colliding with walking adults. A rush of chasing boys made her stop briefly in front of a large doorway.
The conversations were louder now, the hardly coherent flow of experienced Chinese. She heard shouts from kids, laughter from adults. Gossiping and chiding. Eating.
Her name was Renee. I had seen her at the Chinese camp I volunteered at. She never talked to anyone. Ever. She wasn't with the excitable girls; she never watched other kids play with a DS. She sat in a corner, braiding the fur of the toy she had brought to camp that day. No one waved at her. No one greeted her with a smile. No one tried to talk to her for even the slightest. And yet, she looked content, even though she never smiled either.
That all changed when I greeted her once. A smile lit up her face, and she carelessly waved her hand, sporadically, and off-rhythm. She recognized me; she even knew my name. It was as if she had been waiting for someone to talk to her, to begin a conversation with her. She was not desperate, though. She was merely a girl, a bit quiet, a bit innocent, but content nonetheless.
I think I finally understand what Holden Caulfield wanted, how he wanted to protect little children front the "phoniness" of the world. It's sharp. It's painful. But it's certainly real.
And I think I also understand what J. D. Salinger felt too. It's quite simple: the feeling that you have absolutely nothing interesting to write about.
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