Short Non-Fiction By Kathy Whipple
In a small village in the Cambodian countryside, ten-year-old Chantou sits behind a wooden loom, weaving an intricate pattern in silk. She smiles a shy grin as I stop to admire her work.
The cloth is the same orange as the monk’s robes, rusty and rich. The clack, clack of her foot pedals, and the whoosh of her bamboo shuttle accompany the crowing cocks pecking at the ground around her. A slight breeze does nothing to ease the stifling heat of morning in the dry season.
Chantou picks up the pace as I watch her weave, seeming to want to show off her skills on the complicated machine.
“Fourteen hundred strands, total,” her uncle tells me in broken but impressive English.
I nod, mesmerized by the percussive rhythm, the girl’s fluid movements between pedal and shuttle.
“Does the girl go to school?” I ask.
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“Not necessary,” he says.
What a shame, I think. “Seems it would be good for her, in case she wants to do something other than weave.”
The uncle stares at me, his brow furrowed. He shakes his head.
“More than one thousand years,” he says. “In this village, weaving silk. Mother teach daughter.”
Ahhh, it’s a proud tradition. This, I understand. I think back to my own upbringing in an orthodox Mormon home. My mother told me stories of my pioneer ancestors who crossed the American plains in handcarts to escape religious persecution. Many died along the way. Not a tradition of a thousand years, but deep, strong roots, ingrained at every turn.
“Why do you want to go to college?” My bishop asked.
“To learn everything there is to know about the world,” I said.
“It isn’t necessary,” he replied. “Your calling is to be a wife and mother.”
“What if I want to do more?”
“There is nothing more.”
I stand and watch Chantou for longer than is comfortable. Her uncle is anxious for me to move on. But I’m drawn to this young girl. I was her, as bound by tradition and expectation as she is to her clacking loom.
Chantou lifts her head and looks into my eyes.
With as much as I can communicate in a smile, I tell her I understand. I tell her my bishop was wrong. There is something more. I tell her that one day a daughter in her village will choose to not weave.
That it may even be her.
Kathy Whipple is a writer, musician, and artist from Boise, Idaho. Her stories are often inspired by her travels in SE Asia. She has previously published in Cafelit, Madswirl, 101 Words, Friday Flash Fiction, and several other online literary magazines.
