Frog Lady

The lady brought her frogs to the iron gate every day. My mom brought five-year-old me back from kindergarten every day. So we met every day, my mom, that frog lady, me, and the frogs (though not of course the same frogs). In the golden afternoon sun, everything was shimmering yellow, until the leaves broke up the light and left fragments of shadow on the ground. 

The frog lady was one kind of woman. Of course, she was the lady who sells frogs.  I was only five, but I still noticed her difference. She dressed younger than her age, with make-up, and tight clothes that showed her off, an unusual look at that time in China. Still, she was tacky, how could she not be, she was the lady with the frogs. She was loud, outgoing, and talked to anybody who passed by. She was a nosy local woman, and spoke in the dialect to my mom, who could not really understand because we had just moved from the north. My mom always tried hard to figure out what she was saying,to respond and be polite. I felt the frog lady belonged there, and we didn’t yet. I felt intimidated by her and her half-dead frogs. The frogs, packed together in red net bags, stayed still most of time until one made a sudden movement, then they were still again. They made quiet screams to complain of their condition,  which the frog lady who could hear but always ignored. There was a word she repeatedly used a word to describe me; it could mean cute, but more often, it was used to describe women who try to be cute in order to draw attention. She called me that at least five times. 

The locksmith nearby sometimes talked to her and looked at her in a weird way. 

I grew up quickly, went to elementary school, and started to acquire all the usual prejudices. Soon I wasn’t afraid of her anymore; I just ignored her when I walked by myself to the iron gate. 

Someday before we left, she left. And then we left.