how to make oolong tea 

by Rebecca Yang

first stage – Taizhong, 1920 

1. cultivating 

rows and rows of sprouts, heads tilted towards the sun. bred on small Taiwanese farms or grown on clear mountain ranges or rammed in little cracked pots—it doesn’t matter where they’re from. what matters is the collective, eager desperation to be used. 

2. harvesting  

spring is best for results. it’s when the air is warm but not suffocating, when the boy looks coyly  

at you from the hallway, when the humidity holds its breath. hope is when you’re hand-plucked  

and placed into the basket, not knowing the heat ahead. 

3. withering  

leaves placed under sun, only useful once broken in. brown crackling into black, skin tanning  

beneath straw hats, back breaking with the knowledge that every rice grain counts. each clumsy  

finger scavenging, watching the mist rise from your body and disappear into the sky. 

4. oxidation 

years later, air can be allowed to seep through your fractured skin, like an apology, a guilty  

prayer. as if the scars and veins weren’t enough, here is a small red envelope for your work,  

shamefully tucked beneath a bowl of thinning fish broth. here is a granddaughter trying to speak  

Taiwanese for your sake, a last pitiful effort. 

second stage-–California, 2020 

5. kill green 

also known as fixing, also known as shedding your heritage. because that boy laughed at you  

when you tried to say “ending,” but it came out as “un-ding.” because eating rice everyday  

makes you fatter. because red dragons and paper lanterns don’t exist on the West Coast. but most of all, because when grandma left, she took Taiwan with her. 

6. rolling and drying 

locked into a wooden cage and tumbled. if you can’t beat them, join them. so you rack up friends like baseball cards, slather makeup until your skin bleeds white, kiss every blonde-haired boy  

you can catch. wiping the lipstick from your mouth, you look into the mirror and wonder who  

that girl is in front of you. 

7. roasting 

burning, but softer. flames seeping slowly, not noticeable until you find your fingertips charred  

with ink and the smoke spilling into your lungs. temperature controlled to create the optimal  

potential—hot enough for you to crumble under the weight of 4 APs and cheerleading  

competitions, but cold enough to make you guilty for complaining about your little, first world  

problems. 

8. packaging  

now, it’s ready to enjoy. steep the leaves in scalding water and watch them slowly drain into  

watered down remains, bleeding out from a plastic bag. you don’t even recognize its  

taste—there’s not enough flavor, not enough bitterness. 

About the Author...

Rebecca Yang is a sophomore at Orange County School of the Arts, where she studies Creative Writing. Her work has been recognized by the Alliance for Young Artists and Writers, the National Federation of State Poetry Societies, and DePaul’s Blue Book: Best American High School Writing. In her free time, she plays Bach on the piano.