Of Tigers and Feathers

Jade Orchids

Jade orchid ladies walk the streets, selling twists of wire strung with three, sometimes four of the slender, fragrant blooms.

I always buy one or two. Not just because I have a genuine fondness for the lush scent, rich to the point of overwhelming when placed in a confined space such as a car or closet. Not just because I always feel bad for the peddlers, almost always old women, wandering betwixt cars at stoplights and darting back to the traffic islands seconds after the light turns. But also because my mother warned me that their fate would be mine if I weren't careful as a child.

It's a warning said much the same way women would tell their daughters to be careful lest they be branded a witch.

And much like many of those accused of witchcraft, the women in question are guilty of nothing more than being living symbols of every invisible horror a woman could have in their society.

It's dangerous being a jade orchid peddler.

Many of them get hurt while darting through traffic, racing against the light to sell just one more circlet. Yet because the act of peddling flowers in traffic is illegal, most of them have no recourse when they get hurt. If they're unlucky, someone will complain to the police and insist on handing them a ticket that will wipe out their earnings. A twist of jade orchids sells for 20 NT. One ticket can run up to 2,400 NT. And yet that is just another one of the many risks they run in order to try and making a living.

The flower baskets are heavy around their neck, and they are out in all sorts of weather. Blistering hot summers. Wet and cold winters. The endless drizzle of monsoon season. Often even in typhoons, because a person has gotta pay rent and eat even if the Heavens aren't cooperating.

It's not exactly a job where one can rely on anything. Not on people buying flowers that have no real utility and only smell good for about a day. Not on the flowers themselves as they are fragile things susceptible to harsh weather and one can never be certain of the supply. Not on being able to keep their territory from day to day. Not on their own bodies as they age and grow frail. Not on bystanders being willing to live and let live instead of calling the police on them. Not on anything except their own willingness to work, to do the best they can with what they have.

Some of them are disabled.

Some of them are from broken homes.

Some of them are illiterate.

Some of them have to struggle to feed children in addition to themselves.

Many of them are on the streets because they have no safety net, no safe harbor, were given no opportunities for better.

Be clever and be careful. Be wary and be diligent. Be sweet and be demure. Lest you be cast out into the elements and have to rely on the kindness of strangers for your daily bread.

None of this was actually really verbalized directly, mind.

All my mother said was, "study hard and be smart, or you'll end up selling jade orchids by the side of the street".

That was all that was needed for horror to seep in and sink roots into the darkest corners of my mind. Because even as a child I knew the dangers of being called a witch.