The Microphone was Still On

I'm actually blanking, right now.
Totally & completely blanking out.
Just like last night,
when I stepped into the bright light,
clad in an elegant dress and sparkling eyes,
ready to say my line,
and announce the next act.
My mind was blank,
just blank as a whiteboard,
a spankin' new whiteboard.
Even as I stepped out from the green room,
I knew I'd forgotten,
forgotten the words,
the words I'd rehearsed mere seconds before.
Thankfully Lillie's a quick thinker,
we skipped my line,
and started with hers,
an unmistakably awkward way to start the lines.
The rest of the lines were fine,
I actually remembered.
When we finished and made it back,
backstage, I laughed and said:
"Oh, now I remember my first line."
Later, my Dad let me know,
that everyone had heard.

written on February 22, 2010 for a free write in Mr. Green's English class (name changed for privacy)

Blank

Blank
out
of
my
mind

Blank
like a clean sheet of paper
like a brand new canvas
like snow

Blank stares.
Blank pages.
Blank lines.
Blank faces.

Empty,
Clear,
Clean,
New,
Nothing.
Blank.

written on November 23, 2009 for a freewrite in Mr. Green's English class

This Is Just To Say

I have flown

to New Zealand

which was on

the "To Do List"

and

you are probably

missing

my presence

Forgive me

this island is so gorgeous

so warm

and so inviting.

Written September 15, 2009 as spin-off (copy change) of This Is Just To Say By William Carlos Williams for Mr. Green's class.

Young Love

It was the night of

my brother's birthday.

Celebrating 10 sweet years.

I thought back and back,

rewinding to my 10th year, 

reminiscing a past of innocence and happiness.

A past of playgrounds

and tag

and freedom and friends.

"Hey, Jonah, do you like anyone?"

He says he's friends with a girl.

Elaine.

"But do you like her?"

He says no but they're classmates, so they must be friends.

And his cheeks go rosy and he escapes to his room.

That's young love.

written on October 19, 2009 for Mr. Green's Monday Journal Free Writes (names changed for privacy)

Impossible

I am future-oriented. That is who I am and what I strive to be. To get it all, the way I define it. Exact.

Still, I fail to realize that the future is not exactly tangible. If you think about it, you can never touch the future, because it will always be one step ahead. But that doesn’t stop me from chasing after the uncatchable, trying to accomplish the impossible. Some may say that there are no such things as impossibility, but I think there are. My objective is not in reversing the impossible, but achieving the unlikely. I'm on a mission to shine. 

written on October 5, 2010 (at 4 am and falling asleep) for a Scarlet Letter Project

Fog

I was walking to school one morning and noticed the fog off in the distant highlands. It was a strong, clear wisp entangled around an evergreen tree. Its lonely appearance was what captured my attention to notice it.

             The next morning the fog was spread out and looked thin and mysterious. This time I couldn’t help but notice the fog, because it just happened to be everywhere.

            I find that this is the same way with friends. To make an influence and be influenced, one must put certain people above others, rather than treat everyone the same. This is the fog that was wrapped around the single tree. This is who I want to be, but I can’t bring myself to pick and choose one over another. Ironically this is the exact thing that is so necessary.

Contrastingly, the fog that was spread out had touched all of its surroundings, the impact on each tree was minor, but the impact altogether was something else. This is the picture of where I am at. It is like sticking one leg halfway into cold water and the other half way into hot water, uncomfortable and uninviting. In groups of people, if you try to get to know both groups, you only know each one briefly. While the groups within are warm and bubbly, it seems that when you wander in they become dull and chilly. Something about silence, can usually be so comforting, but so cutting in these cases.

Pick and choose I must do, but.

Maybe I don’t have to choose them, and they will choose me.

written on October 5, 2010 (at 4 am and falling asleep) for a Scarlet Letter Project

Anchor

What I’ve learned over the years is that almost everything is a team effort. A companion is one who can lift a little burden off of you. They give good advice, suffer with you despite their own problems. They offer comfort and strength.

And they know Control is like an anchor. It keeps you rooted and stable. But too much anchor is no good, too much control is being stuck without the ability for movement forward or back – no progress. Therefore, too much control is really no control at all.

I am in control.

And back out again. But that’s okay.  

There will be another calm after the storm.

written on October 5, 2010 (at 4 am and falling asleep) for a Scarlet Letter Project

My Name

In English, Tang has connotations to the juice. In Chinese, Tang actually means “soup” – no joke. It is short and simple; it is four letters long. When I explain what it really means, people chuckle – but I don’t explain it often.

            It’s not a common surname, but it is my brother’s, my father’s, my grandfather’s, all the others. And it is also mine. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t change it. A last name is nothing like a first name. It is foreign, but it is easy to pronounce – even though it’s actually pronounced with a short O sound. That doesn’t bother me though; even I pronounce it wrong, and on purpose.

            It’s cool in school when we learn about Chinese history and the prosperity of the Tang Dynasty. It was a good time: expansion, stable government, extensive trade, and all that usual jazz.

            I would like to be thought of as a princess – even if the unit only lasts for a week. But the truth is the Tang in my name is different from the Tang in the dynasty. My Tang means soup, their Tang means sugar, candy, and sweetness. But, no one has to know the difference.

written May 25, 2010 for a House on Mango Street assignment as a spin-off of "My Name"

A House of My Very Own

We didn’t always live in Woodinville. Before that we lived in apartments. There was the one in Redmond. And before that Raleigh, and even earlier, the one in Cary. But the earliest of all was in Starkville – where I was born. I still remember the insides of each of the homes, the homes that housed me and my memories, my childhood. Each time I left one behind, I came to live in an apartment that was better than the one before.

            But now we have a house of our own, one even better than any of the others before it. The interiors aren’t cramped, they aren’t identical with the ones near it, and they aren’t dull. When I pull open the blinds, light flies in and attaches itself to the walls, making my house bright & livelier – like a baby after it first open’s its eyes. At first sight I don’t realize it, but this house might be just the one that I had always wanted.

            We left North Carolina for Washington, because my father finally got a real, stable job. We lived there for 5 years and before that we lived in Mississippi for another 5.

            I’d always imagined a house, with 2 sets of staircases on either side of the house, handy for a quick escape if a kidnapper tried to corner you in your own house. The house was a pale blue or yellow or something else light and flouncy, but more than anything I wanted the inside of the house to be painted in some sort of complicated color scheme. In my head, it was always carpeted with smooth light cream colored carpet, as if vanilla ice-cream smothered the floor, and the kitchen would be spread with synthetic light cedar wood flooring. The backyard would have to be open and free, spacious enough for picnics and as a haven for visiting animals.

            Instead this house is small, but cozy. It’s coated with a dark and distasteful brown on the outside, but on the inside it’s clean and crisp and white. The floors are real hardwood, which is where a large portion of its value is derived. It’s got a nice backyard, big enough to satisfy my mother’s gardening desires and more. Finally, I was granted my very own room. At 12, I decided to paint it bright coral pink.

            Occasionally, I get rides to get home after school. “Which house is yours?” They will ask. “That brown one right ahead”. I imagine them cringe at the icky brown hue clinging to the exterior of my home. But they will never know until they walk inside. This home of mine is actually lit up and happy on the inside. Especially on sunny days, my pink bedroom sends out bursts of pink, reflecting onto the adjacent wall; it’s a sight to see.

            The more I stay in this house, I realize that it’s a lot like me. I may not be extremely attractive or flamboyant on the outside, but on the inside I’m singing a million colors, bursting back rays of light, and burning warm high spirits. My house is a part of me, and I a part of it.

            We’ve moved every 5 years, but this is my 6^th in the State. Will we move again? I don’t think so, we are stable here, rooted in the foundations of this home, my home.

written May 25, 2010 for a House on Mango Street assignment as a spin-off of "A House of My Own"

Mitzy Writes Stories

Mitzy is four months older than me, but she seems like she should be four years younger. Still, we are best friends. Like any other girl, she is caring, helpful, and honest. Yet, she is so similar to a small child: a little oblivious, awkward, and spontaneous. Every time she emails me, she tells me about her life, she titles the subject “week”, and she sends them to me week after week. She writes stories, they go on and on and on. Sure, they’re funny, but there is never much control over her plotline.

            She tells me about her dreams, and I tell her about mine. They’re whimsical and a little odd like a ladybug caught in a windstorm – but always funny. She has many random thoughts that don’t connect, but the big thing is listening to her talk about her past.

            Mitzy always remembers the weird events. The funny times, but the ones that are always somewhat irrelevant and easily forgotten. Boys, wood, and cheese. Out of her mind and through her mouth. I can’t help but laugh. Then the next time I talk to her, it’s boys, wood, and cheese. Same odd memories.

            Don’t get me wrong, Mitzy is loving and genuine, a wonderful friend. But there’s something about her, it’s different. She’s a dreamer, a happy spirit. She encourages others and lives in a quirky trance, in a mind that I will never understand.

written May 25, 2010 for a House on Mango Street assignment as a spin-off of "Minerva Writes Poems" (character name changed for privacy)

Hourglass

Pitter Patter, Pitter Patter. Drops of water fall from the darkened starry sky, as I sit awake in the safeties of my home. Click click click click, goes the keyboard as my essay starts to form. The rest is silence, as my house stirs to sleep, minus me.

But all I hear is the pitter patter-ing, reminding me of the seconds that tick by slowly. The seconds that I’m losing from the time I could be snuggled up and dreaming, the seconds of sand specks that fall in the hourglass of my lifetime.

Suddenly, I’m imagining the first time I went to SeaWorld at 3, and moving away from my best friend at 4, then hearing the boy yell “I love you” on the last day of 5^th grade. Like a child, I wish I could hop into a time machine and change my past. I wish I could time travel and shape my future. Just as soon as I’m daydreaming, I snap back into reality, the reality being that I have an essay to finish. Time seems to drag on as strands of words construct themselves into sentences, then paragraphs.

            It is in this seemingly insignificant moment where I realize time moves so fast, yet so slow. But it keeps on moving and isn’t afraid to leave us behind. Every moment can be magical, but only if you allow it to be.

written May 22, 2010 for a House on Mango Street assignment for the subject of rain

Coming Home

One year and five months ago, I lived in a cave. I could perform basic skills like math and obtaining food. But like a robot, I lacked any signs of liveliness.

I wandered the halls, avoiding eye contact with anyone else. Everyone passed by, even the friends, for I had mastered the art of blending in. For me, there was no point in interaction, no reason to be happy.

Three syllables was what it took: Want to dance? It was sweet while it lasted, but the next days were excruciatingly awkward. Though all I wished for was friendship, I reverted back to antisocial Joyce, and played the avoiding game. I might’ve broken a part of his heart unintentionally, yet that night he had mended mine. Surprisingly, I was more confused than I had ever been before. Luckily, I had the whole summer to think it over.

Three months of sunshine, and the layers of unnecessary fortification around my heart slowly undid itself. My mouth learned how to emit laughter and my lips to curve upward. I watched myself make others laugh and spewed out words of encouragement. I overflowed happiness and nothing could control it – I was finally coming home.

written May 22, 2010 for a House on Mango Street assignment for the subject of coming home

Coffee

It was a cold dreary morning when we left the motel room in Ohio. Hungrily, I eyed the small variety of complementary continental breakfast choices splayed out in the compact lobby. After a mediocre bowl of corn flakes, I decided I needed something warm.

            “What’s that?” I asked my father, peeking over the rim of his steaming cup. “Coffee,” he stated, rather groggily. “Is it good?” I inquired. “Try it,” he shrugged. “Can’t you describe what it tastes like,” I whined. “Only you can perceive what you experience for yourself,” he replied blatantly.

            Swallowing my growing curiosity, I took a teeny sip. It was horrid. And it scorched my tongue. Instead of spitting the black liquid out like I’d wanted to, I gulped in the bitterness – the coffee burning all the way down.

            Maybe it was the caffeine finally kicking in, but I claim it was the acrid taste. I just couldn’t fall asleep that night, lying awake in bed, unable to shake the memory of that taste, that terrible taste.

            Whatever the cause of my insomnia, I’d learned a valuable lesson. My dad was right in saying that only I could decide the taste after trying it, for everyone has unique responses. But the question was, was that cup of coffee worth giving a try? Is everything worth giving a try? I would soon learn that in many cases, I’d need a dose of common sense and a shot of audacity.

written May 22, 2010 for a House on Mango Street assignment for the subject of coffee