The Green One

I will myself to stop, to finally stop running. I stop because I've reached my destination, not a final destination. Just something to reach for in this moment: the market.
             I look down at my choices. There's quite a fine array. As a creature of habit, I always go for the same ones. But not today. Today I pick the one that I've always ignored, abandoned, kept a safe distance from. I pick the green one. To match my mood.
             I have what I came for. So I pay. I leave. I can't have it yet though. I still have to wait, like I always do, like I'm used to. The bag is heavy in my hand on the walk back. Everything seems heavy.
             I make it home, just a temporary home. I wonder now if I really have an actual home or if it's just a house. There's a difference, I know.
             I clean as soon as I'm in the room. I tidy things to make them look presentable. I go through the motions so that I can keep my mind off of things, things that I'd like to run away from, things that I am not accustomed to, things that feel heavy, things that make me doubt the existence of home. Things that are painful in a way that I cannot really explain.
             Until I take a bite, and the flavors come rushing in. A lot stronger than what I expected. What I taste is sour, like things that have gone bad. What I taste is crisp, like the way porcelain must feel before it knows it is going to hit the ground and shatter into pieces. What I taste is sharp and acidic, and there is nothing else so cutting to the senses. What I taste is the perfect apple.
           

Making Memories, Memories Melting

I saw Mr. Wade today. For the first time in a long time, nearly 30 months of time. The meeting was so unexpected and in the midst of unexpectedness so profound. There's always something special about accidental run-in reunions; the way that two people's paths cross at the exact right place and right time at one select instant in infinity, just like the way their friendship began in the first place - a meaningful meeting in a moment of eternity.
             Mr. Wade was always an inspirational teacher to me. He was just a junior high gym instructor, but made a big impact on me nonetheless. I just remember how he would joke with the popular kids, like basketball coaches tend to selectively do to their students. Yet, Mr. Wade still made sure to always talk to me. And I'll forever appreciate that; he saw something in me that I couldn't see in myself at the time - and that's what distinguishes an impactful teacher from an ordinary teacher. And I figured I'd never forget him, but I guess the whole lack of seeing him every school day - like any other relationship with a lack of physically seeing a person does - changed things that shouldn't have been changed.
             I'm not sure how I let him leave my memory so easily, but the truth is I let it happen. Seeing him for the first time in forever, the conversation amounted to about a few minutes of simple, short, surface-level stories of life's current situation, but even a conversation like that was comforting. It's really the past and the memories that gives the meeting meaning. Because no matter how much someone changes, those memories will stay the same. 
             And the memories rushed back in. At that moment, he made me realize how quickly someone can be removed from your life, and yet how easily they can come back into it. 
             I saw Mr. Wade today. And I won't let him go so easily this time around.

(Names changed for privacy)

Down

Now this is going to sound cliche - actually, as much as it can possibly get - and it's going to sound like my mom's opposite way of speaking - where she calls a person's actions amazing, when she really means ridiculous, but it's amazing to think that at one point we actually knew each other well. It's hard to believe that there was a time when we could both see potential for a lasting friendship.
             It began like perfection; everything clicked right in place.  And in just a short time, you really did change my life, greatly. Who I am today, I owe much to you, and I'm grateful. But there seemed to be a sudden turn of events, because slowly, everything faded away. But I wasn't expecting it to all come down down down to this. Because it seems that now, we're just a couple, of strangers again.
             I wish I could explain what happened and how and why, but then I would be able to explain everything, from the hopeful beginnings to the hopeless endings. And I can't even begin to describe how these things changed before my eyes and beyond what my mind ever expected.
             I wish I could say we never even were friends, because that's exactly how it feels right now, but I can't, because my life today, changed extraordinarily, is direct proof that at one moment in eternity, you cared about me and touched my soul. I won't say goodbye to my memories, but it's about time I officially said my goodbyes to you. I hope you find who you were meant to be, like you did for me.

Written for www.writersnotfighters.tumblr.com

Nightmares under the Nightsky

I tried to back away, farther and farther, but it was no use. The overwhelming sounds grew louder and louder, drew nearer and nearer, until all I could think about was the loud crash that would sound when the great noise caught up to me to seal my imminent fate. And I gave up, a cry of fear, but I wasn’t even sure if I had made a sound at all, for there was no silence to break, only deafening noises that drowned out everything I had learned to say.
             And when I couldn’t speak, and when I thought I could no longer hear, a voice broke the chaos. Not a whisper, like mine, but a voice that was strong, reverberating, and articulate. And He said, “Child, wake up. Your nightmares are only as strong as your spirit is weak. My son already died to rescue you from the thief who wants to steal, kill, and destroy your heart, but I have already taken up your heart to give you life, and I will protect you from harm. You, young and beautiful one, are now flawless in my eyes. You are the crown of my creation and I just want to love and protect you, if only you will allow me. Fear no more, child. One day you will be reunited with me for eternity.”
             I opened my eyes and saw above me a blanket of stars, created by my Father. And below me the surface of the boat, and under that, an expanse of swaying water, created by my Father. And for the first time, I cried, tears of joy, that flowed into the sea. And the surface of the sea gently caught every shining star in its reflection, like a mirror of my Father’s beautiful love.

Written for www.writersnotfighters.tumblr.com

Soul Deep

"You're so awkward."
             I used to hear that phrase, a lot. But that was years ago, three winters ago to be specific. Back when I wasn't comfortable at school, at home, at church, nor in my own skin. Awkwardness defined me, or at least that's what I was taught to think. I know my friends said it jokingly and the others around me said it through their actions, but to me it seemed to hold a certain truth. And that "truth" of awkwardness settled deep in the chambers of my heart. 
             But now, two summers passed, I can say with certainty that I've changed, I've discovered the essence of confidence. I've become selfless for the selfish, discovering that in helping others I in turn help myself. Above all, I don't want anyone else to believe the lie I believed. Who I truly am and who I was made to be is to use my past pain to help other's present pain.
            I believed in the depths of my heart that awkward was what defined me. When all this time, that lie was only trying to cover the truth that I have a lot of love to share with people. And finally, I have shared that love genuinely, wholeheartedly, without holding back. Yet, still after months of silence, it comes back.
             "You're so awkward."
             And it's hard, it really is. I can't keep ignoring the lies. That little phrase - so distant, yet so familiar - flutters restlessly in my heart and still cuts soul deep.

When Everything Falls In Place

I once heard of a 20-year old Mayan man who was born deaf, never aware that there was such a thing as language. He lived his whole life in a murky daze, thinking that the movements people made with their mouths was some kind of alien way of communication they'd made. That day he realized the concept of language, that he'd lived nearly two decades in vain, he was moved, moved to tears.
            His story is the essence of life change. The way I imagine the man felt is the way I feel. Something that I thought made sense, I now realize was only a small piece of the truth. And now, the sun seems brighter. The songs seem livelier. And the smiles are happier.
            If only I'd known earlier, I think. But now that I know, this is the best feeling ever. And I'm glad I'm feeling it.

Rain

It’s that time of year again. When Christmas comes to Seattle. It’s like love rains from the sky and sticks to the roofs in illumination. Lights atop every single roof, making the night mystical.

            It puts you at peace. It makes you wish that time would stand still, that this minuscule moment could last for more than mere seconds. It feels as if there could not be a time of more warmth than this one.
            And all the distractions melt away into a puddle of contentment, like the pools of rain water - weightless and resting on the pavement. Because tonight the vast sky sends down rain, not without reason, but as a reminder that rain is not all gloomy, that tears are not all shed in sadness, that things that fall down are not all bad. In fact, rain creates beauty on a windowpane overlooking strings of dazzling lights, and tears can fall in light of a moment of pure joy, and things that fall always fall for a purpose.

- completed December 28, 2010
(The idea behind this poem, especially the last line: "things that fall always fall for a purpose" was written in the idea of Jesus coming to Earth. God decided to send his son as the lowest of the low - falling from power. Jesus was no king or person of status, he was an ordinary man who sought to seek the sinners, the people who realized they were unworthy. And it was all for a purpose.
But you are encouraged to have some other interpretations and inspirations from the line. :)

Hibernating

I know this problem is present, but it's no gift. It's like a nuisance, an allergy, clinging to my insides. 
            Hibernating, hiding. I wish it wasn't this way, but it's like friendship is winter, and I'm a grizzly who needs a long break, yearns for the bare comfort and nothingness of its cave.
            Or maybe I'm a magnet, where positive and positive can never meet. When things get too good with another being, and the positives draw near - so close to closure - I retreat.
            I thought I'd come home from the retreat, and things could be mended, I could be happy, build new bridges. The bridge; it is almost finished, with a bow wrapped around it, prepared for the ribbon-cutting ceremony. Instead, the bridge sits idle, already decaying, until one day when I have the courage to take a big pair of scissors and break the bond of the restrictive lazy ribbon and let the cars be free to roam, going wherever they may please. And I'll reign in the coming and going, the rise and decline, the ups and the downs - and stop shying away from the possibilities, expecting the bad parts, but savoring the good. One day.
         

Falling

Falling is inevitable. It's only a matter of time, before things decay and disappear.
             Empires fall apart, wars will start, human lives end, you lose a friend, spirits are crushed, good fruit is smushed, relationships are torn, animosity is born, possessions are broken, hearts are stolen.
             Perfection does not exist, when time holds the power to resist. It's a key we can never hold, an element out of our reach.
             Even leaves on a tree know one day they will twist off the branches, disconnect from their mothers and float, flit, and twirl slowly to the ground, but they are prepared for the time to come. That's why leaves change colors in the Autumn - they know they're going to fall, so might as well do it with some grace and beauty.
             Someday the fall will happen. Humans, objects, history will all be taken into its destructive grasp. But if we can predict the future and know that one day it will happen, we must embrace it. Accept the challenge and fall with style, elegance, and perhaps with a smile.

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