Little children have a way of getting your attention in ways adults have lost once the start crossing the river from their childhood. A little girl, probably five years old, sat next to me, but as far away from me as possible by latching as closely as possible to her slightly older sister. Their mother decided not to sit near them, even though there were seats. Instead, she decided to stand a row of seat away from them. The older girl's job, apparently, was to take care of the girl, but soon the little girl started calling "Mommy." Mommy told her that she couldn't come stand with her because it was a long ride to New York. The explanation was superfluous; the answer was a simple "no." No, you can't be with me; just sit with your sister. No, because I need my space and your sister has a job to help me get that space.
But none of this explanation would have helped either. The mother had no emotion on her face, not fatigue, not joy, not pensiveness, nothing I could read. She was very aloof; all she wanted was to be left alone by the door of the train. She and her daughters came with some relatives who were busy chatting away in Spanish. The mother never uttered a Spanish word even though she looked very Hispanic.
The older sister started by playing with her sister using a DVD case with a DVD inside. I went off to my reading, but when I paused to think about what I was reading, I noticed that the little girl was playing alone. Her sister was sleeping. Then the little girl tried to nudge her sister, but to no avail. She didn't scream or in any way talk to her. In fact, all this time the only thing I've heard her say was "Mommy" in the beginning.
When the nudging didn't work she tried to go back to her playing. She was bored. She even started to lick the back of the seat in front of us, which is full of germs. I gave her a childlike display of disgust, not serious. But she didn't care. And I went back to my reading.
Then it started. "Mommy? ... Mommy? ... Mommy?" I turned my head from the book and saw that the girl was now standing. She was so short that she could barely see her mommy. She didn't climb on the seat, but I think it's because she was ready to venture from the useless protection of her sister and be with her "Mommy." Her eyes barely reached above the seat she was licking. For the first six "Mommy" calls, her Mommy didn't respond. I think she heard her, or perhaps she just fell in her own revelry of some sort. But the slow, methodical, monotonous, pleading call of "Mommy" accompanied by nothing else, no explanation, no extra words to convince anyone because a child's whine is itself enough to get anyone to have to respond. I tried to overcome my natural irritation with children's supplications. I tried to blame the Mother for abandoning her child to the care of another child so she could have her moment alone. I wanted to scream at the Mother and demand that she sat with her scared daughter, lonely daughter. Isn't this where adult loneliness starts? Being left alone with no remedy when the person who always stood by you is tantalizingly unreachable? There were many conflicting feelings in me.
The Mother finally looked this way and told her the same thing, play with your sister. I don't think she noticed that the little girls appointed guardian was sleeping on the job. The girl begged again with that mono-syllabic plead. Was I the only one in that area of the train irritated by this child's call? The Mother, still emotionless, told her again to play with her sister. This time the girl gave up. Children give up eventually asking for attention, otherwise adults would be whining all the time like this. She dropped her DVD box and laid her head on her sister's lap. Her sister remained motionless as though she was dead. The little girl tried to find some place on her sister's body to put her upper body on while still standing, as if at some point she could be welcome over where her Mommy was standing. She wasn't giving up, apparently.
At least children can sleep easily. Adults have this thing called insomnia that is induced by so many reasons in their lives, but children, however traumatized, can sleep. I wonder how we lose that when we ford that river into adulthood. After another short read from my book, I turned to my left and saw that the little girl was sound asleep, still standing. The Mother was still standing by herself, not talking to anyone, including her relatives, and in her face there was nothing; nothing was betrayed, a face so devoid of meaning, devoid maybe even of signs of aloofness, that it would be a challenge to make a statue of her face. She was just living, not feeling, not thinking, just existing, and if there's a feeling of gratitude of being left alone to live, I didn't see it.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Hesitation
After I got off the phone with my Dad I was a little confused. He didn't sound very convinced, a little hesitant, about my invitation for him to come over, to stay over next week. He didn't refuse, but I wasn't sure if that was because he didn't know at that point what the best way was to refuse or he just had to think more about it. It would be his first time staying overnight at my place, first time in a long time to be away from his home, the place he had slept in the past 24 years of his life except when he went on a brief business trip to San Francisco and when he went back to the old country for two weeks.
When we leave the place we call home, even just for a night, even if we have mixed feelings about the place, there's this hesitation in our head or heart or both. The unfamiliar. It's my house; he has been here a few times already. He has taken naps here. But I guess it's not the same thing to sleep here, to spend more than the three hours he usually spends here when he visits. I can understand because I've traveled many times; I've been in unfamiliar places and even after so many years of traveling, every time going into a hotel was accompanied by a bit of dread, even if it's the best hotel in town, most famous, has the best descriptions in the guide book. Like many human beings, I just have some dread of the unfamiliar. There are no voices, even irrational ones, just an irrational fear.
So even though he would be coming to his son's house, the sense of unfamiliarity probably had dawned on him when the invitation was offered. His only question was what help did I want from him. His reason to live has always been to help his children. To come to my house and do something different was itself very unfamiliar. I told him with a very awkward tone that I wanted to interview him about his past travels, especially during the Cultural Revolution. But my faltering words betrayed my hesitation to reveal my objective. I realized then that the invitation was becoming scarier. I changed my mind and told him that I just wanted to spend time with him, more than the usual three hours. At least I felt better saying that; I wasn't sure if his worries and concerns were allayed.
My father's silence is a constant reminder of his enigma. When he got quiet on the phone, or any other time, I would hear bells in my heart, ringing the question of what he must be thinking then. Feeling. Although I've never spent more time in my life with anyone than with him, I still don't quite get him. He exemplifies the stereotype of the enigmatic, quiet, invisible Asian. He's soft-spoken, never looks you in the eye except when he is very happy to see you for the first time in a while. He would tell me he missed me without looking at me. But that's when he was talking. He is not the quiet kind that, given some attention and time, would start blabbering about everything from heaven to hell. He would remain silent, and if you give him the space by being silent, then we would have some sort of silence contest.
And for that reason I am not sure how to interview him. My sister did it, so it should not be a problem. Nonetheless, I have my own barriers that my sister doesn't bear; barriers built specifically for my Dad. He had been an authority figure until he became a disappointment, and at some point he became human. Who is he now but an old man waiting for an assignment to help his children, still, until the days have past and his time to departure comes; and each day he counts the next more and more, and perhaps his children count less and less. I don't know. That's not part of the interview. The interview is about a time long before he was an authority in my life, a time when he was like me, before he was my age, a time which casts in me an impression that he was free and loved life, a life without children to have to beg for help from to feel useful, a life without a wife to have to take care of even though she apparently had taken care of herself in the most bitter part of her life. A life free to roam, to be among camaraderie of other young people of similar interest in a vast land going through upheaval. I want to know who that young man was, who went everywhere, but now, about forty years later, the same man is hesitant about spending the night at his son's house, a son who also roams the world, albeit a bigger part of the world. But it's not merely a curiosity of that young man who now has all these wrinkles and little of the hair left, but a comparison. I have this image of a carefree man talking about revolution and chatting about ideologies with comrades, while I feel now my world is so desolate, so lonesome, and it is for this loneliness I often travel, often leave any place I start growing roots in. A different perspective. After all, whatever I am feeling now, whoever I have become, is very much influenced by who my Dad is, therefore, his travels in the more limited parts of the world has some connection with my travel around the world. And so it is not only he who felt the hesitation at my invitation, but I myself wasn't so sure about offering that invitation that could open up many strange portals to parts of my life I hadn't known before.
When we leave the place we call home, even just for a night, even if we have mixed feelings about the place, there's this hesitation in our head or heart or both. The unfamiliar. It's my house; he has been here a few times already. He has taken naps here. But I guess it's not the same thing to sleep here, to spend more than the three hours he usually spends here when he visits. I can understand because I've traveled many times; I've been in unfamiliar places and even after so many years of traveling, every time going into a hotel was accompanied by a bit of dread, even if it's the best hotel in town, most famous, has the best descriptions in the guide book. Like many human beings, I just have some dread of the unfamiliar. There are no voices, even irrational ones, just an irrational fear.
So even though he would be coming to his son's house, the sense of unfamiliarity probably had dawned on him when the invitation was offered. His only question was what help did I want from him. His reason to live has always been to help his children. To come to my house and do something different was itself very unfamiliar. I told him with a very awkward tone that I wanted to interview him about his past travels, especially during the Cultural Revolution. But my faltering words betrayed my hesitation to reveal my objective. I realized then that the invitation was becoming scarier. I changed my mind and told him that I just wanted to spend time with him, more than the usual three hours. At least I felt better saying that; I wasn't sure if his worries and concerns were allayed.
My father's silence is a constant reminder of his enigma. When he got quiet on the phone, or any other time, I would hear bells in my heart, ringing the question of what he must be thinking then. Feeling. Although I've never spent more time in my life with anyone than with him, I still don't quite get him. He exemplifies the stereotype of the enigmatic, quiet, invisible Asian. He's soft-spoken, never looks you in the eye except when he is very happy to see you for the first time in a while. He would tell me he missed me without looking at me. But that's when he was talking. He is not the quiet kind that, given some attention and time, would start blabbering about everything from heaven to hell. He would remain silent, and if you give him the space by being silent, then we would have some sort of silence contest.
And for that reason I am not sure how to interview him. My sister did it, so it should not be a problem. Nonetheless, I have my own barriers that my sister doesn't bear; barriers built specifically for my Dad. He had been an authority figure until he became a disappointment, and at some point he became human. Who is he now but an old man waiting for an assignment to help his children, still, until the days have past and his time to departure comes; and each day he counts the next more and more, and perhaps his children count less and less. I don't know. That's not part of the interview. The interview is about a time long before he was an authority in my life, a time when he was like me, before he was my age, a time which casts in me an impression that he was free and loved life, a life without children to have to beg for help from to feel useful, a life without a wife to have to take care of even though she apparently had taken care of herself in the most bitter part of her life. A life free to roam, to be among camaraderie of other young people of similar interest in a vast land going through upheaval. I want to know who that young man was, who went everywhere, but now, about forty years later, the same man is hesitant about spending the night at his son's house, a son who also roams the world, albeit a bigger part of the world. But it's not merely a curiosity of that young man who now has all these wrinkles and little of the hair left, but a comparison. I have this image of a carefree man talking about revolution and chatting about ideologies with comrades, while I feel now my world is so desolate, so lonesome, and it is for this loneliness I often travel, often leave any place I start growing roots in. A different perspective. After all, whatever I am feeling now, whoever I have become, is very much influenced by who my Dad is, therefore, his travels in the more limited parts of the world has some connection with my travel around the world. And so it is not only he who felt the hesitation at my invitation, but I myself wasn't so sure about offering that invitation that could open up many strange portals to parts of my life I hadn't known before.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Scattered Shells
The sun was setting, but seemingly, torturously, slowly. The wind slowly picked up and the air just got colder. I could feel my skin tense up. I could feel the sadness slowly dawning. It's like in the mornings when I wake up sad, hurt, and all the feelings so raw, my soul so crushed that the day always seemed like an eternity that wouldn't end.
Of course, things would eventually get better, my mood lifted by the time I leave the house, but I would carry that burden of dejection from the morning all the way till my return to the bed, where it would be dark and the end hearkens. But now as the sun was turning everything into a golden monochrome, I wrap my arms around my knees as I saw on the coarse sand, listening to the waves, smelling the sea, and swim in my emotions, my thoughts.
There were seagulls all around me, minding their own business. Every now and then one would decide to run and flutter and fly away. I never realized I didn't know where they went when they flew to the sea. I never followed their flight. This time I did. They fly until I couldn't discern them anymore, out there, not too far, but far enough that the body disappears against the backdrop of the darkening blue ocean as they glided close to the cold surface. They don't wake up each morning feeling the weight of the world, the weight of life on them, do they? I don't know. They have their own, simpler problems. The male gulls do all sorts of things to win a female gull, though I am not sure if it's for life. Then there's the food and the feeding of the young. Me? I don't know what I am missing. Something is missing, something cyclical, every morning, then evening, then morning again. Everyday passes and the agony of fearing an eternity beyond the bed waxes and wanes.
Then I heard the screams of the gulls. I lifted my head from between my knees and turned to see what the commotion was about. There a woman was holding a basket and walking randomly on the beach, scattering white detritus that attracted a few species of gulls. At first I thought it was another silly old person feeding the gulls with bread pieces. I saw an old man do that just less than an hour earlier. Why older people get a kick out of this, I am not sure, but I think it has something to do with lost parenthood, or our own human egoistic to take care of those inferior to us in the most condescending way, or maybe it's just something else I wouldn't understand until I, too, get old like them.
There was something different about this woman's way of attracting the gulls. After the white pieces get thrown out of her basket, I heard a clanging sound, as if things hard and brittle were clashing. In my stupor of self-pity, at first I couldn't make sense of the sound, just noticed it, barely. But as the gawking and squealing got louder because she was walking towards me, I started to leave behind my baggage of thoughts and hurtful feelings and wonder what was causing the bread pieces to make that sound.
She was within about five feet from me. It was an amazing picture. She, an elderly woman with a typically elderly women's hat on, dress with flowers, and sunglasses, stood against the golden beach and the cloudless, blue sky dotted with flying gulls. I started imagining a photograph, slow shutter speed so that the birds would become lines around her, accentuating the frenzy around this rather peaceful-looking woman.
She scattered more bread pieces and more clanging sounds were made. But before I even mustered enough curiosity to see what was making that sound, she said to me, "I feel like I am in the movie, 'Birds'." Her voice was sweet but devoid of noticeable emotion. Her face was full of lines of a long life.
Then she solved the mystery of the clanging sound. She said, "They think I am feeding them." She paused to scatter more and then said, "My brother-in-law died of Alzheimer's last week. We used to come here to collect shells. I am just returning the shells." Then she threw another batch of shells around her; the gulls, still gullible, attacked the jettison only to be disappointed once more.
I didn't say the usual "I am sorry." I was too moved. Too moved by what she said, too moved by the lines on her face devoid of tears or joy, too moved by the comparison or contrast of my emotions to hers, to her shell-collecting buddy. We aren't lonely until we have found company, then lost it. The sounds of the scattered shells suddenly had meaning to me. I heard a departing soul against the background of the ocean. I heard love. I heard the words, "I miss you", "I love you", "I think about you."
Of course, I probably was projecting my own feelings of loss and loneliness onto what she was doing, onto what I saw on her face. I can't remember what I said to her, but it wasn't "Sorry to hear that." I let her move on, finish the scattering of memories, and leave the beach. By the last or penultimate scattering of the shells the gulls had wised up and no longer stalked her. Some did, holding out some hope for a simple need, or greed. And then everything returned to normal. I wrapped my arms around my knee once more and the gulls settled around me, all facing the sea.
But something changed. Everyone that comes in your life, even for that few minutes of doing something unrelated to your life, leaves some imprint. Most such imprints don't last, but some, regardless of the brevity of the visit, remains indelible forever. And I wonder how much strength that ritual I had just witnessed had just instilled in me so that tomorrow, when I wake up again, I can enjoy life's each precious minute a little more, collecting my own seashells that one day would return to the world.
Of course, things would eventually get better, my mood lifted by the time I leave the house, but I would carry that burden of dejection from the morning all the way till my return to the bed, where it would be dark and the end hearkens. But now as the sun was turning everything into a golden monochrome, I wrap my arms around my knees as I saw on the coarse sand, listening to the waves, smelling the sea, and swim in my emotions, my thoughts.
There were seagulls all around me, minding their own business. Every now and then one would decide to run and flutter and fly away. I never realized I didn't know where they went when they flew to the sea. I never followed their flight. This time I did. They fly until I couldn't discern them anymore, out there, not too far, but far enough that the body disappears against the backdrop of the darkening blue ocean as they glided close to the cold surface. They don't wake up each morning feeling the weight of the world, the weight of life on them, do they? I don't know. They have their own, simpler problems. The male gulls do all sorts of things to win a female gull, though I am not sure if it's for life. Then there's the food and the feeding of the young. Me? I don't know what I am missing. Something is missing, something cyclical, every morning, then evening, then morning again. Everyday passes and the agony of fearing an eternity beyond the bed waxes and wanes.
Then I heard the screams of the gulls. I lifted my head from between my knees and turned to see what the commotion was about. There a woman was holding a basket and walking randomly on the beach, scattering white detritus that attracted a few species of gulls. At first I thought it was another silly old person feeding the gulls with bread pieces. I saw an old man do that just less than an hour earlier. Why older people get a kick out of this, I am not sure, but I think it has something to do with lost parenthood, or our own human egoistic to take care of those inferior to us in the most condescending way, or maybe it's just something else I wouldn't understand until I, too, get old like them.
There was something different about this woman's way of attracting the gulls. After the white pieces get thrown out of her basket, I heard a clanging sound, as if things hard and brittle were clashing. In my stupor of self-pity, at first I couldn't make sense of the sound, just noticed it, barely. But as the gawking and squealing got louder because she was walking towards me, I started to leave behind my baggage of thoughts and hurtful feelings and wonder what was causing the bread pieces to make that sound.
She was within about five feet from me. It was an amazing picture. She, an elderly woman with a typically elderly women's hat on, dress with flowers, and sunglasses, stood against the golden beach and the cloudless, blue sky dotted with flying gulls. I started imagining a photograph, slow shutter speed so that the birds would become lines around her, accentuating the frenzy around this rather peaceful-looking woman.
She scattered more bread pieces and more clanging sounds were made. But before I even mustered enough curiosity to see what was making that sound, she said to me, "I feel like I am in the movie, 'Birds'." Her voice was sweet but devoid of noticeable emotion. Her face was full of lines of a long life.
Then she solved the mystery of the clanging sound. She said, "They think I am feeding them." She paused to scatter more and then said, "My brother-in-law died of Alzheimer's last week. We used to come here to collect shells. I am just returning the shells." Then she threw another batch of shells around her; the gulls, still gullible, attacked the jettison only to be disappointed once more.
I didn't say the usual "I am sorry." I was too moved. Too moved by what she said, too moved by the lines on her face devoid of tears or joy, too moved by the comparison or contrast of my emotions to hers, to her shell-collecting buddy. We aren't lonely until we have found company, then lost it. The sounds of the scattered shells suddenly had meaning to me. I heard a departing soul against the background of the ocean. I heard love. I heard the words, "I miss you", "I love you", "I think about you."
Of course, I probably was projecting my own feelings of loss and loneliness onto what she was doing, onto what I saw on her face. I can't remember what I said to her, but it wasn't "Sorry to hear that." I let her move on, finish the scattering of memories, and leave the beach. By the last or penultimate scattering of the shells the gulls had wised up and no longer stalked her. Some did, holding out some hope for a simple need, or greed. And then everything returned to normal. I wrapped my arms around my knee once more and the gulls settled around me, all facing the sea.
But something changed. Everyone that comes in your life, even for that few minutes of doing something unrelated to your life, leaves some imprint. Most such imprints don't last, but some, regardless of the brevity of the visit, remains indelible forever. And I wonder how much strength that ritual I had just witnessed had just instilled in me so that tomorrow, when I wake up again, I can enjoy life's each precious minute a little more, collecting my own seashells that one day would return to the world.
Friday, September 11, 2009
Scary Moment
How far along the timeline of our lives can we lay blame on a given moment in our lives?
That moment was in September, some time ago. My mind had already been all flustered before meeting my best friend for lunch to discuss something serious. I can't remember what the topic was as it was being overshadowed by the grim surprise that awaited me. The discussion ended well. We smiled. And we picked up our forks and breathed deeply so we could start enjoying each other's company.
Then she broke the news to me that she and this guy I didn't care for were going out. My heart froze. I can almost remember that it stopped for a few beats, which could explain why I was so cold. A heart that had been beating for that same woman and had to relegate its true feelings to the darkest ghetto of the soul, such heart couldn't beat at the reception of such news.
How did this happen? Let me trace back, one step at a time. There was an evening, a few years before that, when I nearly begged.... No, such a timid soul is too proud to beg, for some reason. But it was something desperate, something desperate in the sentence I had uttered. I think I asked my best friend then, if there was really no hope of something different between us. She shook her head; I can't remember if it was a guilty shake or a defiant one. And I stormed out, closed the door behind me, sat on the bench where all the winter shoes were, and methodically tied my shoe-laces. Was I crying? If so, it was as much for my own salvation as for the benefit of making her feel guilty on the other side of the door.
Another step back, further, over bridges of many lonely moments in life in the abyss of time past by, before I understood how all these things happened, before I had enough experience to dissect myself, in the tumultuous times of college. That was about 15 years ago. She was not my best friend in the way the previously mentioned episodes were about. She was my girlfriend who was about to become my ex-girlfriend for good. We had a fight. I don't remember that she said anything to me. There was a cold silence in that very cold winter night in Cambridge. The rickety shuttle bus stopped in front of her stop and she, standing up without saying anything, walked out into the silence outside this noisy hunk of junk. And I saw her leave, and I didn't know just how bad it would get afterward. The emotional torment that followed the permanent breakup of my first serious relationship was like a thunderstorm that had no foreseeable end. There would be brief lulls, but quickly the lightening slit the sky like a joker's smile on a pasty face. Then thunder would roll in with sharp mockery of my misery that would herald half a year of hopelessness and desperation.
Do I end here? Is this the original point from which I can start laying blames? No, of course not. Not for this shy little boy who couldn't imagine anyone could take him seriously because he was an immigrant. Not women, not society. There was the cop at the subway turnstile who made a racial gesture toward me when I was going into the subway. There were the many black kids that pushed me around. Sometimes the Hispanics too. The feeling of unwelcomeness settled in pretty early on since my arrival in this country. There was the girl I fell in love with, OK, at least had a crush on, in fifth grade. She didn't think much of me, especially when she remarked about my English and that I was Chinese. My Dad wasn't happy when I told him that I liked a Puerto Rican girl. He repeated the word "Puerto Rican." Is that far enough back? All this racism, hatred, just squeezed me into a corner, a dark corner of invisibility.
When I feel invisible, I feel unloved, and when I feel unloved, I feel invisible. My best friend, the latest best friend, preferred to date someone else and even told me about it, although she wasn't sure how I still felt about her. I felt invisible, at lunch, on that September day. My rejection of her, my anger with her, was a peevish attempt to make myself stand out.
Lack of love. As familiar to us and as common to our upbringing as is breathing. Love was supposed to have come from our parents first.
So here's the real initial point. Being an immigrant child was tough enough. But being a child of immigrant parents had its added disadvantages. Where is Mommy? Where is Daddy? I never asked myself those questions while they were busy working to support the family. I learned to bite the bullet very early on and accepted life as it was. But deep down, my heart was shriveling into a raisin in this desert without love. And with this shriveled heart I entered high school and found my first best friend whose door many years later I closed behind me after being told nothing would happen between us. No matter how much water you give a raisin, you can never turn it back into a grape. Structural changes had been made by force of nature.
But is that really the starting point? The immigrant experience.
Maybe there is no definitive starting point. Maybe living without a mother for four years as a small child started the process of draining that heart of its love serum. Or maybe even before that because even though that mother was there, she carried an even drier, darker, heart that sometimes extracted love from her children by force in order to satiate its thirst for love. That extraction came in the form of emotional abuse.
Now we are too far back; I can't remember much beyond that. What's the point?
What is the point?
Maybe to put things in perspective.
Maybe to stop blaming myself and calling myself weird.
Maybe to give myself some hope that even if the raisin can never become a grape again, it can still taste sweet and juicy. I suppose that's what life is about: living with an ever changing heart, experiencing ever changing love, while recognizing that nothing in the past that produced this current heart was fair to me. It's never fair when not enough love makes its way to the heart of a person.
That moment was in September, some time ago. My mind had already been all flustered before meeting my best friend for lunch to discuss something serious. I can't remember what the topic was as it was being overshadowed by the grim surprise that awaited me. The discussion ended well. We smiled. And we picked up our forks and breathed deeply so we could start enjoying each other's company.
Then she broke the news to me that she and this guy I didn't care for were going out. My heart froze. I can almost remember that it stopped for a few beats, which could explain why I was so cold. A heart that had been beating for that same woman and had to relegate its true feelings to the darkest ghetto of the soul, such heart couldn't beat at the reception of such news.
How did this happen? Let me trace back, one step at a time. There was an evening, a few years before that, when I nearly begged.... No, such a timid soul is too proud to beg, for some reason. But it was something desperate, something desperate in the sentence I had uttered. I think I asked my best friend then, if there was really no hope of something different between us. She shook her head; I can't remember if it was a guilty shake or a defiant one. And I stormed out, closed the door behind me, sat on the bench where all the winter shoes were, and methodically tied my shoe-laces. Was I crying? If so, it was as much for my own salvation as for the benefit of making her feel guilty on the other side of the door.
Another step back, further, over bridges of many lonely moments in life in the abyss of time past by, before I understood how all these things happened, before I had enough experience to dissect myself, in the tumultuous times of college. That was about 15 years ago. She was not my best friend in the way the previously mentioned episodes were about. She was my girlfriend who was about to become my ex-girlfriend for good. We had a fight. I don't remember that she said anything to me. There was a cold silence in that very cold winter night in Cambridge. The rickety shuttle bus stopped in front of her stop and she, standing up without saying anything, walked out into the silence outside this noisy hunk of junk. And I saw her leave, and I didn't know just how bad it would get afterward. The emotional torment that followed the permanent breakup of my first serious relationship was like a thunderstorm that had no foreseeable end. There would be brief lulls, but quickly the lightening slit the sky like a joker's smile on a pasty face. Then thunder would roll in with sharp mockery of my misery that would herald half a year of hopelessness and desperation.
Do I end here? Is this the original point from which I can start laying blames? No, of course not. Not for this shy little boy who couldn't imagine anyone could take him seriously because he was an immigrant. Not women, not society. There was the cop at the subway turnstile who made a racial gesture toward me when I was going into the subway. There were the many black kids that pushed me around. Sometimes the Hispanics too. The feeling of unwelcomeness settled in pretty early on since my arrival in this country. There was the girl I fell in love with, OK, at least had a crush on, in fifth grade. She didn't think much of me, especially when she remarked about my English and that I was Chinese. My Dad wasn't happy when I told him that I liked a Puerto Rican girl. He repeated the word "Puerto Rican." Is that far enough back? All this racism, hatred, just squeezed me into a corner, a dark corner of invisibility.
When I feel invisible, I feel unloved, and when I feel unloved, I feel invisible. My best friend, the latest best friend, preferred to date someone else and even told me about it, although she wasn't sure how I still felt about her. I felt invisible, at lunch, on that September day. My rejection of her, my anger with her, was a peevish attempt to make myself stand out.
Lack of love. As familiar to us and as common to our upbringing as is breathing. Love was supposed to have come from our parents first.
So here's the real initial point. Being an immigrant child was tough enough. But being a child of immigrant parents had its added disadvantages. Where is Mommy? Where is Daddy? I never asked myself those questions while they were busy working to support the family. I learned to bite the bullet very early on and accepted life as it was. But deep down, my heart was shriveling into a raisin in this desert without love. And with this shriveled heart I entered high school and found my first best friend whose door many years later I closed behind me after being told nothing would happen between us. No matter how much water you give a raisin, you can never turn it back into a grape. Structural changes had been made by force of nature.
But is that really the starting point? The immigrant experience.
Maybe there is no definitive starting point. Maybe living without a mother for four years as a small child started the process of draining that heart of its love serum. Or maybe even before that because even though that mother was there, she carried an even drier, darker, heart that sometimes extracted love from her children by force in order to satiate its thirst for love. That extraction came in the form of emotional abuse.
Now we are too far back; I can't remember much beyond that. What's the point?
What is the point?
Maybe to put things in perspective.
Maybe to stop blaming myself and calling myself weird.
Maybe to give myself some hope that even if the raisin can never become a grape again, it can still taste sweet and juicy. I suppose that's what life is about: living with an ever changing heart, experiencing ever changing love, while recognizing that nothing in the past that produced this current heart was fair to me. It's never fair when not enough love makes its way to the heart of a person.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Hike Through the Rain
Someone said, stop and smell the flowers.
I don't even notice them most of the time. I am wrapped in my own thoughts, a heavy wrap, like the comforter in a winter of cursing demons.
But it helps when I do notice them. When I can temporarily wake myself from my stupor of angry thoughts, disappointments, especially against the person I love the most, I notice how beautiful the flowers are. They aren't just ornaments in this long hike, or even, things that get in the way. They have shapes, colors, sizes, and they all dance a different dance in the breeze of the mountain. And when I started raining, they dance a different routine altogether. But within a minute, my mind drifts back under the cover.
How to live present, notice present things, present beauties. I need to remind myself of the beauty I have now as opposed to the ugliness of the past and a savage unknown in the future. For that reason I need to notice the flowers again, to bring me back into the present.
The present was that I was hiking. Thunder and lightening surrounded me. And the sound and sight of the Rockies are ever present, like angels watching as I lead my path back down.
But my mind almost always drifted away. Why did she do that? She doesn't deserve my love! She didn't choose me. She betrayed me. And all the details, thoughts, and ever increasing number and deepening of emotions on each point.
Then the anger became unbearable.
And I noticed the flowers. They were now different than those from the previous episode. My mind was shifting from the past to the future and back again. Yet, life continued without me. Flowers and other flora have changed, and I missed a lot of them between the brief moments of noticing my presence.
But I was finally comforted with the feeling that this was the beginning. Finding peace means to notice the flowers of life. And if I can at least remind me to do it and actually do it for almost a minute, that's progress. Perhaps there is hope to truly lead my life away from her, to have myself again.
I don't even notice them most of the time. I am wrapped in my own thoughts, a heavy wrap, like the comforter in a winter of cursing demons.
But it helps when I do notice them. When I can temporarily wake myself from my stupor of angry thoughts, disappointments, especially against the person I love the most, I notice how beautiful the flowers are. They aren't just ornaments in this long hike, or even, things that get in the way. They have shapes, colors, sizes, and they all dance a different dance in the breeze of the mountain. And when I started raining, they dance a different routine altogether. But within a minute, my mind drifts back under the cover.
How to live present, notice present things, present beauties. I need to remind myself of the beauty I have now as opposed to the ugliness of the past and a savage unknown in the future. For that reason I need to notice the flowers again, to bring me back into the present.
The present was that I was hiking. Thunder and lightening surrounded me. And the sound and sight of the Rockies are ever present, like angels watching as I lead my path back down.
But my mind almost always drifted away. Why did she do that? She doesn't deserve my love! She didn't choose me. She betrayed me. And all the details, thoughts, and ever increasing number and deepening of emotions on each point.
Then the anger became unbearable.
And I noticed the flowers. They were now different than those from the previous episode. My mind was shifting from the past to the future and back again. Yet, life continued without me. Flowers and other flora have changed, and I missed a lot of them between the brief moments of noticing my presence.
But I was finally comforted with the feeling that this was the beginning. Finding peace means to notice the flowers of life. And if I can at least remind me to do it and actually do it for almost a minute, that's progress. Perhaps there is hope to truly lead my life away from her, to have myself again.
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