True to form, I sat down with a writing application about three hours until deadline. I do have a lot of practice of submitting things at the :59 PM — good to know that skill hasn’t left me, in the times when I still need it.
To pull this off, I repurposed an exercise from a writing workshop. I’m rounding out the 12th week of my prompt to myself to make things & share — so here it is, below.
#1 | A few years ago, I was having dinner with my mom. Over pasta & wine, our conversation drifted to my aunt — her older sister, who I haven’t seen since I was young. I remarked to her — “You know, I always thought Aunt Robin looked half-white.”
My mom paused, and said — “Well. She is.”
This is the moment I realized how much I don’t know, I don’t know — about my own family.
P.S. I did turn this one into an essay. If you choose, it’s listed here.
#2 | There have been three occasions when I’ve looked into a stranger’s eyes, for unbroken minutes. As we shared reflections into a circle, my partner offered his observation of me — “I noticed one eye was happy. And one eye was sad.”
How strangers know our truths, before we know them ourselves.
#3 | One day while sitting in traffic on Osmeña Highway, my boyfriend and I saw an older woman walking beside the cars, treading the sidewalk like a balance beam. I asked him to wave to her, and we passed over 20 peso coins in exchange for little garlands of sampagita. They ornamented the rear view mirror for the next several weeks. I declared to myself that my favorite flowers are jasmine flowers.
#4 | Months later, I asked Nai-nai what my Chinese name meant. Shin-Lee, happy jasmine. I took it as a sign, and a future tattoo. Our names are wishes that come true.
Months after that, I learn that jasmine in Chinese is lì, not lee. My parents simply decided to swap traditional Chinese for phonetically-similar Korean — Halmuni’s maiden name. And so, Halmuni gifted me part of my name too.
If happiness is a birthright, sorrow is an inheritance.
#5 | I have this clear memory, of the moment I realized I was a reader. I’m six years old, in first grade. I’m in bed, in the room that my sister & I share. I’m reading A Wrinkle in Time, by Madeleine L’Engle. And I have this divine sensation of breaking through glass, shattering a dimension as I fall veraciously in love with reading.
Sometimes I think about the nature of human memory. How much is true, and how much has been altered by each time I retrieve and reshelve this frame?
#6 | The majority of days, I wake up and remember nothing. I’m sure I dreamt, but I recall none of it. Blackness. Blankness. Whatever color is the inside of my eyelids. But recently I put in my notice at work. For the following week, I woke up — for the first time, in a very long time, with memory and surety of my dreams.
#7 | I tried acid for the first time on a camping trip, in a national park in Kenya. I slept through most of my trip. Alarm clocks were ringing in my dreams.
I still feel like I’m in a series of loops, and always running late.
#8 | As much as we drift, life seems to deposit us back where we started. While signing up for everything on Coursera and buying books on trauma, I think back to the first psychology class I ever took. At a community college, around age 16. Like most of my classes, I don’t remember anything from it — except for that chart in DSM-IV, as I diagnosed my own depression.
#9 | Fred Armisen went on a PBS show called Finding Your Roots in 2017. During the show, he learns that his grandfather, Masami Kuni, was a famous Japanese dancer, and has a museum dedicated to him in Tokyo. He worked as a performer in the 1930’s and 40’s in Nazi Germany. Records from the U.S. Office of War Information suggest he may have been a secret agent for Japan during this time. And what’s more, he is not actually Japanese, but Korean. His name at birth was Park Yeong-in, descending from an ancient family in Korea called the Pak clan.
Why do I know any of this? Because my aunt posted the video clip on Facebook, tagging us, and letting us know — “Hey! It’s Uncle Kuni.” He was my grandfather’s older brother.
Nowadays, my grandfather mourns that he is the last Park brother left. But his youngest sibling now lives half an hour nearby, amongst the suburbs of Vegas. He goes by the last name of his white adopted family. Haba won’t speak to him. To be too American is a disgrace.
#10 | I cut my bangs recently, to complete my transformation back into my five-year-old self. I wore dresses, had long hair, finished books overnight, was gushily loving to my family, and entirely happy being a homebody. I think it’s a good return. I aspire to be her.
#11 | I read a lot of Reader’s Digest as a kid.
#12 | I was raised agnostic, but many of my friends growing up were Christian. In first grade, for Thanksgiving, our teacher asked us to draw what we were thankful for. My friends said they were thankful for God, so I decided to put that too. I drew a picture of a man with a beard, on a cloud. A.k.a. Zeus.
#13 | I’m quite bad at remembering the content of books and movies. But when I pick up a book after many years — I still sense how it made me feel. Levity. Sorrow. Hope.
#14 | I probably cry the most on planes. Thank goodness I mostly only fly at night.
#15 | Probably largely due to sleep deprivation, I can’t remember much from high school. I’ve recently worked up the resolve to read my blog from these years. For now, I’ve skipped over the months where f*** is the title for multiple posts in a row. But my 16-year-old self is astute. She understood things about herself and her emotions, and helps me realize that whatever I discover about myself today, is not new. Aptly, the blog tagline is — “So that, twenty years from now, I’ll remember high-school me.”
#16 | My college roommate must have found it odd that I went to sleep with eyeliner intact. Only allowing my face to be bare, in the sparse minutes between washing my face and walking the hallway to our room in the dorms; then quickly exchanging the previous day for a new stroke of charcoal. She must have found this odd. I don’t remember her bringing it up. The grace and compassion of 19-year-olds — I should thank her.
#17 | Today, as my mom and I sat on my bed — I think I glimpsed what they mean by intergenerational trauma.
#18 | I remember the day we learned about the human heart, in second grade. As they displayed a diagram, I tensed up, stayed quiet at my desk in the back; and tears started rolling down my cheeks. My mom says I’ll never be a doctor, and she’s absolutely right.
#19 | Riding in the car, maybe around age five, I remember the voice of a woman narrator, flowing out over the radio, with what I can only guess was an essay on her marriage. “I’m no longer in love. But I’m content.” Hearing this, I felt immense sadness. It was unfathomable then.
#20 | People say I’m a good listener. I think all photographers know this trick. It’s the sleight of listening — to let others feel known, and to let ourselves slip through unscathed.
Yet, I also love falling in love with people. Next to the stovetop imparting hygge. In the aisle for japchae ingredients. In my rented room with meditation class in the living space, and an interfaith church next door. To be certain, a mixture of beauty and avoidance — but getting swept into peoples’ lives is good healing for me.
