Four corners because I had four homes. One in a foreign land, one in the snowy state, one in my heart, and the one that consisted of vacation homes and the temporary places.
Rollercoasting
It takes a six-hour drive. The ride is bumpy, like a rollercoaster. Instead of screams of fear, I hear car horns and beeps. The ride makes your back ache and your neck stiff. Each town we pass is indistinguishable, a jumble of letters that I don’t understand. Tropical leaves scrape the hood of each car as we head “home.”
The moon shines the brightest. There are no street lights. Just miles of trees and the occasional town. Kids with Androids sit on the dirt path and dogs run across the road. We finally arrive. I am greeted by family, a little girl rubbing her eyes, and a black dog. A bowl of spaghetti with sweet sauce sits on the table. I listen to the women in my family, speaking in their native tongue, something I wish I could relate to. I don’t understand a thing.
For the next three weeks, we live here. I spend my days in front of the electric fan eating mangos. When I walk outside the grey wooden gate, all eyes are on me. Brown eyes, filled with confusion and curiosity, assessing me from head to toe, up then down. Like a rollercoaster.
I felt sick, like the ride was jerking me around. Why couldn’t I look like them, why couldn’t I fit in? Why couldn’t I be a part of my culture, learn the language, eat the food, wear the clothes? Why did I have to be half this-half that? The curious people, asked me how it was to live in America. They asked me everything. They called me perfect, beautiful. I blushed, because I had my flaws too, too many to count. When I’m home, I’m nobody. When I’m here, I’m a queen. But, I knew nothing about the history, the culture. How could a queen rule, with no knowledge of her kingdom?
Zone 5
The ocean is where I would go. To get away from the curious people. To get away from the loud ladies who kissed my cheeks and said words I didn’t know. To get away from my annoying cousins or the heat that collected in the house. The water was at peace, cool and calm. The sun would rise or set, always at the beach. The colors, more beautiful as each minute passed. The water, reflecting the light.
You’d have to walk across the bridge. With pedicabs and tricycles and motorcycles passing by, you should stand near the edge so they don’t run you over. But one wrong step, and you’d fall through the bridge.
You’d have to walk through a few houses, with roosters running past and little kids that would stare. There’d be flies and trash on your way.
But the beach was, there. You’d be greeted by a salty smell and miles of water. Some boats would be settled on the sand. Oh, the sand. Where you’d take off your sandals and rest your feet in the sand.
The rhythmic sound of water crashing over and over. The volcano in the distance, an island away yet enough to make an impact on the sky. Billowing clouds of smoke, creating hues of pink and orange and yellow, mirrored on the water.
Baby
A brown girl with black frizzy hair snuck out at night. She’d go to the beach. To meet with her friends. To jump off bridges and swim in the dark waters. To escape from home.
A younger boy and an older girl woke up. They didn’t see Baby. They stayed up, worried. A tall man, with a stern face and a short woman woke up. “Where’s Baby?” The kids shook their heads.
A few hours passed. Baby is back.
The man was waiting, belt in hand. The kids cried. Baby cried.
But she got used to it.
Sun’s Donuts
My mother used to work at the donut shop near our house. Since she didn’t have anyone to watch me, I came with her. It was probably 3 or 4 am when she would bundle me up in my blue robe with my matching Crocs. We’d walk to the donut shop. I remember it being freezing cold. It was still dark out so there were no cars on the streets. I was very tired. When we got to the donut shop an elderly couple would greet us. They were the owners. I slept in a utility closet while my mom was working. When I woke up, I’d eat some donuts. This is how it was when we first came here. I didn’t understand that working at the donut shop, wasn’t necessarily a good thing. I didn’t understand the struggles my mom was going through. Why she worked here, how she left home, left everything, and everyone, behind. I only thought of the simple things, of the donuts. Hole in the middle, simple as that. Hole in her heart, simple as that.
The Bus Stop
I remember I would cry when we would miss the bus and it was pouring outside. I wished for a car like it was a dollhouse, or a pony. I wished I didn’t have to walk, rain or shine, to mama’s new job. I would sit there, munching on chips until daddy came to pick me up. When he came, we would walk on the railroad tracks and take the bus over the bridge, home.
I used to wish for a car like it was a toy or like it was a piece of candy. I wished I didn’t have to take the bus, with the weird guys that always sat near us. I wished we had a place to put our groceries, something to drive us to restaurant or theme parks. I wished things would get easier. So, I wouldn’t have to walk through the grass in the park or the back way near the Asian mall. So, I wouldn’t have to wait at the bus stop in the rain and cry because we didn’t have a car.
On Top of the World
The walls were pink. Rosy and happy. The elevator had a big transparent window. Clear and distinct. There were plants everywhere, even though we were indoors. Natural and beautiful.
The room however, was quite sad and dark. We lived in this sad room for maybe a week.
Besides the room, we were mostly outside. Exploring. We walked through the city of San Francisco. We rode on cable cars. We stood on top of the world.
Then I hit rock bottom. And it happened it in that sad room. She whispered in my ears, words of sadness, about herself and my dad. Tears were brought to my eyes. I had to run away just to get it out of my head. My world, on top, than turned upside down. Because my definition of perfect wasn’t real. My parents’ love was dysfunctional, erratic, and full of discontent. Like the room, it’s sad and boring.
Starry Beaches
There was one night where I looked at the stars. My dad and I decided to sit out in our front yard, bundled in blankets, and look at the stars. We’d count the stars, we’d wonder. We’d question what that blinking one was, a plane? With my dad, I didn’t have a care in the world. I only looked at the bright stars, up and above.
There was one day where I walked on the beach. It was a spontaneous day. My mom and I decided to take a trip to Santa Monica. We walked on the pier. We ate some overpriced mangos that we bought from a street vendor. We listened to the singers; we watched a Japanese man paint our names in calligraphy. We took pictures, of the beach, of ourselves, of the pier. We took off our shoes and walked under the pier, an experience I’ll never forget. Jumping at the sensation of the cold water and feeling the warmth of the sun. With my mom, I didn’t have a worry in the world. I only danced in the sea water, the contrast of the waves crashing and the pure bliss of the sunny day.
Gatorade and Saltines
Drop everything and she would be there. She’d wake up in the middle of the night if I had to throw up. She’d rub some “Bicks” on my chest, my nose, and my forehead. She’d give me medicine, wrap me in blankets, turn off the lights and the fan. It was cold and too bright. She would massage my head and shower me with kisses before she left for work. She cared for me through anything. Even if I said I hated her, or if I was rude, or if I ignored her when she was talking. She still cared.
My dad would give me gatorade and saltines. He would tell me “sleep is the best medicine.” He would call me princess when I woke up. He would make me laugh. He’d always smile. Even though I called him stupid sometimes, or I poked jokes at him, or I told him to leave me alone. He still smiled.
Sunday Mornings
Every Sunday, my mom had a day off. It wasn’t a religious type day like for most families, instead, it was a calm and relaxing type day. My mom and I would often walk to the nearby Vietnamese grocery store and we’d buy bread from our favorite bakery. Sometimes we’d get fried rice from the Chinese restaurant, or sometimes we’d buy milk tea boba. Either way, it became a weekly thing. We’d walk, maybe half a mile, to get some snacks, to talk, to get outdoors and absorb the warm mid-afternoon sun.
Until this tradition was broken. My mom started to favor the bright lights and the smell of smoke rather than spending time with her daughter. As she put in a twenty dollar-bill and pulled the giant lever, annoying music would play and the dials on the screen would turn. She was at peace, she was filled with joy. Yet, I wondered where my mom was, where her money went, and what happened to those tranquil Sunday mornings.
Comentarios