i don’t know if I’m just a fool or really ambitious u__u
- "I’ve gotta lasso you in with the sparkliness of being an speech pathologist before I smash your dreams, so hold on to that question."
- "If you have a high maintenance significant other, dump them, you won’t have time for their shit."
- "You tell your friends and family that you’re dead to them when you’re in school. If you let them distract you, they’re ruining your life."
- "If you study even a week ahead of an exam, you’re already behind."
- "You poor lambs; it’s like you’re being brought to a slaughter."
- "This program is going to skin you alive."
- "If you get one B in a class, you are finished."
- "I once came upon a group of SLP students consoling a poor, sobbing girl who had just gotten an 85 on her exam."
- [after a girl left in the middle of orientation] “Huh, good for you guys. One less competitor you gotta worry about.”
- "You’ve gotta put your nose to the grindstone for 16 weeks. Just 16 weeks of pure, unadulterated hard work. Then you can run naked to the Capitol, repair your broken relationships that you blew off. But when the next semester comes around, you need to come back, put your clothes back on and brace yourself for another semester of skinning."
The glamorous life and times of a speech pathology major. If I want to get into grad school, I need at least a 3.7 GPA! That’s an A- average. And even then, there’s no guarantee. I just want to pee my pants.
Hello! How do you feel about being quoted? With proper citation, of course. Would you find it unpleasant or would you not mind? I just found that second-last line from your "Knock" entry particularly striking.
Hello there! Of course I wouldn’t mind, but thank you for being sweet enough to ask.
Forward Motion // Sacramento, CA - November 2013
My future home away from home! This Wednesday, I’ll finally get to breathe in the city in person for my orientation. Next month, (ohlord next month!!) I’m moving here to start a brand new adventure while pursuing higher education. And after obtaining my B.S, who knows where I’ll go for grad school! Adventure is everywhere! My whole life, I’ve stayed behind in my little suburban hometown and watched as all of my friends left me to restart their lives in shiny, new places.
And now, I’m finally the one doing the leaving.
You’ve convinced yourself into thinking that the fading warmth from your cheek is the feel of a sun setting. How can I open your eyes to show you that the day is young, that it is dawn, that a sun is still rising? How can I prove to you that you are not sinking?
I see this all the time when people call out cultural appropriation and racist bullshit in the US or other western countries.
"Oh but look at netizens in Korea, they think it’s cute!"
"Chinese international students at my university don’t even think this is such a big deal."
"Look at these comments from Japanese twitter accounts, they love it!!!!"
"Do people in Malaysia even care? Stop making such a big deal out of this. We blow everything out of proportion."
That. Is. Not. The. Point.
First of all, this is analogous to “my *insert poc* friend thinks it’s okay, so it must be” except you’ve extended it to the entire fucking foreign country. And no, it’s not okay. It is not okay because those individuals don’t even LIVE in the country where this is all occurring. Japanese people from Japan did not grow up watching their parents get made fun of for their accented English. They did not grow up having American classmates scrutinize the breakfast or lunch that they bring from home.
This is not about the international community. This is about the Asian American community here. WE are here. WE have grown up here being bullied by the rest of you for our food, our clothing, and the traditions we attempt to celebrate with our loved ones. WE are the ones who had to feel ashamed of our parents or grandparents for not being “American” enough. WE are the ones who hated our “flat faces” or “slanted” eyes or “smelly” lunch food.
AND THEN. After all that we have attempted to do to reject our culture to become more like you, YOU have the fucking audacity to TAKE what you’ve TAUGHT us to reject, and USE it to raise your NON-Asian self to the next level of approval from your peers. And suddenly, everyone loves what you’ve done our culture. YOU are the expert, not us. Our culture is so cool. Our culture is so fashionable. But only when it’s not on our hands.
So when Asian Americans are telling you that it’s racist, and you try to trump our words with those from across the seas, shut up. Seriously. Shut up. Our parents when they came here were from across the seas, and you didn’t give a shit about their words when they came here. You did your best to silence them with your hate. My heritage is from across the seas and you had no problem criticizing me for it when I was growing up. So why is it okay for Katy Perry to parade around like that? Especially since there were so many (TOO many) inaccuracies in her portrayal too?
Stop missing the fucking point.
Doctor Who 50th Anniversary episode.
Don’t look at me.
Andrew Zimmern, host of Bizarre Foods, often claims that to know a culture, you must eat their food. I’ve eaten Vietnamese food my whole life, but there’s still so much that I don’t understand about my family and the place we came from. I don’t know why we can be so reticent, yet so emotional; why Catholicism, the invaders’ religion, still has such a hold on them; why we laugh so hard even at times when there’s not much to laugh about. After endless plates of com bi, banh xeo, and cha gio, I still don’t know what my grandmother thinks about when she prays.
I FOUND MY LAST TWO SKEINS OF YARN.
Guess what I’m doing tonight? Arm knitting myself a cozy infinity scarf.
That’s right. Arm knitting; knitting with my arms. If I feel like it, I’ll post pictures of my progress so you can see the magic of arm knitting.
I’m really excited because I’ve found ergonomic crochet hooks and oooh I’m returning to scarf and beanie making with a great ferocity, arthritis can’t stop me now. I’m gonna crochet all my problems away. Then I’m going to walk into urban outfitters wearing all of my handmade infinity/circle/cowl scarves and headband ear muffs that only cost me less than 25 dollars to make and I’m going to stand there and cackle at their 60+ dollar knitwear selection until they escort me out and my laughter will inspire a knitting/crocheting rebellion within their own customer base until the entire company collapses because everybody will be making their own knitwear and I’ll be known as Mama Yarn, the Great Hooker. Get it, because crochet hooks?
Viva la craft.
I lied because even though depression is so common in Asian American communities, we rarely talked about it. The message I grew up with: your mental struggles are our own; it’s up to you to find the inner strength to “ren,” to endure.
The character for “ren” 忍 is the character for “knife” over the “heart.” Endure even when there’s a knife in your heart.
In my thirties I discovered talk therapy, tried to get my parents to go. Their response was basically: “That’s for white people.” “They hook you in,” my mother said. “You can never be cured.”
I wish mental illness didn’t come with stigmas. I wish I could have told my parents that my mind had broken just as easily as if I had to tell them my arm had broken.
When I was six, I was reading one of those picture books meant to put me to sleep and I heard a crash as you careened yourself down the stairs. It looked so effortless that it wasn’t until I was ten years old did I realize you did it on purpose. When I ran to you, small hands outstretched, you shrugged them off and stomped to the bathroom where you cried for an hour. I sat outside the door like a desperate cat, pawing at the knob and wailing with you.
When I was eight, I started realizing how dangerous you became whenever you and dad fought. Dad got loud; but loud is just that: loud. You took action and ran to the kitchen where we kept the knives and how, how did I know what suicide meant in 4th grade, mommy, tell me how I knew. I didn’t know the word, but I knew what I feared. I don’t need a dictionary to remember how it felt, running after you and twisting your wrist hard enough to sprain. When I was in high school and learned about what adrenaline can make people do, how eight year old me became strong enough to overpower a thirty-something year old woman, suddenly made sense.
Desperation can make you move boulders—
—which fourteen year old me understood when you swallowed a fistful of painkillers while I watched from the bedroom. I covered my ears as you threw up in the toilet. A clockwork cycle of desperation, yours and mine— boulders, to strap to our crooked backs. Time; how much time did you have left— I was always looking at the time, what time it was in case I needed to call it.
I am twenty. This weekend, you went missing for two days then came home with a discounted pair of elephant pajama pants as an apology. You couldn’t look me in the eye as you gave them to me. I couldn’t look at you either. Your destruction has bled into my life; a delayed case of blood poisoning, twenty years out of the womb. I sob at the sound of doors slammed too loudly, of helicopters hovering, of glass breaking, of vomiting.
There is a boulder strapped to my back; mother you tied it there.