accessories include extra-large coffees and handfuls of unorganized notes and sketches
sorry for the inconsistency lately, everybody. this blog will continue normally once finals are over.
I hate the phrase “that’s just how it is.” Really, I loathe it. This phrase is the epitome of apathy, of carelessness, of refusal to change.
A woman has to be feminine, that’s just how it is. Women are paid 77 cents to every man’s dollar, that just how it is. I have to keep a bottle of pepper spray clutched in my grasp each time I walk into a parking lot alone, that’s just how it is. I had to learn to watch for vans next to my car; learn how to maneuver myself into the driver’s seat through the passenger’s side, just in case, because that’s how it is. Another day, another drink goes down the chute before another spouse, another ‘lover’ is punched under the jaw, foundation caked over the purple and yellow blooms the next morning because times have been stressful for them lately, so it’s just how it is— for now, of course. Nice guys are only rejected because she was a bitch, and from the beginning of time, that’s just how it’s been. A five year old girl is violated, and an entire country cries in heartache; wait until she bleeds between her legs with the moon each month and the same country would cry foul— it was her pheromones, her femininely wiles, the cut to her denim shorts, the swish in her schoolgirl ponytail, the seductive smell of Bath and Body Work’s ‘Sweet Pea’ body spray, the criminalizing red cup in her hand; it was all of those tantalizing factors that produced an irresistible specimen for a starved appetite. He couldn’t help it, because that’s just how men are. Metal detectors have replaced flea combs in elementary schools and trauma counselors now double duty as daycare babysitters, because that’s how it is. The slight slant to my eyes speak wonders to many males about the slant in my personality, nothing but an empty vessel of a mail order bride with porcelain skin, long doll hair, and glassed over eyes for them to stare into when they make tepid love to me; that’s just how it is.
I cannot be a believer in ‘that’s just how it is,’ because I have to believe that there is something better than simply what has always been.
So this video started going around my facebook today, with about a dozen of my female friends sharing the link with comments like, and “Everyone needs to see this”, and “All girls should watch this,” and “This made me cry.” And I’m not trying to shame those girls! I definitely understand why they would do so. And I don’t want to be a killjoy. But as I clicked the link and started watching the video, I started to feel a slight sense of discomfort. I couldn’t put my finger on why that was, exactly, but it continued throughout the whole thing. After watching the video several more times, I have some thoughts…
Finally somebody said it.
Tonight in Boston, President Obama spoke of Krystle’s freckles, red hair, and beauty,
about Martin’s big smile and bright eyes
and spoke only of how foreign you were, far from home. All I could glean were two things: you were a BU student.
And you were not born here.
It took me a few minutes, but I came to a realization that didn’t make any sense at all to me: I didn’t know what you looked like yet.
And after three days of CNN continuously recycling photos,
the faces of the first two victims are all but painted onto the corners of my eyes,
reminders of the evil that consume us, using humans who were once born naked and unable to even breathe independently,
to breathe and live through us, use some of us like hosts, destroying everything that could be considered safe, sacred
and desecrate it.
Lingzi Lu, why didn’t I know what you looked like?
I searched for your picture and cried for you; your eyes, so different from the others in their soft almond shape, so different with their monolids,
shone with ambition, with a light that I could only ever see in those with an inextinguishable fire in their hearts
with an insatiable thirst for life,
for your own happiness.
I read your story and could only grieve at how the American public would hardly know of your uphill journey to this prosperous country that failed to protect you.
You precious girl, fueling your life here with nothing but the scholarships you won with your own hands and brilliant head.
I hope this can be your memorial speech,
the proper one that was denied to you by my President and my country’s biased journalists.
You were far from home, but I hope you knew in your heart of hearts, that this was your home from home,
and when your ashes are delivered back to your family,
back to your grieven Uncle,
back to your grandparents,
back to your mother and father,
I hope they sprinkle a little bit of you to the air
one day, if you ever feel the desire, you can come back to visit the country you had conquered in your own significant way.
You are beautiful, Lingzi Lu.
You are beautiful.
Mother, don’t you know that every time you open a sentence with, “when I was your age…” I flinch ever so slightly? When you use “when I was your age,” it’s used, not as a device to segue into a colorful family story, nay—it’s used as an attack.
When I was your age, I had three boys begging me to be their girlfriend! What’s happened to you? When I was your age, I took care of my entire household because I was the only one who could speak English. What excuse do you have for being tired? When I was only five years older than you are now, I was already pregnant with you; don’t even gripe to me about whatever problems you think you may have. When I was your age, I had the entire world on my shoulders. Why can’t you just find a way to deal with it? When I was your age, I was perfect; your hair is too frizzy, your front teeth are too crooked, your face is puffier than it was five years ago.
has ever loved you.
Mother, I may have your eyes, your skin tone, the same width to my shoulders as yours, the same pucker in my lip, the same quick temper.
But I am not you.
Question, does caring about the 40+ Somalians that died today and yesterday and the 42 Iraqis that died today AND the 3 Boston victims make me “ignorant”? And is getting upset over you calling me ignorant considered me initiating a “political debate”? Funny, didn’t think the loss of innocent lives was considered a political battleground for you to parade clumsily around on. Sorry for trying to open your eyes; they’re obviously too covered in eye gunk from sleeping under a rock for your entire life.
I swear, during times of worldwide tragedy, I can’t stand being anywhere near social media. I just want to karate chop everybody in the head.
But softly, so they don’t retain a head injury.
So I’ve decided that next year, I’m going to get into slam poetry— maybe even join a team if I can find one that wants me. I’m taking the remainder of this year to study up; watch performances, start writing material, practicing recitation and performing.
I am really stoked about this. If you have any tips to lead me into the right direction or performers/pieces that you love, please share!
“To JK Rowling from Cho Chang” by Rachel Rostad
Despite my love for the HP series, this was exactly what I felt when Cho Chang was introduced in the books. Exactly.
I ended my night differently tonight,
eating Yoplait over my sink in a dark kitchen
hoping that I’d be able to feel those cultures,
chomping away at my insides in rhythm,
in tandem even as they marched down
the lining of my throat to rest in my stomach.
My greatest fear is losing control
the way other twenty somethings do
when they fear the numbness creeping down
down the base of their neck into their spines,
flinging it off their backs on a sweaty dance floor
or drowning it out, smoking it out, bleeding it out.
I keep my sanity in a choke hold grip.
I’m starting to question just how sane this makes me.
I am too afraid of losing control.
I eat Yoplait in the hopes that I can start
maybe feeling something inside no matter how faint
but can’t you see how funny this really is?
I eat yogurt until I can imagine feeling a tickling
and if those health professionals are correct,
those cultures chomp away at you until, until, until
you are nothing but a clockwork of internal organs.
What was it that I wanted?
Control or feeling?
I can’t have both.
Can someone tell me why my dad is whistling to the Boys Over Flowers soundtrack while sweeping the kitchen?
Can someone also tell me how he got the soundtrack?
“Why don’t these chinks in China understand that they need to accept Jesus Christ as their Lord and Savior? Jews, Muslims, Buddhists, they’re all going to burn in hell for all of eternity. Jesus needs to go to Asia and save these people because they can’t have morals without Jesus.”
Funny how I made a big post on racism against Asian-Americans and then I hear this being preached the very next day, less than five feet away from me. I was waiting outside my biology lab, and that was when I was smacked with this gem of an insult. Now, as a Buddhist, I’m used to random strangers condemning me to hell (either directly to my face or indirectly), but this was the first time I’ve ever heard someone interweave racism into their argument against other religions? And so loudly without the consideration for people around them? I wanted to point at myself and say, “Excuse me, Buddhist chink right here, I clearly have morals because I haven’t punched you in the face for being so ignorant, so please stop talking.” But I clenched my fists, sprint walked away, and occupied my mouth with drinking water. In hindsight, I probably looked scary— clutching to a Dasani bottle like a bottle of vodka, just swigging until I was inside the lab room.
I have no problems with Jesus. Jesus seems like a cool guy who just wants to love everyone. Sort of like Mister Rogers, except he’s not an elderly man with a closet full of sweaters. So why is Jesus so understanding and loving, while some of his followers aren’t? Some of his followers are really mean, narrow minded, bigoted, and cause a lot of pain and anger for other people, and that just seems so contradictory to me.
I just don’t get it; I don’t get any of it. I thought I was done getting angry over people like that guy, but clearly I’m not.
:’) Oh shucks, thank you for being so sweet and supportive.
Someone finally understands me. Viet punk fist pump <3