Fraying (Final Memoir Essay)

Fraying

At the ages of 9 and 7 my brother and sister broke one of my mom’s rules. My mom never allowed her children to go beyond the backyard of Apartment 4, one of many in an urban neighborhood with houses tagged with yellow, red, and green graffiti. That meant that the woods, hidden a mile behind our apartment and located near a busy highway, could not be touched.

Dan had told me that a friend invited him and my sister An to go on an adventure. I didn’t receive the invite, but to appease me, my brother asked me to do one small, but important job: keep quiet and don’t let Mom know. As a little sister desperate to please her older brother, I took on this ultimate task, zipped my mouth shut and threw away the key.

The Voice Challenge

Ye came back into my life tonight! 

She had to use the bathroom though. Borrowed my phone. Said she wanted to play Temple Run because she always gets bored in the bathroom. And then she took a self-portrait as she sat on the toilet. That Ye! So funny. I love and miss her!

I'm pooping!

Okay, so I wrote a quick short story today. I followed a challenge that Figment had posted. Each week, the site hosts a young adult author who assigns prompts and fun games for users. This week's guest was Geoff Herbach. His presence on YouTube is well-known, and he is also the author of young adult novels "Stupid Fast" and the upcoming "Nothing Special."

Herbach recently wrote about how to incorporate personal voice into short stories. I just love the way he explained voice through a video. It's so much better than reading long blog posts. I can see why young adults would love him. His basic message for writers is that voice should reflect the writer's personality, not the writer's idol's personality.

He also gave us a challenge so that we could develop our voices. The outline that Geoff Herbach had posted are as followed:

1. YOU HAVE A CHARACTER WHO DRIVES.
2. A BIRD HITS THE WINDSHIELD.
3. THE WINDSHIELD CRACKS.
4. YOUR CHARACTER PULLS OVER.
5. THE BIRD IS HOLDING A TINY SCROLL IN ITS LITTLE, DEAD BIRD CLAW.
6. YOUR CHARACTER READS THE SCROLL.
7. IT IS A MESSAGE ADDRESSED TO YOUR CHARACTER!

You'll see the story below.

Dan

Dan, Me, and An

Writing memoir essays can be similar to writing articles. In order to make a true account of my life, I have to do a lot of research. For my first essay, I talked about my spiritual experiences, and while I wrote the essay, I asked myself: What makes me move? What do I believe in? My second essay dealt with my mom and my dad's experiences during and after the Vietnam War, and to capture the political and social aspects of their lives, I sat down with my parents and asked a boatload of questions. I'm on my third essay now, and I need to write about a complex relationship that I have with a member of my family.

I've chosen to write about my brother Dan, because I cannot begin to describe how complex it is to be his little sister.

I'm walking down the same path that I went on  for my previous essays. My professor suggested that I take time to think about what feelings I have toward Dan. Exasperation, worry, and longing are just a few emotions that I associate with my big brother. Then, I've let myself remember things in my life that I've never really cared to think of before. I'm walking down memory lane, revisiting the good, the bad, and the confusing interactions and conversations I've held with Dan.

Since I'm home for Easter break, I've taken on the task to do more research, and I've been bombarding my parents with questions about my childhood, and the things that happened with Dan that I can't remember clearly. To help with this process, we decided to go through photos of our childhood. I discovered that my parents keep a safe in their bedroom that contains important documents and photos.

Mom pulled out an envelope that had Dan's birth certificate and passport in it. She also revealed three sheets of old, brown flimsy paper.

Dan's life is mapped out on those sheets.

When Dan was born, my grandmother - my father's mother - contacted some sort of astrologer/fortune teller/whatnot to write a description about Dan's projected life. For a small monetary fee, he mapped out Dan's life from his birth to the age of 74. Beyond that number, Mom says, the astrologer couldn't see.

You can imagine my shock to discover the existence of such a thing. My parents never told me about this. Now, let me tell you that my shock is not an indication of my close-mindedness. I'm kinda a believer in the supernatural. I love reading articles and fiction on things that may or may not exist. It's just...it seemed unimaginable to me that Dan's life could be so easily foretold.

I sat mesmerized by the neat but curvy penmanship that some unknown wrote in blue ink. My eyes traced the obscure boxes and arrows that appeared in random spots on the paper. It was in two different languages that I couldn't read: Vietnamese and astrology.

My incredulity heightened considerably when Mom began to translate the words into English.

In his adolescence, he will be a hot-tempered child. He will love and hate you (the letter is written to the parents). He will be a hard child to raise. He will be bright and will like numbers and will perhaps work in business. He will favor the mother over the father. He will be loved by everyone anywhere he goes. He will travel far. He will love but not be close to his sisters or brothers. When he is older, he will take care of his parents. By the time he is 30, he will be rich. He will marry a rich wife as well. His first child will be a son.

Ever feel like you hear something you can't understand but somehow know to be true? That's exactly how I felt when my mom told me these things.

Dan never liked school. When he was in elementary school, he never liked to do his homework. Some nights, I'd wake to find my brother's bed empty. After a little investigating, I'd find him downstairs and my parents awake. They used to make him do his homework during this time, forcing him to complete his assignments in order to get a good grade.

Despite his unwillingness to admit it, Dan has also inherited my mother's anger and stubbornness. He and her are too alike: one bit of friction and their anger comes alight.

Dan had a knack with business. The only thing that he really liked in school was business and business club. I thought he was going to major in it, but imagine my surprise when he decided to go for chemical engineering and then civil engineering! I never understood that change in his path.

Underneath his stoic attitude these days, I know that a thirteen-year-old wimpy kid still exists. Everyone still loves his innocence and they pamper him for being the firstborn son in my family. He can go anywhere he pleases and there will always be someone to help him out. When he went to Vietnam after my family just came back, he went with little regard for anyone there. But when he returned, he came back with gifts and fond letters from distant relatives. After he left training in Arizona, he went to visit a first cousin in Arkansas. He stayed there a few days, played with her dog, and hunted deer with the cousin's husband. He then went to Virginia to visit more cousins. They welcomed him with open arms.

Even though my love for Dan is indescribable, I still feel like there's a missing piece in our relationship. I started feeling it when he left for college, and I haven't thought about it until now, when I feel like I'm finally able to write about us.  My sister and him, on the other hand, will never get along. They've had too many problems, problems that trace back to childhood fights. They will be there for each other, but their bond will never be strong. It's sad to think about, because we've always been the triple Le's. I hope we'll always be that way.

As for the other things that I cannot see - his marriage and his children - well, I hope that can come true. My mom told me to remember that little prediction about his firstborn son. I hope that there's reality in that.

My sister has a letter too, but it's considerably shorter than Dan's. My parents probably lost some of it. My parents can't find mine, but I have one somewhere. Reading that letter is so surreal. So many truths that I cannot explain. There's nothing really wrong with what was written in the predictions. Discovering that letter has helped me reflect on my interpretation and perception of Dan. I still don't know how I'll begin with my essay, but I have the things that I need. I just have to put it all together.

This post has got to be the least coherent of all my posts. I didn't even realize I was typing this until I looked at the time. That's the dangers of being a writer: Your hands begin to move on their own!

Surviving: A political and social memoir

After writing the spiritual memoir, we had to write a political/social memoir. I had to talk to my parents to refresh my memory of their history, and it was quite nice. I don't think they expected me to write about such a thing, but I think they're glad that someone in the family is finally starting to write it all down. 

My piece will be part of a workshop on Tuesday, so this one is bound to have a lot of mistakes. I will post the rewrite when I get to do it. For now, enjoy!

Surviving

1975. Fall of Saigon. Agent Orange. Viet Cong. My Lai Massacre.

These facts flitter through my mind when I think of the Vietnam War. Sometimes I can’t conceive that parts of my family’s history and my very being lie beneath these stone cold, memorized facts that teachers used to throw at me in history classes. Today, I’ve already forgotten most of the names of politicians and military schemes within this war.  Truth be told, they’re just names that can be circled on multiple-choice tests.

I didn’t need teachers to tell me what happened because I considered my parents as sufficient proof that the war did happen - that years ago, constant terror, fear of the communists, and soul-splitting loss had my parents’ lives in their tight-clenched fists.

I look at my parents, and see how life is wonderful for them. All of their children are either undergraduates or graduates of a university. My parents can do what they please. My mom just started taking private swimming lessons. My dad is working on making his potbelly disappear by going on walks in the early morning.

I admit: The story about my family and parents is not simple. It’s an onion that always needs to be peeled. One layer contains the political history that my parents had lived through: the Vietnamese War. Underneath that layer might be one that captures the struggles that occurred after they relocated to America, a foreign country. Directly below, or perhaps a few more layers down, my own life and my siblings’ lives subsist in such an area, and it covers the hopes and dreams my parents came to grasp for not just their own reasons but for the children who are the carriers of their torch, their legacy. In the end, there might be a story outside of my parents’ stories, but it’d take years or my whole life to write such a thing. So, I’ll start with what I know.

I’ve realized that my dad never talks about his past unless he is asked about it. Which means, he only talked to me about his past when I approached him during spring break. That’s how my dad and I are similar. We would rather be moved than move on our own. My mom’s story had always been the story of the family, but I didn’t want to make it seem like my father’s story wasn’t just as important as my mother’s.

As a newborn in 1947, my father was born oblivious into a bloody, beaten world that had just crawled out from the battlefields of World War II, and he was caught in another war that would go on to cause more inconceivable damage to the world’s political relations. Lê Phung grew up in a poor village enclosed by old, rotting Catholic churches that stood as remnants of the French occupation in the late 19^th century. Even in 2012, when I visited my father’s home, the decrepit nature of the village could not be relieved. The main road to my dad’s home remained unpaved. The tunnels still only allowed people as its passersby, and cars were forced to turn around.

When my dad was young, he lived with his mother in a two-room cemented house. In this place, he felt perfectly content. My dad said he liked that he had his mother, because he only needed her.

As the Communists gained momentum, South Vietnam and the United States needed more men to enlist in armies. In my dad’s school, if a student couldn’t earn enough credits for school, he was forced into the army. My dad said that he never liked school, so he didn’t do well, but he wasn’t forced to go. My father wanted to enlist, because his friends did the same. To this day, he always reunites with his buddies when some anniversary of the naval academy comes up or when his friend invites him over for a chat.

And so, my dad left South Vietnam. At this time, he never knew that he’d leave his country at the age of 22, to join forces with the Vietnamese and American Navy. He couldn’t know that when he was able to receive sponsorship for entrance in the United States, he wouldn’t be able to contact or hear his mother’s voice for many years.

Now, I suppose after this, I can say that my dad happened to meet my mom over in the United States, got married, and fell in love. But I can’t. That’s just too simple.

In 1956, Dwight D. Eisenhower defeated Adlai Stevenson II to become the 34^th President of the United States. My mother, Pham Đông, came into the world around that time, born to Pham Duyên and Mai Thi Cat, a couple who ran a small, but marketable rice company in Nha Trang, Vietnam. At this time, Nha Trang had the cộng-sản, Viet Cong or the North Vietnamese communists, at the fringes of its boundaries.

 “It was during the time of the Vietnamese Lunar New Year,” she said, as she sat in front of the computer in the middle of a Youtube video about some obscure Vietnamese singer, “when I really noticed the world was ending. But I forgot what – oh wait—”

“Ba! Ba!” she said, using the Vietnamese word for my father who was actually sitting ten feet away from her, only he’s a bit hard of hearing. “What year was the –” and she went off talking in Vietnamese that I couldn’t understand.

“Ah,” my dad said back, his eyes thoughtful. He stood up, his hands slipping into his pockets. “It was 1968.”

“Really? But I thought –” My mom looked like she wanted to protest the date but stopped. Dates get fuzzy as one ages in years. “No, that’s right.”

On January 30 of 1968, the Viet Cong launched what is called Tết Offensive. Tết is the Vietnamese term for the New Lunar Year celebration. The communists and the South Vietnamese government had signed an agreement to put the Lunar New Year as a time of ‘cease fire.’

However, the Tết truce ended; the communists had broken their side of the agreement.  During this time, my uncle, Xon, returned from his position as part of a special force tasks in the Vietnamese army. When the Americans needed help landing on Vietnamese soil, they needed to make sure that the land was safe for their feet. The Viet Cong used to place boobytraps into the ground and if the Americans were dropped off in such areas, they’d lose more than just their feet.

My uncle’s job was to detect these bombs, in aid of the Americans. As the Vietnamese celebrated Tết, a time of color and loud, the air suddenly filled with cracks of what people thought were firecrackers.

But they weren’t firecrackers.

Xon knew this from his experience. Within minutes, he rushed his family, including my mom who was 12, into a tunnel located underneath the house’s kitchen. They stayed there for hours. When I went to Vietnam last summer, I stood in that same kitchen many times. We held family breakfast and dinners in such a tranquil space. I had no way of knowing that one of the safest places during 1968 existed underneath that kitchen. The numbers were never officially calculated, but in the aftermath of this offensive, the government estimated over 14, 000 dead victims due to the mass mortar attacks and ground assaults. Even underneath the tunnel, as she huddled with her family, my mom remembers bracing herself against the brisance of the mortar projectiles and hearing the rumbling of the aftershock, which sounded like the roar of a lion.

A few months later, Xon died.

In 1975, Saigon fell. Along with its government, its name also went away. The United States withdrew their forces. The war ended.

 Hồ Chí Minh City, named after the leader of the Democratic Republic of Vietnam, stands today as one of the most populous cities in the country. This is the time that many people remember. Thousands of Vietnamese demanded for relief, frightened by the prospects of the communist state that would rise from their beloved Saigon.  The name Hồ Chí Minh roughly translates to “Bringer of Light.” But this light was not the benevolent light that one looks forward to in a summer’s day. The fall brought the scorch of the Communist forces that would leave the Vietnamese screaming.

The United States amassed the largest helicopter rescue mission in history.  My mom tells me that when the Operation Frequent Wind started, the sky was never silent and never still. Operation Frequent Wind saw helicopters arrive in Saigon, to rescue the Americans who were still stationed there and the Vietnamese whose family had been part of the South Vietnamese government. Desperate families pushed through to take that one step onto the helicopter in hopes of escaping an uncertain future.

My mother and her family ran against time. Her half-brother Con used to be a high ranked official in the Hậu Nghĩa province, but when the Communists took over, they sent him to a reeducation camp. The term reeducation was only a euphemism; instead, former South Vietnamese government members were forced into labor, a means seen as repression tactics.

Con did all sorts of manual labor, from cutting crops in the fields to the dangerously scouring the mines. My uncle, already pompous and cranky, before his time in camp, became more sullen and quiet after emerging from this, my mom said. His experience changed him. With him imprisoned, my family became more exposed. They, along with much of their neighborhood, stood as opposition to the government.

With the impending danger prowling in the rice fields and jungles of Vietnam and the dead bodies of North and South Vietnamese scattered across the grounds of the country like leaves during the Fall, my mother began to plan her escapes.

“Two nights a week, the government would shut down all of the electricity,” my mom told me. “So in our homes, let’s see, we didn’t have light. The streets were also dark.”

“Wait, so how did you escape, Mẹ?” I asked her. “If it was so dark out –”

“That’s right. It was really dark. But that’s why it was the perfect time for us to escape,” she said in a conspiratorial tone as she leaned forward.

Escapees had two means of escapes that had the greatest chances of succeeding: go by foot into Thailand or go by boat to another country. Two of my closest cousins took the former route, because when they went in 1988, they had less money.

My mom, however, became a boat person.

If I told a stranger that I need to leave Connecticut and wanted him to give me a ride, I doubt that the stranger would say yes. But this was what escapees had to do. To escape, they had to know or meet someone with a boat. Instead of paying them with đồng, paper money, they paid them in gold. Gold had more valuable than paper, whose value constantly changed.

“We had to trust our guts,” my mom said.  “And sometimes, we were wrong.”

She tried to escape seven times. One time, her “helper” carried her into the South China Sea by boat, but then took her money, jumped ship, and left her there. Other times, she paid her helpers beforehand, but they never showed up. At least one time, officials caught her in the act. When this happened, my mom had two choices: go to jail or bribe the officials and get away. Her choice was a no-brainer.

Her father, mother, and sister passed in a rapid span of time, which furthered her determination to leave in order to live. Live when others couldn’t.

Freedom. Freedom. The sweet taste of mango on a summer’s day. That jump down a waterfall. The open air of an abandoned flower field. My mom wanted all of this so badly.

My mom found that chance of escape, that chance founded by luck, and she escaped with her 11-year-old nephew. Her sister, the sister’s husband, and their 13-month-old child also went along.

For seven days, my mom shared a wooden fisherman’s boat with 39 people. They had no food. Sickness did not discriminate by age or gender. Other boats had capsized, and no one was saved – even the children. When I was little, my mom told me stories about cannibals. She heard from other Vietnamese refugees that on one boat, a man was so hungry that he couldn’t contain himself. He snatched the nearest person, a girl about the age of 5 and took a bite of her arm. Then her leg. Then the other leg. No one stopped him. As a child, I thought this couldn’t be true.

In reality, it was true. Other horrible and inconceivable crimes against humans occurred during this time. Thai pirates scooped the Vietnamese women from the boats, in guise of offering help, but then they ended up brutally raping and pilfering them. Women suffered – but for what? They had only their skin and bones.

My mom didn’t want to meet her end in a boat, a boat that likely led to freedom. She had to move on. If anything, my mom had learned how to press forward in times of struggles. In an article by Robert Funseth, senior deputy assistant Secretary of State in 1986, he wrote that the exodus of boat people had “resulted in so much needless human suffering and death.” But I can’t fathom why he would write “needless.” He makes it sound like the Vietnamese had escaped in hopes of encountering that suffering. But really they had to choose: either suffer at the hands of others or suffer in their own journey when they still controlled their lives.

In escaping, my mom came closer to touching freedom.

Before my mom left Vietnam, she went to see an old woman that used to buy rice from her parents. That woman had lost her son years before, and she couldn’t find him. She missed him dearly because he was her only relative that she cared about. My mom told her about her plan to escape, and said that if she made it, if she survived to step foot on American soil, she’d look for that missing son.

That woman was my grandmother. Her son was and is my father.

My mother kept her promise. She didn’t know anything about my father, and she wasn’t that close to my grandmother at first. Yet she did keep that promise for an old forlorn woman. After spending a few years in Palawan, Philippines, as a refugee and also as a volunteer French translator, she entered the United States. There, she met up with a brother in Washington who had left before Saigon fell. Soon after, she moved to Connecticut with her sister who escaped with her.

The Vietnamese have the uncanny ability to keep in touch, even after years of separation. My mom keeps a booklet that has all the names of refugees in the Philippines, friends in Vietnam and family all over the United States.

A friend of my father’s also kept such a phonebook. He lived in San Diego and saw that ad in the newspaper, so he told my father.

After a series of love letters that my dad refuses to admit to writing, in 1988, my father and my mother wed.

“So she won me over,” my father finished. The 63-year-old at the end of his tale gave me a nearly toothless smile. “And that was the end of my freedom.”

When I told my mother the first part (the second part just ruined the whole sentimental value), my mom burst into tears or anything like that. She just turned to my dad, who stood next to me. “You idiot,” she muttered in Vietnamese, a smile on her face. My dad started to laugh. I didn’t understand them, but I didn’t ask.

In college, I’m becoming more aware that I exist, and therefore my successes exist, because of my parents. One time, just like I am now as a young journalist uncertain of my paths in life, they were scared and uncertain about the future. But, I am the child of fighters.

Pham Thi Đông. Lê Phung.

I am Lê Đông Loan. My brother and sister also share the same middle name and last name.

In this way, I like to think that my parents imbrued their names in their children’s names, so that we too are marked as fighters, capable of taking on any task which we might have to encounter. Like my mother, my father, and other brave relatives, I know how to move forward. And I will, with the reminder of the past in mind.

update on life; happy things

So many good things are happening in my life right now, but I'm afraid the euphoria I feel will soon fade. If something good happens, I always think that something bad will follow it. Most of the time, I find my prediction is true. One day, I'll have a perfect day; I'll get up in time for class, go to the gym and eat healthy. The next day, I'll be running late, I'll get a bad grade in class, and I get into an argument with a friend. I don't know how I've gotten that type of notion in my head, but it really needs to stop. The pattern needs to stop.

As indicated by my previous post, I've recently been promoted to the role of Executive Editor on Fairfield University's The Mirror. It's a daunting task, to know that I will have to oversee the whole newspaper rather than a seven-paged section in the paper. However, I know that I can do it. I've worked my way from assistant editor to director in freshman year. I'm a hard worker. I'm enthusiastic. I'm confident in my skills. My section has really improved since last year, and people are noticing, thankfully. As the Executive Editor, I won't be required to work too much with layout, like I have in the past. I'll be reviewing the finished product, and I'll be giving my comments to the editors before the paper goes to print. I'll be working alongside the Editor-in-Chief Martin O'Sullivan, who also happens to be a close friend of mine. I know that next year's The Mirror will be really successful because Martin and I are a good team now, so give us a few more months and we'll be top notched. I'll be sad to leave the paper in January of 2013 when I go abroad, but I still hope to contribute in small ways.

Also, I received a call from Simon & Schuster about an interview. I applied for an editorial internship in the summer, and I sent in my cover letter and resume, and they answered right away. I will be going into the city next Wednesday. I'm extremely nervous, of course, because this interview will determine my fate for the summer. I asked one of my professors to help with a mock interview, so I'll be doing that on Sunday. Now, what should I wear? ;)

I feel like school has become second priority to me now. It's not like I'm not doing well in classes, or I'm skiving on my academic responsibilities...it's more like the newspaper now consumes much of my time! Instead of waking up in the morning and thinking about homework I have to do, I think about the paper and what needs to be done for that.

I've been writing constantly; because of my major I do it every day. I've written some short fiction and nonfiction. They need to be revised, so I'll post them when I'm ready. I love how writing has become something like second nature to me. I don't know what I'd do without it.

With my Memoir Writing class especially, I'm learning how to write honestly. I was so used to fiction that I found myself lying in the first draft of my memoir. Maybe I felt like I needed to impress my classmates. Maybe I didn't want to confront the Truth at first, as I reviewed my memory. Maybe I just didn't know.

But I took some time. I thought about it long and hard, and came to one conclusion: What's so bad about telling the truth? I assumed everyone in class was doing the same thing, and so, it was okay to be vulnerable. Writing was a battle at first, because I found myself constantly using the backspace key to erase my lies. In the end, the Truth ended up writing itself.

What more can I say? I'm just really thankful to be alive right now.

No Longer Yours

No Longer Yours

You entered my life
so seamlessly
and weaved a web
around an oblivious me.

You said 'hi, baby,'
with that Hollywood smile
and kissed my hand --
I felt light for miles.

Late nights we whispered
about the future,
of night kisses, warm hugs
and innocent laughter.

I thought we'd be
Sweethearts forever --
A force that was pure
A love that couldn't be severed.

But

It was Friday night
And we were kissing and cuddling
Your hands trailed down,
then I said no.

Then you lifted up my shirt--
 I said no.
You unbuttoned my pants
I said no.
You ripped off my panties
 I said no.
You wrung my wrists,

And broke me.

It burned, baby, it burned.
I screamed NO NO and NO.

No.

Did my screaming turn you on?
Did I feel good to you?
Did you like the scent of the tears
that streamed down my face?

After, the door slammed.
I lay in my bed
despair and hurt
swimming through my head.

I let myself get carried away
in your illusion.
And in that night
I received no reprieve.

My innocence gone
and so my soul,
I was broken,
Beaten, hurt and losing control.

I thought back
to the day we were 'us'
That moment my eyes met yours
I knew I was yours.

But being yours shouldn't mean
I can't be me.
So don't mind me:
I'm setting myself free.

It wasn't my fault,
Despite what you say.
You were the one who did it;
I didn't choose to throw myself away.

When they took you away,
To that hellhole,
Where you'll surely stay,
I lit up your things,

and I said:

"Burn, baby, burn."

From the ashes rose a
Deliciously warm,
Deliriously perfect,
New sense of
Hope.

Baby, you had my heart,
Trapped in your grasp.
Watch yourself, boy -
I'm taking it back.

The Onion

HOLLISTER SUED FOR NOT HAVING ENOUGH GODDAMN LIGHTS IN STORE

MOLINE–A senior citizen sued a Hollister in Timberland’s Mall after she fell and broke her hip because she couldn’t fucking see under the dim lighting of the store.

Molly Hayes, 66, was buying a present for her 3-year-old grandchild Maggie, and thought Hollister seemed like an appropriate place to shop.

“Well, first when I entered, I went into the men’s section because I couldn’t see,” Hayes recounted. “Then as I was getting to the back of the store–because that’s the stuff people can actually afford–I tripped over one of the store attendants. We both walked into each other; that girl was grasping the tables, trying to find her way through.”

Hayes then fell over and cracked her right hip bone on the corner of a table. The store attendant, who was not hurt, yelled at her to grow a fucking bone. “But I can’t grow one,” Hayes replied sadly.

The other customers in the store did absolutely nothing, and just continued shopping in the overpriced store.

Director of Fucking Up Things Tyler Yankerstein explained the reason for Hollister’s unique decor. He wrote in an email riddled with typos: “We make the lighting dimm because we have really ugly people who work 4 us, and we want to make sure that customerrrs don’t have to face these people and go bilnd. Instead, we make the customers go blind 1st.”

Yankerstein reported that they might change the lighting in the fitting rooms, because he believes that the change will prevent customers from actually buying the clothes once they are able to truly see what the fuck they have on.

Figment Challenge 5: Dancing with Myself

Boring day.

I can't wait to go back to school! I'm getting all of my books for English class, and they all look so readable! ; )

I made dinner for the family. Chicken Fettuccine Alfredo with garlic and parsley bread and broccoli. I've had the urge to cook for the past few weeks - maybe because I've been watching the Food Network so much! Good thing I can't get fat by looking at all of the yummy food they make on the channel...

I wrote another piece for the Figment challenge. It's short and sweet. I posted another long story really early in the morning (oh yeah, double post!). I had so much fun writing it...and thanks for Marie for reading it and giving me a few edits. I should probably go and edit it myself, but I kind of want to let it set for awhile, and then put my finishing touches on it :)

Here's the comedy piece:

It's called "Dancing with Myself."

Dance break: Narrate a character’s thoughts while he or she is in the midst of some serious dancing. (The character can be the most reluctant hoofer ever or Balanchine himself, but in this moment, this guy is getting down.)

My favorite move is the Sprinkler. It's an art form, but people don't know that, because it's never done the right way. If the Sprinkler is done just right, it's like magic. How do I know this? Well, when I do the Sprinkler, people always stop dancing and stare at me in complete awe.

Like now.

As I dance in the center spotlight of Nolan's Bar, there is a couple next to me, grinding. Their rhythm is very off--after all, how can you grind to Miley Cyrus' "Party in the USA?" One: it's disturbing. Two: It's disturbing that they are dancing so provocatively to the same song that tweens so enthusiastically sing.

The girl, a tall, long-legged brunette, catches my eye. I see her under the dim light, and we definitely have a connection. Yeah, I know she should be grinding on me. Yeah, I know she wants me. But I'm sorry to disappoint. Dancing is my thing. I don't need any partner but the beat. We've had a thing going on for years.

I suddenly jump up and dive back down, going for that one legged split I know I could pull off. I've been practicing on Friday and Saturday nights. My previous girlfriends girlfriend always liked the move too. But once I land, I hear the unmistakable sound of fabric ripping.

Everyone gasps. The DJ stops playing.

I feel a light draft near my bottom, which I didn't feel before....

"Oh shit."

A Long Story

Look guys! I wrote a piece that's not totally depressing. It's more about exploring friendship and family dynamics. Just a warning: it's really long (15 pages-double spaced); I didn't intend it to be this way, but I just kept writing (started this the 11th) and didn't want to stop. It's not titled yet--I'm so bad at those...EDIT: Title!

But definitely let me know what you think about it!

When You Least Expect it

"Elizabeth."

Elizabeth froze, her hand gripping the car door.

She shouldn't have been surprised to run into him. After all, they've lived close to each other since they were toddlers. It showed the strength of their friendship in seeing that even after 34 years, they still knew each other. Well, their friendship was strong - until two months ago.

Ty spotted her first. She and her coworkers Marcus and Lily were just leaving a Chinese restaurant. She would have never seen him, because she was just  getting in her car when she heard his voice, the sound of which she memorized as a young girl.

She turned, inevitably knowing that she couldn't avoid him.

She came to face with first his light brown eyes, the same that always showed his every emotion. His hair, which used to be dark brown and windswept, was finally cut, framing his narrow face more and making him seem older than his 34 years. He was dressed in a pair of relaxed zip-fly chinos and navy blue cashmere V-neck sweater.

"Ty," Elizabeth said, not bothering to hide her surprise. Alex and Manchester, two of Ty's closest friends at the company where he worked as a computer programmer were with him. They stood in the background. In the past, she and Ty and them had gone out a few times for drinks together.

They waved awkwardly at her.

Marcus, who was just about to enter the front seat, watched Elizabeth who didn't seem to be able to speak. He was the eldest out of all the company that gathered around his car. He worked as Elizabeth and Lilly's supervisor. Even though complete strangers, he shared a glance with Manchester and Alex. He sensed some history between his coworker and the man.  

 "So," he drawled, taking note at how the man was looking at Elizabeth almost pleadingly. "How do you know each other?"

Ty swallowed. He seemed like he wanted to talk, but he could do nothing look at Elizabeth, take in the sight of someone who used to be in his life every day.

Marcus looked expectantly at Elizabeth, whose eyes suddenly hardened, a deadly sight at work. When someone messed up at the corporate firm that she worked at, she let them know. The workers  knew by her eyes exactly what Elizabeth thought of them.

"We used to be friends." Now, at that moment, she didn't register how much it actually hurt to see him physically flinch at the dismissive tone in her voice. But then she thought about how he deserved to hurt.

Marcus, noting the tense situation, smiled - a bit sadly at her. "Well, okay. Ah, I should drive you home now, Elizabeth. Let's go then."

Even as they drove away, she let her eyes stray to the rear view mirror, where the sight of Ty was getting smaller and smaller. He stood still, watching her all the same. Her mind went back to two months ago, when everything seemed almost perfect.  

Figment Challenge 4 and other stuff

Today, I had a lovely time with Alyssa and Marie. We made a delicious dish of chocolate pecan brownies with fried banana and caramel sprinkled on top. Yum!

It was great to just sit around and chat and I hope we can do it again later on this week.

Awkward story time: So, for the past months, my mom and her sister haven't been talking. Some things went down in Vietnam, and they didn't turn out so well. I felt like half the family was torn apart, and sometimes it saddens me to think about what could have been. Well, my cousin, daughter of that aunt, bought Christmas presents for my sister and I. To get them, we had to go to Waterbury to our aunt's house.

It was quiet strange--being in a house that you've been to a lot of times and feeling like a stranger. I talked to my aunt and I could see that she was starting to tear up--I know that she misses my mom and my mom misses her. They're sisters--they're bonded by blood. It's impossible not to miss your other half.

It felt good to see her. We didn't talk about my mom, but she was on our minds the whole time.

A few minutes ago, we called our cousin to say thank you for our gifts--I got a pair of leather gloves--and I talked for a few minutes with her. I never got along with her--not that we hated each other, it's just that we never had anything in common. But as I was speaking to her over the phone, I felt, I don't know, longing. I liked hearing her voice again.

This just reminds me how family is not something you can forget...

Anyways, I was also inspired to write another short story with a Figment prompt I received today. Here it is:

Using third person, write about a moment when a character who usually feels (and perhaps is) painfully awkward temporarily feels singularly beautiful, handsome, sexy, and at ease.

Contrary to popular belief, the cafeteria was not a complete animal kingdom. Each table kept to itself. All conversations were focused at the tables. Girls gossiped about the latest celebrity news--something about Beyonce and her baby. Guys talked about various sports and arguments would erupt from opposing sides.

Ben didn't fit into any conversation. He had little care for the celebrity world and sports world. Not to mention that he was relatively unknown to anyone. He wasn't particularly smart, maybe average. He couldn't play sports for his life. He dressed like any teenage boy with his t-shirt, sweater, and jeans.

It wasn't that he was a victim to any social injustice. He just...didn't seem to exist. There was always someone like that. People never glanced at him. Teachers glossed over his name during attendance, without meaning to. He also tended to stumble over his words when reading out loud in literature classes. Add that to his list of problems.

Ben was used to it. In fact, he was sure he'd have to deal with the same thing all his life. His parents always discouraged his pessimistic thinking, but Ben didn't think it would help to fool himself. A realist, he called himself.

Ben sighed as he pushed around chili with his fork. Even the food at his high school couldn't hold his attention. He decided his appetite was done, so he gathered his tray to stand and head over to the trashcans--

--then he heard a crash, and he, startled, emerged from his self-imposed silent bubble.

At the same moment, all talk stopped. Heads turned to see what the sudden commotion was all about. Someone had tripped and her tray had toppled out of her hand and mixes of fruit juice, chili and dessert crumbs crashed to the floor. To make things worse, the girl looked like she had landed in the pile.

The girl's name was Sara.

Sara was the girl that everyone knew. With her bright eyes, easy fashion sense and involvement in various extracurricular clubs, she was well-liked. Even Ben knew her--and that's saying something. Ben didn't like to keep up with profiles of his classmates. Sara was in his U.S. History class and sat in the middle and occasionally answered questions the teacher would ask.

The only thing Ben puzzled over were her friends. They didn't mesh with Sara; they always seemed to look at her for leadership, but she seemed adamant to not be anything like that. When she wasn't around, her friends were ravenous and soul-sucking fiends. They liked to target the weak.

Ben heard the girls would steal other girls' boyfriends without remorse. They'd shoplift for fun. They'd make a meek girl cry for entertainment. Ben hated girls like that. It made Ben feel thankful that he was invisible. Yet, Sara seemed oblivious or maybe she knew about these incidences but didn't want to do anything.

Ben wondered why an accidental fall and the sound of a cup clattering across the floor always garnered extreme reactions.

The cafeteria roared in laughter. Some boys at the next table yelled, "Nice!" They started to clap their hands like imbeciles. Ben thought they sounded like pigs.

Sara glanced around the room and probably saw what he saw every day--the mocking, the amused and the curious--and she quickly ducked her head. She began gathering her tray together, but Ben know she was probably more worried about her dignity then the mess on the floor.  He couldn't believe there was no one to help her--not even her friends. He didn't think her "friends" would be so callous to leave her there, since they always were desperate for her attention.

With only a minute of hesitation, he left his seat and his sneakers squeaked as he trekked over the food pile. Ben bent down, taking the tray from a blushing and embarrassed Sara. He carried it over to his table, mindful of the stares he was receiving.

Ben unzipped his sweater, half sure he might be rejected for his next move. In a moment of silence between the two, he offered her his sweater. Sara glanced down at it, her mouth dropping open slightly.

When she didn't move, he pressed forward again.

Sara reached over to take it. "Thanks," she said, gazing up at him in wonder. She slid her arms through the holes and zipped it up. The sweater was unfortunately white before the incident. However, her jeans were still covered with lunch food.

With a hand behind his neck, Ben shrugged modestly. He had plenty of sweaters at home, and didn't think he'd miss that one.

Behind him, he heard the snickers of guys and girls--Ben has a crush on Sara!--but he was used to it and ignored it. At least he did something, rather than sit there while she was only a few feet from his table.

Something else--maybe a fart or an undignified burp--took the attention away from the pair, and as quickly as it started, Ben and Sara's moment was over. The bell rung. Backpacks swung across backs, seats were pushed into various directions and chatters rose to the maximum decibel.

Ben, feeling like he had to say something, turned to Sara, who still stood with her hands clasped in front of her, and said, "Well, bye." After that eloquent response and with reasons unbeknownst to him, Ben turned once more and nearly jogged out of the lunch room.

The next day, the incident had left his mind.

It was towards the end of the day. Ben wasn't in a good mood, because he just left his history class where they had a test. He didn't study, obviously, and knew his parents wouldn't like the grade that was coming. At his lockers, Ben was gathering his books into his bookbag, and as he was searching for his Chemistry book, someone tapped him on his shoulder.

He turned and saw Sara there. She gave a little wave, to which he returned with his own awkward one.

"Hey, Ben."

He tried to hide his surprise at her knowing his name and somehow, he answered, "Hey."

Sara pushed something towards him, and with one look, Ben saw it was his maroon sweater that he gave to her yesterday.

"Thanks for this, you know." Ben noticed she had an accent, but it was quiet--like a whisper. He thought it was nice to hear it in her voice, and he missed it yesterday. "Some of the stuff on my shirt got on it...so I washed it."

"Oh," Ben said. He smiled slightly, noting how she had folded his sweater in the same way his mom would. "You didn't have to."

"Yeah, well," Sara giggled nervously. "I mean, it was the least I could do." She glanced behind Ben, at his locker, then they locked eyes again. "You're in my history class, right." It wasn't a question.

"Um, yeah," Ben answered. He then thought it was pathetic how he could even hesitate in such answer. He closed his locker, shouldering his backpack. "So...what'd you think of that test we just had?"

Sara's eyes widened, and suddenly, Ben realized how easy it was to talk to someone.

Before he knew it, Sara was talking about her fears of failing the class, and there he was, listening attentively, walking beside her down the hallway, the sweater tucked under his arms.

I liked this piece, it was easy to write. Until next time!

Obligatory Post about the New Year

I've always told my parents that I'd be content to live alone and not feel any homesickness, regret, or sadness. The notion of being a grown woman with only herself to think about was so appealing for me, as I yearn to be independent.

I've told my friends that I never used to talk when I was younger--an accurate fact. In school, I could go a week without talking, but teachers never liked that so they made me. It was in these moments that I thought it wasn't so bad to be voiceless.

But then I became a writer and later a journalist. Having a voice is a requirement for my field; so is being social in some aspects.

Nevertheless, I still enjoy solitude. It's surprisingly hard to achieve at school. People say your dorm room can be your spot for retreat, but Erin and Eric are somehow always in the room when I am. Other times I'm in my classes. Most of times I'm in the office, working feverishly with other stressed journalists.

It's New Years Eve, and while other families make a whole party over a day that's not even a holiday--not to mention an occasion where your likelihood to recollect the night before is very low--my family's celebration is a small matter. Very small.

I'm alone in this house for the night.

Dan is back in Arizona, doing something military. An has gone to Boston to celebrate New Years and a friends's 21st birthday. Tonight will be quite a night for her, I'm sure. I urged my parents to go to the casino tonight because, well, I told them I'm sick and that they'd have more fun gambling then at home.

Both statements are true, mind you. After a year of being totally healthy, I've come down with a nasty cough and burning body.

I'm not happy at the moment, if I'm to be honest--but I'm not sad. I just feel discontent, disconnected and restless. I think I actually miss people.

Don't fret! It'll pass. The feeling always does. I just have to preoccupy myself with little tasks. For one, I'm writing this post. I've done some laundry. I'm listening to this:

"Full Sail" by Ryan Farish [YOUTUBE]

 

Excellent. I also cooked pasta and made a random meal out of it.

Though the other times I've been alone for the night, the notion of drinking wine never crossed my mind. But now, I thought: What the hell? It's not like my parents have it locked up.

In less than five hours, the ball in New York will drop and bring 2012 into our lives.

The single will commit to finding a new love interest. The coupled will hope for a fuller year. The parents will wish to miraculously win the state jackpot in order to afford their children's education. College girls will try to lose weight. College guys will attempt to work out more and hopefully get laid.

A writer like me, I imagine, will commit to a new year of more writing and the goal of getting published (I just have to write something really good. Yeah. Easy, right?).

For now, I'll enjoy my tuna pasta and cheap red wine.

Happy New Years.

And cheers.

Mamihlapinatapai

 Mamihlapinatapai.

Guinness Book of World Records says this is the most succinct word in the world. The term comes from the Yaghan language, a nearly extinct means of spoken communication in Tierra del Fuego. The Yaghan language is what linguists refer to as a language isolate, meaning it did not arise from another language around its geography.

Mamihlapinatapai means: a look shared by two people with each wishing that the other will initiate something that both desire but which neither one wants to start). I can't believe I used to believe 'defenestrate' was the coolest word ever! Mamihlapinatapai takes the spot now. 

I have to learn how to pronounce it now...:/

A couple of months ago I attempted to write a story based on the word. I made it into a comedy...sort of? Eh, I'm not sure if I successfully did it--I think I'm funny, but I'm really not....sad, I know.

Let's hear what other people think.

 Mamihlapinatapai

I’m in hell. I just know it.

Dinner at Kate’s house is always a big affair, with a five course meal, incessant and perfunctory questions about our married life (but nothing about the bedroom scene,) and the constant silent threat of death coming from Mr. Kelly.

Geez, Kate’s dad is sending me a glare again. Way to make me feel more comfortable, Mr. Kelly. I’ve been married to Kate for three years now, and I still want to piss in my pants every time he looks at me. I can’t even call him ‘Jason.’

Wait, Kate just smiled at me. That’s the signal, right?

Why does she have to be so gorgeous and sweet and funny and—doesn’t she know that this will be the last time she’ll get to smile at me? I mean, after her parents—no, correction, Mr. Kelly—finds out about what I’ve done to their daughter—regardless, of how totally mind-blowing it’s been—

No!

Sam Johnson, you’re about to die. Don’t think about amazing sex.

As Kate slips her hand into mine, I feel that bump that she has on her third finger from too many years of holding a pencil or pen the wrong way. It comforts me; she’s in the same dilemma as I am. So I turn my head to look at her again. She raises an eyebrow and then slightly jerks her head to her parents’ direction.

They’re oblivious right now, because Kate’s sister’s boyfriend is talking, and everyone knows how super duper awesome Jake Rivera is.

That prick. He’s an asshole; even Kate thinks so. He’s a fucking computer programmer so he doesn’t know shit about Foucault. I’m the English professor. Ph.D. here. He thinks he knows more about Foucault than me? Idiot. Just because he makes more money than me, doesn’t mean he’s awesomer.

Wait, that’s not even a word.

But regardless, I am—

Kate squeezes my hand. No, more like tugs at it. Her eyes get narrow—the same way they always do when I accidentally shrink her clothes while on laundry duty. It’s the ‘are you going to fess up or will I have to twist your dick?’ look that I’m oh-so-fond of.

What, Kate?

No, why do I have to start?

Don’t give me that look, Kate. You know how I can’t--

OW!

Why do pregnant women have abominably strong legs?

I take a small breath and clear my throat.

Even though this is the one moment where I actually don’t want people to pay attention to me, everyone at the table stops what they’re doing. They turn to look expectedly at me. Even Jake Rivera stopped talking, and that’s saying something.

“Daaaaad, mahmmmm,” Kate begins eagerly, elongating her vowels like she does when she has something controversial—or to her, exciting—to say. She gives me another smile, squeezing my hand.

Here goes nothing.

“Everyone,” I begin, “Kate and I are…”

Rest in peace, Sam Johnson.

“…going to have a baby.”

Perfect and Pretty

You hear the tumultuous roars of petty fans and news reporters as they thrust their cameras and microphones in your face. You tease them, give them a smile or pose here or there (the voices get louder), but you never stop to talk to them.

You hear whispers of conversation about your latest date with Michael Manson, the hockey player who has blond hair and sweet eyes. You laugh at the irony -- oh, how you despise him. Michael tracked you down and was actually trying to get you in bed, that much you knew. You hate men like him.

You much preferred Mark Bernsen, the quiet scholar you once knew in your small town in the Midwest. He liked to write you haikus about the sun and lillies because you loved both things. He made you a bracelet out of dandelions. But then you turned pretty in sophomore year of high school, and people didn't like it when you wanted to get out. You never talked to Mark again.

"Let me out," you think as you glance at a mirror. You're in the make-up room now, back stage, getting ready for a high-end and popular fashion show. Your agent said you just had to do this show, and your popularity would increase by tenfold if you only went. You see that your eyes are vibrant green, thanks to color contact lenses. Purposely messy black hair, green smoky eye makeup and an emotionless face glance back at you.

"Hey, girl," someone says behind you. You turn and blink away the blinding fluorescent lights in the room. You see Tami--just Tami, since she just changed her name--and put on a smile.

"Hi," you say back. Tami starts talking about the latest model scandals. Tabloids caught Ashley Tine heading out for some night time fun and she flashed her breasts at the paparazzi. Stephanie Boarman lost her agent because she gained ten pounds over the summer.

Tami's high-pitched laugh hurts your ears. When she turns away to get something from her bag, your eyes trace the protruding bones of her spine and you suppress a shudder.

"--hate that pout that Leslie does. It's, like, what--did you just eat something sour?"

"Five more minutes, ladies!" The stage manager announces. Some of the models groan and yell at their makeup artists to hurry up. Designers weave through the aisles of flashy clothes, checking each of the models' outfits with keen eyes.

"Lovely, just lovely," one of the flamboyant designers whispers to you. You feel warm suddenly and you caress the silk of your verdant gown. Someone adjusts the straps of your 5-inch black stiletto heels from Louis Vuitton. They cost more than what you were paid annually at your high school part-time job. You already feel the sting of incoming blisters on your heels.

“Okay, so just walk out and you know, work it. Make a pose like this—” The designer does something odd that you wouldn’t be able to copy — “and sexify it.”

The music coming from behind the curtains changes and you know that you’re up. The other model walks back inside and your shoulders brush as you passed her.

You reach the middle and FLASH.

Cameras on the left, right and center blind you. The audience gasps as they take in your gown, your hair—perfection, you think they were thinking.

You have to admit, as you strut down the runway: you love the eyes, feasting on your body, because you know you worked hard for it.

You've earned everything.

At the final lineup, you glance out at the crowd you suddenly remember when you stood at the end of your first your piano recital, and your parents were on their feet, yelling their hearts out for you. Today, they are not there to see you shine.

You feel your smile slip, but you slightly shake your head, and you're gorgeous again.

The show ends like usual. Fashion magazine representatives approach you about deals, but your agent blocks them—something you are thankful for. Your agent knows you better than most people, and knows you always get tired after the shows. He has a bodyguard lead you to the pickup limousine, but on the way, more people bombard you.

“Is it true that you slept with Michael yesterday? Sources say you went into a hotel with him.”

You were never near a hotel.

“People think you are gaining a bit of weight. What can you say about that?”

You like to eat, so what?

“Are you addicted to laxatives?”

Please stop, you think.

The bodyguard roars at the hyenas to move away and he puts a hand on your back, guiding you into the car. The door slams shut and the noise disappears.

In the car, you let out a shaking breath. Your driver, who you recognize, hears you and asks if you're okay. You smile--that same smile on that Ralph Lauren ad you did a couple of months ago ("Perfect and Pretty") and nod.

He pushes the button to let the divider rise up, and then you are alone. You start crying, tears falling down your pretty face.

Forum games are fun.

On a boring day, I always want to write. But the whole day, I couldn't get started. My screenplay (yes, I'm writing one!) sat abandoned next to me. I had "Sex and the City" on the television in front of me (though I wasn't watching it at all). I also consumed a huge bowl of pasta in a matter of ten minutes. 

Yes, what an eventful day.

Luckily, Figment held a forum game at 4. Participants had to write a story in about ten rounds. The round, lasting five minutes, alternated between a free write and a restriction that had to be set on the story. The stories in each round were then graded on a point system; the judge was Jennifer Lynn Barnes, author of the young adult book "Every Other Day." 


To my greatest delight, I was one of three winners, so I now get a copy of "Every Other Day." Here's what I wrote (warning, it's my usual dark stuff).

I haven't edited anything--so excuse the mistakes!

Round 1: Free write

The day my dad killed my mom I was hiding under the kitchen sink, frozen in an innocent game of hide-and-seek.


I didn't want to go to school that day, so I played sick. Of course, my mom saw through my act--even though I was moaning and groaning, I didn't show any signs of a fever. I guess getting caught was something predictable--it was my first time pretending.


Surprisingly, Mom didn't yell at me. Instead, I feel like she wanted me home. With me at school and Dad always at work, she was always alone in the house.

Round 2: Sentences have to be in rhyming pairs.

As I crouched underneath the sink, my back ached. In the midst of it all, my body quaked.


"Dan," I heard my mom whisper Dad's name, and I imagined her eyes wide.


Through a creak in the cabinet, I spied.


Round 3: Free write


I saw that the smile that I imagined on Mom's face disappeared, the playful gleam in our game of hide-and-seek gone. 


I turned my eyes to Dad. In the morning, my dad had left dressed in his usual business suit, but he must have left his jacket back at work, because he only wore a shirt and tie now.


"Didn't expect me home at this time, huh, Margaret?" he said with a small smirk on his face. I suddenly felt scared, uncomfortable; I've never seen him look that way at her.


"No, I mean--you didn't say anything." My mom moved from her place near the fridge and approached dad. She placed a hand on his chest, but Dad glanced down at it, then quickly stepped back. 


Mom let her arm drop her side.

The Asian Curse

Asian Curse

By Loan Le 

Humorous (I hope) Fiction (with a little bit of nonfiction)

It’s impossible to look cool when you’re part of a tour group.

Especially if you're Asian and you're visiting an unfamiliar place with your Asian family (and that one awkward American addition).

You look on with disgust at how your uncle-who's-not-really-your-uncle-but-connected-in-some-way-only-now-you-call-him-with-some-honorific-title is dressed in the typical Asian outfit -- polo shirt tucked jeans with a belt holding back his gut belly --spits as he lectures the whole like a tour guide. For extra Asianness, he also wears a pair of eighties glasses.

You try not to roll your eyes when your Aunt brags about her daughter who's going to Harvard University, because you know it'd be disrespectful and you might get a chopstick lashing from your mom later for your disrespect. Instead you put on an interested face and ask what kind of study techniques your cousin uses. You don't even ask what kind of major your cousin's going for; it's obvious she's going to add to the family of doctors.

You feel utter sympathy for the American guy who just had to fall in love with a really nice Asian woman, but an Asian woman came with a lot of packages--and that included her family, who, although they don't say it aloud, mourn the fact that she didn't marry an Asian. The family likes the American well enough though. But it's clear that the American gets confused sometimes, but you give him props because he's still part of the family.

You look on amused when one of your family members goes up to a stranger to ask for him to take a photo of the family. That amusement quickly turns to annoyance when you hear the stranger ask your relative to repeat himself. Honestly, his accent is not that bad. So you go up to the stranger -- surpressing the urge to smack him when seeing relief on his face -- and ask the question again. He nods eagerly then.

You trudge back to your twenty-something Asian family members (and White person), dragging your feet and praying to Buddha that they don't do that stupid Asian sign. The stranger count loudly and slowly, and you open your mouth to curse at him when the flash goes on.

You then realize later on, after checking the camera for the picture, that about half of your family's eyes are closed. Curse, the Asian features.