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Wednesday, April 30, 2008

  • your book, my book, our book - the opening

    september 12, 2007

    For everyone, life begins and ends in the same manner, but what sets us apart and makes us unique are the events that come in between. From the moment we are first conceived to our final breath, our lives are affected by decisions: those of our parents, those of our peers, and of course, our own. Each decision leads us down a different path, to different experiences, weaving different stories. High school is but a small part in the grand scheme of things, yet the decisions we make: our friends, our classes, the clubs we join, and even the grades we make will shape the rest of our lives.

    This year brings many changes, a juxtaposition of good and bad. We’re moving into a brand new school building, and along with that, leaving behind our strange little pods. After four long years, the seniors are graduating and moving on to bigger and better things, but they’re also leaving behind a slew of memories and underclassmen friends. And lastly, we see the introduction of exams after winter break, and with it, affirmation that our brains do erase all of first semester during those two weeks off.

    At the same time, much remains the same. Football games on Friday nights where we spend as much time talking and laughing as we do actually paying attention (and always jolting back to watching the game when the scoreboard changes, among questions of “Wait, what just happened?”), Homecoming, Blazer Daze, RNE Daze, Winter Days, Hearts Day...the list goes on and on, all the while fitting in time to study for that big test and write frantically the day before our English papers are due. Construction’s ending; life’s moving on.

    Together, we are making up the story of you and me. How will we remember you? Hop on board, ‘cause like it or not, this is your story as much as it is mine, bound inextricably by the high school we share, for better or for worse.

Monday, April 28, 2008

  • it's the beginning of the end.

    april 28, 2008
    As our lives change, come whatever, we will still be friends forever.

    My senior year can be summed up with song lyrics. Look at this photograph; everytime I do it makes me laugh. Sappy serenades to graduation and memories abound, and sometimes I wonder what we've come to, that my yearbook closing made half the girls in my class cry.

    I've spent the past few weeks in a fever of activity: final studying for AP exams, softball, prom, and preparing myself for the separation that'll occur this summer. My friends and I are going separate ways, to Furman, to Presbyterian College, to Anderson University, to Georgia Tech, to MIT, to conquer the world. One in particular is flying several hundred miles away to Cornell, in the little thing called Ithaca, and he's never coming back. That may be an overstatement, but his parents are divorced and moving, to India and New York, respectively. What does he have to come back to? For some of us, it really is good-bye, indefinitely, and for others, it's more of a halfhearted, empty promise to visit sometime or get together someplace.

    Who knows? Thinking about this makes me sad.

    So I say let's make the best of tonight...here comes the rest of our lives.

Tuesday, December 11, 2007

  • a-b-c

    december 11, 2007

    Ma, dui bu qi.

    I'm going away soon, you know. And now, it almost feels like it's too late to say the important things. Thank you. I love you. I'm sorry.

    But at the same time, I'll never forget them - the nights you stayed up with me because I was sick, the time and love you've put into raising me, the sacrifices you've made to get our family through everything, the times you actually said the right thing and understood, and especially the lifelong habits and lessons you've passed on to me. Thank you, for never giving up on me.

    Growing up, you put so much pressure on me. And now, I understand that it was just because you loved me, and you did it because you knew that your expectations would serve me in the long-run. Everything you've done for me, I recognize, though there may be even more hidden acts of love that I've overlooked. The tears I've shed and embarrassments you've forced me through seem so petty now - paying for myself in a grocery store, using coupons, rejecting telemarketers - by overcoming them, you've made me stronger and more mature. Until this year, I don't think I ever told you, but I love you, very very much.

    And though I know and see and feel your love, it's simply not the Chinese way to apologize. So for all the times we've fought - and it was really my fault (of which, I admit there have been thousands) - I don't recall every really apologizing. It felt too awkward to make up, to actually forgive, and so much easier to just forget. I know though, that we've never quite forgotten those times. And so, I'm sorry that I couldn't always be the daughter you wanted me to be. I'm sorry I'm never around and I haven't ever really been around for you. I'm sorry I haven't given enough back to really thank you. I'm sorry for everything.

    Am I not Chinese? Do I not look Chinese? But do I not speak English? Am I not American?

    Growing up, and even now, I've struggled to find my identity. I've always thought you hindered me in my search, but now I see what you've done, mistakes and all, and I respect you for it.

    I am the interface between a polar and nonpolar solution - the rich culture of China and the rich opportunities of America. We have deemed this interfacial position, A-B-C.

Saturday, December 01, 2007

  • the guns of august

    may 3, 1867

    The other day, I was reflecting on my tragedies. It was after a friend had remarked upon my apathy, that I could not possibly be alive. My indignation focused not the physical ones, so to speak; not the scars or the familial holes or even the sting of my most recent embarrassments. My tragedies typically revolved around what I haven't done or what I never had the courage to do. Surely, such emotion proved my humanity.

    The gravity of my sins is mainly defined by my own psychological judge: the apology I should have made, but never did; the words I said that I can never take back; the enemies I've made; the list goes on and on. And while I haven't ever killed a man - sometimes, I sure could kill my sister. At least, my vivid imagination provides all details surrounding.

    And it's always like this, in my acute moments of thought, the regrets and guilt overwhelm me. My heart fully repents and avows to pray more, study harder.

    The brief sensation of drowning, of being saved - the memory - fades after awhile, and the world spins madly on.

     - - - - - - - - -

    Oh, the tilt of her heels as she danced the night away! But even in her vaingloriousness, there would be a wrinkle in time where her mind felt severity, consciousness. They came rarely and never lingered long; but in these moments, she suspected that at her core, she didn't really care.

Wednesday, November 07, 2007

  • ars poetica

    period.
    comma,
    question mark?
    drip drip, the red
    ink cascades down
    the blank white,
    leaving its tie-dye mark.
    ping, goes the pen.
    as hands clasp abdomen,
    a more pressing query.
    it’s that time of the month again.