September 2020

sometimes I read my old writing and I think, god, she really let the cringe jump out there, and other times I think with definitive certainty, I will never be able to write words so beautiful ever again. words will never leave me like that again. 

it’s been so long since I’ve written.

I think the words bled out slowly, left my mouth high and dry with an aftertaste of bitterness (I chew gum to keep it out).

True self-care is not bath salts and chocolate cake, it’s making the choice to build a life you don’t need to escape from.

- Brianna Wiest

We always say, “I miss the good old days.” But the thing about it is, these days are good. We just do not see the good in the day. So this year, I made a vow to appreciate every single day and to see the good, no matter how big or small. Cheesy? Maybe so.

i slipped

and fell

down.

again

i slipped

and fell

down.

off the 

                        deep end.                                 floating in a dark haze.

s

 i

  n

    k

      i

       n

         g.

waiting…

waiting… 

thinking.

when would the fog lift?

when would it be clear again?

how did i get here?

where am i going?

Looking in the mirror I see my scars, messy curls, and oversized shirt, as I try to fix myself up for the day. Sometimes I don’t want to pick up my phone because society is just depressing. Over the summer, social media was filled with constant Black deaths, which made this pandemic even harder to go through as a Black woman. Every day it was another child missing, another Black life lost, another Black Trans woman killed, another white woman abusing a Black person. After all this pain, I’d still see people online maintaining their disrespect of Black women.

I dream that a dinosaur walks 

into a museum and doesn’t know 

it’s him in the middle of the display. 

As I tell him, his razortooth-lined jaw 

drops in dismay. It’s a mistake,

he roars, a jewel tear rolling

down his face. I take his stubby claw 

and explain there’s not much to work with, 

dreaming up dinos. All we have is bones. 

Troubled, he replies: But dinosaurs 

had fat. Meat that jiggled

when we ran. Body parts

spilling from scaly skin

or leisurely caving in. 

I woke up this past Tuesday morning to a too-bright-too-close sky; pale-yellow, opaque, equally begging for and denying sun break. No distinguishable clouds--just a blanket of sick-yellow--cloaking my apartment’s view of mountains, winding streets, train tracks, and industrial eyesores.

Grotesque and beautiful and speaking, the sky bore a message, and I was its awe-struck audience.

The evening began as it always did on these occasions. As our moms set popcorn and brownies on the green countertops, they warned us that they would be back to pick us up early the next morning. My cousins and I grumbled and argued that the next day would be Saturday, and we wanted to stay longer. It never mattered how well we argued our case, my mom and my aunt would be back at the first ray of daylight with my Grandpa’s pancakes barely off the pan (he always made pancakes and still does whenever we stay the night).

I wrestled with the Brita filter for maybe 12 minutes this morning, which is at least 10 minutes too many. The filter refused to fit correctly, and I was exhausted, but eventually I triumphed—  exciting because it seems to me that water may be the cure for everything. “Have you been drinking enough water?” “Drink more water.” “Hydrate or die-drate.” I assume there’s at least an ounce of truth in that considering the human body is 60% water.

I have trapped myself in a maze by often saying, “I can only write sad poetry.” However, it rings as true to me as the sound of silverware being tapped against a wine glass. Negative words will flow out of my brain, into my fingers, and onto my Google Doc — I just know it, before I even write. Still, it’s comforting to be able to rely on something, even if it’s negative, even if it’s sad. I may get stuck in a sad-poetry maze, but I find freedom there, too, in the homey, familiar space I’ve come to expect.

Growing up with a fully Japanese grandmother and a half-Japanese mother, I have often seen them take hits from racists over their skin color, eye shape, face shape, and my grandmother’s accent. I have heard a cacophony of racist names thrown with precision at my family, and yes, chink thrown at me. I even, once, was called a “dumb Asian,” and I just laughed at the reverse stereotyping he had tried to pull on me. 

As my six-month spring break of binging shows on Hulu and Netflix ended, I had to accept that I would start my education at Zoom University for the foreseeable future. While some brave souls have decided to head back to Charlottesville, I am staying in my childhood bedroom for the semester. I set 10 alarms to make it to my classes throughout the day, and suffer while attending small lectures. I notice I’m the only one without my camera on, and that’s because the Zoom camera does me no justice.

Tonight feels like fall. Like the type of weather that makes you imagine sweaters and sweatshirts comfortably, and makes me want to pull out a book and drink something hot. Mosquitoes are still biting me, but other than that this is my perfect climate. I'm so in tune with the weather right now because I’m sitting outside (in the dark) on the back deck of my mom’s house, the only area besides the basement that I am allowed to exist in — thanks to my positive test result for COVID-19.