When Fortune Comes?

She wonders when she’ll meet her other half. Her good-intentioned mother and aunt went to saiv yaiv and the nice old lady’s gentle told them her other half has not yet arrived. Just wait, they tell her casually. He’ll come eventually. He’s just taking a little bit longer to arrive.

She smiles. She shrugs. And responds that it’s okay. I’m in no hurry to leave you Mom and Dad. But inside, she sighs deeply and in her cluttered bedroom, clothes strewn on her bed because she couldn’t decide what to wear to work, her documents spread all over her desk, the bills she hasn’t yet glanced at, she is impatient.

In her dream, he serenades her and brings her flowers. He is strong and takes the lead. In her dream he protects her and loves her unconditionally. In her dream he is but a shadow. In her dream, he only exists as a figment of her imaginative mind.

She’s never been pursued before. She’s never had someone flirt with her. She’s never been checked out. All of her dates have come through referrals, either through friends or via online dating sites. She wonders if it’s her. Is she not pretty enough? Is she not good enough? Is she not thin enough? Is it because of her?

She doesn’t know. She speculates and speculates. But no answers. And she stops.

Because who would marry her? Who would want to be with her? She cannot give her all to one person. She is already taken – her family needs her, and she is 1% whole, 99% divided. So how can she think of dividing herself even more? She is afraid and so she does nothing. She will let fortune take pity on her. She will let fortune decide. And she’ll meet fortune when the time is right.

Dying and the Broken Branch

When he dies, does Grandpa S. know that he will leave behind a broken family, threads loose in the wind? As I watch him lying on the hospital bed, his neck swollen, darkened red and black, his inability to eat any solid food, his coughing up thick mucus tainted with blood, I wonder if he knows all of this? And somehow, I believe he does. But for reasons unknown to me or Mother, he has entrusted his knownledge only to his favorite daughter and son – both of whom live on lands far beyond the oceans.

He is a devout man, who believes he’s lived according to God’s words. He is a great man, with innovative ideas. When he was rich, he loved all and they loved him. And though he no longer possesses the riches taken away when he left the old country to escape death, his name is still revered and people remember him as the Mr. S, the photographer.

Grandpa S. knows all about the world, the problems that breed and fester, but for which he has answers to cure. And yet, his family has crumbled, and he does nothing, or does he know he cannot do anything?

Unsolvable

I don't know why hate is so strong. So deep, that people forget why they started to hate. A friend asked me why I thought it was best I didn't attend the party for my new nephew's arrival into the world. I could only say that they wouldn't have wanted me there. She and her husband. For whom do they blame for the death of their first and almost full-term child? And I couldn't explain this to my friend, because without context, it's a loaded sentence. Death. Blame. And it would take too long to explain - the situation, the cultural ties, the family background. And so I said I do mind. I don't want to talk about it. But it's better I didn't go - because I certainly wouldn't have been welcomed.

What is the source of this hate that perpetuates and lingers? I don't hate my sister. I dislike her husband, very much, because he spouts of love, friendship, forgiveness, and God, and yet, he is quite opposite of that. How could I not feel happiness for my sister who's always wanted to have children? Married for nearly a decade, she endured the gossip, the hush silence, the sneers of her in-laws, the shame that as a woman, a wife, she could not give birth to their son's children, to any children. And so I was elated when I heard through the grapevine, of her pregnancy. I did not know, however, the condition, the duress under which she carried her baby. No one told me, my parents. Not even my younger sister who is best friend with our older sister.

I feel sad whenever I see sisters or siblings get along. It pains me because I am alone. When I talked (and cried - though I didn't want to!) to friends about my "problems," one of the friends told me the following story.

I have an aunt and uncle who thinks the family is out to get them. And so they have a complexity that everyone gossips about them and that everyone hates them. But we don't. But no matter what we do, they continually assume and react to this thinking.

This got me thinking - is she telling me, indirectly, that I am causing the problems? That I am hallucinating the fact that none of my siblings actually like me? That I am, very much, the black sheep of my family, which also the black sheep of my father's family? That we are the ones, the source, of our own problems? In a way, I think she was suggesting that i explore this thought. But truly, I don't believe I am creating these problems. problems just don't suddenly occur, and certainly not, by one party. There has to be at least 2 to tango.

Nevertheless, I am sad when i think of this. I am sad and I try hard not to cry because crying doesn't help to solve anything. But then again, neither does thinking too hard about it. And I wonder, who will extend the olive branch? Who will give in? It's so complicated, that I cannot even begin to untangle the years.
I am only one person, and I feel as though I am at the end of my rope.

Letters to the Olders

As the middle child, I never expected that I would one day be the one to care for our parents, at least presently, and it appears for now, permanently.

As the olders, you were supposed to be the pillars of support for Mom and Dad. They had placed their trust, dreams, hopes, expectations, and most of their love on both of you. And now, you have broken Mom and Dad. You have broken Mom and Dad for us, the youngers. Now, when they’re sad, I have to listen to them tell me that none of their kids love them. And to hear them say we will become like you two olders.

Yes. I do resent you both for placing all responsibilities on me. I wouldn’t have minded sharing the responsibilities, but they only have me, now, to rely on. And I am only one person, working to take care of Mom, Dad, Cat, and Ed. I have placed my dreams on hold and I am angry.

Do you know that I will be working 3 jobs? Do you know how often I cry, and how often I have no one to talk to? Do you? Do you know I prayed to God and asked him to give me strength? To take away the tears so that I will no longer cry and make Mom and Dad sad anymore? Do you know how much I’ve changed?

But you don’t seem to care. You don’t call Mom and Dad to ask them about their health. You don’t visit – and if you do, it’s to ask them for money. But when they cut you off, you threw a fit and left, door slamming behind you. And do you know who has to deal with an angry Mom and Dad? Do you know the pieces you’ve broken and have left trailing behind you for the younger ones pick up?

You resent Mom and Dad. You say they are the bad ones. You tell Mom and Dad they didn’t have to give birth to you. You tell them they’re bad parents. You tell them they don’t love you. You tell them it’s because of them you hate them.

Older Sister, when your child died, you didn’t tell Mom and Dad. But you let the world think they chose not to come to his funeral. That they didn’t grieve. And when your new child was born, you let Mom and Dad hear it from a distant relative, Oh your daughter has such a beautiful son! Don’t you know how much you hurt them? And do you know how much your minister husband, who hates without forgiveness, made Dad lose his faith in the good of people who claim they are spreading God’s love and gospel?

Older Brother, you refuse to let your children visit Mom and Dad. And yet, you expect Mom and Dad to let your brother visit you. You say you love your only brother. How is it you do not also love Mom and Dad? You play to the tune of your wife’s machinations. A puppet who angers easily if Mom and Dad won’t also play to the tune. Yes, they don’t like your wife. Who in the world would, if they had also been called dogs.

But no, you do not know because you no longer care. If you cared, you would visit, despite the pride, the anger, the sadness. In your hearts, you have sealed away the memories of Mom and Dad.

Mom and Dad carrying you, Older Brother, through the jungles of Laos, evading the Pathet Lao in the middle of the night. Dad’s back, raw from carrying the heavy cans of powdered milk because Mom couldn’t breastfeed you. Mom, leaving for the edge of the makeshift camp in the jungle, carrying a large blade of banana leaf, to protect you from the heavy rain, because you cried at night and the others feared your cry would bring attention to everyone else.

Older Sister, in the refugee camps of Thailand, you were born and you were sick. Frail and jaundiced, you were on the brink of death. Mom loved you so much, she sold fruits and chickens illegally despite the repercussion if the Thai soldiers had found out. She did all that so she could buy a tiny pig so Grandmother could call your wandering spirit back to your tiny body. And you became healthy again.

How can that not be Mom and Dad’s love? How can you say they shouldn’t have given birth to you? How can you no longer love them? And if no love exists, then at least you should honor them for the very fact that they loved you in the very best way they knew how. They gave and gave. So that now, you can have your own children. And now that you have your own children, I hope that you will understand. The pain of being a parent. The pain of hearing your child tell you they hate you. Tell you they don’t love you. Tell you that you didn’t have to give birth to them. I hope one day you realize this before it’s too late.

The Lies

I lied. I didn’t want to bring my younger siblings with me. I didn’t want you to meet them. Most importantly, I didn’t want them to meet you. Because you’re a new friend. A friend I’m not sure I want to continue having. And so I lied. More than once. Do you know? I lied that my siblings wanted to tag along – hoping you’d decline and say you wouldn’t go anymore. I don’t know what you were thinking – what you are thinking. But you said you’d have no problem going, even if my siblings and parents went along. Unless I minded. I lied and said no. I don’t mind. But the truth is. I do. And I really didn’t want to go with you, because I know we’re not a match – even friendship-wise.

You winked at me on Match.com. And though I really didn’t like your photos, and the grammatical and spelling errors in your emails bugged the hell out of me, I thought I’d meet you. Why pay for a service and not use it? So we met and had coffee. You talked a lot. I listened. We parted and I didn’t expect to hear from you. I purposely didn’t talk – it’s an easy repellent.

But you emailed me and we went out again, despite the uneasiness I felt around you. I actually didn’t want to go out with you again, but my friend said I should continue – 6 dates will tell. But we stopped at 4. You left me a message asking me to call you back. I was actually looking forward to finishing to date 6. But you said you had met someone else and wanted to see where things would go with her. Of course, I said, no problem I understand. Good luck.

I laughed after we hung up. Did you know? I had been rejected. A first. When I called you, I had been planning on asking you out for something I don’t remember now. Good thing I didn’t – because you rejected me. And so I lied. I told others I rejected you. My ego was bruised. And so I plotted. I wanted to see if I could make you like me again – enough to want to date me again.

I asked you if we could be friends. You said yes, and we began to go out as friends. I let you in my world, ever so briefly, I let you see what I would have eventually allowed you to see. And now, you asked me if I would consider dating again. But I said no. Let’s just be friends? You said okay. But, the truth is, I don’t think I want to be friends with you anymore.

It was all a summer fling I think. As much of a fling as it was. And so I apologize for using you. But, in essence, I think you were using me too. So, we’re cool now, right?

No Fun is Lost

What do you do for fun? Each and every single one of my Match.com dates ask. I pause, my eyes wander, I avoid looking at the seemingly interesting being sitting across from me. And I try to remember. And I mentally reprove myself. Why didn’t you rehearse the lines? Barely smiling, I reply, Oh, you know. Some of this. Some of that. For those who really aren’t interested in me to begin with, but who thought it’d be interesting to meet a girl – any girl, they don’t pursue the matter. I single-handedly put them back in the speaker’s chair, twist conversation so that not a single word passes through my lips. I am an observer. I am listening to them. Nodding my head. Smiling at something I really didn’t understand. And then, I tell them, it was nice to meet you. And we part.

For the others. I try to think really hard about what I do for fun. I draw a blank instead and shrug. Actually, I don’t do much for fun. And the conversation dies. It’s a killer.

I’ve since then canceled my subscription to Match.com. For a variety of reason too long to list – mainly, I don’t do dating well, as I wrote an ex-Match.com date. And now I ponder what it is that I do that’s fun. I wonder, why it’s so hard to answer an simple question. Or is it really all that simple?

Oftentimes, I think I place myself in their shoes, and their expectations of what they want to hear – which is not what I would have said. So I say nothing and move on. My friend would say, I am purposely pushing them away – but I don’t think I agree. At least not 100 percent with her.

Fun. I think I used to have lots of fun. As kids, my siblings, cousins – we played endlessly in the rolling green hills surrounding our homes. The tree in the middle of the neighborhood. We’d climb and sit on its bulky limbs – we were pirates, or commandeering a starship. We were hunters and waiting for our preys. Later, during my teenage years, fun meant RPG games – strategic games that placed me in another world. Books that took me away from the precarious life that my family seemed to live in. Movies, outings to the park for spontaneous picnics, the amusement park.

I think perhaps, the fun that I used to have – could very well be attributed to the people I was with. The people I was with made the activity fun – whatever it may have been. Picking pickles under the unforgiving sun for hours – back aching from too many hours spent bent over to raise the leaves that hid the pickles, hands roughened, dirt clinging to the skin, and ingrained deep in the nails. I hated going to the pickle farm – it was hard work. Harder than I’ve ever worked before in my life – even now. But, time seemed to pass quickly – we sang in the fields, we joked, and we were silly, happy.

Now. I no longer have fun. Nothing seems to hold interest for me. I move on and barely remember seeing the cow with the pretty eyes. I am searching for something, yearning for something – and the fun has disappeared. I am self-conscious and I carry a weight on my shoulders that has come too soon, unexpectedly, and with more baggage than I could have ever wished for.

So how do I explain all this to strangers without seeming mad? And so I say nothing. And all they can say is, Gosh, what a bore. And somehow, I don’t mind. Because really, my story is too long to explain. Actually, I don’t want to explain because 99 percent of the time, I don’t think they’d understand.

And so I sit. At the coffee shop. Outside, drinking my hazelnut latte. I stare at the people walking past. I stare at the blue sky and the rolling white clouds. I stare and my mind is blank.

The Nail - A Friendship Killer?

It was a sign.

The nail with a metal casing, poignantly stuck deep in her left front tire. As she left his meticulously spotless car, a little - no, more than a little mad that he didn't even introduce her to his "family" who were dining outside, even though he had written her that he wouldn't mind meeting her family, she quickly got into her car to leave.

Gear in drive, her foot on the gas pedal, she headed home, even though she didn't know the way to go home without looking at a map. That's when she heard the "clunk" "clunk" noise. She paid it no heed at first. Thinking, maybe it's another car. But the noise continued and she realized it must be her car. She veered to the right, and parked on the side of the busy street. She got out to inspect the tires. There must be something there. But she couldn't see anything. So she got back in her car, and drove on. But the noise continued, and she got scared. That if she were to drive on, something worse could happen. So once again, she pulled over to the side of the street, and went for another inspection. There. She saw it clearly. A nail, quite verily deep in her tire. She wouldn't have minded so much, but for the fact that attached to the nail, was a metal casing, the source of the "clunk" "clunk" noise.

She took in her surroundings, looking to see if there was someone who could confirm her thoughts. A young man in his twenties happened to walk towards her. So she waved at him and asked for advice. He conceded, though he knew little about cars, that taking the nail out would not be wise. She nodded, and asked him about the nearest gas station. You're in luck, he said. There's one right up ahead. Thanking him, she drove two blocks down to a tiny Shell station. To her discontent, and quite frankly, her amazement, the sign on the door said, Sat & Sun, 5 p.m. close.

She called her Father. Dad, I have a nail in my tire. Can I continue driving? Are you crazy! he shouted over the phone. Where are you! he demanded. She replied meekly, Minneapolis. Why are you there? his loud voice booming,m and she answered, coming home from a friend's house. Ok. he replied. Stay there, and I'll come over right now with my tools. Ok, Dad. Oh, I have a spare tire in my trunk. She sat in her car waiting for her dad. She texted her friend. I have a nail in my tire. Where is the nearest car shop near your neighborhood? She thought to ask, in case her father needed extra tools. Her friend wrote back - where are you? I can come pick you up. Plus I'm a good mechanic, I have the tools. Plus, it's probably not very safe where you are. But she didn't want his help. She felt snubbed in a way. So politely, she only replied, thanks.

About a half hour passed, and her father arrived. Quickly, he replaced her tire and they were ready to head home. Daddy, she said. Thank you so much. And though she wanted to hug him, because he's always there for her, she refrained from doing so. It would embarrass him. Gruffly he replied, just don't make this a habit. She laughed and said, yes Daddy.

They had gone out to visit the fair. It was hot and she wasn't sure if she still wanted to be his friend. But she felt obligated to go with him. Simply because, she couldn't say no when he asked. When she's with him, she's not herself. She's quiet. Pensive. And her mind wanders. He chatters a lot, though he says he normally doesn't. But she says nothing, and listens to him talk about his golden years in high school. They're a mismatch, she knows that. He knows that too. But she thought maybe, they could be friends. But each and every time they've hung out. She's not the person she really is. And so, she knows, she cannot be his friend. The nail in her tire was a sign, she believes. No, she knows. But how to break off a recent friendship? With no good reason, except for a nail in her tire.

Him

When she closes her eyes, she feels him nearby. She knows it’s a him. But she doesn’t know how she knows. Maybe it’s the silhouette figure of a man that tells her it’s a he?

She was sixteen and a bridesmaid. Her duty - to watch over her cousin’s bride. A long day of negotiations. They were both tired. They were told they could sleep in the bedroom adjacent to the kitchen. It was hot and humid. They pulled the mosquito net over the bed. They soon fell into deep slumber.

She doesn’t recall when her senses began to tell her something was wrong. It felt as if she was watching herself, sleeping on the bed. Could this be her soul, the “dumb” soul which is tasked with watching the body? She started to sweat, and fear rose. She felt him walk. No, it seemed as though he glided towards the bed. She tried to shout – but no sound erupted from her mouth. She felt her body fighting, as she felt his weight press against her chest. It hurts. She couldn’t breathe. She pushed with all her strength. Her mind commanded her arms to push him away him, but her arms weren’t moving. She cried, but no one heard. No sound escaped her lips.

The bride’s arm suddenly moved and came to rest over her chest. And just as he had appeared, he vanished. She could now breathe a little easier, but her heart was racing madly. Her eyelids slowly opened to the sunlight, whose radiant rays peeked through the cracks of the wooden walls. Fully awake now, breathing hard, cold and sweaty, and scared still, she tried to comprehend what the hell had happened.

When she came home, she pulled her Mother to the bedroom – out of the earshots of her devout Catholic Father. Her Mother tried to console her, placing roughened hands on her shaking head and patted her gently. Caressing the long hair that reached her waist. Don’t be afraid, her Mother said, remember to pray, and everything will be alright.

But it wasn’t. No matter how hard, how often, how earnestly she prayed each night, he still came. Whenever she closed her eyes – to sleep, to nap, to rest, he came. Sometimes, though, if she slept close enough to her younger sister, he wouldn’t come, but many times he came. And every time, she felt him "sit" on her chest, and she could hardly breathe, move at all.

It’s all in your head, her Father scolded her. You need to pray more – and to really believe in God. Stop with these childish tales. And she dared not contradict her Father. She feared him even more than the spirit whose nightly visits, unwanted, kept her awake night after night – fighting him, screaming, and losing because no one can hear her – not even the sister who slept next to her.

He disappeared one day. And for that, she will always be grateful to her husband. Newlyweds, they slept alongside each other. As sleep descended, she felt him nearby. He came to the foot of their bed. Watching her. Watching her husband. She could see him and she knew, somehow, that he feared her husband. Unlike the many nights where he unhesitatingly came to her – he paused and took slight steps, as though he didn’t want to disturb her husband’s sleep. She was scared – as scared as all of the other times. She started to shake and tried to tell her sleeping self to wake up. But like before, she couldn’t. Her dumb spirit could only watch. He pressed down on her chest, as he always did. Again, she fought him as much as she could – and fearing another loss, she almost gave up. But suddenly, her husband’s arm reached over to hug her waist – and in that moment, his arm unknowingly hit the spirit who frightened her so. In that moment, he disappeared and she woke up. The warmth of her husbands arm, comfortable and safe.

Dalliance with the Untouchable

She knows she should not have. But she did. It was the intrigue. The wantoness that spurred her to pursue this path. She wanted to be the “not” good girl anymore. And so she let herself slide comfortably into a lie that he wove. A lie she could see right through. And yet, she deliberately tuned off the warning bells that clung to her ears.

He was older. Mature. And he knew exactly what he wanted. So did she. Though many times she let him think she wanted what he wanted. She let him lead the dance to debauchery. Once or twice. No, many times she had turned her head to look back. To see if there was some way to redeem herself. What if they knew? Her life as she now knew would crumble. Family. Friends. Peers. Mentors. They would all be deeply ashamed of her actions. Of her inability to control this need, this desire to be the “not” good daughter anymore.

She lied to him. She said she loved him. She said she was pregnant. She said she was deeply in love with someone else. But to no avail. He saw through her lies. She saw through her lies. She tried to scare him away, but each and everytime, he knew that she was not serious. That the words were lies. Each and every time.

The boredom is vast. She no longer desires to be the “not” good girl anymore. The ritual that once shook her to delirious laughs, no longer attracts her. And yet, she continues to play this meaningless game. Has she settled into a pattern that holds some sort of powerful sway over her? Or is it the pattern that so many fall victim to? The motions we go through without even intending to?

He tells her he’ll be here in the fall. I’ve got a business deal I’ve got to close. Will you meet me? She told him yes. Of course. But in all honestly, she doesn’t know if she will. No. The very fact that she has made this statement, the doubt that scours her mind, truly, it means she will meet him again. But she knows she should not.

She wonders. Will someone tell her to stop. Will someone stop her? Will someone help her break this cycle that she has created out of a need to be a “not” good girl anymore? Perhaps, this is a cry for help. Perhaps, she will not meet him. She doesn’t want to meet him. He will be her undoing. Could she pick up the pieces after she’s become undone? That, she does not know. And for that reason, she is scared.

New Name

Today I am no longer me. To evade the long reaching arms of the one who sought to make me his, I was given a new name. A name that will prevent him from ever getting to me again. He saw me as I walked into his dwelling. He thought, “What beauty. I need to make her mine.” So he took one of my souls. It wasn’t until Me Shao brought my soul back that I became whole again. But, to continue to stay whole, a new name I should have. A new name I now have.

Grandfather came to our house to give me my new name. The new name that Me Shao said I should have. He called me to my new name. He presented me to the world with my new name. He told every spirit in every corner of my home that I had a new name. A name that I cannot tell you. Grandmother N told me, “If someone calls you by your old name, don’t answer them. You have a new name now.” Father, Mother, Grandfather, and the other elders, each tied a white piece of string around my left wrist. They whispered good things – may you be healthy and strong with your new name, may you prosper with your new name. And they supported me, arms stretched out, palms up, like mine, when Grandfather waved the bouquet of flowers in the crystal vase Mother instantly had an affinity for, and Grandfather, chanted the closing chant that finally bonded me with my new name.

It feels incredibly surreal to have a new name. My old name, which I’ve held for the past 27 years, is suddenly gone. No more will I be known by the name Grandmother gave me. A part of her is gone by the giving of my new name. I wonder if she knows? I wonder if she is happy that I have a new name? Though I think she understands, even if she may not like the new name.