Things I like to do

nothing. it's empty. i'm empty.

i browse the internet and find it incredibly boring.

i worry about my finances and yet haven't filed my 2006 taxes.

i'm scared and i don't know why.

i have done things because my parents wanted me to do them.

today, i am left alone, to carry the burdens.

it weighs. heavy. and i try to share my frustrations.

no one listens though.

she tells me not to cry because if anyone should cry it's her.

i'm tired.

i don't want to do anything.

i don't want to be anything.

i want to disappear.

i do crazy, yet sane things to keep it fun.

my life is monotonous.

boring.

and i am lulled. entranced by fear.

why should i fear?

shouldn't i barge and run through the middle of fear?

escape the things i fear.

nothing changes.

yet everything changes.

i don't change.

i remain the same.

i don't know what i want to do with my life.

i have a family to take care of.

but who takes care of me?

i'm tired.

tired.

Random thoughts....

I was so upset. The letter upset me. I knew I shouldn't have called Mother and Father. But I did anyway. Because I was upset and didn't know whom else to call. But I've only increased the pain and the worry that squeeze my Mother and Father dry. So dry, that I worry that I will lose the people I love most. And so, I reprimand myself for rashness with undue reasoning. I will not do that anymore. My heart will not rule over my head. Because I cry. I am unreasonable. And actions such as those, hurt the people I love most. God, I don't want to cry anymore. Tears haven't helped me. And I need to overcome the hardships that seem to follow my every move. I want to disappear, but I know if I do, no one will care for Mother, Father, and Edward. Catherine can take care of herself now, so I don't worry as much about her. But it's the youngest, it's the oldest, and I am brought back to reality. That without me, perhaps they will cease to exist too. And what kind of a world would that be?

I've thought about it. But beyond the actual thought, no. My mind, my heart says no. And I no longer delve into dark thoughts that may take me away from the earth upon which I snuck away too.

Now that I'm here, I should complete my duty and love Mother, Father as much as I can. Maybe it's the retribution? I need to be stronger for my parents. They need me more than I need them? No, I need them more, and so I have to be stronger so they can stay here with me. Until I know how to walk properly on my own two feet.

I don't know why I was so upset. It's laughable now, almost. How petty. It's not worth my tears. My heart crying. I am stronger than that. I am no longer upset. Because it's so petty. On my to do list, it's so little, minimal. I can go change that address. All she had to do was ask nicely. politely. once more without being catty and mean. who am i kidding? she doesn't care about us. to her, it's her number one priority. to me, it's my last priority. in the grand scheme of things, I have more persistent issues at hand. but, i will go make that change when I can. to me, it's not pressing. no matter how pressing it is to her.

she hates me so. I have no idea. I most likely will have no idea even after death. why does hate persist? I don't know. I don't hate. And I have no idea why she does. Why she spends more time hating than loving. but that's her problem. my main issues are taking good care of mother and father and Edward, and Catherine too, I suppose if she needs taking care of. And most of all, I need to take care of myself for mother, father, edward and catherine. because, if i'm gone, what will they have? if they're gone, what will i have?

Grandfather Thao

Dear God,

In my next life, I want to be a better child, a better grand-child, a better sibling. I want to be a better person with a better life. In my next life and the lives to come, I don't want to meet them anymore. I don't want to meet again the sisters who hate me so. I don't want to meet again, the brother who hates me so. I don't want to meet those who hate me so. That when the very sight of my name on postal mail, the very mention of my name incites in their hearts that know not how to forgive and the memories that cannot forget, anger and incredulousness arise to levels that cannot be measured.

In this life, I hope that I will complete my duty. That my caring for Mother and Father, and for the younger siblings will be enough to redeem me so that I may be reborn in a better life.

I told Grandfather Thao tonight that he should go away. Obviously, he doesn't love us, he doesn't love Mother, otherwise, the accidents would not have happened. I forgive him, for trespassing. I forgive Grandfather, but if you cannot love us, like you love them, then by all means, go away. Go and stay with them, those who you deem are worthy of your protection and love. Go away and don't bother us, if you're not going to be a loving and protecting Grandfather. That is my message to you. And if it's about your books, if you want your sons and grandsons to have them. Go tell that message to Mina. Tell her to tell me. And I will most gladly be happy to hand them over to their rightful new propietors. Obviously, if that is so, I was mistaken in asking for the books you lovingly cherished. Books that I also cherish, for the simple facts that they were yours and I love books.

Next time you trespass Grandfather, I don't know if I'll be as understanding. But tonight, I forgive for harming us, for harming my precious car, my first car. So, be understanding and if you don't love us, go away. If you can't protect us, go away. If you're only going to harm us, go away. I want to be loved, protected. All human beings want that. We don't suddenly wish to be harmed and unloved. So...Grandfather Thao, now that you've passed the realm of the living and until we honor you one last time this weekend, please don't cause problems for my family. I love my family and it hurts me to see you harm them, harm us.

I loved you Grandfather, in my own, even though you clearly didn't love Mother. You clearly disapproved of Father. But part of me is Mother too, and Mother is a part of you too. So I loved you. And I'm saddened that you have chosen to cause more harm to my family, to Mother, to Father, to me. Saddened because in my heart, I know you really don't love us. And so, that is why, I am respectfully requesting that you cease your harmful intents towards us, and leave us be in peace. Please. We only ask that you love and protect us. But if you cannot, then you have no place in our home. And if you are here because Grandmother Thao is here, temporarily, then at least be respectful of my Grandmother, my Yang ancestors, Mother's spirits and cease from all harm towards us.

It's not too much to ask.

Thank you.

First Date

The wind is blowing hard outside. She could feel her car swaying from side to side as she waited for the light to turn green. Though she wavered in her decision to meet her date for the first time, and it seemed, the strong gusts of wind were howling their disapproval, she hardened her mind and left her apartment.

Running late, she texted him, hoping he had somehow changed his mind. But his text read, No problem. I’m already here. I’ll wait. Damn! She gritted her teeth. Her hope diminished.

She parked her car on the street and was glad she hadn’t worn a dress. Her usually tidy hairstyle was wildly flying to the wind’s whim as she approached the doors of the museum.

Once inside, she instantly recognized him. He wore a bright blue jacket and standing by the café, he loomed over her tiny frame. She smiled and said hello. Hi, he replied, the corners of his mouth curving to show the world his dimples. I already bought us tickets to the exhibit. Her lips formed an oh, and she gracefully accepted the ticket he held in his fingers. You shouldn’t have. She said. And they left to view the images, paintings, 3-D sculptures, and cinematic puppets.

Sitting at the crowded café, she told him she didn’t like the exhibit. I’m kind of disappointed. He agreed and asked her if she wanted more coffee. Shaking her head, she asked him if he wanted to walk in the arbor outside. Look, the wind has stopped and the sun is out.

Walking next to him, she felt immensely small. Her neck craned to look up in conversation. Her vertical challenge was at that point, very apparent to her. They talked about things they enjoyed, places they wish they could visit, books they’ve read, music, and dating. He asked her how many other men she’d met through the dating service. Oh…she smiled serenely. Her eyes twinkled. She shook her head. He laughed. Okay, I won’t ask. She tilted her head and asked him how many dates he’s been on. Five or six, he answered, unhesitatingly, honestly. And she prodded him with questions and he talked. He talked, until he realized she hadn’t said much about herself. Let’s talk about you instead, he said. What do you want to know? She answered. If it’s within my ability to answer, I’ll gladly do so.

They sat on a bench for a long time, enjoying the glow of the sun and the quiet of the day. They chatted easily, but she decided to end their date. It’s getting late, I probably should head home, she told him. She smiled. It was nice meeting you, he said. Yes, same here. They walked back to the museum. Where did you park? He asked. Over there, she pointed to her car. Oh, I’m parked on the other side of the building.

As they neared her car, he waved goodbye and left. She stood watching him not looking back. She sighed a sigh of relief and entered her car. It was finally over.

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.