Randomly roaming around I come upon a celebration of sorts – the best kind of travel is unplanned in my opinion. Large menacing mask, children swarming all around. Looks like they are picking up candy. He looks unapproachable depending on what side of him you are on. You can get on his good side – behind him and feel protected by those big, sharp teeth. You can get on his bad side – in front and feel scared of those same big,sharp teeth. Can’t help but wonder what’s his story? Those little skulls on his head are cute. I don’t ask because I’m too shy and unwilling to struggle with the awkwardness of unknown language, of meeting a new human in a foreign land. What’s that thing sticking out of his mouth? He looks like he’s smoking a joint he doesn’t like. I chuckle to myself. I guess I’ll never know… I keep walking – avoiding eye contact. Maybe I will look back on the picture I took of him later and wish that I had asked a fellow human.
The author and I have many similarities, she is the eldest daughter and although she was brought to her new country as baby and I was born here, our mothers both emigrated from their countries as young, new mothers due to political oppression.
My mother tongue, the language my mother spoke when she had me is Vietnamese. And I know how to write, read, and speak it, however, I speak an overly formal and sometimes awkward version of it that I did not know was awkward until I went to Vietnam and heard others speaking. The formality and awkwardness of it is a reflection of my relationship with my parents as child. The first stanza reminds me of this fact. And although my execution of it is awkward, I still find Vietnamese beautiful as there are many words and phrases that have no English translation for me, i truly connect to it.
The second stanza really reminds me of how my mom always told me when I was around ten years old that if I were living in Vietnam, I would know how to cook rice by now – because I am a girl. And she would try to teach me how to cook traditional Vietnamese dishes, but the recipe never had clear measurements, just a little bit of this and a pinch of that. I’ve never been able to produce my mom’s fish sauce dip – it always turns out too sour or too sweet.
Third stanza – as a child I spoke only Vietnamese to my mom so I always felt she understood my words. However, growing up in Western culture in a Vietnamese household left a lot of room for misunderstanding. Not in my words, but in my values and how I wanted to act on those values. I was never allowed to wear the latest fashions because they were too revealing, I had to lie to go to prom or even to hangout with my friends at the park. It always had to be school related. I was constantly shouting, “Mama, I want to be normal” – but she simply would not and could not understand me.
https://sandjournal.com/one-poem-two-translations/ (Links to an external site.)
Prompt 1: “rewrite/translate the poem” – loose
Prompt 2: Write about being misunderstood as a child
The God of Evil and the God of the Dead had the night off so they decided to go about the town. They went to the local tavern and saw the most beautiful of maidens – it was Aquarius, the Angel, with sea-green, oceanic eyes. She was sitting there with her pet eagle perched protectively behind her. Keeping any eye out for any snaky characters; of which Evil and Dead fit the description perfectly. Evil generally is the more bullish of the two and so he goes up her and says “They weren’t lion when they said you were fine!” She immediately gives Eagle a nod and eagle flies over him and drops some droppings on his head. Disgusted and embarrassed, he quickly retreats.
Seeing this, Dead is disheartened but isn’t about to give up. However, he needs another drink before he can make his move. He asks for another spiked nectar and proceeds to approach her. He was so nervous he just spits out “I sphinx I’m in love with you!” Eagle gave him the same treatment and that was the end of their night.
//
tried to use all element on the card #silly
https://www.cnn.com/2021/01/20/politics/amanda-gorman-inaugural-poem-transcript/index.html
Very powerful performance – she expresses and speaks beyond her years.
There is a sense of positivity that is rooted in realism, which is refreshing. As often optimism is seen through rose-colored glasses. When optimism is strong, so is a strong sense of denial – or at least personally that is the case.
I connect to the lines in which she speaks of “purpose” rather than “perfect.”
I’ve always been taught to strive for perfection. And that is what I’ve done. Sometimes without purpose. We lose sight of others as people and become much less aware of what is really happening. On a larger social scale, it’s also really easy to lose sight of the purpose of things, which should be about the people, but then it becomes more about the principles and we forget what, why, and who we are doing it for. We forget that deep down, we all really want the same thing for ourselves and one another. This poem is a great reminder of that. Bringing back awareness to the true point of politics.
Sky littered with clouds
Heading east, heading west
Depending on how you see it
Repetitive patterns mirror
but don’t mirror the wide open sky
Glassy pyramid, cold and empty
Going nowhere
Pointing up or pointing down
Diamonds or squares
Connected yet not touching
The ground, same same
Patterned, but different
All in the grand flow of things
A dark figure, a part of it all
What patterns can be found
Is she the same as us?
In a space she should be crowded
She is all alone
Or is she?
Our patterns all around her
Invading her space
That we all share
I tried to think of an old object I own and there really isn’t much. I’m the type of person who throws away everything. And if I don’t throw it away, I’d probably end up losing it. I have very few possessions that are irreplaceable in my mind. My boyfriend actually gets mad at me about it, sometimes I go overboard in my quest to declutter. So my search for an “old thing” around the house was actually really quite difficult.
However, I did find a fairly new thing that will eventually become an old thing that I will not throw away. My mom made me a very intricate quilt for my birthday last year. She has four daughters and has made each of us a blanket; for some reason mine was last even though I am the eldest. It covers a queen-sized bed – I can’t imagine how much time she took to make it. Each square was meticulously cut from fabric that she had collected from going to thrift stores – one of her favorite pastimes.
I think of a time my mom is gone and I look at this quilt and will think of her – sitting there, thread by thread, passing the time by, making something that she hopes her daughter will enjoy. Something very personal. Something that she is proud of. And I won’t only just think of her sitting there sewing, I’ll imagine her perusing the thrift stores for hours and hours finding joy in great finds and being amused by the little knick knacks she comes across. Many of which she will probably take home into her cluttered home. She’ll be gone then and I won’t be able to lecture her for collecting “junk” anymore. But for now, we’ll continue to bicker about it and make happy, sad memories that I will hold on to for years to come.
September 1st, wished my best friend “happy birthday” this morning after initially forgetting
He said thank you after chuckling
Currently sitting at my white bean-shaped desk. At work, learning for the sake of learning.
Something I didn’t really do back then.
Strict, Vietnamese, Catholic mother.
She’s not like that anymore, but maybe because she doesn’t have to be.
The fact that I am taking this class now, maybe it worked?
People work around me – talking taxes, crunching numbers.
I feel guilty, not guilty. We all make up the time.
“Born to multiply
Born to gaze into night skies
All you want’s one more Saturday”
-The Shins, Australia
Prompt:
from a workshop with Ada Limon:
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/ada-limon
ingredients
- Describe where you are right now.
- Add an object you see.
- Mention a friend and something they said.
- Add a natural element-bird, tree, etc.
- Say something you need.
- Repeat a word 2-3 times.
- Add a line of a song you love.
- Apologize for something.
- Tell us the day or date or time-or all 3.
- Tell us something you’re scared of.
- Tell us something you love.
instructions:
try to combine 3-5 or all if you’d like….
or stay with one prompt “ingredients”
*
whatever order you’d like
The moon 🌜 at the window, the thief left it behind.
i’ve never been open to my parents. i have very vague memories of happier times when we all lived in milpitas together. my dad was working and thriving, my mom took care of us and sewed us clothes, we were young enough to still be and feel oblivious to my parents’ marital problems – or they were still happier then, still in the phase of trying to work out their issues before everything fell apart. i don’t remember telling my mom things back then, but i remember having happy times with her other than when it came to disciplining us about school work. i learned how to ride my bike in the backyard at that house.
then we moved to sunnyvale where things started to go downhill. i’m not sure for what reason although i largely suspect it was financial. the reason i think this is that we used to own the milpitas home and we moved to a rental in sunnyvale. so that’s where things started to slowly unravel.
i feel like my parents have a lot to hide, not that i don’t. but the foundation that we grew up on was one where adults treated children like innocent little bunnies that needed to be protected from everything in order to control and mold us. in particular when it came to themselves and their weaknesses and even their love. vietnamese guilt and saving face culture do not play well into all this.
although putting all this aside, other than from photographs where my dad is holding me and looks happy and looks like he loves me when i was a toddler, i don’t actually remember a time that i was my dad’s daughter and i felt close to him. i get moments here and there when i say bye to him after a visit of which we largely don’t speak and are not even in the same room. he cares, but at some point started disconnecting from us. at first i thought it was due to vietnamese culture, where male and females roles are very defined. but i see vietnamese dads with their kids and this isn’t the case. there are many vietnamese fathers who adore their daughters and have close, loving relationships with them.
then i thought, it’s me. i’m not that proper vietnamese, christian daughter he wants – he can’t relate to me because he is consumed with religion and i am indifferent to it. but i think what’s wrong with my dad’s approach to christianity is that he is too concerned about how you should live it that he misses the point of it. he misses the point that jesus loved people, he tells you to love others as yourself, but my dad’s pursuit of religion actually makes him resent us and perhaps even my mom. it makes him distance himself indirectly. but then it turns me off from that religion because to me, it doesn’t seem to work – especially in the case of my dad. someone who spent all his life studying and believing in it, but he actually doesn’t understand the action of how to love someone. he just knows he should in his heart, hiding behind the veil of a concept that isn’t executed.
but today, i am starting to realize, it’s not me – it’s him. and that’s scary, because there are things i can do to change the environment, there are things i can do to change me even, but there is nothing i can do to change him.
i’m running out of time and this covid thing has not helped. i’m particularly worried about my mom. my dad at least has some sort of motivation in his life – god. he also has the ability to abuse alcohol. my mom has him and us and no substance to abuse. he’s not around mentally and we’re not around physically. with my mom, i’m barely there mentally. i know there was a time when it was just me and her and it must have been the most wonderful of times – a strong young mother with her toddler. trying to make it in america with each other. she always tells the story about how when she was walking home from the bus with me and dropped all her money, $100 that was supposed to be all our food money. she ended up eating instant noodles that month. maybe that’s why i like them so much. i think it’s a wonderful story, i really wished i remembered those times with my mom. i truly admire my mom for what she’s gone through.
but instead what i practically remember is an angry, middle-aged woman. sad and bitter, scared of everything. illogical. taking things out on her kids because she didn’t know how else to cope. never expressing feelings to us or helping us understand why she was like that. she probably also just didn’t know. but is it okay to expect more from your mom? or is she just somebody’s daughter? i don’t want to feel mad at her anymore. i want to be able to casually and hysterically laugh in front of her. i want to be able to tell her when i’m sad. so i guess unlike my dad though, part of the problem with my mom IS me. which is something i can try to fix. maybe she’ll meet me half way if we can help her get there because i still think the problem is largely her. maybe not. will digest the rest of this later. all i know is i don’t want to remember my mom as a sad and lonely old lady who could not get past her past.
Sounds weird, but I’ve been touching things more lately. It all started with meditation, Sam Harris said to touch our fingertips and keep moving them in little circles so you are constantly aware of the feeling. I did so with my fingers for a while then moved onto softly scratching my fingers, hands, moving up my arms. It felt amazingly visceral. Uncomfortable, but good, like you’re pushing the edge. Wooden bed, the anthro carpet – so many textures in life we choose to not be aware of.
Yesterday, from 4pm and on, I was in the house and no one paid any attention to me. I did a lot of thinking and felt very alone even though I live with people – then I felt trapped and claustrophobic. This is actually what quarantine would make me realize, I have been trying to avoid this feeling but deep down knew it was coming. But a combination of Billie Eilish songs (hostage, i love you, everything I wanted) and Woody Allen’s memoir have plunged me into some sort of withdrawal. I felt lonely and started putting up defense mechanisms which then translated to me being cold toward E, but I couldn’t tell him that was why – it’s hard to express such nuances. Instead it actually ended up translating to “usually I put up with this ish but I’m not in the mood so I’m not going to anymore.”
Reading Apropros of Nothing makes me feel like I should write and it’s okay to be into the random things I’m into even though I’m currently not an expert in any of them, maybe it’ll all come together some day, some how. He keeps saying he’s not a genius, neither am I. But he is knowledgeable and I am not – don’t read enough. The old cliches of work hard and be passionate about what you’re doing resonate more when it comes from him, I feel like my grandpa is teaching me through telling me his life story. Something my parents don’t do (deeply)*, I’ve never had this sort of figure in my life. It also gives me a sense of everything great comes from so many other things and the artist had so many things going on for him and in him that we don’t know or realize – it’s actually pretty insightful. I always thought autobiographies would be boring. Things just don’t appear from thin air which has generally been my approach of wanting to be instantly good at anything that I do – kind of definitely a dumb and arrogant expectation.
*Vietnamese culture just has too much hiding of negative things in it and they have had pretty hard lives that I’m sure are hard to talk about