thanks-living

I didn't learn that mashed potatoes were made from actual potatoes til well into my teens. The only time I ever had it was at Thanksgiving and even then it only ever came out of a box. When I told my friends as a child, they would laugh. What family has Thanksgiving dinner out of a box?

I didn't understand their laughter. I didn't understand my television as well. These depictions of Thanksgiving were nothing like what I had at home. What were China dinner plates, skins on potatoes, or cranberry sauce? What does a large family gathering feel like? Why's everyone so excited about football? Hell, I'm still confused over the concept of 'stuffing'.

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Today, I woke up early to pick up my sister from BART. I passed by our four seater kitchen table to see that our boxed Thanksgiving was well on its way to completion: the potato flakes were being poured out of its box, the gravy powder was becoming gelatinous brown liquid on the stove, a pyramid of canned corn was waiting to be opened, and the turkey had been cut out of its Popeye's bag, reheating nicely in the oven.

I returned an hour later with my sister, completing the sextet. Some on kitchen chairs while others on dirt-encrusted fold-outs, my father passed around styrofoam plates heaped with misshapen cuts of poultry and deep brown gravy. Heinekens and generic citrus sodas were brought to the table. Opting for water, I searched the grimy kitchen for a clean cup -- even after a vigorous wash I could still taste the thick mahogany paint that had accumulated inside the cabinet. I sat directly in front of the aquarium; one of the many thirty cent goldfish my father bought bimonthly to replace the dead was stationary save for its desperately gaping mouth just beneath the water's surface. It would be this goldfish's time soon.

Around the table, we brought our stories of success: an impending master's degree, passing math classes, friends to go clubbing with. But this year, the conversation became a little more exciting. Being 19, I was old enough enter the backstage of family affairs and listen in on all the gossip. My mother came alive with hidden family anecdotes: secretly, we all wanted our cousins to marry a Southern Vietnamese person. With every Bắc Kỳ introduced into the family, the rest of the relatives would sigh with disappointment, but accept them nonetheless. But hey, at least they weren't Chinese. Oh yeah, and as long as they weren't fat, either.

Upon speaking of the Chinese, my sister talked about her weekly volunteer work: serving food to the poor in San Francisco. These lines would be filled with people, bundled up in gathered knits, bags of plastic in hand, eager to be fed only one meal. The Asian families -- regardless of ethnicity -- would beam at the sight of her, come up to her, and ask to cut in line. Occasionally, she would get an old Vietnamese man who would smile his toothless smile and speak to her about the old country, about how much of a success she was, and how proud her parents must be of her. My parents, upon hearing this story, would laugh uproariously hearing how those Chinese would try to procure a better place in line.

I chuckled along with them, but I watched their eyes as they laughed. It was a laughter too hearty, a laughter that lasted too long. It tapered off with an air of anxiety, coupled with too exaggerated a movement. I knew: the laughter was a mask. They weren't laughing at the sheisty Chinese or the toothless old Vietnamese man, at the large plastic bags filled with soda bottles or the child with holes in his shoes, they were laughing at themselves. In hearing this story, they remembered their own image not so many decades ago: a family of three then, bundled with gathered knits, a seven year old in both hands, warmth shared with fingers interlocked. They laughed heartily and loudly to forever chase this specter away, for poverty feared the uproarious joy that came with comfort, community, togetherness, and love.

I understand why the kids laughed at me back in the day but I understand why my parents laugh as well. So I'll take my pre-made turkey on the styrofoam plates and the flaky boxed potatoes. So as long as I laugh, I'll love and chase that specter away.

movement

apps are due in a week. i haven't started.

let's elaborate on this. getting involved here at ucla has been nothing but positive. very positive. i'm making friends. i'm making mistakes. i'm having experiences. i've reverted in maturity because i was tired of being different.

i think being a part of a team has changed me the most, though. i've never been a team player. i've never relied on, or wanted to rely on anybody else. i've scoffed at displays of collective joy and work because i saw those people as weak, as needing to find a sense of family on their own because they couldn't part away from that.

i prided myself on the fact that i could live without family. i loved my family, yes, but i was able to fly on my own. function on my own. i had a taste of what family was like with you, but when i lost that, i needed to find that sense of family elsewhere.

i think being on modern is quickly filling that gap. i love dancing. even more, i love dancing with people. i like the idea of performing and even if the rest of the world looks down on us, i'm still having an amazing experience.

so i guess i feel like it's okay that i may not send in those applications.

meteors

but are only dirty snowballs. thick masses of space dust disintegrating with every kilometer they burn forward. death in progression, a purely destructive show of the laws of physics. a shower is a misnomer: you're lucky to catch one or two in the corner of your eye. planes are more reliable to catch. hardly any of this is romantic. it's an excuse to sit in the cold, snuggle, and incite intimate conversations with another human being with the pathetic hopes of something more by the end of the night -- a touch, a kiss, ruffled sheets. beneath the infinite darting pupil of the heavens, no topic is too far-fetched: all words are fair and invited. what better is this than the golden desert, the horizon jittering with nuclear sun rays? what better is this than a stinking swamp, its frothy green surfaces alive with microbial activity? what better is this than the gray cityscape, neon car lights making an ant-line down a freeway?

so i didn't want to go see these meteors, even if i was invited.

but i can't help but wonder if you're watching them as well, and with who, and if you're sitting in the cold, snuggling and inciting conversation. and i can't help but wonder if we'll catch the same one in the corner of our eyes, even though we're separated miles and hearts apart. and i can't help but wonder if you'll remember only a glimmer of our memories when you catch that meteor that i just caught because i swear to god that for every damned star up there, i could name at least one amazing night, one amazing memory i had with you -- memories without the aid of meteors.

for a second i'm tempted to accept an invitation to watch the speeding space dust, and pretend to be a romantic again, just to entertain the thought that we'd be wishing on the same one. for some odd, twisted reason, that thought would make me feel better, knowing that we'd be watching the same meteor. for a fleeting second, i could pretend that you were me and i was you and we were one and that would make the entire night of phoniness so, so much more valuable.

but i decided not to, for these thoughts are just as falsely romantic as the burning rocks we gaze upward to watch. they mean nothing: they are what they are, nothing more, nothing less. i don't know what you think and you don't know what i think. and just like us, they disintegrate with every kilometer they blaze forward, dying in their own progression until only a thick, icy core is left.

i want to believe i've burnt out, having only my icy core leftover: let those wishes remain wishes, i tell myself. tonight i will stay in, shut my curtains, and sleep then.

but alas, those wishes turn into dreams and i leave consciousness with just a heavy heart as i entered it.

i suppose i'm more than just an icy core.

camera

i wanted a digital camera for my birthday over a year ago to keep track of all the wonderful memories and things i was experiencing.

if brian wasn't using it, my camera's pretty much been in my drawer for the last three months, gathering dust.

delegate

weeks without a word
but not a day without a thought
what i sleep to
is what i wake up to
no matter what happens in between.

how low

i didn't quite want to, but in the end, i have no argument against it.
give in to collective joy
there doesn't need to be
an intimate attachment.

i hope it goes well in the end.

aimless?

and you're going where exactly? looks like a trip to the free clinic, i think. don't know if that sisterhood is taking you anywhere.

episodes

the truth comes out when you're inebriated.

and the truth is, my soul's broken.

love's not formulaic.