#1

Inspiration: The below piece began as a short write that I shared in a Firefly Creative Writing class led by Jenna Tenn-Yuk at the Toronto Public Library. We were asked to bring in a personal photograph as inspiration. Our instructor led us though an idea generation exercise using the photograph as a visual prompt. We were then asked to complete a 6-minute write expanding on one of our ideas. The writing prompt was as follows: "This is a picture of..."

Timing: I started this piece on Wed May 9 2019 with a 6-minute write in class -- the paragraph under subheading "1" is a revised version of what I shared in class that day. This 6-minute write was the impetus for the below piece, which took me around 30 minutes to draft at home on Fri May 17 2019. I completed the initial version of this piece on Wed May 22 2019 after going though a repeating cycle of writing, reading the words out loud, and revising for a couple of hours at home.

Feedback: This piece was first shared in class on Wed May 22 2019, and it generated a lot of discussion. My key takeaways from the feedback: writing is punchy; the audience may not immediately grasp the meaning of the numbers; this piece is not only about what is said but also what is not said; I could potentially expand or revisit this piece in 5 or 10 years as I continue to mature; this piece takes readers on a journey where they can fill in the gaps. It was interesting to see how my classmates responded to this piece so differently -- I loved that they all seemed to interact with this story in their own unique way.

Completion: The final version of this piece was published on 52 Memoirs on Thu Jun 13 2019. There are only a few minor changes from the version that was shared in class. I plan to revisit this piece in the future and a new version will be posted at that time (i.e., I will not edit the version below). This is a spoken piece that was written to be read out loud.

***

1

A little girl is walking slowly and calmly – the rays of the summer sun warming her bare arms. She’s lost in thought. Deeply curious about the world and highly sensitive to those around her, the little girl spends most of her time smiling, dreaming, and playing. She is filled with a deep longing to understand what she sees in front of her.

Mom’s in town for a visit. I rush home after school so I can recite a poem I learned from my classmates.

“Chinese, Japanese, these are knees, look at these!” I look at my mom proudly.

She looks horrified.

I receive a few cards from Mom, but I don’t know what she wrote in them because I can’t read Chinese.

I’m spending a lot of time with Mom. We’re in Hong Kong together and I’m staying with her in a fancy hotel. We swim in the outdoor pool almost every day. I get a really nice tan, but my aunts and uncles make fun of me for being so dark. Mom tells me a little bit about why she and dad aren’t together anymore. I want to ask so many questions but I pretend it’s no big deal.

Mom gives me two little jars shaped like Christmas trees. They’re filled with lucky stars that she folded herself.

Mom gets married to some guy. She sends me photos from their wedding. She describes her husband as hard-working, caring, intelligent, and interesting.

I feel absolutely ridiculous. I’m walking through the airport with a bunch of children, way less than half my height. I’m wearing this huge sign around my neck that proclaims: I am an American Airlines Unaccompanied Child.

It’s humiliating.

I’m on summer vacation and I’m flying to California to visit Mom. I meet her husband for the first time. He’s burly, hairy, and loud. He asks a lot of questions, like he’s testing me, but I like answering questions, so I don’t mind that much.

“If we discovered an alien race, do you think mankind would unite? Or would we still be at war?”

I choose war.

Mom sends me some photos of her son. He’s really cute. She says she’s super busy with her new baby, but she sneaks in time at work to write to me.

I call Mom at work one day. Her coworker answers and tells me she’s not there.

“Who may I say is calling?”

“Oh, it’s her daughter.”

Her coworker laughs. “Serina doesn’t have a daughter!”

I hang up the phone.

I’m in California again. This time, there was no connecting flight so I was allowed to fly by myself. I feel all grown up. I’m an Unaccompanied Almost-Adult.

My half-brother is even cuter in person. I give him a loud toy and he loves it. He pushes all the buttons while the rest of us cover our ears. His dad doesn’t love the toy though, and takes it away when Chris isn’t looking.

Mom’s husband seems bossy and controlling. She gets upset when he provides an unsolicited opinion on how she should make the meatballs. He asks me something about this, and I take her side. He seems like a douchebag.

Mom sends me a little album filled with photos of paintings that she painted herself. She’s really pleased with her artwork. I look at the photos and I’m rather impressed. The paintings look like an old person painted them.

Dad calls me out of the blue. He never does this, so I wait nervously for him to tell me what’s up. I don’t have to wait long.

“Your mom’s sick.”

My mom looks like a hairless version of herself. She had tattooed her eyebrows when she was younger and they were perfect before but now they make her look mean. I give her a kiss on the cheek and she just looks at me, piercingly. Accusingly. I wonder if she knows who I am.

People come in and out of her room all night, but I just sit there. I listen as she describes her bowel movements to her husband. I watch as she repeatedly hits herself in the head.

She doesn’t say much, but suddenly, she turns to me, her eyes filled with intensity, “KILL ME. PLEASE DO IT.”

I fly back to Toronto, exhausted.

I haven’t heard from my mom in 5 years. Did she really die? I find her death certificate online. She did.

My mom has been on my mind a lot lately. I wish I could talk to her and ask her for advice. She was only 43 when she died, and I’m nearing that age. I imagine myself meeting the same fate – it would be such a tragedy to die now. I’d die feeling miserable, working too many years in a job where I couldn't be myself. I’d die filled with regret, longing to do so many other things but never having enough time. Enough is enough. Time is precious. I decide to resign.

I sit in silence, surrounded by mountains. I’ve wanted to do this for years.

I’m KonMari-ing my condo and I’ve finally reached sentimental items. I’m sitting cross-legged on my living room floor, with piles of old papers and sweet things all around me. I’m tired and I want to stop, but the end is near, so I push on. I’ve been methodical in my tidying and I’ve grouped all my sentimental items by person. Who gave this to me? What does this person mean to me? Do I want to hold on to this memory?

My mom’s pile is tiny. As I read each of her letters, now yellowing with age, I try to piece together who my mother was.

One of her favourite places to visit was Hawaii. She loved to read. She had a lot of interests. She liked trying new things. She was artistic and creative. She was passionate about self-improvement. She was introspective. At age 40, it seemed like she was still trying to figure it all out – like she was still trying to find herself.

It sounds like she’s a lot like me. Or rather, I’m a lot like her.

Most of her letters are surface level, perfunctory. I moved into a new home. I changed jobs. I’m taking a class. I got married. I had a baby. Describing life events to someone she barely knows. I finally come to a letter that holds some answers. She writes about how she feels guilt for deciding to let me live with my dad those many years ago. How she feels like I’m not willing to talk to her. How she wishes she could change that. How she hopes we can become better friends, best friends.

Near her end, she’s sick a lot. She writes about her long commute, feeling stressed, and never having enough time. She’s hopeful that things will get better after her new family moves to San Diego. The move never happened. Things never got better.

20 years ago, I lost someone who I’m sure would have become my best friend had I let her. I should have opened up to her. I should have allowed her to open up to me. But I’ll never forget the lessons she tried to teach me, and the lessons she continues to teach me. I only wish I had understood her love earlier.

***

Reflection: I wanted this piece to mimic the characteristics of memory: random, fleeting snapshots that come and go in our minds. I did not initially intend for the snapshots in this piece to be presented chronologically -- this is something I may play around with in the future. I went through a lot of emotions when I wrote this piece. I referenced a few other pieces of memorabilia including letters from my mom. Throughout the process of writing this piece, I was constantly reminded by how impermanent, changing, and malleable memories can be. I also interpreted past events with new perspectives. I continuously questioned my beliefs, assumptions, thoughts, and memories. Eventually, I realized that I may never find answers to my questions, and I need to find a way to be okay with that.