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Virgin kitchen goddess of the house and hearth. Fear my sword and my spatula.
The last couple days, a heat wave has hit Manhattan. Or rather, it’s come back, since it seemed like it was hothotHOT just a few days ago.
Whether it’s because I’m outside of Manhattan, or the heat – too hot to do anything than the basic necessities, I’ve gotten very… earthy. Like all the household stuff that isn’t taught to young girls nowadays – I’m rediscovering.
Without sounding like a chapter out of “Under the Tuscan Sun” – food is so much more than substance which keeps our bodies going. Growing up, family dinners weren’t a huge thing for us. I wish it was. It’s one of the few things that brings people and families together. And in college, if you can cook – that’s brownie points right there.
I think I’ve rediscovered a new passion. I’ve always dabbled in the kitchen as a kid – and was “competent” at a prety young age. My mom wasn’t around a lot, so I kept my brother and I fed. But in the last few days, I’ve sort morphed into this Italian Mama.. which is kind of crazy if you know me at all, and yet – kind of interesting as well.
I’ve learned that kneeding dough can be a good cardio workout. I made homemade pizza yesterday from scratch – fresh herbs, vegetables and mozzerella cheese from the farmer’s market. It looks nothing like Domino’s, but actually turned out really, really well. Resembled the kind of thing you get at a fancy Italian restaurant. Chocolate covered-strawberries make a gourmet-looking desert. Serve over a crystal bowl of crushed ice to really impress the guests. Broiled asparagus drizzled with olive oil and lemon is good fiber. Angel hair pasta is served best with homemade tomato sauce, using San Marzano tomatoes. Fresh ingrediants are key. I love the experience of walking through a farmer’s market – even in the middle of Manhattan. Somehow, I feel like I ought to be carrying a basket and wearing a white sundress… this all reminds me so much of Tuscany.
I’ve struggled with my gender a lot over the years.
I hesitate to write sex or sexuality, becuase it’s not that I question my gender, or my preference in partners, so much as I spend a lot of time thinking what it means to be a woman (which is so much more than just being female) and whether I, Verity – can stand the burden of being one. Sometimes when I start down this thought-path, I feel the need to distance myself from the subject. Such as speaking in third person, using my name (as in the previous sentence) identifying myself as “female,” or calling women “them.”
It seems to me that women are mythological creatures, or mysterious creatures at best. Creationism tells us that man came first, and woman second. Woman. Literally meaning, “from man” – or as one of my guyfriends so eloquently puts it, “woe of man?”
And if God created woman second (let’s not get into that right now, accept that I accept this, for the purpose of the thought contained in this paragraph) – why? Aside from giving man a companion, why could it not have been woman first and then man? Or would woman not require a partner (as man did) if she had come first? Religion confuses sexual tempation with sexuality. Eve led Adam to the forbidden fruit (note: not apple) and hence, she is temptation. But God created woman, in all her beauty, and called it “good.” Therefore woman, beautiful, sexy or seductive – cannot be inherently evil, and neither can sexuality – right?
Sometimes the way I think of women (there I go again, with the tiny hints of disassociation), I think of them in literary metaphors. How woman is inherently made to be broken – in growth, sex, and childbirth. The hymen’s perforation to allow menstrual cycles – which is a sign of maturity. The science of sex – membranes that are torn during intercourse.. even the ‘technical’ term: penetration. A woman is spread open, entered, possessed andcleaved straight down the middle. She is a well, deep and nourishing, deep enough to contain a man, and new life. There is so much rawness, so much magic and surrender in sex, that I am in all honesty, simply in awe of what it. (Hence my extreme wonder and adversion to it.. curiosity and hormones or not, my mind is simply not ready to take that step, and it’s going to stay that way for a very long time.) I always thought that thinking or writing about sex can only be done on one side of the veil – the experienced side. But there are advantages to being on the other side as well. Experience can’t wonder, can’t dream or ask questions about the unknown in the same way inexperience can. There are no mysteries, no unchartered frontiers, no awe or fear of what lies through beyond this thin veil. Of course, this means that you are forever flirting with it, this seeming point of no return.
Experience takes place in many shapes and forms – and sometimes, can be indirect. What amazes me about women is the need for relating with one another in such a deep way that makes sisterhood a form of extended memory. One of my friends is pregnant. She’s twenty-one, unmarried and entering her senior year of college. She is also loved, excited about being a mother and is keeping the baby. In her shoes, I’m not sure I could do that. For all the talk of redemption and God’s will, I’m not sure that I could trust any higher power beyond my own to make decisions with such catastrophic implications. I would like to think that if one day, I have children, that I am “big” enough to let go of my selfishness to welcome a new life into my arms. A unique being that is of me, and yet independent of me. Basically what I want, is to have everything on my terms, in my timeline.
And what if that doesn’t happen? What if my life is irreversabily changed from it’s convenient little five and ten-year plans. What if God decides that a big international lawyer isn’t what’s best for little Verity and calls me instead to sacrifice my ambitions?
HD, in watching you go through this, I’m thrilled, scared, and anxious for you. But above all, I am so proud to be your friend. So privillaged to have you as part of my extended memory. In this, you are not alone. Thank you for sharing your life with me – even when you have the weight of the world on your shoulders.
In eleventh grade, Stef and I did a project on identity for a philosophy class. It was a painted black box, labeled “self”, that opened up and opened up to reveal a smaller box, covered in newspaper. Each layer had a word in which we identify ourselves – spheres of proximity to the sense of self. The last layer was a painted black box with a question mark – held together by velcro. Tearing through the velcro inside, was a shattered mirror, put back together again – constructing a whole, and also reflecting individual images through each facet.
It occured to me there have been some changes in my life that were so significant that I use the past sense of being to denote them. I used to be a dork. I used to be a tomboy. I used to be white-washed.
And what of the graver ones? I used to be a dreamer. I used to be an innocent. I used to be the kind of person that got results.
This past month, feels like I have been holding the strands of significant relationships in my life in one hand, and a pair of sissors in the other. I guess every person needs to learn to make key decisions on their own, but to lose all of one’s mentors, parents and relatives all in one month – well.. is a little frightening.
Somehow this year, I feel like the decisions I make are becoming more and more paramount. How to maintain the motivation to get the grades, to apply to jobs, law school, and finanace such lofty endeavors. It’s make-or-break time, and stand seems a little empty, almost like an away game. It makes me wonder if in 10 months time, when I’m walking down the aisle to accept my diploma, whether anyone will be there to see it. Or law school. Or the bigger aisle, my wedding day.
It makes me a little fearful of how many challenges are out there, and how lonely I feel this month, how much I miss my mentors and close friends and saddens me that home is not where I need to be, and some people, I just can’t have in my life right now. I’m worried about that support. Worried that I can’t reach my full potential without them keeping me rooted and grounded. I’m worried that one day I’ll look back, and think that I could have been something greater, and somehow in my 20’s, lost my way and became just another one of those who hat a shot at something, and didn’t meet the cut.
This entry deserves its own category. Scandalous. All the taboo thoughts that I have and never dare to speak about, and especially not write about, because that would be admitting that I’m not asexual – which I’m afraid might be true. But really now, what is the point of this journal I keep pretending that certain aspects of my life don’t exist? Kids much younger than I are thinking about it, writing about it… so here’s my attempt to clear some space in my already over-stuffed head. By neatly shelving all thoughts that are potentially naughty and scandalous in a tidy little category. (If you’re new to this journal – welcome. And a caveat.. don’t expect long, steamy erotica – it’s amazing that I’m even writing the three-letter-word here.. heh. baby steps.)
Achilles and I were talking last night about something – I don’t remember what. But something he said really stuck with me. He said that when it comes to achievement, there are two fears. Fear of failure, and fear of success. When it comes to relationships, men, sex and sex appeal – I’m not really sure which kind of fear I have. I just know that it’s there.
If every little girl is a rosebud waiting to flower, then I would be the one that tried to spray paint the petals black, or dip myself in acrylic or some other haphazard scheme to remain closed off to the world. I’m really imbalanced in that way when it comes to personal growth. I can handle myself just fine in a boardroom, in front of journalists and CEO’s. I can rattle off more about geo-politics and finance than is probably healthy, but ask me about boundaries and relationships (in spite of impressions) I’m really clueless.
I got home ten minutes ago. I live in a seedy part of Brooklyn (and am looking to move out) where I am literally, the only Asian girl in a 10-mile radius. I get called “China doll” every single day that I’ve been here, among other things, and would love to walk down the block swinging my sword, but somehow.. I don’t think that’s going to help things.
I don’t understand men. Why is it, that the minute you turn 16, 18, or 21 (depends on where you are, and how old you look, I guess) men who are older than you suddenly find it acceptable to hit on you? A few months or a year or two previously, they would feel shame. Do they think (and perhaps, is it true) that every woman when she becomes of age, turns this attention into confidence boosters? I know a lot of women enjoy it. Then why do I feel this sense of outright fear, disgust and that I want to take a shower? How come instead of confidence, I feel cheapened?
Hollywood makes these scenarios seem like every high school dork’s dream. I was the most awkward, geeky, and socially inept kid in middle school. I improved a bit in high school, but it still wasn’t much better. But in a strange way, I loved it. I liked knowing that when a guy paid attention to me, it wasn’t because of my looks (couldn’t have been. Believe me.) I liked that I was well known for being quick-witted, and formidable in debate. I liked knowing that my peers respected me as one of the “smart kids” and that when I told people what I wanted to do with my life, they believed that I could do it, and do it well. Somehow this whole sex thing seemed to detract from the point. Or maybe I just liked to envision the playing field as a fair one. Equality all around. Beauty (or lack of it) didn’t matter – it’s what you did with yourself. School also perpetuated that. You passed an exam because you were competent – not because you were acne-free.
Somewhere in between, things changed. Whether I finally just grew out of the Calvin and Hobbes t-shirts and jeans (aka: “the uniform”) At first, i thought it was just being abroad. Italians are notorious, right? But then it seemed like everyone was changing. Friends that I’d known for ages (and hadn’t seen in a while), and stuff that only happens in movies – wolf-whistles, cat calls.. free drinks and food(!?!?!?) The first few times it happened, I had no idea what was going on – I kept insisting to pay the bartender, the cashier guy at Pret, Willy at the deli.. the cab driver.. When I caught on, I wasn’t sure whether I felt cheap, manipulative, or disbelief. To me, things hadn’t changed – not one bit. I still run around without a stitch of make up. I forget to brush my hair, and it’s usually in a ponytail. I don’t walk properly but with an odd bounce (ballet at 3 years.. never learned to walk properly) and typical of most Asians.. my eyes disappear when I smile or laugh (go ahead.. make fun of me. I dare you. 
)
I think part of me has always admired movie stars, and models – for their confidence. Even the skanky ones.. it still takes guts to plaster your image on a billboard or magazine. I’m a little awe-struck at women who are comfortable within their sexuality, and can confidently manage their sex appeal, understanding the full breadth of its influence.
Truth is, I’m not the awkward, gangly kid that I think I still am. My personality and interests have grown as my fishbowl has gotten bigger. Most people (nowadays.. heh) tell me that I’m warm, friendly and open and easy to talk to. I’d like to think so. I have a bit more fashion sense now, to know that sketchers don’t really go with everything, and wear heels on a regular basis and am comfortable (especially with the added height!) But the truth is, I’m still bewildered of the biggest and most obvious part about being Verity, age twenty-one. A female.
A heat wave has hit New York. It’s actually hotter here than on my little island in the South China sea – but there the humidity is twice as bad – I’ll take this dry heat any day.
What we don’t have however – is air conditioning. Everything is hot to the touch – the walls, sheets, even the tiles in the bathroom. Our brownstone seems to trap heat (I’ve heard it’s supposed to do the opposite but I’ve yet to see that happen) I feel like a little ball of dough, slowly turning golden brown inside an oven.
Things haven’t been going too well lately. It’s not that more drama has piled on – it’s just my capacity for handling it seems to either have reached full capacity, or has been diminished. Thus I found myself on the A train, staring blankly ahead, and tears streaming down my face – with no apparant catalyst. I’m pretty calm. Those next to me were none the wiser – except a few people who sat across from me, and tried not to notice, or stared when they thought I didn’t notice. After all, how bad are the problems of upper-middle class privellaged enough to study abroad? I think that’s why I like spending time in third-world countries so much. It gives me perspective on what real problems are – and proportionally, mine don’t seem so huge and unmanagable anymore.
Right before the semester ended, I had a panic attack. I felt completely paralyzed, and overwhelmed by the issues I had to manage. Finances, supporting my mother, the imminent return, new job, juggling responsibilities in New York, sibling’s welfare, moving. Last night I felt the same wave of nausea and paralysis all over again. I haven’t been managing my summer classes very well. I’m naturally a night owl, which doesn’t bode well for the commute I need to make in order to get to class on time. I actually feel like I’m in denial about the mount of work that I have, and wind up putting it off. There are legal issues in Jetsonville that are just a little beyond me right now, but nonetheless, need to be managed. But it’s not the responsibilities that are paralyzing me – it’s myself. I am my harshest critic, unforgiving of mistakes – no matter how much I learn or grow from them. And even though I know that there are a lot of circumstances that I’m placed in that are beyond my control, I still feel that I’m the one who made the fatal and deciding mistake that caused the final outcome. I have difficulty forgiving myself, and for recognizing that some things are beyond my control.
I walked into an exam today having barely studied, and also having only 3 hours of sleep. I found myself at 3AM, texting Ace telling him I was having a panic attack. He called right away, prayed with me – and miraculously enough – I fell asleep almost immediately. I walked out of my exam this morning, zombie-like, called into work and said I wasn’t feeling well and took the day off. Maybe it’s the heat, or I just need some time to clear my head. In any case, heat wave or not, I needed the rest.
It’s impossible to be single in New York. Or perhaps impossible to be female, Asian and single in summer in the city. Maybe it has to do with the heat, and the outdoorsy-ness of it all. Everyone seems looking to get some.
I live in Brooklyn. In a slightly shady part of town and am a little nervous about walking home alone sometimes. There’s a fine line between getting hit on, and sexual harassment – and I don’t think these people know the difference. It’s impossible to go anywhere without the kissy noises, the constant “hey there China doll” (!?!?!) and a billion other annoyances that make me want to douse the neighborhood in mace before getting off the metro. I’m sure it has nothing to do with my ethnicity, or theirs. I’m sure that they hit on anything with two legs and opposible thumbs. But when you’re the only Asian in a ten mile radius, it doesn’t matter that you own a sword, or possibly a tazer.. there are still more of them and only one of you.
Yesterday, coming home from the grocery store, I was followed by a black car inching along beside me, windows rolled down and hooligans half hanging out of the window. So determined was I to remain unfazed, that I didn’t see the crack in the pavement and twisted my ankle, slamming my right knee into the pavement. Real smooth. It’s now roughly the size of a tennis ball. I’m considering amputation. 
The worst thing about falling on your face (face, knee, same difference) isn’t the embarassment, it’s knowing what to do with the well-wishers afterwards. Hello, I’m fine, thank you. Please don’t steal my iPod. Thankfully – they were kind, and not the men who yell at me from down the street.
Having lived in Italy and visted Cuba, the cat calls don’t really shock me as much as when I first left home. But I think this is one aspect of the “western” culture that I’ll never get used to.. it seems so gratuitious and over the top. Do they honestly think that kind of attention is appreciated? Maybe some women enjoy it, get a sense of confidence and satisfaction. Maybe I’m just too paranoid and insecure.. in any case, I can’t help but feel threatened and nervous.
I need to get out of Brooklyn (at least, my area) moving back to Manhattan, with the outrageous cost – might be worth it, if only to be in a safer neighborhood.. or one that I’m more comfortable in. The boys are going to kill me – Achilles has gotten used to home cooked meals. I don’t want to mess anything up with the lease, but I really don’t want to be in Brooklyn anymore. We’ll see…
On any given day, there are at least a thousand reasons to love New York. Today, I love it because I went to school to get something at the bookstore and there’s a street fair on campus. Bohemian skirts, statutes of Budda, Chinese massage and Halal food all clustered together. A pretty typical weekend scene in New York. So I browsed through the stalls, looking at nick nacks. In New York, there is never a reason to be bored, or uneducated. I think I’ve bought about eight books alone this week – under 40 dollars. There are people selling books almost on every street, and in great condition. A walk down Broadway, and a slight Marilyn Monroe mishap later (walking on top of a subway vent while listening to iPod – not paying attention) I’m in the library, which is uncharacteristically full on a gorgeous Saturday afternoon. But then I realized that it’s showing the World Cup on the plasma TV in the commons.. and there’s a strange mix of students geeky enough to study at the library on a Saturday, and students who are valiantly trying to ignore the game. (So far it’s Germany 3, Portugal 0)
With a city like this to call home – somehow burning bridges doesn’t seem like such a bad thing after all..
There’s been a lot going on lately. I’ve written posts – wholly edited and complete – in my head, but somehow can never bring myself to write them on this page. I log on almost every day, see the same blank page and somehow never really manage to put anything inside the white box.
Mom emailed, to say that she doesn’t have my new address and my cell phone doesn’t work – did I get a new number? She was sorry for what happened between us before I left (just the butcher knife, not the locking out I presume.) Followed by three paragraphs of self-criticisim that was really more of verbal self-abuse and how I was going to make out in the world anyway. Except it seems more like a mockery of an apology than anything substantial. The way RG’s emails are more criticism than apologies. With both, I don’t doubt their sincerity. Except that apologies are so difficult to them that they expect the recipient to be more grateful for the fact that they’re apologizing than asking for forgiveness for whatever harm they did.
It’s been three days, and I have not responded. I pretty much know exactly what I want to say. But somehow saying it might bring more finality than I am prepared to handle. College was the beginning of a long process called leaving home. Except it wasn’t so much leaving home, rather a burning of bridges and since then, there’s been no turning back.
In a week’s time, or whenever I muster the energy to, I will write: “dear mom. I received your email last week/month/year. I am doing well. I have attached the necessary documents for your review and signature – please sign and return them via ___ and include your account details to receive the money for rent as discussed prior to my departure. In regards to your apology, I don’t doubt your sincerity, however our situation has deteriorated such that words alone, however sincere, is not enough to mend the many issues between us and within our family. I think that it is safer and healthier for us both if I maintain a distance. If you disagree, then I speak for myself alone. We both have deep-seated issues and I would encourage you to seek professional help, as I am doing so as well. If you need to reach me, you can do so via e-mail. I will do my best to respond when appropriate, and in a timely manner.
There are things I have not said to Ace. We will not last the six months to December – and I don’t want to. I can accept that he is a dear friend, that mistakes on both sides were made andsome circumstances were beyond our control. But there is no sense in pretending to be something that we’re not. Even if his feelings are what they say they are, mine aren’t. I knew from the beginning that I don’t feel an iota of what I felt for Veer – and I never would. And I can’t go on ignoring the repercussions of his action, or the damage and the deadness that is ever-growing on me to ease his fears and guilt. No matter how sweet, kind and gentle he is, you can’t turn a hundred no’s into a yes if its in the past.
RG – well, there’s nothing that remains to be said about him. Just like Michelle, the final page has been written in that book, and all that remains is for enough dust to gather on the shelf, for him to sufficiently fade from memory such that details like images and significant dates are difficult to recall. For sensory memories to become difficult to place, leaving a mind searching through memory banks, saying to yourself “I know that smell..”
Live your life long enough, and it begins to segment into chapters. Experience enough joys, sorrows and seasons and one day you find yourself telling stories that begin “I used to be…”
Most people are afraid of getting old. I used to be. But I’m starting to look forward to the day where nothing of significance remains unsaid or unwritten. Maybe that’s what peace is. Looking at the sum of your life and your experiences, accepting the things that cannot be changed, the people you had to walk away from, and looking in the mirror after its all over – look at yourself square in the eye, and be able to live with the person that you’ve become.
I’ve been missing, I know. I do this now and again, usually without notice or apology. These gaps appear in my narrative like an extended elipsis – and they are usually the mark of some significant change. I find that I like to write things in retrospect, when things have calmed down some and I have had some time to sift through all the snippets of memory and emotion to string a coherent story. But anyway, that’s besides the point.
I’m in New York. There’s a certain thrill about flying into New York that’s not quite like any other city. Flying home to Jetsonville, I never feel that I have actually returned until I step outside and feel the hot, sticky humidty wrap around me like a wet blanket and soak me in the smells and pulse of the city. But Manhattan is entirely different. My pulse starts racing at the approach, I look for the island while still in the air, for a glimpse of twinkling lights, or the tell-tale strip of land that is Long Island. From the air, the view is arresting. There is no warning, no easing into New York. The city spans from tip to tip of the island, crammed with life, movement and sound, all moving together and apart like a hive. And always, there is the sense of expectation in the approach and touchdown, like another chapter of my life is about to be writen.
And it’s true. It’s in this city that I first started growing out of my shell, gained confidence and experience. It’s something about living here that when I go home, makes people gasp at the changes, which though not obvious to me seem like night and day to everyone who knew me. There is something about the pulse, the energy of this city, full of young people and young dreams – before life teaches you modesty and limits.
So now I’m living in Brooklyn. With Fuzz, his best friend and his little sister (who’s not in NY right now). It’s almost a bad joke. What do you get when you put a Chinese girl and two Greek guys together in Brooklyn? Heh..
Anyway, much more to come.. but I’m running out to see a friend. Cursed be this lack of internet in our humble hovel..
