history’s lessons

This morning I came across some of my writing from what seems like a long long time ago. Before Dx crashed, and in a rare moment of foresight, I downloaded my entire journal. Unfortunately however, I only performed this once – and had at least another six months’ worth of writing that is completely lost.

I began writing at Dx during my gap year before college. It was among one of the many web projects I undertook during that time, and the first time that I had actually gone back and looked at my writing. It was a little amazing to see how much my writing has changed. It went from off-beat, first-person speech littered with actions in asterisks to a strange blend of what my freshmen year writing professor calls “prose-poetry.” I also noticed the gradual shift of what I thought was important or memorable. My far too innocent freshmen year self, who found bongo-playing in the dorms remarkable, and was scandalized at the thought of weed being smoked two doors down. I read over my experiences in Italy, and how amazingly new and fresh everything felt. The first time I took a train alone in a foreign country. My amazement at the kindness of strangers, and a time before I became ever suspicious and wry of men who looked at me (or my friends) longer than what was comfortable. I didn’t notice because the thought simply never occurred to me, and when it did – I dismissed it as weird or unhealthy interest in young girls.

Skipping through the months – trips to Pisa, Rome and Venice. Fights with my mom – the beginning of the blow out. Leaving Italy and the interim summer back in Jetsonville. And then, the entries about RG. At eighteen, fresh from a year in college abroad. I have never been able to sort out what role I played in the whole fiasco. And it is only now, with a few more years under my belt (and a BA to boot) I realize that my two mistakes were in believing I was older or wiser than I really was, and in believing that just because someone uses the l word, they truly mean it. Reading between the lines of history that I myself had penned, I heard my own naivete echo back at me with every sentence. What chance did a girl so young and inexperienced stand against someone so much older, especially when convinced of his good intentions? My writing is not an excuse for my not knowing, or evidence of lack of choice. I am not entirely innocent, but neither am I to be blamed for what happened. Perhaps this echoes the irony in this world. No one is ever perfectly innocent.

I have spent a lot of time and heartache trying to pick apart my wrongs and rarely have I thought to think about my luck and good fortune at escaping relatively unscathed. In the same token, letting the memory of RG burden me is also a choice. Every day, I choose to pick up this burden and dwell on it. I choose to beat myself over the head, anguish over the loss and violation of trust. I choose to keep his memory alive by dwelling on it.

And even then, it seems I have a selective memory. In reading what I had written, I realize how much of what I dwell on is lopsided – as if to allow the blame to slide squarely in my lap. Coming across a couple of old e-mails I had copied and pasted into my journal, I was almost shocked by the exchange of words. His – angry, manipulative, even chauvinistic. Mine – calm, measured, and diplomatic. Until the end – where I seem to have lost my nerve at the thought of the ending of the relationship and being left.

It was not until I read the words he himself chose, that I remembered his anger which frightened me, and his cruelty which I always found an excuse for at the time.

In the four years since those initial incidents passed, I have spent a lot of time trying to dissect the decisions that were made. I have tried to understand myself, and also spent a lot of time trying to understand him. Something a friend once told me was not to try to do just that. “You don’t want to be inside his head.”

Its occurred to me before that I have an immense capacity to forgive. For the longest time, what I wanted most desperately from RG was a simple apology, and an acknowledgment of his share in the fault. One of the hardest things to swallow was the realization that this was never going to happen. If I sought closure, it would have to come independent of him. The realization of this was at once a burden but also liberating. For one, I don’t have the slightest idea of how to begin to obtain this illusive “closure.” But on the other hand, the thing I never thought would happen on my end finally did. I had finally given up on him. My greatest fear was that he would walk away, and yet in practice, I have almost always had the last word. Albeit at the time, it felt like I was sulking off in defeat. But the truth is, you can’t fight with someone who’s just not there.

I confess, I still wonder what he thinks. I wonder if he feels regret, loss, or even longing. But I’m looking forward to the day when someone mentions his name, and his image is fuzzy in my mind. He will never be gone entirely, but he doesn’t have to be important. He doesn’t have to be this dark shadow over the end of my adolescence seeping into adulthood. He doesn’t have to be this burden, this terrible dark secret. I have the freedom to choose not to care what he thinks, for the rest of my life.

resolve

About two hours ago, the boxes I had shipped from New York finally arrived. The entire hassle was such a headache with additional costs and was such a logistical nightmare that I doubt I would have gone through with the shipment had I had known in advance.

Suffice to say however, I am glad to have everything here and in one piece. My new apartment (now full of my “stuff”) feels actually like home. I have plans to install shelves and maybe get another chair, but other than that, I have everything that I need. Especially my Ralph Lauren shoes which I have been pining over (as superficial and girly as that sounds.)

Since moving back to Jetsonville, I’ve had a bit of a culture shock. On one hand, it’s the people. This place where I grew up, where I’m not Asian enough for the locals and too Asian for the Westerners. Most of the time, it’s a real joy to be part of the Third Culture community, and other times it’s a bit of a frustration (like during interviews in a language where I can converse but am not wildly fluent in.) More than anything else, the greatest shock I have experienced is the slowing down of my life. I am used to everything going at mach 10. I’m not used to waking up and not being expected somewhere. I have learned to keep myself occupied, but feel like all this free time is more of a burden than relaxation.

Over the past few weeks, I’ve also realized that my biggest enemy is myself. I keep getting interviews and offers, but at firms that I don’t want to be at or positions where I know I am over qualified. The firms that I do want, I am too paralyzed to apply for (or rather, just don’t) for whatever excuse I happen to be giving myself that particular day.

I have two upcoming prospects – both top tier management consulting firms (via referral, which I think is the only reason why they’re bothering to look at my CV.) If I get either of these positions, I will be spending the next year and a half jet-setting across Asia, meeting with senior managements of firms across various industries. If I get either of these firms (and manage a good LSAT), Harvard might as well throw open the doors for me right now – because these firms are just that well respected.

When I look at myself versus my friends from high school, the ones that did best were not the ones with the best plan, the best background but they were just persistent. I am a terrific planner. The Chinese government may as well hire me to set the next 5-year plan. But the truth is, I seem to be lacking in the follow-through phase. Sometimes the potential that everyone keeps telling you that you have is more intimidating than the challenges that you actually face. I am in my early twenties. This is supposed to be the make-or-break period in my life. Whether I actually live up to what everyone says I have (and could do with) is a fear that I struggle with.

So this entry is my somewhat (timid) resolution to claim all the things that I want for myself in the next year. Namely, a job that I love. And more importantly bright future.

the red duvet

Somewhere in a city of 7 million, I sit in my small studio apartment. The surroundings are simple and spare, but comfortable. High up over the valley in an airy and well-lit apartment I could not have asked for a better beginning. My little home is creamy and clean. My few belongings are tucked neatly away (for the most part) and my surroundings reflect my simple style and quiet femininity.

There isn’t a whole lot inside this studio. But in the middle, a comfortable sized bed for two. Fluffy pillows and an equally fluffy duvet, encased in a deep red, off set by the creamy white sheets. This quiet boldness that takes up majority of my apartment and is unapologizing in its enticement to come and lie within its sheets.

Muffled in the warmth at night, I take up only half of the bed, subconsciously leaving room for you to crawl in after me. I roll over and imagine your eyes looking back at me on the next pillow and wonder that my sheets and blankets never quite provide the warmth that you do. Into the dark, I want to whisper to you, and sometimes I do regardless that you’re not there.

The longing for you is so achingly sweet and so gently painful that I wonder when its going to swallow me whole. If it is, then maybe this is the way I want to go.

I wonder if on some nights, you think of me when I think of you. And the two of us, we are joined by a cosmic connection without even knowing it. I also wonder how long these connections will go on for, before I am the only one on the line.

Most of all, I wonder in the folds of my red duvet, why you are not there and if all of this is just one giant mistake.

untitled.

This side of graduation, things look very different.

Tomorrow evening, my high school is holding a networking event. There are grads from over 10 years ago, including some CEOs as well. Additionally, this is the first year that all of  my fellow classmates are all working. Inevitably, this is going to turn into what my friend Dave calls “a dick measuring contest.” Rather apt, though perhaps not the most polite of phrases.

They say that in life, you really only wind up competing with those you graduated from high school with. And now on the eve of this auspicious reunion, I can see that there is a certain amount of truth in that. Those you graduate with have the same relative socio-economic background as you. The first hoop is getting into college. But let’s face it – even getting into the best of schools is only a temporary label. It’s what you do with the label afterwards that counts.

In truth, I’m a little scared about meeting up with everyone. Or rather, see how far they’ve gone past me. This side of graduation, things look very different. I’m not jet-setting around the world, or starting a glamorous job. The ceremony itself was a huge disappointment, with my mom flying across the world only to scream at me. I’m used to leading the pack and somehow, I’ve fallen behind in well.. everything?

This is a new and unfamiliar feeling. I hadn’t thought about how returning to Jetsonville I would be a) quite so alone and b) feeling so anxious.