MBT #9: Really Angsty 13 Year-Old Poetry

Lost
February 5, 2003

I never saw it coming,
I thought it would never end.
For the past few months you have been my life.
My past, my present, my future.
I depended on you for everything.
How can you not remember
all those memories shared together?
I loved you, you loved me.
You now leave me with tears not cried,
and words not said.
But now everything's different.
I'm independent and feel beautiful.
I feel perfect.
When I lost you, I found myself.
All I have to say is,
"Thanks."

It's heartbreaking hilarious and embarrassing to read my old poetry. I think I managed to hit almost every cliche (no mention of withering rose. yet.)It vexes me to think that this is really what I was about 5 years ago, that my existence revolved around a fellow fickle middle schooler in self-induced deceit, delusion, and superficiality.

And this really makes me wonder what I will think of myself 5 years from now. Will I be able to laugh at myself? Will I be proud of the person I am now? Will I be still remain unable to resist making fun of 13 year-olds?

Because it doesn't seem like that much has changed since I wrote this poem. I rush to any glimmer of instant gratification. My immaturity stunts my failed attempts to love others without expecting anything in return. I live for the temporal because the thought of life beyond myself terrifies me. And this is what gives me hope because 5 years ago, I would not have made that confession.
Even if it was online.

MBT #8: Ultimate Cabbage

Hey do you guys wanna come play ultimate cabbage?
What?
It's ultimate frisbee...but with a cabbage.

I love the looks on people's faces when you invite them to play, and the wry smiles that inevitably follow as soon as they realize that they not only get the opportunity to throw vegetables at other people, but that it becomes a critical indicator of one's marksmanship and athleticism.
I love how one of my teammates was decked out in Under Armor. And I'm still unsure of whether him holding the cabbage made him look less or more intense.
I guess I generally love seeing athletes leave it all on the field for a cabbage.
I love the bruise the cabbage left on my elbow when Pat chucked it at me because I get to hold it against him until it heals and it makes for a great story.
I love how the field soon becomes peppered with cabbage leaves, crumpled and withering casualties of an epic struggle unlike most others.
I love how easy it was to clean up afterwards with everyone's help.

I love watching the reactions of people watching us play. They tried to maintain their conversations as they walked by us, but they ended up standing there, unable to satisfy their curiosity even with perpetual double takes. I'm fairly confident we either became the subject of their conversations, or they soon became part of ours as they joined in on the game.

I love how something so simple can be so whimsical and inviting and hilarious.
I love how afterwards, we all realized we need more of this in our lives.

I love how the guys next to us offered us their frisbee.

MBT #7: My Little Brother

A few years ago I threw a chair at Elliot because he was annoying me. But he dodged it, so it was okay. And we both looked at each other and laughed as we thought the same thing: Did she really just throw a chair at me? Really?
I also threw up on his head in the car.

I think the worst was when I slammed the bathroom door on his finger. After I slammed it, there was dead silence. And then he started bawling. It was this screeching agony that still gives me chills when I think about it. And I don't even remember my punishment. All I remember was that sound. As far as my relationship with Elliot has been, I don't think I've ever felt more ashamed about anything else.

We've come a long way since then.
Ever since I left for college, we've become friends. It's like with every visit, we realize that we don't have enough time to fight. So instead we go for late night 7-11 trips, YuGiOh duels, and collegehumor videos (Jake & Amir!). I feel like I am finally starting to see my brother as a fellow human being, who has dreams and insecurities and a killer sense of humor and a crush on the same girl for two years now and not just a "didi" the Chinese name for "(obnoxious) younger brother." As proud as my parents are of how nicely we can play together, I am just as proud of how much he cares about other people and how he's got a good head on his shoulders.

Now I know the real meaning behind his question whenever I call home: "So when are you coming home?"
Love you, too didi.

--

Me: So I think what I'm most scared of is getting into a freak accident the day after I graduate from college, and being paralyzed. That's scares me more than dying, but I know that I have no choice but to grieve and move on, you know?
Elliot: Well, you can't really move on.

MBT #6: Louis W.

Louis W. is 13 years old.
Three weeks ago, Louis W. did not know that 3-2=1.

Now, he better know that 3+6=9 and that 2+5=7 or else I will make him rewrite it 3 more times.
He also knows that LOUIS x 1 = LOUIS and that 1,234,567,890 x 0 = 0.
In short, I hope he is no longer afraid of numbers.

Right off the bat, he was my troublemaker. Leaving breakfast wrappers on the table, pretending to sleep during lessons. Telling everyone that he was going to murder them. That he needed some more crack.

During a round of Yu-Gi-Oh, I noticed that he was having trouble calculating his life points. I decided to ask him if he wanted to practice math with me after camp. I figured I would atleast make him the offer, and didn't expect him to take it because I am much to cynical and judgmental.
His reply: "Yeah, can we start tomorrow?"

In my worst moments, I find myself exasperatedly asking myself why I bother. Because he's not going to graduate from high school. Because everyone else in the neighborhood expects him to be in a gang, to deal drugs. Because college is laughably out of the question. Because he's going to end up in jail.

Because he told me, "Nobody teaches me."

But it's difficult to think that when as I work out problems, he moves in closer.
It's difficult to think that when I see him call out answers without using his fingers.
It's difficult to think that when he came in for tutoring even though he missed a whole day of camp.

Change is draining, but cynicism even more so.

MBT #5: Three Year Olds

Me: Ok, so we have 4 friends waiting for us by the tree. How many flowers should we pick?
Three Year Old: um, 20!!!!!!!!

My (legally) adult thinking was hoping that she would say 4 because as an adult I am concerned with abstract concepts like fairness and equal distribution and evading guilt and preventing people from feeling left out.

Of course it's the toddler who chooses abundance, who seeks to bring to the rest of the group this incredible discovery of the buttercup variety.
And to bring it to the full.

When I found out that, let's just call her Zachiah, usually chooses a favorite intern to adorably cling to for the whole summer I immediately began judging the rest of the team in three critical categories of
1) silliness
2) creativity
3) soft skin
and proceeded to remove myself from the competition, resigned to my decidedly un-kid friendly future.

And again, of course Zachiah and I spend the following afternoon running through the park together, picking flowers and counting butterflies.

I was wondering if her adorableness could get any more adorable when as we walked back home in the early evening, I saw the flicker of a lightning bug. Seeing the teachable moment, (the telltale sign of burgeoning responsibility) I pointed them out to her, and that's when it happened:
She ran back to me, her face contorted in fear, tiny arms flailing in escape.
Proceeding to grab hold of my leg, she began softly whimpering "no.no.no.no.no." with her face buried in my hip.

Game Over.

MBT #4: Late Night Talks with Parents

Hot English Teacher told us first-semester high school seniors last year:
I can guarantee you all that one year from now, you are all going to be in your dorm rooms eating pizza with your friends and asking yourselves something to the effect of, ''Dude, what if...what if we're just a fish's dream?"

And he was right.

I used to think true intimacy was limited to the hours between midnight and 3 AM, that meaningful discussions and soul-entwining talks could only happen late at night. That these were the prime hours for those big existential, world-view questions we are too busy to answer during the rest of the day.
That only the nocturnal were enlightened.

But this was because my understanding of intimacy was far too small, shamefully so. I am thankful that I am now learning that sharing of life does not depend on the rotation of the planet.

But there is something to be said of those early morning hours. Maybe we naturally lower our inhibitions as our bodies tire. Maybe with the darkness we more urgently seek out each other for security.
I don't know.

Regardless, I had my first late night talk with my parents last night.
I jumped onto their bed as my mom was winding down with a National Geographic and my dad was packing for his business trip. We started chatted about Elliot's violin lesson and somehow ended up examining the ramifications of torture on an international scale.

Politics is something that consistently divides me and my parents.
It is also something that always comes up.
Ultimately, we agree to disagree, but last night their stauchness was something I didn't anticipate. It was difficult to swallow my parents' criticism and accusations, but I think I understand them that much better, and that can never be a bad thing.
I actually began crying with relief to hear how their stances on some issues had softened. Or maybe I was crying from the stress of division. But it was beautiful to be able to tell my parents good night and kiss them just moments after stomach-curdling, heated debate.

It was even more beautiful to receive their reciprocation.

MBT #3: Picking Up Where You Left Off

Angelo, upon seeing me at a church youth group meeting in high school:
"Are you lost?"
I love this man.

He is one of my best friends and has been my Sunday school teacher, counselor, role model, mentor, friend, and older brother. His patience and humility astound me, and in high school, he invited me into the Christian community when I felt that no one else did. His willingness to faithfully and actively pursue me and love me in quirky ways played a HUGE role in my personal encounters with Jesus, and continues to inspire me to do the same. He still claims that his love language is sarcasm. And I still laugh everytime I hear that.

In my eyes, he is kind of a big deal.

And throughout my first year at college, we struggled to maintain our friendship even with phone calls and school break dates. In loving me, he let me go: "You will always have your safety net back home. We are here."
And I never doubted it.

This past Saturday he gave me a ride to a friend's wedding, and after dropping off his ladyfriend at the church, we made a run for the Vietnamese grocery store across the street. Bringing back two sandwiches I had heard rumors of greatness about, we sat in his car under a tree and began unwrapping them. He was quick to add the one thing that would make this moment impeccable:
U2's "City of Blinding Lights"

The May breeze flowing through open car windows intermingling with U2's epic upliftness as we munched on crisp bread, fresh meats, and the sour fish sauce prickling my taste buds was too much. I began to laugh and he asked what was so funny.
"This is."

He later told me he wanted me to be part of the wedding as a greeter.
I would love to.