Why I Decided to Leave…
…so you might understand.
Mom
I walk past her.
She walks past me.
And I don’t see her,
I don’t see me.
But we are connected.
So I try to see.
This is
错爱.
错爱（cuo4
ai4): literally wrong love; bad love; love for the wrong reasons, undeserved
kindness.
Bus
Riding on the back of a Greyhound
Oh, loyal Greyhound
I trust you.
Won’t you lead me home?
***
When I was ten I made a wish: I hope Dad never comes home. When that wish didn’t
come true I made another: I hope Mom and I move away, far away, to a place where
Dad will never find us.
We never did move, Mom.
***
I wake up in the morning, another day, blue like another night.
Night time, not my time. Wish it was. Could run away in its void; leave a trail
like a rip in worn stockings. Watch me run away, Mom. Watch me run away. I talk
to you in Mandarin sometimes. You can't understand me. I say: "我不喜欢你。我想离开这个方.”
(wo3 bu4 xi3 huan ni3. wo3 xiang3 li2 kai1 zhe4 ge di1 fang) (I don't like you.
I want to leave this place.)
The biggest mistake I made was thinking you could read my mind. You and Dad, you
always fought--back and forth like starved dogs after scraps: little pieces of
your souls. You needed to feed off of each other’s pain so that you could
remember what was great about who you were. And when you were in tatters, when
you had picked each other’s bones dry—you died, Mom. And then you looked for
your life in me.
3/15: Venom
You say: “What’s the D stand for: dummy?”
Below average I want to say: but me? No. I’m not below average. That’s one grade
out of six, one grade out of twelve years that I have been studious and diligent
about my studies: Below average? I am far from. You?
You are below average. Living on a
janitor’s salary, you wipe old dying
ladies’ asses for a living. You drink
yourself silly ( you think I don’t see that?) you’re
stuck in a dead marriage your too
goddamn cowardly to end. You use him,
my father so that your D looks
better than his F. Deadbeat, you
call him: lowlife, dumbass. But, you
won’t leave him Mom. Why is that? Why put me through this hell? Bellow average?
That’s what you are. Maybe
you’re not a complete failure like he
is: maybe somewhere deep inside me I can find the feelings I need to love you
like a daughter might love a mother, but God you make it so hard. Because he’s
worst that you, I’ll admit that. He’s never here, he’s never bothered to treat
me like a real Dad should, never bothered to treat you like a real man should,
but you call me the dummy. You look for the one negative thing in an array of
A’s. And you pounce on it, and you kill it all, and you settle. I don’t
understand. I don’t want to cry about it. I want to be hard. Hard and strong and
sturdy and tough and beautiful about it. I don’t want your words to sting.
(Oh, god but they do. And I hate you for it.)
***
Back then I thought: if he would just go away, things would be okay.
But then I realized: he’s gone most days, and things still aren’t okay.
***
Library
Here I am
I read a book.
The woman with the cards
The wise woman with cards
Who holds the key to all informative things
She tells me it’s time to leave.
I say, “Have you read all the books here?”
She says she has.
I say, “Then you must know my story,
I’m from a broken home
I’m here every day, because
This place—it’s better than home.”
And I don’t want to go back there.
***
3/20: I met him and the world
started to turn again…
His eyes, like rain clouds, so black like the sky at night. Like the sky when it
rains. Like the sky in the earliest mornings, such a sad deep blue. Like the sky
at sunset, orange and pink and purple and blue--like a sundress I use to wear,
like the world moving on, like a change: I never thought eyes could change
colors like that.
***
The wise woman with cards, she sat at the circulation desk like a goddess of
information. Not far away I sat, working diligently, studying diligently;
numbers that don’t make sense, numbers that add up to nothing, numbers like
statistics that only tell me where I’ll end up, where I’ll be, numbers like you
who tell me who I’ll become.
And there he was: strange. A table away from me: a stranger.
And he never checked it out, I watched him hide it, carefully behind
books in a special place. You must understand, Mom, what it means. You, a girl
once. In love, once. Intrigued.
Everyday he’d come back, look for it in his hidden, special place, and
continue reading it. I watched him, studied him, imagined myself talking to him.
But it was ridiculous, this infatuation. How stupid I thought it was, to fall in
love. Look what love did to you.
And I wouldn’t have touched him, Mom. He would have stayed in my mind, a
dream lover, just this person I’d seen once upon a time. But, I like to think it
was a kind of fate, a horrid sort of little backward fate that he spoke to me,
because it started with me.
The wise woman (maybe because she knew) she moved his book. It wasn’t
shelved properly, and [maybe] the goddess of information couldn’t be known to
give out the wrong information. I had
watched her move it, return it to its proper place. So when he came in, and went
to his secret, special, hidden place and the book was gone. I watched him and I
understood that loss, that feeling of unrest when things that should be one way
end up a different sort of way, and I couldn’t just sit there, those horrid
numbers floating in my head, I couldn’t just sit there and say nothing.
“Um,” I’d said. “If you’re looking for the book you’ve been reading, the
woman at the desk put it back where it’s supposed to be. It’ll be in the fiction
section under Clarke, Susanna, Clarke—I mean, not that you wouldn’t know that…”
He looked up and our eyes met, and I saw, all at once, all those things,
all those colors from before, and my heart caught in my chest and made my cheeks
flame.
“Oh. Thanks.” A reply that was so simple and so distant and so standard
and so automatic. It reminded me of how silly this crush was and I watched him
walk away, down the stairs. I didn’t think he’d come back.
But he did, Mom. And for a girl who doesn’t believe in magic, isn’t it
strange that she reads a book about how it existed once upon a time? You see the
contradiction in that, don’t you?
He came back like the sound of footsteps, like pieces of a broken heart
turning back time to be whole again. He came, and he sat across from me.
“I’m Daniel,” He said, placing the book down in front of me, “And you’ve
been watching me.”
I didn’t know what to say to this, I let my cheeks speak for me. He
smiled, “But, it’s okay. Because I’ve been watching you too, and I’ve been
waiting for just the right moment to ask you why it is that a girl, who seems
like such a scholar, can be here in this library, everyday from three till
closing, and never seem to focus?”
And just like that he saw into my soul. You know what that means, Mom? We
talked until closing. When it was time to leave we could barely bring ourselves
to part, and we didn’t even have to say we’d see each other tomorrow to know we
would.
I came home and dinner was hot and warm. You’d made lasagna and salad
that night. I remember thinking it was a perfect end to a perfect day. I went to
my room, and put on A CD; Bjork’s Vespetine. You remember? The one with the
funny accent and bizarre lyrics you can’t understand:
He's the beautifullest/Fragilest/Still strong/Dark and divine/And the littleness
of his movements/Hides himself/He invents a charm that makes him invisible/Hides
in the air/Can I hide there too?/Hide in the air of him/Seek solace/Sanctuary/In
the hidden place/In a hidden place.”
The song left me with a deep feeling of longing. I’ve never felt like that
before. I couldn’t sleep, and when I met him the next day, I had dark circles
under my eyes. But I felt so alive.
***
Dream
When I was young I had a friend, do you remember her?
百合蔡
(bai3 he2 cai4.) You couldn’t pronounce her name so she told you to just call
her Lily. I spent my summers at her
house. I remember she use to speak Mandarin to her mother and father and
brothers. I would sit apart from those conversations, listening envious, as
their voices rose and fell, like the arguments at home, only here light and
playful, okay to be this loud, this silent, this sharp. I wanted so badly to be
a part of it, I begged Bai He (Lily) to teach me. She taught me what she could:
how to write her name, gave me a Chinese name of my own:
芙蓉
(fu2 rong2), which means lotus. Told me I could call her older brothers
哥哥
(ge1ge) and her younger brother
弟弟
(di4di). That they could call me
姐姐
(jie3jie) (older sister)or
妹妹
(mei4mei) depending on who was speaking. That I could say
你好(ni3
hao3) (Hello) when I came over, and
再见
(zai4 jian4) (goodbye) when I left.
谢谢(xie4xie)
when I was given something precious and wanted to show my thanks.
That when adults asked me my age (你多大？)
(ni3 duo1 da4) I could say :（我七岁.）(wo3
qi1 sui4) (I am seven.)
Everyday I took home the new words she taught me and memorized them. I
came home to you Mom, and spoke to you with my new vocabulary. So proud of
myself, I spoke with my horrid accent, tone deaf. Said: “你是我的妈妈。我爱你。”
(ni3 shi4 wo3 de ma1ma.) (You are my mom. I love you.”
You said, a faraway look in your eyes, here in body gone in spirit,
“That’s nice sweetie, now can you go to your room and play? I’m busy right now.”
I could say that too.
我很忙。(wo3
hen3 mang2) (I’m busy.) Instead I said, “Mom, I’m speaking Chinese!” You patted
my head and smiled. A sad smile.
That was the beginning of my dream. I wanted to learn all the words in
this language. I wanted to converse without restraints with Bai He and her
family. As I grew older, and Bai He and I grew apart, I forgot some words. I
remember thinking: this is how languages are lost.
***
What’s your dream, Mom?
***
Birthday
You rarely talk about your past.
So I forget
That,
Before I was born.
There was a world.
A world you existed in,
And experienced.
I didn’t see it.
But I’m trying to.
***
You waited tables at Andromeda. He was a regular customer. You were the
coffee you served him, he was the sugar cubes that dissolved in your heat—but
you couldn’t see this. Your skin was placid, then. Smooth, like milk. Your hair
was the color of the earth—dark, deep, whole like the soil in Grandma’s garden,
nourished like a woman of the earth. Your clothes were lively like irises in the
morning. When you walked, your dress spun and bloomed like the flowers in that
garden. You were healthy, Mom. You were vibrant, you shone.
And dreams, you had those. Had them like a child’s imagination. Life was
a blank canvas, and you wanted to paint your way to serenity. [What
was your dream, Mom?]
Dad must have been something. I don’t believe you could have loved him if
he was all bad. There must have been something in him. Perhaps in his eyes
(perhaps you thought you saw his soul). Or maybe I’m wrong, and you
were one of those shallow,
superficial, young girls who loved a man because you liked the way his muscles
bulged when he stretched.
But, whatever the reason, you fell in love hard, and you fell in love fast. A
seed was planted and it spread, vines sprouting in your heart, only to grow and
wrap around you so that you were smothered in them,
stuck in them.
Isn’t love like that dangerous?
But love, it wasn’t the only seed that was planted. And when you found out, when
you saw the pink cross—you thought, I’m
catholic. I don’t terminate my own.
Dread—what will he think? Ecstatic—what will it be, boy or girl? Dread—what will
I do? Ecstatic—a family of my own? Dread—what will my parents think?
Ecstatic—Dread—Ecstatic.
His face, when you told him, it was blank. Blank like your life’s canvas—but
suddenly not blank at all.
You got hitched. Took the baby home so you parents could see. I was a bad baby,
cried a lot, ‘less I was a good one: silent (silent all these years—wasn’t that
a song?). I turned your brown earthly curls into gray clouds quicker than time
could. Responsibility trumps romance.
And there were changes. Changes you never really notice at first until they’re
so obvious and imbedded that you couldn’t change back if you wanted to: you
didn’t have sex as often, you watched TV more with baby curled in your arms
instead of your man, you ran out of words to entertain each other with, ran out
of smiles. And then, the baby stopped smiling, stopped crying, started dying.
Just like you, just like him.
By the time I was four, Daddy was in and out like a lost dog. Perhaps there was
another woman, one who knew how to turn the spark inside him on so that his eyes
knew light again. Truth was much bleaker, yet when I was sixteen, somehow a
relief: his love affair was with a white chaotic beauty, and its name was
cocaine. She could turn on the
light inside him, but only for a while, he needed us: to let his anger out, and
to buy more coke.
When y ou get that far away look in your
eyes (here in body, gone in spirit) I often wondering if you’re reliving the
moment you told him about me. Maybe you should have gotten rid of me. Maybe if
you hadn’t gotten fat, and old, and sad, and lost all your old friends when he
got fat, and old, and sad, and mean—your
life would be different. You’d of been stronger if it weren’t for me, a child
needs a father after all.
But, then you fold into yourself and nurse the bottle like your mother’s breast.
It doesn’t matter now anyway, you think, I’m too old to go on living, I’m too
old to keep on dreaming.
And I realized one day, Mom. I feel the same way. And I’m only seventeen.
***
Daniel was different…
….older, experienced, he had a way of calming me.
He made the future seem bright—like I
wasn’t a number: I could write my own words.
Drunks…
…they say things
Like: “Dummy,
You’d be prettier if you dressed up once in a while
Don’t ya’ know men don’t want you if you don’t have your looks.
Having a kid like you was a mistake
Ungrateful little bitch, don’t appreciate what I’ve done for you
What I had to sacrifice for you.
Don’t you want to watch the Jerry Springer show with me?
Hah! At least were not as fucked as them
Why don’t you want to spend time with me?
You use to love spending time with me.
Can’t you see I’m all alone, you’re all I got?”
And you breakdown,
And you cry.
And I hate you.
Sometimes I wish you’d die.
4/21: Passion
Daniel understands my pain. I told him that my biggest fear is becoming
like my mom. I told him that one of my dreams in life is to teach English to
students in
He teased me then, said I was “High maintenance”. We laughed together. He
went further with the joke, making some corny one liner about Sears’s washing
machines. Which made me laugh even more, and then things got real quiet. The
awkward sort of quiet when there’s something that needs to be said or done, but
everyone is in avoidance.
And then he was leaning toward me, and I wasn’t moving and he placed his
lips on mine and kissed me.
It was so warm—like taking a hot shower in the winter when the water’s
never hot enough. I realized just how cold I had been, just how cold I was
becoming and I found myself crying. My tears must have felt like ice, he pulled
away quickly, and looked at me. He saw, like he always seemed too, and didn’t
need to ask. He smiled at me, a sad smile and used his thumb to wipe the tears
away. He kissed me again: the heat was back, the warmth was back, the life was
back. I didn’t want him to stop, but the heat from the kisses, it eventually
burned out. I needed to go further. I needed him like a blanket, wrapped around
me: I needed to be warmed from the inside out. Such
a needy love. Such a greedy love.
***
I say to her:
“妈，我有男朋友。我们进行性交了.我想要爱，可是我泄气。”
(ma1,
wo3
jin4 xing2 xing4 jiao1 le. wo3 xiang3 yao4 ai4, ke3 shi4 wo3 xie4 qi4) (Mom, I
have a boyfriend. We had sex. I wanted to feel love, but I feel like giving up.)
***
I hadn’t realized you could become addicted to a person….
Like Daddy, Daniel became my drug to get away from you.
I hate relying on this fleeting physicality: sex. It’s all we have now.
It’s all we do.
I hate myself. How did I
become like this?
I hate who I’m becoming. Why am I like this?
I can’t stay here anymore….
I can’t do this anymore.
I need to end this. I need to stop this.
But, then he kisses me. And it all starts again, and when he leaves me
I’m hollow inside.
I’m afraid if I don’t get that warmth back, I’ll never find it again…
I’m afraid you’ve already killed me, Mom.
Just like you killed Daddy,
Just like he killed you.
Just like I’m going to start killing Daniel.
How can I love if all I have to offer is ice?
And I know, if I stay here.
I’m going to ignite and burn to ashes.
I need to leave this place.
***
May 15th
Dear Mom,
This is why I decided to leave:
I didn’t want to tell you what to feel. Like a movie without a soundtrack, I
didn’t want to guide your emotions—but these are mine: raw and pure. I wanted
you to read what I have written, my reasons for leaving you, for running away. I
need to carve my own life, Mom. You see what living with you has done to me?
I ruined my first relationship, my only
real relationship outside of my home. Daniel was a good guy, a nice guy. But
Daniel the drug, he couldn’t give me enough: and love doesn’t demand such
things. Love shouldn’t demand such things. If I had stayed I would have only
gone on hurting him, hurting me.
I’m on a bus right now, Mom. Writing this to you. Some day I’ll be on a plane to
China, teaching the Chinese how to understand this language, following through
with my dreams. I thought about how in foreign language there’s always some
level of communication, of understanding, that can’t be reached. Isn’t it sad
then that you and I, daughters of the same land with voices that sing songs in
the same tongue cannot even communicate—don’t even understand. At least when we
laughed together (however seldom those moments were) we were the same. And when
we cried in are separate ways, we were more alike than we first thought.
I hope you cried Mom—you can’t be so heartless as to laugh. Because I cried
writing this.
我爱你：take
the time to look back (and not just through these pages). I won’t tell you what
it means again.
—Me
Do you know the story of the lotus? (芙蓉).
Lotus flowers bloom from mud. You were an iris once. But, you can be a lotus
too.