Tag: creative writing

A Dull Day ( )

A Dull Day (with Her)

It is an ordinary day. It is an especially ordinary day, in an especially poor neighborhood, with an especially ugly weather. However, being me, I think it the perfect time to take a walk. Said walk could be of any kind, but I always prefer the most routine: slippers in a large overcoat, a normal-looking beverage, somewhere to go to or not, because the point is really not to go to that place–no, do people really walk to go somewhere? I know I don’t. I walk for a while staring at my feet, bumping into people once or twice, being me on an especially depressing day, until I bump into a wall but even then my feet do not cease to amuse me. Chipped toenails, criss-cross veins, large width and flat underside. Compared to other things, my toes are goddamn gorgeous. Gorgeous. Almost as much as Jennie.

Did I tell you that the weather was ugly and the people were poor? The sodden clouds cluster with fumes of black smoke, shading the beggars curled up in street corners like sad little fragments of life no one wants to see. I didn’t say that to be mean. Being poor makes you want to forget you’re living. And I mean dirt poor, the kind that deprives you of everything but your fucking breath. Poor people don’t open their eyes and see beauty. What are you then, Jennie?

The thing about beauty is: you gotta close your eyes to see it. Close your eyes, and the cemented walls are brilliantly painted, walls that sweep across space and time and suddenly disappear around the corner. On the side of a grocery store, which could have been my somewhere to go, soldiers march in grand golden armors, kids throw their heads back laughing, lovers kiss and musicians play–characters in a world so real they’ve convinced us as well as themselves. All too immersed in the act to notice a fissure across a man’s face where the brick had fallen off, a minor discrepancy, in no way a threat to their perfect illusion. A narrow alley way past the grocery store, tremendous silver-studded doors opened up the closed interior of a household, in which a woman prayed with her eyes close, while next to her her husband opened his shirt. You told me your first time was so special. I believe you, Jennie. You are special.

The thing is, Jennie, that I see you all the time. You walk all over my ragged house on your studded heels, your warm minty breath, your thin little waist, your silver, jewel-hemmed robes, your bony spine, your long curly hair smelling of lavender and the moon. Would you be mad, Jennie, if I keep you to myself? I guess you would. I won’t do that then.


On My Father (and Shedding Skins)

A descriptive writing assignment is an exercise on observation, where you part describe what you see and part make an educated guess at what the teachers expect you to say. It was all I did in Literature class up until fifth grade. Whether it was because of the nature of the prompts or my natural tendencies I couldn’t tell, but the truth is: Almost all of what I wrote at the time was about my mother. I knew what the common daughter should feel about her mother. It was easy having words put into my mouth about how gentle and loving my mother was, how I shared with her all of my little secrets, how her hair was long and black and her eyes sparkled like the night sky. But I’m not getting into that now, because today, I’m writing about my father.

My father, to the ten-year-old me, was my father and nothing else. He was this being that came into existence just to be my father. He is, of course, in reality a construction engineer, a lover of Chinese historical novels, a Vietnamese food expert, a friend and colleague to men unknown to me whom he drinks and discusses politics with. But around me he was his beer belly, too big to wrap my arms around; his fuzzy arms and dark tanned skin, always warmer than mine; his broad back against which I leaned and relieved whatever was on my mind. He was mine alone, mine wholly, mine forever and after. The things we thought we knew, us ten-year-olds!

Every year my family go on a road trip to Dalat, or the city of flowers, as people call it in Vietnam. Dalat was where my father used to travel to with his friends in high school, each of them on a motorcycle (the cheap kind that carried itself quietly with a feminine shamefacedness) carrying a girl on their backseat (he did not know my mother then), with just enough money to probably fill the gas. I gleamed these stories from grandma, who hoarded them with every last bit of her strength, refusing to surrender even as other things, like what Qui n’avance pas, recule means or where she put her glasses, started to slip away. I never dwelled on the details though. The stories didn’t mean much to me–didn’t make sense, even. Dalat belonged to us–Dalat the city of flowers, of spirits in tree hollows, of foggy mornings and horse rides by Ho Xuan Huong lake. No stories can change that. 

hình với ba

This photo was taken on one of our trips, in front of a statue of the Buddha that my mother the photographer chose to exclude. Instead, there is the dragon, my spirit animal according to my birth year, my father, and I, on the long flight of stairs leading towards the praying area. My father was wearing the hotel’s slippers, way too large pants, a sports jacket he’d owned nearly ten years. I was wearing what my mother dressed me in, snugly enveloped with my head against his chest. People said I was his copy, feature by feature–his downturned eyes, wide nose, large ears, tanned skin. You can really see it in the photo. It was that time when I resembled him the most. It was that time when we were together in a oneness that was later deprived us. It was that time when I bowed down beside my father, looking up at a distant god, and he clasped my hand together and told me to pray.