Pouring Out

So here's a series of two creative essays that I wrote during my senior year at LO (the ones that I told you about, Brian). I used these as my college entrance essays, which got me into the UO Honors College, which I eventually quit because they suck, and a scholarship, because the teachers at the high school thought these are good or something.

But at any rate, regardless of where they got me, here I am still. What really matters is that these are things that I wrote from the bottom of my heart, with nothing to hide, with all honesty. I guess the only reason that I haven't posted them on here is that I haven't copyrighted them yet.

So hope you like it! :)

PS. Sorry for any typos. I haven't looked them over since college.
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Grace and Little Bottle

In Hong Kong, where I was born and raised, every family has a gate to guard their homes against the bad people, as my parents would say. But I always thought that the muddy brown gate that guarded our maple-wood-colored door was ugly. Muddy brown. Its the color of waiting, of aging, like the number four, which sounds like the word death in Chinese. To this day, I dont think anyone other than me noticed the sadness in the color of the gate that secured my first home. I have often wondered how my parents could have let sadness guard our apartment.

Even now, I am still unsure if the apartment with the brown gate belonged to us or not. It probably didnt, because we had to be careful not to make too much noise, careful about keeping the walls and the carpets clean. Mummy and Daddy always told me that one day we would move into a bigger apartment but I had to keep in mind that the key words were one day.

Besides, I dont think I ever truly wanted to abandon the apartment for somewhere else. I could not leave because living next door to me behind the silver gate were two sisters, Grace and Little Bottle, who taught me how to giggle and how to nod to sadness.

Grace and Little Bottle werent alike, at least not from the outside.

Grace was like a bamboo stick that had grown shiny black hair at one end. She had eyebrows far apart from each other. Mid-way between her two bushy brows, like valleys between two mountains, were grooves that didnt seem possible to be smoothed. Maybe the grooves were from wondering too much why she couldnt be a fish that lived in the quiet world under the peaceful water, or asking why she couldnt float in the air like a dandelions seed. Or too much pondering over why her sister, Little Bottle, had to cry so loud and so often.

Little Bottle had a reason to be called that name. It was because, in contrast to her sister, she was more like a wide milk bottle than a slim bamboo stick. And this milk bottle didnt leak milk; it leaked tears, along with the tears came sour-tasting screams and dusty-purple-colored sobs hat seeped through the cracks from next door. In between those screams and sobs, I thought I heard a brown leather belt making its way through the air, each scream a crisp, precise landing on fresh, young, pink skin. I thought I heard Little Bottles defiant runts and fighting fists and her desperate, beaten-up body trying to get away. I also thought I heard Graces somber silence and clatter of teeth from a dark private corner.

Maybe gates no matter what color cant always keep the bad out, because much of the sad noises penetrated through the silver gate and into my ears. Every time I heard the noise, I covered my head with a blanket and murmured, Its not what it sounds like, over and over again until my body became numb and fell asleep.

But Grace and Little Bottle were alike in a way that, perhaps, they didnt notice themselves; only I did, just as I noticed the sadness of my brown gate alone. Their laughter was identical. Even though Grace would become silent and form grooves in between her two brows, and Little Bottle would scream and cry and sob, they would still giggle. When they saw flowers, cookies, or crayons, they saw happiness and fun, and they would giggle not the cherry-flavored-lollipop giggles, but like a chandelier crashing down from the ceiling. They would bend over like dandelions tickled by the wind, and their giggles would sail through the air to me, plant their seeds in my mouth and grown in me a special laughter that glows like twinkling stars.

I did not want to leave my sad brown gate and the silver gate that stood next door; I did not want to stop hearing Grace and Little Bottles ear-piercing laughter that taught me how to express happiness and accept sadness. But I had to because, at last, one day came when we had to move as the sun was setting and the wind came alive to dance with the dandelions.

I did not cry, because I promised myself not to forget how to giggle in my own way: like twinkling stars. So I brought with me part of Grace and Little Bottle in the form of twinkling star giggles to another house with a black gate. And then, I brought them across the Pacific Ocean, or what my parents would call in Chinese the Peaceful Water, to this white wooden house without a gate in Lake Oswego, Oregon.

Now I have a little bottle filled up with twinkling star giggles sealed with a cork I call grace enclosed in my heart. Whenever something happy or funny happens, or when sad things remind me of the sound of a whipping brown leather belt, I take off the cork. And from the bottle, my twinkling star giggles burst out in rainbow colors and float like soapy bubbles to fill up the void of sky.

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Father Who Wakes Up Tired

Clouds are mystical things that can transport you from one place to another over night. On top of clouds, you can dream of a new life, a new place where butterflies and trees are not too scarce, and houses are wooden and white with no gates. That was how I came to America with my family, sailing on top of clouds, as cheerful as Christmas and as tipsy as a 12-year-old who drank a little too much of those dreams. But my parents had other dreams, ones that I never understood until I saw strands of silver gleaming in contrast to my fathers black hair, dull from working and earning a living for his family.

We perceive the world differently, said my father, because we are Chinese. There are many things that the American society teaches you wrongly and you shouldnt bend to them. You need to remember that we are Chinese; we are the sons and daughters of the Yellow Dragon.

Th-then can I s-still go to the dance, D-da? I asked. He looked at me like I was crazy, like I was the most irrational and unreasonable person alive. Ah-Lam, ah, Father signed the heaviest, lead-colored sigh, and said, This isnt right. This isnt what I brought you here for. I wanted you to have a good education go to college and learn the Western ways without forgetting the Chinese ways, so that you dont have to work as hard as a buffalo in a post office like me! So, no, you cant go to the dance. In fact, go upstairs and study!

His words stung like thistles against every inch of my skin. My frail bones ached. How could I have let him prevail? I thought. I looked daggers at him while he had his back toward me as he poured himself more tea. How can he not understand that going to dances isnt that big of a deal? Everyone goes to them. This is what people do here! This is not Hong Kong! Thats right; this is not Hong Kong This is not Hong Kong, Da! I waited for him to make a sharp turn with his head and to bite down on his teeth in a menacing way and to breathe in a deep, vengeful breath. But he never did. The only thing he did was to drink his hot tea calmly with his back toward me still, as if my presence marred the sacredness of a vigil.

All that happened when I was fifteen, pink and baby blue, not knowing a thing. I remember storming up to my room. I hid in a corner, held my breath and swallowed my tears cold as ice. I hugged my knees to my chest in attempt to find some solace and comfort from holding something close to my heart. But my back was cold, because the air around me froze like time, and the coldness pierced through my body, creating a black hole in my stomach.

I ceased talking to my father for the rest of the week. But in the end, I was the one to break the ice because I could not stand noticing the wrinkles on his forehead like train tracks and the corners of his mouth turned down. I could not bear seeing him waking up tired after a nights dream about whether he did the right thing by bringing his family to America. But most of all, I could not excuse myself from hurting him and smashing all his good intentions into bits and pieces.

No, I did not go to the dance. I dont think I even went to the next one, or the one after next. I stayed home to keep my father from waking up tired; I stayed home to keep afloat those dreams that shower raindrops of my fathers hopes and dreams.