Growing up, and the (dis)appearance of loose ends

You know, my mother used to tell me to put things back where I got them. I used to struggle with this as a child. I would take something, do something, and then—nothing. I couldn’t follow my bread crumbs back. There would always be some loose end around the house — scissors left on the coffee table, shoes blocking the doorway threatening to trip someone, a jacket on my bedroom floor… My mother would be a rich woman if she got paid every time she had to tell me to return things where I got them.

Now, in my mid-20s, I am so good at it. I take something, do something, and as if my feet were following some script, I walk back and put this “something” where I found it, exactly how I found it. You would be proud of me, Ma. Maybe this is how you are getting compensated — your daughter’s finally learned her lesson, and is admitting it publicly.

When did I metamorphose into this very tangible adult? I walk like an adult. I talk like an adult. I pay my bills. I work about eight hours a day, but really, only six, because I read an article recently that Sweden only makes its people work six hours a day to maintain that work-life balance, and I fancy myself a Scandinavian. And! I put things back. There are no loose ends — at least, none that can be immediately seen. (And I am slightly despondent to come to the realization that that is an adult — a human with no visible loose ends. Is that what we all are, when we finally “grow up”?)

And yet, there are so many invisible loose ends. In fact, I feel like one giant loose end. I feel like trendy jeans — you know, the type that taper down to your ankle and are frayed oh-so-tidily at the hem? That’s what I feel like. Like trendy, frayed jeans — like, I got popular, but for no good reason.

It feels like the more life I experience, the more I encounter this frayed feeling. And I have this theory for that.

We’re all told to put things back, and not just to put things back, but to put them back the way we found them. So, you spend half your life trying to follow this laissez-faire mentality, of leaving things alone, of keeping things to that baseline, of not rocking the boat—when you finally figure out, mid-way through a stressful, life-changing experience—you’re supposed to rock. that. boat. You don’t just put things back the way you found them. No, none of that passive bullshit.

You’re supposed to leave things better than you found them — be an interfere-er, be an idealist, be self-motivated. 

So, in light of this newly-realized philosophy, you become this walking, talking, “8”-hour-working, bill-paying adult who not only puts things back, but improves them. Or at least, tries to. Because, well, it’s so much more demanding of your time and energy. And the risk for loose ends and frays and all that, increases, as you develop these things for yourself, what do you call them… oh, what’s the word… goals! You develop goals for yourself. And your world gets messier as you try to enrich yourself contrary to your generation’s famous habit for instant self-gratification.

But it’s also so much more rewarding. 

I’m still getting accustomed to the idea. I’m not quite at the “doing” phase yet. But I have to laugh a bit, because wouldn’t it be so much more efficient to tell children, at the advent of their youth, that they are champions, and that they’re supposed to make the world a better place, one little action at a time, rather than waiting for them to figure it out 20, 30 years later?

Rock that boat, kids. 


Daily Post prompt: Champion

My true colours

I’ll tell you what I am;

I am the orange of parched desert sand
the cracks running through like veins.

I am the green of salty ocean depths,
the likes of which you have never explored.

I am the yellow in sunflowers,
the amicable jaundice all over your body.

I’ll tell you what I’m not;

I am not the dichotomous black and white,
the swipes left or right of hasty judgment.

I am not the unforgiving black and white,
the stripes of a prison uniform.

I am not the simple black and white,
the enemy of nuance and true understanding.

I choose to live in burnt orange, enigmatic green, and infectious yellow;

Oh, but most of all, I choose to live in shades of grey.


Daily Post prompt: Nuance

The Miseducation of Meta-Theresa

I am a small, young, Asian, female immigrant. My exterior is expected to match my interior. I am expected to take up as little space as possible, while I bow my head in submission to your maturity and masculinity.

I learned these things and am burdened with the hyper-awareness that comes with constantly feeling subjugated. I learned.

When you are diminutive, you learn.
When prejudices against your generation affect how people perceive you, you learn.
When stereotypes of your race affect how people treat you, you learn.
When you have strengths, and it is “despite” your gender, you learn.
When you have weaknesses, and it is “because” of your gender, you learn.
When your life path did not start in the country you now live in, you learn.

When that is your reality, you learn.

This is not the education I wanted to partake in, as a child and now as an adult.

I have a full-blown world inside me; do they know this?

Fortunately, I have also learned how necessary it is to take up space;

to take dominion over conference tables and conference calls alike; to let my hand gestures and words consume physical and mental space —

to pull my audience into the world inside me.

This is me, eliminating doubt. I have learned to pick up a paintbrush and start painting something beautiful and badass over it.

ღ, ts

* * *

dbbed0c3e6bd0c1be8fd05e90bd88615


Daily post prompt: Doubt

Kitchen rhythmics

You come home to me, your feet tapping their way to the kitchen.
You hear me sing as the knife bombards tomatoes in an even tempo.
You wrap your arms around me as our hips sway to Tracy Chapman.
You pick out our cups while I pick out our teas, and we alternate sipping.
You smile, I smile, you smile, I smile — oh, the headiness of reciprocation.

Such is the rhythm of our evenings together.


Daily Post prompt: Rhythmic