A story about my story that's really how your story is our story

Honestly, I have never thought of myself as a writer.  Nor have I ever really dreamed of becoming one.  Growing up, I went through all the cliches of a young amateur,  like writing stories about boys I thought I loved or constructing sad poems about how people just don't understand.  Because I always thought writing fictional letters to a diary felt silly, I always looked to expressing myself through fictional constructs. I thought by reversing genders and using pseudonyms, the messages I hid through my characters were like confessions tucked away in a secret journal.  So yes, I wrote a lot.  But they were never meant to be masterpieces, they were just things I went through.

It wasn't until I got into college when my chemistry professor, who happened to also be my advisor, insisted I reconsider my academic focus from anything science to anything literature.  It probably wasn't the best advice I received from a mentor, considering she had only jumped to assumptions rather than offer me constructive advice to achieve my personal goals.  But compromised.  I kept taking English classes, and I found I really was good at it. I was good at expressing my thoughts, and I was good relating to others' thoughts.  My achievements in these classes go far beyond this simple breakdown, but it should be said because it describes an important thought to me: everyone has a story.  And it means something to share one.

Beyond all the superfluous "problems" I thought I had endured growing up, one thing has remained to be truly defining:  I have always struggled with my identity.  Of course, we all go through the question of who we are, from the day we were born until the day we part this earth.  But more specifically, I've always wondered what it meant to be Vietnamese, while being born and raised in America.  This story isn't a rare one, but each person who shares a similar one to me has a story unique to his or herself.  Personally, I cared a lot about fitting in, and for me, that meant something different in a Caucasian dominated community in Virginia.  But as our community developed through the new millennium, the demographics of our county continued to become more diverse.  I found myself at a tug-of-war between who I wanted to be, and who I could be.  I became hurt, confused, and restricted.  I kept it inside. I kept it personal. This was the story I had always wanted to write about.

Even in the past four short years after moving to California, my experiences broadened.  I believe they have helped me become a better, more dynamic person.  I wasn't defined by my race.  Instead, I grew with the comfort of understanding my parents' culture and what came with being a child of that heritage.  The phrase "Mother tongue" expanded with new meaning.  I slowly became less angry and less defensive about describing who I was as a person against society.  Instead, I felt included, loved, and appreciated in a community that was so familiar with a culture I hesitated to embrace as a child.  Without putting it into words, I had already began to feel like all the things I wanted to write about were listened to even without speaking them.  So, lately, I've just been living on as it all comes together.

My life isn't perfect here.  I also still visit back home when I can.  No matter where I am, from time to time, I'm still reminded of the difficulties one will face when language is lost in translation, or when unfamiliar culture becomes misconstrued into racial stereotypes and constraints.  There are things my friends say that get me riled up.  There will always be decisions made by people I know where I can't help but point out the influences on their choices from living in a prejudiced society.  But I hope I can continue reminding myself that important thought: everyone has their story.  And stories can translated and appreciated.  We're each living pieces of an infinitely shared collective.  No holding it all in.  We have to continue connecting ourselves together.

An old short story I wrote about 6 years ago

           "Don't do it," He says.  "Promise me, if I introduce you two, you won't touch her."  He makes you promise that you won't, and he doesn't let it go. You're both standing at the apartment door and you can already hear the people laughing over the loud music from the party inside, but instead you're both outside arguing like a bunch of idiots.  He doesn't care.  He demands it once more again and emphasizes his point, stressing on "fucking" as an adjective, as if it is the only way he can show you how serious he is.  "Don't fucking touch her. I mean it."

             Finally, you raise your arms, palms facing him, full surrender. "Alright, alright. I won't touch the girl," you say, because you knew him since grade school--and not saying there's due honor in history (though, you guess in hindsight, maybe there is)--the fact that he always acts like a know-it-all, you figure if you surrender to him now, you could finally meet this coworker, this other best friend of his, the one he always misses out on your poker nights for.  You wanted to finally meet her face-to-face and prove that she actually was a fat, ugly butch, because if she was actually everything he said she was, then he definitely would have fucked her at least once by now.  Or at least tried to.  So, you don't really get why the hell he's making you promise that you won't.

            "You gotta promise, because I know you," He emphasizes.  "I fucking know you, man."  He didn't stop.  "And you know what?  I know her well too.  I know exactly what's going to happen.  It's going to be 2am; you will be at her door…"  No, he stopped.  He's a fucking know-it-all, for Christ's sakes. So he starts from the beginning.  He wants to prove you from the start.

            He paints out the scenario: once you step through the door to her apartment, you'll lose him, instantly.  You'll bullshit your way through some people you've met before, some fuckers who will ask you, "Hey didn't we know each other back when…" and you'll nod, even though only one or two of the times you were questioned you actually knew the answer.  Some girls will look at you from a distance.  They'll try to look at you once, smile as they turn away, wait a second or two before they could look at you again, as if you had no clue they would, as if they were actually captivated by the sight of you.  These girls bore you, and some scare you, because you know the ones who mean it are clingy, and the ones who play the act are trouble because they know how to lie.  But no, you will find her.  You will find her in the kitchen, tasting the marinara sauce from a wooden spoon, barefoot, wearing nothing but a little black dress and a tangerine cooking apron, beautiful.  Like it was out of a fucking movie.  She somehow notices you standing there.  You hope she doesn't know you can't feel your legs, but maybe she knows, because then she looks at you, and she smiles.  And before you know it, you're gone.

            Never mind you live with someone else (because things aren't working out well with that girl anyways), and besides, you begin to notice those long legs of her's.  Your weakest spot.  So you shake yourself out of it.  You'll focus on her smile.  You want to prove your ol' grade-school-know-it-all friend wrong, so instead of staring like an idiot, you begin to introduce yourself.  You'll pretend you're finding out her name for the first time, even though you heard it many times in conversation before.  "Hannah? Oh! You work with Joey, right?"  Her eyes smile.  "Yes," she will laugh.  You wonder if she knows you're lying.  You will shake hands, but first she demands that you taste her marinara sauce, which you do.  Not knowing how she loves spicy things, your tongue burns like hell on fire from trying too much at once, and she laughs.  Not mockingly, but almost lovingly, even though you have never met her before.  It is one of the things about her that get to you.  That laugh can make deep canyons into your brain--and you do many things later that night to fill it, like try to get her number, crack a stupid joke to see her smile again, or help her with all the dishes soaking in the murky sink water.  You will even stumble to complement her on being the hostess.  You know, you do all those things you thought was stupid for a guy to do just for a girl. 

            But you won't stop. You won't stop at nothing.  You will find out that she is engaged, but of course, you won't think the prick is right for her.  Of course you won't; you'll pick out all his faults when you meet him on a double date with the girl you have tried living with--whose name you practically forgot by now--who you nearly ignore the whole night as you spend all your energy trying to learn more about Hannah.  Actually, you'll find you have a lot in common with Hannah.  You two will laugh over sarcastic comments that reference 17th Century French philosophy (who the fuck else does that?), you'll have rivals over trivial matters like ranch dressing or blue cheese, and you'll point out how neither of you knew anyone else before who had even heard of Todd Solondz.

            It'll seems like you see Hannah at every party you go to.  You'll notice that she's having problems with her fiancé, and they will be fighting again, so you come by to offer her a drink to take her mind off of it.  You'll both watch the other people in the room, making inside jokes about the ones who try too hard, like that guy who is sweating through his shirt as he's talking to some girl who's bored and constantly looking away.  You and Hannah laugh together.  You'll turn over to look at her once, and she smiles at you back, but it will be a mischievous smile.  You'll offer an escape plan.  She laughs as you continue on telling her about it.  You add on about how you know the fire escape route here like the back of your hand, and when she wasn't looking, you planted a bomb on the side of the window there… no, don't look, don't give it away.. don't make it obvious, yes that window right behind the table of hors d'eouvres over there, so you two will have to make a run for it before it explodes in five, four, three….

           Once you're outside, it's already raining, but you two are still a little drunk, so you neither of you will complain.  She laughs at your hair, because your hair falls all over the place when it's wet, and you make it even messier to ask her if you look any better.  She says no, but she will laugh in a way that you feel like she might just really… really, actually think the same things you are thinking about her. You will feel like she actually does think about calling you in random hours in the day, it will feel like all these times she brushed your shoulder, she was really lingering a little longer on purpose, and that sometimes she imagines you in nothing but her shirt… no, that last one is probably just only you imagining her in yours…

            You love her in the rain.  You love that she doesn't care that her makeup is ruined.  You think she's beautiful.  You wish she would just leave her fiancé already.  You wish that if you kissed her, she will leave him for you.  But neither of you will say a thing.  You will be too scared to hurt her.  You're too scared your friend will be right, the prick.  The know-it-all asshole who saw all of this coming.  And as you watch her ride away in a taxi cab, you remember what he told you when he made you promise not to touch her.

            You remember he that said, "It will be 2am after some party, you'll be drunk, I promise you, you will be drunk, because you never think straight when you are, and when this happens, you will find yourself back at her apartment door.  You won't care that she's engaged, because you won't be able to get her off your mind, and all you will be able to think about is how her eyes smile.  But the moment she opens that door, there is no turning back… just remember this moment, just remember me, saying 'I told you so.'"

            So you will stand there in the rain.  You curse yourself angrily.  People will pass you by.  Your hand will wave suddenly for a cab.  It will be 2am, and you will not know what will happen next, you will not know if things will go your way tonight, but you have Hannah on your mind, and all you can mutter is, "God damn, I hate it when he's right."