Random Rambles

You know what I hate about throwing things?

That I have to eventually reach down and pick it back up.

Or whatever is left of it.

Maybe it's the asian in me that refuses to leave a mess on the floor.

Or maybe it's just me, trying to cover up any sign of vulnerability,

covering my tracks

looking over my shoulder to make sure that no one saw my moment of frustration

of anger

of disappointment.

Because good women don't show vulnerability. or at least that's what my parents taught me.

Good women are soft-spoken, 

They’re polite at all times,

They never show their teeth when they smile, 

Never have strong opinions or voice them

and they are only ever loved, never loving back.

I tried so hard.

I took down every semi-offensive photo of me that popped on the internet.

And by semi-offensive, I’m referring to whether I was showing my teeth or not.

Because only heaven and my parents know how fast my so-called reputation would fall if people found a photo of me like that on the interwebs acting like prostitutes or women with low academia backgrounds do.

I squeezed and forced myself into this mold

Pushed every long-limbed awkward and flailing part of me into those small size 7 shoes that I should have been wearing, if I were a good Asian girl.

Mumbling my way out of chinese school,

Acing my way through calculus,

Blundering my way through pre-med college courses

Wishing that someday, somehow, sometime in the future, that I would make my parents proud.

That I could be that daughter they turned to and said “hey, that’s my good daughter” while listing off that exclusive list of important accomplishments that all their friends seem to be able to list off about their daughters

Instead of listening to all the other Asian parents gather around dinner tables like satisfied vultures, preening over their offspring and ready to look down upon anyone whose children weren’t meeting expectations at any moment of vulnerability.

Vulnerability.

That’s the core of who I am.

The part of me that I’ve tried to package nicely into a box compartment that is locked shut deep inside of this chest.

Screaming at me that I’m stupid, I’m ugly, I’ll never amount to more than just a hobo on the side of the street.

threatening to engulf me completely and break every single one of my dreams

Beating so hard deep inside this chest that I’m afraid it’ll beat straight out of my chest

And then parents will know what a failure I am.

The things that I’ve hidden down inside me because

Try as I might, I’m not a good girl and I’m done pretending that I can be.

Always been the loudest girl around, and rarely need a microphone to be heard

That I’ve finally realized that I have a voice. A say. That no matter how small this voice is, that I can make people listen.

That I naturally smile with my teeth when asked to take photos

And damn, I love too hard.

I love with all my heart, with every single fiber of my being, all the time and especially during the times I’m not supposed to.

When it’s inconvenient,

when it’s messy,

when it hurts.

And maybe,

Even just a little bit, I’m learning to love myself.