They were just super cool. (At least that’s what I thought way back when my only friends were plush dolls and Sesame Street characters–fortunately I’ve grown out of Sesame Street).

Every time they did something I wanted to do it too because, well, I was a little copy-cat and had no real life of my own.

My brothers did all kinds of cool things, like playing basketball on our driveway, playing hockey in our street, playing baseball in the backyard…playing Sega Genesis.

Sega Genesis was the best. They would sit on the floor right in front of our tv, voices escalating, thumbs frantically pushing buttons in strategic combinations. What a rush!

The only thing was that most of the games they played were for two players only. Like Street Fighter, only two people could play at a time against each other.

I really wanted to play with them. With one of them. Either one. I just wanted to play with someone else.

What generally happened was I would sit watching them screaming their heads off and having the time of their lives. (I always think of ABBA when anyone says this line) …

But this is what would occur:

Me: “Hey, can I have a turn?”

Them: “Yea just hang on. You can play when I die.”

… 5 minutes …

Me: “Is it my turn yet? You died three times already…”

Them: “Not yet. Just let us do one more round.”

… 5 more minutes …

Me: “That looks like a lot of fun guys. Do you think I could play too?”

Them: “Not yet!! You don’t even know which buttons to push. Just wait–we’re trying to learn new combos.”

Me: “Now that you died can I try?”

Them: “Aauuugghh! You distracted me! That’s why I died. You killed me!”

Me: “But … but I …”

Them: “It wasn’t fair! Let me go again! She was talking and she made me die!”

… 5 more minutes …

Them: “Okay, here you can play.” Both brothers drop their controllers on the ground and exit, Stage Right.

There I am, left with the wreckage of tangled controller wires. Gingerly, I pick one up and try to free it from the other. Once free, I look behind me at the empty living room, look in front of me at the welcoming tv screen and push Start.

Me vs. the computer.

L.

This all started about a month ago when I was driving home from work and I was hit by an oncoming car (to put you at ease, all parties involved are absolutely fine, there were no injuries and everything has been taken care of). This was my first major accident. My brother’s car was totaled and I honestly thought I was going to die. I didn’t. I was unscathed—thank you God and thank you seatbelt. But I was given a ticket and had my license taken until the court date.

For a month I turned down the onslaught of two invitations to grab a drink because I had no form of identification. I was afraid to run the Chicago Marathon because I didn’t want to have a brain aneurysm during it just in case I had some unseen injury I didn’t know of (yes, somewhat morbid). I was also afraid that they wouldn’t let me get a beer after crossing the finish line because I didn’t have identification on me. I didn’t really want to drink a beer, but if they were giving it out for free, I’m Asian, I can’t turn it down.

Life didn’t seem to stop, there was one event right after the other in these past couple of months. I guess that’s just how life goes though, if it stopped it’d be death, no?

Thankfully (sorry if this might offend someone who doesn’t believe, but this is America and the interweb—I have the right to freedom of speech), God rules over life and Jesus already conquered death. So, nothing to fear, everything’s being taken care of whether I realize it or not.

But in all honesty, God has really been present and watching out for me. The accident could have been a lot worse, and the aftermath of the situation could have taken a drastic turn for the worse, but it didn’t. Everything worked out. Everything was okay.

My court date was this morning. I had to stand before the judge and state my case. I was all nerves, no bones, just nerves. My body was shaking and my heart beat in quick little bursts. I scanned the room to see if the other driver was there—but all white girls look the same and I just didn’t know. I just didn’t know.

I know that the worst thing that could happen is I get a ticket, I pay for it, and I might have a blemish on my record. But it all seemed so daunting. I don’t speed. I’m a very cautious driver. I’m a good, law-abiding citizen. How could this have happened to me? It all seemed like too much.

The judge called my name. I responded with a loud “Here!” I walked up to the gate. And I waited.

I waited to be ushered to the podium in front of this no nonsense, bald man. The judge. I showed my documents. The girl was not present. He dismissed the case. I was free to leave.

Just like that. I didn’t say anything. I didn’t do anything. It all probably took a matter of 10 seconds.

And then my family and I walked out of the court house into the brisk November air. Free. No ticket fine, no court fee. Nothing. Scott free.

And some day I’ll have to stand before God and be judged again. And this bald, no nonsense man I stood before this morning is just a human, but extended so much grace—not only to me, but to a lot of other cases. Granted, this was just traffic court (my dad says it’s not real court), but he is a real judge nevertheless.

A judge who knew nothing about who I am, nothing about my case except for what was written on a yellow slip of paper, who didn’t know anyone in that courtroom, allowed so many people to walk out with a dismissed ticket or with a just fine as penance.

But God knows our hearts. He has shaped and molded every small detail of who we are, and what we go through. He knows us better than we know ourselves, and understands us. So, then, how much more merciful will God be when we stand before him? How much more grace has he already extended to us?

I can only imagine. Nothing could be better than a breath of fresh air—my license in my hand and a heart filled with grace and mercy.

L.

I love my curly hair.

There was once a time when I envied you, you with your straight hair. Your silken strands that shimmered in the light, the flawless sheen parading before my own eyes, mocking me. Your hair laid flat on your head and pirouetted at the whisper of a breeze. So light and graceful while my own dull dreads weighed heavily against my shoulders. At the tiniest drop of moisture my hair would set off the alarms and put up its defense mechanism—a layer of armor ten times its original size.

And, so, I hid it in a bun. As if the bun would shrink it to a manageable, inoffensive size. For 10 years my hair was locked in a hair tie. And I envied every girl whose hair was as straight as her thin-lipped smile.

But college does wonders to a girl. College really shapes and molds you (or rather makes you realize there is no specific shape or mold).

There are thousands of more people who you see just walking around campus. People who don’t all seem to be wearing the same ripped Abercrombie & Fitch or American Eagle jeans, generic polos with popped collars, and black North Face jackets (though there are still a lot of those). People who are not all blonde haired and blue eyed, or brown haired and blue eyed, or tall and skinny with long legs. People look short and curvy, tall and boxy, clean and shaven, dirty and shaggy, yellow, brown … people didn’t seem to need to trim their edges just to fit a specific mold.

And that’s when I started to grow into myself. I didn’t really like myself all that much. I tried to change a lot about me. But college opened my eyes to the beauty of diversity. So what, my hair was thick and curly? So what, my legs are kind of muscular for a girl? How could I expect people to like me for who I am if I wasn’t comfortable showing the real me?

So, here we are at 23. It took me a lot longer than a lot of other people. But I’m embracing my curls. They get tangled and gnarled, but it’s easier to just let them be than to fight against them in an attempt to make them straight. I like having hair with some personality—even if it isn’t that shiny or soft. It’s mine, it’s real and it’s still growing on my head. So, I think I’m going to take ownership of it now instead of pretending it’s some orphan child I’ve never seen before. Why would I want to look like every other Asian girl with straight black hair, when I could look like a smaller portion of Asian girls with that weird, in between, curly-wavy hair?

To my fellow knotty, kinky girls: cheers! Let ‘em loose. Go wild. Have some fun. We’re not meant to be tamed.

L.

I got a cavity.

Somehow, somewhere along my daily routine of brushing and flossing (and sometimes mouth washing for months when I had it) my tooth decided, “Hey, I’m going to decay in your mouth.”

This is my first cavity in my adulthood. As a child I had many cavities, me and them were like thirty-two peas in a pod. I was the pod. They were my peas. My hidden treasures. My little black nuggets of guilty, sweet pleasure. But the great thing about being a child is that those tiny chompers fall out to make way for a more permanent set.

And what a glorious set of sturdy white soldiers they were! Year after year, they held fast. They were tried and true. Strong and mighty. They could tear through any foe: chicken, beef, pork, you name it. Nothing could take down my army.

Except floss. The harbinger of bad news. The grim reaper of dental hygiene. The gladiator of gum disease.

Guiltily, I’ll admit, I did not floss on a regular basis all my life. Except for this year. This year I made it my moral (switch the letters and it’s molar) duty to look my dentist straight in the eyes and tell him with pride and honesty, that yes, I have been flossing. Every. Single. Day.

Generally, I would feel a slight pang lying to my nice dentist-man, but this year I said to myself, “No more lies! We will do dentist-man proud! We will floss!” And floss I did.

And so, when it came time for that final question, that million dollar question, I could hardly hide the pride in my smile, “Yes! I have been flossing. Every day!” I beamed, waiting for my praise.

“Really? Well it seems you’ve got decay here, in a spot that could only be reached if you were flossing.”

My pride was shattered. My smile weakened at the corners.

“Can you come and see me next week?”

Yes.

“Good. Take care! Don’t forget to floss.”

So, I went back into his office the next week. My usual room is the very far one at the back. (There are only 3 rooms). But this time, the lady ushered me into the first room. The first room has such a sense of urgency to it. No nice stroll to the back where small talk can be had. Right to the front where we mean business.

My usual nurse, the one who cleans my teeth is a nice old-ish woman. We talk. She remembers my major and what college I go to … went to. She picks and pokes at my teeth, scrubbing and scraping. She asks me questions. She takes her fingers out of my mouth so I can answer. She gives me a toothbrush.

This new lady was young. We didn’t talk. She didn’t know my major or anything about me. She held a gun. (Some special gun that hardens the filling).

Enter Dentist-man with large syringe. He opens my mouth and stabs my gums with the needle in two places.

Exit Dentist-man.

I am left all alone in this new room that I’ve never been in before today. The numbing starts taking its effect. I feel … cold. All of the blood and heat just got sapped from my body. I’m trying to look at the nice digital picture frame on the wall, but my vision goes blurry. What. Is. Happening?!

Then, the fires of a thousand suns flare into my skin and I get the cold sweats. And I’m still feeling dizzy in my eyeballs. My stomach is doing the slow churn, like it’s learning how to do gymnastics but all it can do is roll over on its head.

I want to die, and all that’s happened is the anesthesia shot.

My heart races and my breath gets shallow. I tell dentist-man I am a’okay. All signs are go.

Next thing I know there’s a tiny signal tower being screwed into my gums. I have this metal pole sticking out of the side of my mouth and I don’t know what it’s for. Then the grinding, and the whirring, and all the screeching inside of my brain.Banshees are wailing to be freed, knives on plates slice the air, fingernails on chalkboards pierce my soul – all this inside of my mouth.

And I am trying not to barf into my dentist’s goggles.

He unscrews the metal tower and pokes around in the newly drilled hole. Some rinsing occurs. Some suctioning. Some prodding with sharp metal tools. Then fumbling. And, “Dang it! Get me another one. Why won’t this just … Ugh!” All followed by forced whistling.

He is making me nervous. Either he’s got a serious case of turrets, or something is going wildly wrong. He keeps trying to jam the tower back into my gum, which I can feel despite having been shot with numbing anesthesia. And every time he stabs me, I wince. I don’t think he took notice. Or else he just ignored me.

Dentist-man finally gets the tower locked in place and anchored. But then more problems arise in the actual filling of the hole that he created. The lady puts the gun to my tooth. I surrender.

It beeps three times and she withdraws. Dentist is back at it. And then she holds the gun to my tooth again. It beeps and she withdraws. Dentist says, “Good job. Bite down. Chew. Feel good? Good! We’re done. You have a good day now.”

The lady gives me a cup to rinse my mouth. I swish. But it feels weird.

“Does it feel okay?”

I shrug.

“When you bite down, where do you feel it first? On this side or this side?”

I point to the side where my cavity-turned-filling is.

She grabs dentist-man and he tells me to bite down again. Chew. “Oh yea, that’s sticking out.” He grabs a tool and shaves it down.

She gives me a cup to rinse again. I spit all over myself because my lips are numb on the left side of my face and I have zero control over the muscles. She’s gracious enough to wipe my mouth for my pitiful self.

I leave.

But my tooth still feels weird. It feels jagged. I feel a hole. I try to look in mirrors. I can’t tell. I don’t know what a filling is supposed to look like. I don’t know what a filling is supposed to feel like.

I floss. I rinse. It hits a nerve.

And now I might have to repeat this process all over again …

L.

P.S. I am extremely sorry this was so long. I probably should have given a verbal warning to those who don’t like to read. Warning: this is a really long post. Don’t read if you don’t have the stamina.

However, I do eat a lot. I don’t find shame in this (at least not always … not often … just from time-to-time) – but I really just like to eat more than anything else (okay, maybe not anything, but almost).

I held an internship in a little office for three days a week. So, three days a week I pack my lunch to go, and I’ll eat at work.

One lovely Friday I had leftover casserole for lunch. (I make really delicious casserole with mashed potatoes as a bottom layer; ground beef as the next, spinach topped with cream of mushroom and a crust of Pillsbury dough bread, compliments a la Mama). But along with my casserole I packed leftover mashed potatoes and cookies (both homemade of course). This was not a light lunch – I was packing on the carbs and sugars.

To get a decent picture of how much food I bring for lunch, imagine a three-course meal while everyone else brings a tupperware with three peas rolling around. (That is a slight exaggeration).

I wolf down my comfort foods of carbohydrates and sugars while everyone nibbles at their three peas. That they share. Between the four of them. (No, no don’t believe that, that’s a lie).

At this point, I’m stuffed.

But wait! There’s more! After our lunch break, a box of gluten-free cupcakes are magically delivered to our front desk! The smell of sugar, and baked goods with sweet frosting smothered on top draws our attention. Do not mess with a woman with a sweet tooth, you will probably get mauled and ripped to shreds.

We open the lid and a golden light escapes, basking each cupcake in a halo of goodness. There are about ten cupcakes all together, so naturally we want to sample them all. Each of us grab a cupcake for ourselves, and then we pick and peck at the cupcakes that didn’t make the first cut (we didn’t want them to feel lonely or like rejects). Within 30 seconds of standing around the front desk, all that was left were two empty boxes and crumbs.

Now the afternoon rush is not so much a rush as it is a lull. After lunch, I sit in my cubicle fact checking or compiling information to write articles. Sometimes there will come a moment where my mind just blanks and I completely zone out. My eyes get heavy, my head feels heavy and all the blood is rushing to my gut.

This was one of those days. As my head nodded and my eyes surrendered to the inevitable weight of  food coma … I breathed in. This lovely calm of air entered my lungs, swelling inside of me with a flood of drowsiness. Just when my lungs were stretched to take in as much breath as they possibly could … thunder rolled, lightening cracked, the earth opened wide its jowls to swallow me whole.

I looked down at my waist, and there was my thin, little, blue leathered belt … ripped apart in half, held by one single thread.

I’ve been embarrassed before, but in an office full of teeny tiny, fashionable women, I was mortified. The only thought going through my head: “I’m not fat. I’m not fat. I’m not fat. I’m not …”

I didn’t throw the belt away. I have it as a keepsake to remind me of what happened, and how I should really induce portion control.

Bon apetit!

L.

By Lisa Moy

So, here I am, post graduation. College is done with me and I with it.

The summer has been kind so far, the sun doesn’t burn nearly as much as the rejection letters. And the breeze through my window is a lot more soothing on my skin than whatever whispers have gone behind my back. The birds still sing in the suburbs and the squirrels are more timid than their urban counterparts. All in all, life is still turning, and the days are still the same 24 hours long.

So what have I been doing with all this extra time on my hands now that I’m not studying or working you ask? Well, I’ve been looking for jobs (without much luck yet, but I’m sure there’s a purpose for this). And mostly, I’ve just been spending time with my family.

We’ve renovated my room. The walls have a fresh coat of paint. Traces of squashed bug guts are no longer to be found, childhood stickers have been scraped off and thrown away. Unwanted and unworn clothes are stowed away in trash bags to either be donated or tossed. And I painted an old dresser and nightstand a nice white. I’ve only put the first coat on so far, but after the second coat is done I think it’ll look really nice.

I’m very hands on. I like home improvement projects. I like restoring things, making something old and ugly look new. Oddly, I get a real sense of accomplishment from it.

With just a little bit of paint, this ugly thing that boys have scratched, wiped boogers on, penned and glued, can look pretty. There might be some underlying traces of its past life, but as a whole, it’s brand new. And even if it looks uglier than before, I’ll look at it with bias and say it’s the most beautiful thing because I did this with my own hands and my own time.

So, secret’s out. I don’t really go anywhere. I don’t really do anything. And even though I don’t have a job when I should due to the current economy, I’ve been enjoying my post graduation by sitting at home painting walls and furniture, clearing out spaces and reorganizing my closet. I’ve been running and exercising and enjoying this down time.

And I know I’ll have to join the real world soon, but I hope when the real world and I meet, some of this enjoyment can tag along with me.

L.

When I say everything, I mean it. From baby’s first steps to just stepping out of our house.

My mom is huge on documentation in the form of photographic proof. I never found this strange. I thought it was a perfectly normal, traditional (borderline habitual), compulsive disorder.

She used to take polaroids of me at the dentist after I’d had a cavity-free check up. My mom would walk with me to elementary school and take pictures of me standing in line waiting to be let into class … every single day. There are pictures of me sitting in bookshelves, climbing out of my crib, taking a nap … when I was like 13 years-old … (no, I’m only joking …)

Pictures can basically make a detailed timeline of my life.

There’s the first haircut I ever had (plus the actual hair tied with a rubberband), the second haircut I ever had, the third haircut … the fourth and the fifth … and that time I cut my hair myself …

You get the idea, I’m sure.

My family especially loves taking photographs at restaurants. They don’t even have to be fancy restaurants, just restaurants that we go to. There are these Chinese restaurants near our house, and we frequent them enough for the owners to come out and talk with my parents. They chat about personal details of their lives.

I’ll come home one weekend from college, and we’ll go out to eat there – the owner will ask me how the English paper went that was due last week, or why my boyfriend isn’t with us – that’s how friendly they are. You will find a trillion pictures in our photo albums of our family at this specific restaurant.

Sometimes this excessive picture taking gets kind of embarrassing. Only “kind of.”

I know, that sounds ridiculous, and you’re thinking, “No way! How could taking pictures in public spaces be awkward? There is just absolutely no way.”

Well, after 21 years, I guess it happens.

I was at the Apple store getting a new laptop. People get laptops every day. This is not my first laptop – I had a Dell before this one.

(Quick a/n: this is/was my first post using Bernard/Bernie – my new(ish) Mac).

Anyway, talking to the man with hair coming out of every single pore on his body, my mother decided to take some pictures.

Take a picture with that laptop!

Mom that’s just a laptop on display.

Take a picture with your dad!
Hold up the box!
[To the sales clerk]:
Can you take a picture of our family with this laptop?
Can you get in the picture too??

Oh family. How I love thee.

L.

Yes, there is the possibility I might get jumped and mugged. But I’ll have these huge bulging muscles all over my body and will be able to knock the attacker out just by staring at him with my manliness. I could stop bullets just by flexing my insane biceps. They could stab me … if they could find a steel strong enough to puncture through my rock-hard abs, but they won’t be able to.

So, yea, sometimes I wish I was a boy – because boys don’t walk around with the thought of getting raped lurking in the back of their brains. Boys don’t constantly check behind their shoulders every time they walk past a darkened alley or beneath a shadow. Because, honestly, if a woman were to rape a man, he could jack her in the ovaries and kick her in the face.

Maybe I should start body building …

L.

Well no more! This ends here!

To hell with split ends! To hell with dry hair! To hell with breakage! What do I care? I will look like Cousin It, like Cher, for the rest of my life as long as it prevents me from being ambushed by a little lady with a pair of scissors in her hands.

I say this every time, but I swear, this time I am sticking to it!

No more haircuts!

To grow one measly inch my hair needs seven months. I have to patiently wait out seven months without a single blade to the end of a strand of hair. For just one inch. ONE INCH.

And in 25 minutes, she single handedly succeeded in ruining my seven months of tedious waiting. Curses.

I go in with a picture of a celebrity who has the same length of hair that I do. (Or roughly around the same length). And I show the hairdresser the picture, “I only want a trim. 1/2 an inch. Not too much. I like this length. I’m trying to grow my hair out. Do you think you can do this?”

“Oh yea! Of course! No problem!” she says in her broken English.

No problem my butt.

She sits me down in front of the mirror, takes one glance at the picture, and starts snipping away. Snip snip snip snip snip snip snip! (Never to look at before-said picture again).

At first tiny pieces of hair pepper the white cape (which really doesn’t look flattering) snapped around my neck. I’m okay with this.

However, as time progressed, her fingers got more bold and took more liberties than they were initially given.

Locks of hair drifted to the ground, like the Beast’s magic rose petals – each one signifying my deepening disappointment and horror.

She kept telling me, “It’s not too short, okay? Trust me.”

The look on my face clearly showed that, no, I did not trust her. Not in the least bit. She lost my trust when I lost all my hair.

Normally I am content at hiding my discontent. But this trim-turned-cut changed that. I tried to smile – but I think it looked more like a grimace, “Thanks…”

“You like it?”

“Yea…thanks…”

I ran my fingers through the newly shorn locks, imagining how much more hair there used to be, but I got stopped abruptly because she chopped it all off.

I took one terrified look in the mirror, mourned the loss of my hair, got up, grabbed my things and stomped over to the cash register.

Please don’t judge me … but I did not tip her. I thought about it. But then decided no – you don’t deserve a tip when I told you exactly what I wanted, and how long I wanted it to be. I told you I want to keep my length, but you decided against that. And so, I paid, took my change and left (feeling terribly salty for not tipping).

When I got into my car I just looked in my rearview mirror and started screaming. The most ungodly sound you will ever imagine escaped my lips. I, the soft spoken asian girl, gave a series of blood curdling howls of anguish. I tugged and I pulled on every last strand of hair, trying to lengthen them. I screamed and I growled, and I tugged on my bangs.Then I silently backed out of my parking spot and sped home, growling and roaring like a wild beast.

Devil-woman cut my hair off, and now I have to wait for it to get back to shoulder-length. Thanks. Thanks a lot.

So with that said, maybe I should get another cut to undo the bad job she did? What do you think? … I think I might be seeing a split end over there …

L.