hope, perpetual

Bonne Année!

That's French for "Happy New Year's!" I was told the French use this greeting for the entire month of January, so you'll be sure to hear it from me many times! I have never spent a New Year away from home so this will be quite different. I know it's not exactly Thanksgiving or Christmas, but it's a holiday in which I am usually surrounded by my polka-dotted pajama clad family, all of whom I am thinking of now and miss very much. New Year's for me is usually spent at my uncle's house in Riverside. We eat sopas and pandesal made by my aunt, watch Dick Clark's Rockin' New Year's Eve Special on the television, and jump when the ball drops in Times Square at midnight. Toasts are made all around with glasses of Martinelli's apple cider and white grape cider and kisses on the cheeks are exchanged throughout the room, giving one another a sense of warmth and of home for the New Year.

Last year however, I spent New Year's upstate with my other family members who keep these same traditions. Though I believe we had Chinese, rather than sopas! My grandmother braved the cold to venture to my aunt's house where we were all celebrating that evening. I remember her telling me we would leave before midnight, and me complaining and explaining to her the whole point of celebrating New Year's is the countdown to the New Year! I persuaded her to stay and she complied because really, we would have been doing the exact same thing at her house, but you know, just us two in her bedroom and me jumping by myself, though come to think of it, I could have probably persuaded her to make one of those grandma hops that she used to do so adorably. I actually spent July 4th evening watching fireworks from her television with her as well, but I'll reminisce on that event another time. Anyway, grandma spent the entire evening on the couch watching the Dick Clark special and dozing off occasionally and I remember her looking especially pretty that evening in a purple sweater and scarf with a hint of silver eyeshadow on her lids which made her eyes sparkle even more.

As happy as we were to ring in the New Year, we didn't know what to expect for 2011 and I always tried to focus on the present rather than dwell in what the future had in store for us because I know my time with grandma was precious. She was in all truthfulness, my best friend, and though she would frustrate me at times, I cherished every moment not knowing when the moments would end, and I wish with all my heart to have another year, another day, another moment with her. So though I am saddened at the thought of not having her here with me this year, I remember fondly all of the moments I had spent with her this past year, both the good and the bad.

2012 will be a healing year.

Grandma, I ring in the New Year with you on my mind and in my heart. You gave me life, you taught me faith, and you showed me compassion. Though there is a part of me that is broken, and that perhaps will always stay broken, I will continue to live my life whole for you and because of you. This isn't a New Year's resolution. This is a resolution for all time.

Grandpa taking his last nap of 2010 in the massage chair

Skyping with family in Socal (AHAH @ Amanda's face!! And Lea's!! Ahahaha)

2 seconds 'til midnight, preparing to jump

Grandma and I, this time last year

once upon a plane ride

I'M HERE!!!!!!!! I am currently sitting at a desk in my room at the hostel, awaiting my sister's arrival. The room consists of four beds, two showers, and one toilet. It's more spacious than I anticipated and I only share it with two other girls. There's unlimited WiFi and I get two free meals a day for five days. It's currently 7PM and most of my classmates left to eat dinner except for my roommates and myself. I didn't go downstairs to the cafeteria though I'm told the food is pretty nasty looking. Luckily for me I have some seaweed snacks that no one wants to share! Breakfast is from 7AM to 9AM and hopefully they have bagels. I have a welcome orientation tomorrow morning at 10 and then a bus tour of the city at 2. I don't usually have class on Fridays but this Friday is an exception so I'll be in the classroom from 9AM to noon. Did I mention the classroom is just an elevator ride downstairs?

I finished A Moveable Feast on the plane ride here (I apologize for the incorrect use of italics, there's no underline). However more on that in another entry. I'd like to truly experience Paris first, before applying the text to the city in order to better inform you, the reader, of its truthfulness (though even without my experience, I trust Hemingway's word either way). The plane ride was around nine hours and I sat in the very back row on the aisle, right next to the bathroom which was nice...or so I thought. First of all the bathroom area was sort of a mingling spot in which I overheard many a conversation. Secondly, for all of those who don't know, the bathroom is kind of a common designated vomiting area. There were two people I noticed who threw up: one who made it safely inside before depositing his afternoon meal, and the other who wasn't quite so lucky as the first guy. So this girl is running down the aisle holding her mouth-- no shoes, just socks--and the unlucky person who just happened to be coming out of the bathroom gets a mouthful, literally. Before I even turn around I hear the retching noises from behind the closed lavatory door and smell the sour odor of fresh vomit permeating the small space. I turn around to see a flabbergasted girl around my age covered in a slimy pink gloop, eyes wide, arms outstretched, and mouth open in an 'O.' The stinky substance provides a bright contrast to her all black ensemble. After her initial shock wears off, there is a noticeable change in her demeanor. You can almost see the smoke coming out of her ears, she's so pissed. She starts cursing at the door, no sympathy for the sick girl. When the angry, vomit covered chick's mother appears, she starts to break down crying, mumbling unintelligibly about being bombarded. She's a heavy set girl whose thinner sister offered her one of the shirts she was wearing off of her back, which only induced more tears from the vomit covered girl. The flight attendants were all over her, giving her towels, soap, ginger ale, and a first class pajama set. I, on the other hand, turned away from all the drama, put a scarf over my face, closed my eyes, inserted my headphones in my ears, and pressed play.

That's all I have for now, my sister's here! But I'll be sure to update sometime tomorrow!

Au revoir!

this christmas

The holidays that occur in the wintertime give us a chance to reflect on what we have lost, what we still have, and what we hope to have at the birth of a new year. Christmas is a time filled with remembrances and deep nostalgia. The loss of someone hits especially hard during this time in which we long for home and for yesteryear. Loneliness is manifest during this holiday that celebrates gathering together. The first Christmas without her has come and gone and I couldn't have gotten through the holidays without my family. The loneliness and the sadness ebbs in the company of loved ones and I am extremely grateful for those who are still here, those who share my own pain, and those who have provided me with some semblance of healing.

I went to the cemetery twice with some family members, once on Christmas Eve and once on Christmas Day. Her headstone has yet to arrive and even though it's been a few months,the longer we wait, the more I anticipate its beauty; a reflection of the woman who it commemorates and celebrates. Everyday, there's something new on her grave: a bright bouquet of yellow and orange, a Christmas tree that sparkles with shiny ornaments. I talk to her and tell her things, though most of them are silent for fear of tears that won't stop shedding if I voice them aloud. I know she recognizes me. I feel her, hear her voice inside my head telling me to be a good girl, telling me to keep praying. Even though she's not here, when I'm feeling lost or sad, I take comfort in knowing I am surrounded by her presence. She still keeps me grounded. She still makes me feel her love.

It hurts sometimes to be around my grandpa. He's silent and strong in his loss, but his suffering is real and it's there. It's in that gentle squeeze of the hand that's familiar and comforting. It's in his warm, sleepy smiles that tell you he's still here, he misses her, but he will be strong for her and for you. I love him so, so much and I know my grandma did too even though she was always so frustrated with him. She worried about him a lot. I remember she was disheartened at the thought of leaving him behind. What about Choy? she would say. Grandpa is simply surviving. If he appears lazy and sluggish it's because of a heavy heart. And really now, who could blame him? The woman he's known all of his life, gone. Who will tell me what to do now? he said the day after she past. Why are we here? I think he's just waiting. He reconciles with his old age and now he's living until he gets to see her again. He's lucky too, because he will get to see her sooner, even though it pains me to even think about his absence as well. They won't be separated for too long.

I'll leave you with another little excerpt from my eulogy, as well as some Christmas photos:

Grandma and grandpa are the heart of our family, and grandma will continue to be the heart of our family even though her own heart has stopped beating. We feel her love and are surrounded by her presence and we will cherish that until our own hearts stop beating. I look around the room and I see her love etched in the tears we shed for her, the kind words we share about her, and the color that stains our cheeks, her blood flowing in us. It is through her love that we have been given life.

Grandpa arriving for Christmas Eve festivities

Grandpa surrounded by some of his grandkids and great grandkids

Grandpa and his five daughters

Visiting grandma on Christmas Day

scribbler of dreams

Currently on the road to the Bay! I believe I’ll write a little bit to pass the time…

I think everyone’s just looking for a little inspiration in life.

This search begins in our youth with a little thing called imagination. A single toy teddy bear is capable of great things. It is no longer an inanimate object: it may talk, it may dance, it may even have super strength. The toy, then, is no longer an object. We can now call it a friend. It lives. It presents comfort and joy, enabling our very human ability to dream. As children our curiosity is insatiable and is apparent in a one-syllable word: Why? This curiosity accompanies us into adolescence, perhaps remaining just as strong as when we were 5, or in other cases, one’s curiosity may lead to a simple indifference. We are aware of our peers and society-sanctioned definitions of what is perceived as cool versus uncool, especially in middle school and high school. Things that once held our interests such as that teddy bear may no longer hold any significance. We grow up and stop focusing on everything with that childlike wonder for we are no longer children, nor do we have time for such things as make believe because we discover there’s a world out there that’s real. In adolescence we are more aware of our sexuality. Here, one’s curiosity may pique and may lead to undesirable consequences via an unexpected delivery from the stork (though I won’t discredit that the birth of a child may very well be a form of a person’s saving grace). Mistakes are made, mistakes are avoided, and we learn a little about being cautious.

In our adolescence we are also more aware of our interests. Interest opens doors for inspiration. When we learn more of what we are interested in, we may find inspiration. Inspiration stirs within that anatomy class you took, the vintage camera in your grandfather’s attic, or watching your favorite baseball player make a homerun. For me, inspiration presented itself in the form of one of Shakespeare’s most renowned plays, Romeo and Juliet. I said a form of, mind you, it wasn’t actually the Bard’s own manuscript (I for one, perceive Romeo as the epitome of anti-masculinity but my reasoning could go on for pages so perhaps it’s best I leave my explication and rendering of Romeo for another journal entry, though it’s definitely more of a persuasive paper argument best left in the classroom. Oh look, I’ve managed to drift completely off topic). It (that book I was writing about before my previous digression, yes, THAT “it”) was one of those inspired novels that had the same plot and storyline as R & J. It was a book entitled Scribbler of Dreams I took one afternoon off of my sister’s shelf. I was 14, on summer vacation, and bored out of my freakin’ mind. I walked into my younger sister’s room, sighed dramatically, and slumped into a chair, exclamations of my extreme boredom grumpily slipping from my lips to the aggravation of my sister who was totally engrossed in a chapter of her book. She didn’t even lift her head at my entrance. Read a book, she told me, a roll of the eyes evident in the tone of her voice despite the curtain of hair blocking my view of her face. I sat still for a couple of minutes willing her head to move to look at me so we could do something, anything to alleviate my boredom. My attempts were futile, so after a few moments of gross silence I plopped myself in front of her bookcase. She was a big science fiction/fantasy buff (still is!) and none of it really appealed to me. Oh, and she had a ton of books! There were books on top of books, books behind books, books inside of books. Okay, so maybe there weren’t books inside of books, but you catch my drift; it was overwhelming and I was distraught in finding something that held my interest. Here, read this, my sister finally said handing me a book from the shelf as she suddenly materialized beside me. I think you’ll like it. Scribbler of Dreams read the title in a black scrawl as if it was truly scribbled onto the cover. The cover displayed a normal, nondescript looking girl save for her eyes looking up toward the face of a boy whose own eyes are downcast. Her eyes seem to be searching for something or trying to tell him something, looking as if she’s in pain. Her mouth is cast in a way in which she can’t decide if she wants to smile or frown. I flipped its pages, familiarizing myself with its scent, stood up, threw a thanks over my shoulder at my sister, and left her room knowing a response wouldn’t follow me out.

Scribbler of Dreams is a young adult novel following its female protagonist as she deals with the falls and triumphs of first love—basically the storyline of every young adult novel ever written but it captivated my interest for the rest of the day, my boredom long forgotten. I came back every other day picking books off my sister’s shelf for the rest of the summer. My love for reading blossomed that summer and soon I had my own collection of books, abandoning my sister’s fantasy-filled shelves for fiction that suited my own tastes. I had an array of novels starring female protagonists: some were reckless, some were shy, some were abandoned, some were stifled. I read about girls who dealt with drugs and abuse, remorse and fear, virginity and passion. I found a kinship with these girls. Their stories seemed real and I walked away taller and brighter from having shared their experiences. Inspiration was resonant in chapters, in paragraphs, sentences, and words. Even today, in my undergrad, I find an extreme interest in the etymologies of words and untranslatable and foreign words.

Something I have grown quite fond of within this past year, which I’ve found provides endless inspiration, is poetry (YES, I’m writing about poetry again, it’s just THAT awesome). A great part of poetry is the experimentation of language. Poetry magnifies the beauty of words; sometimes so gut-wrenchingly and heart-crushingly beautiful that it makes you ache even if you don’t understand or fully grasp its meaning. Though I’ve dabbled in writing it myself, I am no poet. I’m actually pretty horrible at it. This does not deter my love of poetry however. Poetry can be intimidating. It’s a puzzle in which multiple meanings can be conveyed. There are many facets in one line alone that can be daunting. Nevertheless, it’s your own interpretation of the poem, I believe, that holds the most value.

Poetry, I think, has the ability to deeply move a person, whether for a singular moment in time or the span of one’s existence. I recall Auden’s “In Memory of W.B. Yeats,” and his line: “For poetry makes nothing happen.” Poetry first affects its readers. It provides an intangible happening in the form of inward improvement for our self-awareness. This is not nothing. It is then our choice to take this newly discovered self-awareness, act upon it, and let our discovery be known to others. Though some poems are more abstract than others, its reader craves for a connection to the words typed out on the page and from there, imprinted in their mind, and more often than not, their heart. So my inspiration derives from my deep interest in words, whether they’re put together in a way that’s undecipherable and obscure, or whether they stand alone.

Inspiration holds the key for our tomorrows. Our inspirations turn into our aspirations that shape who we are and who we desire to be. People build their careers and their lives on what inspires them. Therein, inspiration necessitates in forming our identities. Dreams shouldn’t just be something that lives, hidden deep in our conscious. Dreams are messages. Dreams are gentle whispers aiding in the formation of our reality. We just need to listen.

winter nostos

So I remember all of those whose death

Is necessary condition of the season's setting forth,

Who sorry in this time look only back

To Christmas intimacy, a winter dialogue

Fading in silence, leaving them in tears.

W.H. Auden "It was Easter as I walked in the public gardens"

I find it hard to believe that I'm getting a chance to travel to Paris just to write. I feel I have conflicted feelings about my trip. At once I find myself to be extremely excited, which is the natural emotion one has when planning a trip abroad. Other times I am actually saddened at the prospect of leaving, even for a short span of time. The reason I never strayed far from home was because of my grandmother and now that she's gone I'm at liberty to make that full transition into adulthood that I could never reach in her presence. I'm not trying to say she held me back because if anything I feel as though she's held me up. In those last few years when I didn't know how long I'd have her, the future, to me, seemed nonexistent. This reality, these new conditions, I face now is my future. It's appropriate to say that I've lost a little bit of myself with her passing. I need to figure out who I am without her, as well as who I am because of her.

4 months

Dear grandma,

It's been four months since you've been gone. There are some days when I feel ok, good even. I'll laugh and I'll be silly and normal. I'll have class and I'll be distracted with my assignments. I'll go out dancing with my friends or shopping with my mom, and I'll be ok. There are some days that are worse than others. On these days your absence is tangible and when I'm surrounded by family and friends, I try to suppress any feelings of melancholy that strike because I don't want to be sad, nor do I want to burden anyone with my sadness. I think about what I wrote in your eulogy:

"And though we are no longer able to create new memories, the memories we have made, we hold onto for dear life. For it is those memories that we hold that will enable us to keep living in a world without you there, to laugh with us, to cry with us, and to be with us."

I conjure up memories of you. They're usually the simple things: sitting next to you at breakfast, walking around the mall, watching Jeopardy, making you tea. Just last night, I pictured you sitting next to me in the van on our way to dinner. I imagined making you laugh, or making you roll your eyes at me. In these moments, I actually believe that you are still here. That I can call you, and you'd answer your phone. That I'll go to your house, and you'll be in your room waiting for me. Just as quickly as these moments appear, they vanish. Once they're gone is when it hurts the most and I feel so stupid for believing that you're still here and I feel so helpless because I can't do any of these things. There's this deep longing I have inside of wanting to see your face or hear your voice or hold your hand. This is when I miss you most.

The other night I couldn't stop thinking about you. I can't listen to Christmas music without thinking about you, I can't watch "White Christmas" or "Holiday Inn" without thinking about you, which makes me realize just how difficult celebrating Christmas without you is going to be. These thoughts are overwhelming and I'm consumed by the sadness that accompanies your absence. I thought about this upcoming Christmas. It'll be the first Christmas without you. It pains me to think that you won't be here. This time last year we brought you back to Concord for the last time. I remember being in your room in our house in Temecula packing. I left all of your summer clothes like you told me to. As I packed your sweaters and leggings I tried to suppress the thought that you may never come back to Temecula, to our home, and to that very room where I was folding your clothes. This time last year I stayed with you in the hospital. I had finals, but while you slept, I would write my papers. I'd drive back and forth from Fullerton and I'd sleep on that little cot in your room by the window. On nights when you couldn't sleep we'd watch old noir films on Netflix. I savored these moments I'd have with you, not knowing when you'd be gone. All those times I'd hug you, you'd tell me to loosen my grip and I didn't want to for fear of losing you. I look back and I think we didn't have enough time. We would never have enough time.

I read a lot of poetry. It's strange, for poetry brings me both comfort and grief. Comfort, because I find so much beauty in the language and the images it holds. Grief, because of the candid moments of despair the author evokes in mere words that often reflect my own feelings. However, in poetry, the feeling that transcends above all others is hope. I read to experience hope and to bask in the solace it brings. I've learned that poetry is in many ways like prayer. It provides warmth and an openness of heart. W.H. Auden, a modernist poet whose works have provided me with moments of both inspiration and desolation, once said:

It's clear that "Life" as we know it ends with death, and one can only pray that one can make a good end. So long, too, as we walk the earth, we have the duty to remember our dead, and, if we possibly can, with more joy than grief.

So though my sadness will never fade, and though it may be stronger now with the loss of you so new, I find hope in poetry, in your memory, and in the lessons I've learned from you. You were kind and compassionate, beautiful and brave, patient and strong-- qualities which you have instilled in all of those you've touched and all those you've left behind. Though this Christmas brings forth feelings of anxiety and distress, I will attempt to remember you in joy and in love.

It's been four months since you've been gone and I'm still learning to let go.

Thinking of you always,

Tricia

Grandma & grandpa, 24 December 2010.

i hear you

So for those of you who haven't been affected by my incessant ramblings about my upcoming winter break, here it is, One. More. Time: I'M GOING TO PARIS!!!!!!!!!!!!! I'll only be gone for a few months so I figure, why not start a blog? The only people I ever allow to see my writing are my professors and it's high time I stop being so self-conscious about it and start letting the eyes of others peruse my musings at their leisure! Though, when I think about it, my mom will probably be the only one to take the time to read this ;P

Upon reading the title of my blog, "at twenty.two," you may think: Oh! She titled her blog that because she's twenty-two! Though this is partially true, I was actually inspired by Langston Hughes' poem "Theme for English B" in which he writes:

It is not easy to know what is true for you or me

at twenty-two, my age. But I guess I'm what

I feel and see and hear, Harlem, I hear you:

Hughes writes about the difficulty in knowing "what is true" especially at so young an age. He guesses who he is at this point in time by where he is from. Throughout the rest of his poem he hopes to revoke the idea that our identities are formed through context. We define ourselves by what we are not, like a binary opposition: black vs. white, day vs. night, etc. You can't define one without the other. Though people often figure out where their interests don't lie in order to find out where their interests do lie, we shouldn't only have to define ourselves by what we are not.

I am not a mathematician, I am not a singer, I am not a painter --this list does not establish an identity. It says who I am not rather than who I am. At my age, with my limited experience, I guess at who I am by what is true: I am a daughter, I am a reader, I am a writer. I know as I grow older I will be able to add to this list, and in doing so more truths will be established. For now, experiences abound through literature, through observation, and through Paris. The City of Lights is calling to me: and Paris, I hear you.

I possess that yearning curiosity that accompanies youth. In this past summer of my youth, I recently experienced the loss of a woman who had been a mother to me. I keep the memory of her close to me and I acquire a renewed vigor for a life satiated with feeling and fulfilling. I believe Paris will provide me with the courage and inspiration necessary to heal and to reestablish and discover who I am and who I long to become. Paris will give me courage to strengthen my independence as a young woman. I look to and admire Elaine Dundy and her recollection of her travels in Paris through Sally Jay, the heroine of her novel The Dud Avocado. This courage will enable me to make new friends, create new memories, and revive the inspiration to strengthen my skill as a writer, and hearten my passion for the art of putting pen to paper. There is a stirring of excitement I find when I recall Dundy’s poetic description of the Champs Elysees: “All at once I found myself standing there gazing down that enchanted Boulevard in the blue, blue evening. Here was all the gaiety, glory and sparkle I knew was going to be life if I could just grasp it.” I hope to experience that same warm rush of elation and wondrous vision not only when I see the Champs Elysees, but also when, for the first time, I behold the beauty of the city renowned for romance.

I hope to enrich my senses in Parisian culture. I imagine floating down the cobblestone to marvel at the city’s wonders. I want to see the Eiffel Tower on a snowy December eve; I want to feel its cool, strong iron beneath my fingertips and the soreness in my legs from having climbed to the top. I want to smell the crisp city air, which I imagine to smell of salt, smoke, and wind fragrant only in Paris. I want to hear the dreaminess of the language and become fluid in the movement of the city. I want to taste a croissant fresh from the oven, flaky, buttered, and warm. I hope to immerse myself in the rapture the city has to offer and, at the end of my journey, be able to take it home with me for Hemingway describes Paris as “a moveable feast.” Through my travels, I hope to be moved. I hope to be able to look at something and in it read a story, hear a song, or write a poem. My inspiration will in turn enhance my education in my pursuit to absorb all the culture and the enlightenment, which accompanies traveling. Writing through Paris will allow me to further fulfill my journey of self-discovery through reestablishing my love for reading and writing, and reawakening my aspirations of life in my time of loss.