"The Secret" (Life Sketch)

She held a secret; one buried deep beneath the surface, hidden away from the world. It was a secret she would never dare tell; never give voice to, for if she did, she was afraid that all her fears, her agony, would come to life at the verbal utterance of the secret that gnawed away at her soul from morning to night. Thus, she told no one, because perhaps, she had no one to tell. However, if one stopped to look at her, not just at her, but somewhere far away in her eyes, you could see it. You could see her secret, begging to be forgotten.

At school, no matter where she went, she could not escape her tormentors. They were always there, always present. Their guns were loaded and aimed; their artillery supply was endless, filled with crafted rumors, new lies to be told, and cutting remarks with more bite than a rabid dog, ready to be spewed out in an instant. Every moment of every day, she wished she were not their target; yet, she did not wish that sort of pain upon anyone else. It appeared that meanness now meant power, and kindness was to be scoffed at, forgotten. But what could she do when kindness had always been her strength? She was lost, and her secret grew within her.

People blamed her. People told her it was her fault; they told her she must deserve it. Some people told her it was not a big deal, that she should simply ignore it. She would stare at them, screaming in her mind how could she ignore the lies, the rumors, the degrading and disgusting speech thrown at her, in person, through the whisper of the grapevine, and online? Few inquired for the truth behind the lies, and no one dared to defend her; no one wished to become the next target. While others said nothing and turned away in shame, others told her to disappear, to hide her fat and ugly self somewhere else. All the while, teachers closed their eyes.

At night, while her secret festered in her soul, she would ask God why was she alive? She would ask Him if He even loved her, because if He did, why did she hurt so much? When the tears came, for every night they would, she would beg Him to make it better, to make the bad people stop, to make them go away. However, after endless months of pleading, she began to run out of tears, and the pain only grew. For once in her life, she did not know where God was.

After many months, her secret wanted to be free. The secret she held quietly in the depths of her heart began to rip away at her control. Bruises began. Deep scratches began to impale her arms. Her inner cheeks were swollen and raw from her clenching, from her attempts to stifle her cries, to stop her tears from falling in front of her tormentors, until she was completely numb.

She began to imagine life in a different way, a way that knew no pain— a life where she was happy, free from hurt, free from the monsters seeping venom into every crevice of her life.

That is when she began to give in to her secret. She would start fiddling with the scissors; sighing as she blankly stared at the kitchen knives. In her room, she would mindlessly gaze at the ceiling fan, watching it spin, round and round. As she opened her college acceptance letters, her hand would pause a little too long upon the golden letter opener and her mother would stop cutting the vegetables for dinner, and stare. Perhaps, her mother began to know her secret too.

One day, while she was home alone, she stood in her bathroom, gripping the rim of the sink. Her tears would not come; her hands were cold. It was time. Releasing her death grip on the sink’s rim, her hand reached for the medicine cabinet, but stopped in midair as she dared to capture a glimpse of herself in the mirror. She stared at this person in the mirror, someone she barely knew. As she gazed into the mirror, however, she remembered. Her mother’s laugh, her mother’s tears, her mother’s smile. Her hand lowered as she thought of her mother.

Without any lingering doubt, she left the bathroom and sank into the carpet of her room. As her cheek brushed against the softness, a tear trickled down her face. As long as she could still cry, she knew she would survive, somehow, someway, she would. She would find a way. She let go of her secret because she could finally remember. She remembered why she was alive.        

"The House on Mango Street" Reflection

“She thinks stories are about beauty. Beauty that is there to be admired by anyone, like a herd of clouds grazing overhead. She thinks people who are busy working for a living deserve beautiful little stories, because they don’t have much time and are often tired. She has in mind a book that can be opened at any page and will still make sense to the reader who doesn’t know what came before or comes after..."  –Introduction

            This is how the author, Sandra Cisneros, designed The House on Mango Street. To some , it may seem choppy, simply a book containing random short stories and poems, lacking a sense of overall cohesiveness. However, although this style for the book is not one that I would normally prefer, I can only find respect for Cisneros’ vision and the beauty that she presented in each special story pertaining to the coming-of-age of Esperanza. The first person perspective that she utilized through the character of Esperanza provided the reader to feel like they were in her head—hearing her thoughts, seeing through her eyes, feeling her emotions, all on an intimate level that is sometimes rarely visible in other novels. The choppiness and sometimes lack of connection between stories were at first confusing; however, it helped to match the train of thought of a young girl—not all issues will “stick”; a new day is a new day.

            I must admit, though, this book did not enchant me during the first read. When I read the book for the first time, I barely found any enjoyment. Perhaps it was because I was extremely sick, but I felt disengaged from the novel in the same fashion that the stories seem disengaged from one another. Then, after my fever broke and I began to maintain a normal sense of consciousness again, I attempted to read The House on Mango Street once more. Somewhere in my discombobulated mind, I knew I had missed something important during the first read through that the author would have been utterly disappointed if she had known I had missed it.

            Hence, round two began in my attempts to read this novel! However, for this time, I approached the novel differently; rather than viewing the style as disorganized and scattered, I viewed it as purposeful to the depth and meaning of the novel. An author, I reminded myself, especially this author as seen in the introduction, does not write to confuse readers or disengage their attention, but rather provide a story that something meaningful is obtainable at any given time, no matter what point you enter the story. With this new mindset, I found myself unable to put the book down as I slowly watched the deterioration of Esperanza’s innocence, as well as her new discoveries and experiences leading to her darker perception of reality. To some extent, it was heartbreaking to see her confusion, her hurt, her sadness. At times, especially in the sections of “Papa Who Wakes Up Tired in the Dark”, “Sally”, “Bums in the Attic”, “The Monkey Garden”, and “Red Clowns”, I wished I did not feel so connected with the character. I wished that the intimate connection established between reader and character were not there, because her pain became real, and her screams and thoughts would echo in my mind, hauntingly.

            “Sally, you lied. It wasn’t what you said at all. What he did. Where he touched me. I didn’t want it, Sally. The way they said it, the way it’s supposed to be, all the storybooks and movies, why did you lie to me?” –from “Red Clowns”

            Even now, I hate that section of the book, not because it was poorly written—quite the opposite, actually. It is so well written that I cannot shake the crawling feeling from my skin, the feeling of discomfort, disgust, whenever I read it.

            Overall, The House on Mango Street was an interesting reading experience for me. The first time was a blur, mudded with a fever and constant sneezing, so it should not really count. The second time, however, made such an impression that I cannot discount the talent and craft of Cisneros in creating a “book that can be opened at any page and will still make sense…”        

"To Kill a Mockingbird" Reflection

It has been about seven years since the first time I picked up To Kill a Mockingbird; I was only twelve years old when I first read the novel about a young girl and boy, their mysterious guardian angel, and the trials, tribulations, and social injustices faced within a Southern community in the 1930s. Even though much time has passed since my first reading of this novel, I must admit that my heart for it has not changed; the novel remains as one of my favorites. Although I cannot accurately recall how many times I have read this novel in the past seven years, I must say that each new reading encounter for me has always been like the first time—new, exciting, intriguing, moving. Perhaps that is the magic of the novel; it manages to capture my attention and pull at my heartstrings, each and every time.

However, now at the age of nineteen, the novel has a deeper meaning for me. When I was twelve, and even throughout my middle and high school career, I never fully grasped the impact of Boo’s character, until now. After some introspection, I think that my new understanding stems from my own experiences in college— being placed in a completely new environment, feeling isolated at times, being discriminated against for characteristics that I could not change. Because of these factors, I could recognize the multitude and impact of Boo’s character and his thoughts and feelings throughout the novel. As a young teenager, – who lived on a rock for her entire life - discrimination and isolation were understood, but not internalized. However, after experiencing those things first-hand, the depth of Boo’s character and the reasons for why he behaved the way he did no longer seems foreign to me, but rather; it is so understandable, it hurts. I think Harper Lee wished for readers to see the human in Boo; the compassion, the heart in the infamous character no one truly knew. I realized I no longer had my view of Boo that I did when I was twelve; now, I saw a part of myself in him.

Hence, I must admit that it was an interesting experience for me to relook at one of my favorite novels with new lenses of age and maturity. I realized that my rose-tinted glasses were broken long ago, leaving me to now recognize the gravity of the issues presented in the novel, and the progressive development of characters so much like myself; when I was twelve, perhaps I was too ignorant to see the similarities, to see that I was no different from them.

Yet, even though time has passed, – I have aged almost a decade since my first approach to this novel – my favorite quotes and chapters are unchanging. The final chapter, Chapter 31, was my favorite chapter before, now, and for always. I find this chapter to reflect upon the entirety of the novel; it still sends a chill through my soul, especially when I read the following:     

 “It was still summertime, and the children came closer. A boy...fishing-pole behind him. A man stood waiting with his hands on his hips. Summertime, and his children played in the front yard…enacting a strange little drama….

…Fall, and his children trotted to and fro around the corner, the day’s woes and triumphs on their faces. They stopped at an oak tree, delighted, puzzled, apprehensive.

Winter, and his children shivered at the front gate…

Summer, and he watched his children’s heart break. Autumn again, and Boo’s children needed him.

Atticus was right. One time he said you never really know a man until you stand in his shoes and walk around in them. Just standing on the Radley porch was enough.”

After 300-some pages, the reader finally captures a glimpse of Boo’s perspective—we can recognize that he viewed Scout and Jem as his children, children to love, children to protect. The simple enlightenment, the whirlwind recollection of three years that Scout has on that porch still makes me smile, still grips my heart, unmercifully.

Lastly, I cannot help but end my reflection of To Kill a Mockingbird with a quote that has mesmerized me throughout the years—a quote that has been with me from my first reading, and will be with me to my last:

“’An’ they chased him ‘n’ never could catch him ‘cause they didn’t know what he looked like, an’ Atticus, when they finally saw him, why he hadn’t done any of those things…Atticus, he was real nice….’

‘…Most people are, Scout, when you finally see them.’”

"Howdy, Partner" (Meeting #5)

A light drizzle from the sky, a near-empty campus...and there I was, sitting at a deserted Union Grounds, waiting for Yi-Ray to arrive. The minutes passed as I kept glancing at my watch. Usually, she was never late, and I began to worry a bit, hoping that she was not trapped in traffic, or worse. Thankfully, my worries were silenced and my heart sighed with relief when Yi-Ray finally scurried through the doors, a bit out of breath. She apologized profusely for being late, but I was simply glad that she was all right and here, ready for our next conversation.

Once Yi-Ray caught her breath and relaxed, I inquired how her family trip went, which was scheduled during the previous week, only to receive a heavy sigh.

“We couldn’t go,” she muttered, “because of the storm.”

I nodded sympathetically as I knew how much she and her family were looking forward to a trip together. Originally, they had planned to travel for the week to New Orleans, but due to the thunderstorms and awful weather conditions, they found themselves trapped in the confinement of their home for most of the week. Instead, Yi-Ray explained how they went to Dallas for a day (when the weather conditions improved, of course) to visit the Korean market. She smiled sheepishly and I could not help but smile back; an Asian market to an Asian can be a mini heaven, especially in the continental U.S. where the Asian populations are, well…not large. Yi-Ray’s face continued to brighten as she told me about another place that they visited in Dallas, a place full of flowers and plant-life, “the most beautiful place in Texas.” I was hoping that she would remember the name of that place, but after struggling with her memory for a good five minutes or so, she could not seem to recall the specific name of this wondrous place. Although I would have no idea where to begin in Dallas, I hope to one-day visit the beautiful garden-like haven that had Yi-Ray overwhelmed with awe and excitement.

After discussing her mini-Dallas adventure, she began nervously shifting in her chair. While sipping on my orange juice, I waited patiently for Yi-Ray to express what was bothering her. After a few moments of relatively awkward silence, she blurted out the truth of her worries.

“I quit.”

I nodded solemnly as I listened to her vent her agitations and frustrations regarding the circumstances that resulted in her quitting the English program. To respect Yi-Ray’s privacy, I will not divulge the specific details of what happened with the English program, only that the situation occurred without warning; her hands were tied, leaving her no choice but to leave the program. Although I have only heard one side of the story, I could not help but feel saddened for Yi-Ray. Her path to learn English through the program was cut short, only to leave her with embarrassment, confusion, and frustration. Why the situation occurred, and why it happened to her, I might never fully understand or know. All I can do for now is be there- be supportive.

After her wave of emotions and thoughts passed, we sat in silence for a moment. For once, I really did not quite know how to respond or what to say. Thankfully, this determined woman before me still had a few choice words she wished to share.

“I plan to continue to study English,” she stated, “and I will still take the English exam.”

The English exam (TOEFL) will be held during the first week of May, and Yi-Ray is determined to continue her English studies – now on her own – and take the test in May, but more importantly, she plans to pass. Her determination to succeed and to prove to others that she is an equal, that she is adequate, is deserving of respect.

Although she and I have almost completed all of our required meetings, I told Yi-Ray that we could meet even more if she needed help in preparing for her exam. A huge smile spread across her face, and at that moment, I promised to help; it is a promise I intend to keep.

"Howdy, Partner" (Meeting #4)

            As I took my seat across from Yi-Ray, I noticed there was a spark in her eye; her face was brimming with excitement. I could only imagine with anticipation what she was bursting to talk about today. Her smile was wide as she said with such pride, "Today, I would like to share with you my culture." As someone who also admires the Korean culture, I was ecstatic to have the opportunity to hear from a Korean citizen first-hand about his or her customs and holidays. Even more so, I was grateful Yi-Ray was willing to open up and share her experiences and personal culture, one she misses so much. 

            With pen and paper in hand, I was ready to learn about the Korean holidays, customs, traditions, and even a bit about their delicious food. However, our conversation began on a much different note. Weddings. That is what Yi-Ray wished to discuss first. She began by asking me what dress I will be getting for my wedding. A bit taken aback by her question, embarrassed, I explained that I am extremely a ways away from marriage, along with the minor detail involving the lack of a boyfriend. She laughed as she began to understand my "single" situation, and thus continued by discussing traditional Korean weddings, as well as her own.

            In terms of the traditional Korean weddings, I learned that only a few people today still have their wedding fully traditional; most couples have Western-styled weddings, due to European and American influence. However, the details and descriptions of the traditional Korean wedding were intriguing; the dress attire used, such as the colorful hanboks for the women, and the rounded, leather "ship" shoes the men wear, are all so unique, very different from weddings that I am normally accustomed to. One thing that I found most interesting is that in the traditional Korean wedding, the color red is highly incorporated, especially on the bride, as red is a symbol of good health and fertility (they want babies!). In America, on the other hand, red on the actual bride would almost be considered scandalous. Additionally, Yi-Ray informed me that in traditional Korean custom, the bride and groom spend their first night as a married couple at the bride's family's home. No immediate honeymoon for them! Hence, I found the dichotomy between traditional Korean culture and American culture today to be fascinating.

            Hesitantly, I asked Yi-Ray what type of wedding she had, not wanting to overstep boundaries. She simply smiled; she reminisced about her wedding, a four-year-old child and some years ago. Although she had opted for a Christian wedding, there were yet some differences between Korean and American "Western" weddings. For one, I learned that in Korea, women almost never purchase a wedding dress. Rather, they rent one. In America, renting a wedding dress would seem so rare, as there are advertisements, media, and television shows dedicated to finding and buying the "right" dress. Additionally, Yi-Ray informed me that most Koreans marry in their thirties, as they believe one should be financially secure first. I explained to her variations in ages in America for marriage, as well as how it depends upon region, as those in the South tend to marry younger compared to those in other parts of the country. She seemed in awe of how young some Americans are when they make this decision.

            In relation to our conversation of marriage and wedding traditions, I also awkwardly explained what the terms "cougar" and "gold-digger" means. It was a hilarious conversation, although explaining these terms earned me some odd looks from innocent bystanders passing by Union Grounds. I could have cared less; Yi-Ray could barely contain her laughter as I used fine examples such as Hugh Hefner and the residents of the Playboy Mansion. 

            Our conversation continued, including the topics of Korean holidays, military duty, and food. Gaining insight into another culture is...priceless. In these moments- moments of learning and enlightenment - I am reminded to be open. Sometimes, to learn much, it is that simple.