Repeated History


I always felt like an outsider. I guess that’s what made me special. I knew I was different from the other kids with my brown eyes, pitch-black hair, to the food I ate. The children and their parents would look at me in awe because of our differences. It always felt like there were eyes all over me and my family. I would look around and all I could see was bright pale skin, bright blond hair, and shiny blue eyes. I always thought it was weird. This neighborhood never really felt peaceful to me, like there was always someone who wanted to bother me or my family, but my dad thought otherwise. 

I found my dad to be quite peculiar as well. My dad shuddered while hearing the smallest noises. He was never picky about his food and ate whatever we had, even when the food was on the brink of expiring, and even when we had plenty of money to buy more food. Whenever he would kill an insect or find a dead rodent, he would mourn for their death like they were his childhood pet.

He loved being out in nature and every time he would go to the garden, he came back with bruises and cuts all over his body. But, I’ve noticed for a while that he had many scars. From what I could see he had some deep scars on his back that went all the way down to his behind and looked painful to look at, some small cuts here and there, but mostly on his arms and legs. At first glance, my dad appeared to be an ordinary person, but if you had a closer look he was far different from the average guy. For some reason, he seemed nice, but unapproachable at the same time. You could tell from his body that he was a man with a history, a mysterious man, a man I want to know more about.


My great-grandma is a princess. That means I’m ⅛ royalty. You know, I thought It was pretty cool until my dad had to ruin it. 

I mean Barbie looks so pretty in those poofy dresses and always looks like she’s having fun. My great-grandma was different though. My dad told me that she wasn’t like all the other princesses and she had to abide by many rules and traditions that sounded like they were a pain to follow.

She was like Cinderella. Back then she would have to wear small shoes that wouldn’t fit her. No matter what, even if it hurt her feet, she had to stay in those tight little shoes. Daddy said her feet were so deformed that she could barely walk. They were red and bruised, and whenever she would walk there was a chance of her skin peeling because of how delicate her feet were. He kept describing her feet in so much detail it hurt to listen to. I…I really didn’t need to know that much about it. I guess it was pretty scaring for my dad. 

He said that she never felt free because of those shoes. She couldn’t play outside because her high status and her shoes kept her from going anywhere that she wanted to go. She had many brothers and sisters so no one really cared for her since she wasn’t the heir to the throne. She was neglected and trapped in a household that never felt like a home. 

It was strange that such pretty shoes, a thing people envy, something that is such a necessity in daily life was so painful for others to have. To some people, it didn’t matter if it was a necessity, if those shoes reminded them of something they hated they wouldn’t wear it no matter what.

Last Days

No one really knows when their last day is, but they always have a feeling when it’s going to happen. When people pass away the people left behind always have to deal with the consequences of their actions. They always seem to regret their last choices to their deceased loved ones, but people have to move on. I thought I would never have to experience this type of feeling but I guess I was wrong.

I always thought my grandpa was a good man but, as I paid more attention to my dad, I noticed he would frequently tell me stories of his experience with his dad and his “lessons”. Little by little my initial perspective of him slowly eroded until I saw grandpa’s true core. There was never anything really good that my dad could say about grandpa, but any time my dad would talk about grandpa’s brutal “lessons”, he would always talk about it in a light manner. I knew what was going on and my dad’s tone never got the best of me. 

In the last few hours of his life, I looked at grandpa without any care in the world. The stories kept replaying in the back of my mind. My mother told me to pray for his surgery to go well, but I didn’t care. I thought, this man is Buddist, would God really want to save him? So I didn’t do it. 

After a few hours, the news came, and everyone started crying. A few moments later, nurses wheeled something out of the hall and into the room. They unveiled the cloth, and as I looked at his lifeless body I could still feel nothing for this man until I heard someone trying to hold in their tears. I turned to see my dad crying. I was so confused. My dad, someone who I’ve never seen cry, is crying for someone who hurt him to the point where there are scars on his body, scars I can’t even look at? Then tears filled my eyes. Was he really that great of a man? If I prayed for him would God have saved his life? Would my dad still be happy if he was alive? Man, I should’ve prayed so at least there might be a chance that my dad could be happy right now.


There is a girl that I like and she is my best friend. I really like her. Like a lot. She’s the only one I feel like I can talk to. This is a secret I can never tell anyone. This secret will stay hidden, forever trapped and sealed away for no one to see because I know. I know that I can’t like her. 

The fifth-grade dance is coming up and this is the most important one of them all. This is my last year of elementary school and I need to make it count. 

But…“What does it matter?” 

She got a date for the dance so “What does it matter?” 

“What difference does it make?” I am nothing to her. Just a friend. Just another person who didn’t fit in. “Just another…” immigrant’s child.

He’s funny, cool, smart, and most importantly…

he’s a boy.


I get frustrated a lot of times. Mostly with piano. I just don’t get it. I can’t read the notes because it just doesn’t click. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I get really mad sometimes when I can’t play the right notes and I just stop playing. When my father tells me to play, I say NO. When he carries me back onto the seat. I ran away. Sometimes I’m too much for him to handle and he gives me “lessons” of his own. 

I cry as any person would, but the only difference is I never gave in. I remembered his stories of his father and so, I sat there, and looked at him, straight in the eyes while crying. I do this so I can give him my own “lesson”. So he is reminded of the horror that was inflicted on him and that his child had to experience. Someone he loves and cherishes so dearly. His perfect trophy. 

He looks at his hands that resemble that of a corpse he once cried for, and he leaves. 

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