Introduction

Welcome to the chaos that is my brain on coffee. Included in this article, is a series of short stories written for my English class, inspired by Sandra Cisneros’s The House on Mango Street. Below, I encourage you to experience my writing, as well as the caffeine and writer’s block that came along with it.

It’s a Coffee Morning.

God, what a racket. It’s too early for this. I’m not ready to get out of bed. Just ten minutes more… five more minutes… UGHHHHH.

I have too many things to do, too many people to see, and not nearly enough time to do it all. So, I stumble out of bed. It’s so cold. But I have an appearance to maintain, a routine I know by heart– brush teeth, wash face, change, hair, makeup… Why is it so hard this morning? 

I did this yesterday, and I’ll do it again tomorrow, but today– today feels exhausting. Today feels like it’s going too fast, but it’s never going to end. This feels like hell, and it’s only 7 AM.

Fictional.

I’ve always been a hopeless romantic. I fell for the guys in books and movies. But that’s just it. He only exists on the screen, in the words on a page. 

In the 6th grade, I wanted to know the romance of Anne Elliot and Fredrick Wentworth. In 7th, Mr. Darcy. By eighth grade, it was the guys imagined by Ali Hazelwood. Freshman year, my obsessions molded into one person: the ideal guy, inspired by all the novels and romcoms. That’s not to say he was without flaw. After all, every male love interest has one. But the one in my head; this mystery guy is all of them. The good, the bad, the ugly. But who cares? Who am I to ask for perfect?

And yet, he will never exist.

Is it possible to miss someone who never existed? I mean, the people in real life are never going to cut it. They will never replace him. High school boys are loud, obnoxious, oblivious. They’re the kinds of guys whose masculinity is threatened by my brain. Is it too much to ask for?  To ask for decency? Apparently, it is. 

Maybe I have been asking for too much. Or maybe my tastes are just too old for my age. I want the comfort and stability of my thirties. I want to wake up in a warm bed. I want to be held when I cry. I want to be told I’m pretty, even when I’m not. But that’s not going to happen. So, I’m left waiting to be swept off my feet; that is if it ever happens at all.

Here are a few songs that perfectly describe this feeling: Fictional and Like the Movies

Grandma

When I think about my grandma, I think about crochet. I think about the roses she taught me to embroider, all while watching our favorite Korean dramas. I think about the way she smelled, like peppermint and a fresh load of laundry. 

But most of all, I think about the stories of her past. The tales of her youth. Stories of coming to a new land, of whirlwind romances, of staying out too late, of being young. 

She was beautiful, I know that. With dark, wavy hair, and a figure not nearly as thin as it is now. She loved dressing up, and blow-drying her hair to make it puff out in all the right spots. She lived in a small two-bedroom apartment with her five other siblings, and boy, did they get into some weird stuff. Her twenties were filled with late nights, with men from bars. 

“We were young. We did crazy things”, she’d say.

And then she met my grandfather.  She cut her hair, stopped wearing too much makeup, toned herself down. For him. And maybe she won’t admit it, but we all agree, she settled. 

(my grandma, circa 1978)

The Way Things Go

Can’t remember how to say your name, let alone count all the freckles on your face, a distant memory I used to know. Well, I guess that’s just the way things go. 

You left in July, on a hot cloudless night. You said you never loved me, that it was all a game. 

You. Me. Us. Left in shambles, only to remember what was, what could have been. 

And yet, there you are. Today, at my door. There you are, with your dark hair and green eyes. You say you love me. That it was all a mistake. But that’s all you are. A silhouette of someone I used to know. And I can’t seem to remember how to say your name, or why I ever loved you.

Inspired by The Way Things Go, By Beabadoobee.

The Not-Chinese Girl

Even from the first day of preschool, I always knew I was different. I was the only one with upturned eyes in a world of blue and green ones. In a sea of light colored hair mine was a piercing black. From the beginning, I was different. I was the Chinese Girl. 

But that was just it. I’m not Chinese. I was Vietnamese, and I knew it. But that didn’t stop me from being inferior. 

To everyone else, I was the girl you would ask for help with your math homework, but were never friends with. When it came time for lunch, I was the only one who ate rice. And at the end of the day, I was only smart because I was Asian, and only worth talking to to exploit. 

And as I got older, people only got meaner. I remember begging my mom to let me bring “normal” lunches, instead of the ones she packed. I remember being called “chink” in the halls, and “coronavirus” on the sidewalk. 

But then, high school started. And suddenly, almost everyone looked like me. They ate like me. They saw the world like me. And maybe people still use me for their math homework, but at least it’s not because I’m Asian. 

(Credits: Lisa Wool-Rim Sjöblom)