Art Is Shame

In one of my English classes, my teacher would make us write a short journal entry, and pick random students to share what they wrote. I listened as my peers shared their simple, straightforward entries that were devoid of any emotion or substance. 

When she picked on me, I always felt like a fool for writing so passionately, and having to share this vulnerability that was like a piece of my soul with so many people. 

I felt so shameful for taking it so seriously when everyone else just wanted to get it over with. I felt shameful for displaying a piece of my soul for everyone else to see. Because to me, it was like nudity, revealing the rawest form of yourself, internal nudity. 
But I also felt mad. Mad that I let my shame take over, as over time, I also became like them, sharing writing that was devoid of anything. Devoid of myself. And I still feel angry when my shame doesn’t let me raise my hand in class to express my thoughts, or being able to write storms and storms of something my soul has created, but unable to share it because it isn’t cool. I think my shame has swallowed me.

Transition

I cried when I got my first period. I was 11. 

I didn’t cry because it hurt, or because I was scared of the blood; I cried because I hated the idea of turning into a woman. It felt like my carefree childish world that was so simple was now destroyed. I hated the idea of experiencing all this pain just because I was a girl. That the pain I’m experiencing wasn’t because of my own actions or consequences, but because I was born a girl. I hated that this change was out of my control, something I had to live with for almost the rest of my life. 

I hated the way my body changed after I got my period. 

I always enjoyed being masculine as a child. I liked my hair short, my clothes baggy, and my nails unpainted. I remember the first time I tried on a tank top. It was in the Forever 21 changing rooms. My shoulders looked broad, and I felt like a kid playing dress up with her mother’s clothes. 

Of course, I started to change. The tank tops I used to avoid became a staple in my wardrobe. The period that I started to vehemently detest became something more of a chore than a punishment. But sometimes, just sometimes, when my skirt is too short, or my tank top is too revealing, the feeling of being 11 and hating being a woman comes back again. But soon I realized that I didn’t hate being a woman, I hated the fact that becoming a woman means you have to come to terms with being objectified.

Angel, Angel

A relationship that I can only perceive, look at from afar; a relationship that is untouchable for me— like laying in a field full of itchy grass, grabbing clouds you could even think of reaching. 

Sometimes I hear you guys laughing in the back of class, and when you tease her, she punches you softly and gently, so soft that I imagine it feels like your face is being cupped by the sun itself. If she loves you like that, I can only imagine that she is born from love itself. 

I wonder what I would look like next to her, her soft, glowy hair next to mine, spiky and black, layers that perk up like horns when I wake up in the morning, I wonder what it would look like if you could braid our hair together, and have it look like streaks of star in vast, pitless space. 

Does she taste like heaven when you kiss her? Do you kiss her knees, her shoulders, kiss places where only the sun has touched? Can you not kiss me because I wear thick, dark jeans that are like walls, while she wears beautiful short skirts that allow you to love freely, love easily? If her love is gentle and supple, would mine be gritty and feel like teeth? 

Bà Nội

My Grandma, who lived with us for 4 years in America. My grandma who wore fleeces from Costo, my Grandma who carried groceries in a big designer bag my mother gave her, unaware of the value. 

My Grandma, who did all the cooking and cleaning in the house despite her sore back because that was the only thing she could do at home all day. 

My Grandma, who would call us when we weren’t home before 6 because she said it was boring and monotonous being home all day, when the only thing at home for her to do was watch T.V and housework. 

My Grandma, who I would always have arguments that led nowhere because of the language barrier between us; my Grandma who would serve me snacks after no matter how much I was in the wrong. 

My Grandma, who would always call me and my sister beautiful, but denied and refused when we complimented her back, saying she was old and unattractive now. 

My Grandma, who told me that the marriage between her and my grandpa was arranged, and replied No when I asked her if she had anyone she loved before. 

My mother, who said that America was like a prison for her, but still stayed here because she wanted to care for us. 

My Grandma, who still cried at the airport because she had to leave us and told me that she would come back if I ever wanted her to despite the imprisonment. My beautiful Grandma, who I can only cry for and apologize to alone.

Monsters

Sometimes our parents warn us about the monsters that come for us if we behave badly

The ones that emerge from the forests when they sense a child that throws their food 

Monsters that come for us when we don’t listen to our parents 

Monsters that come for us when we’re naughty children 

But I fear that parents don’t warn us about the monsters 

That come for us when we’re a bit older

The monsters that look a little like us

The monsters that say we’re beautiful 

The monsters that claim they love us more than the ocean loves the moon