apartments.com

It took my entire childhood to convince myself that my home was not ghetto; it was more like a comfortable and warm little enclave of mobile homes. In my small neighborhood on the border of what separates Westminster and Fountain Valley, each house was thoughtfully arranged with Chinese hibiscuses. Delicate, vibrant colors of red and yellow, coincidentally representing the countries of where I came from: Vietnam and China. 

2016, the year when I had finally escaped what I had been embarrassed to call my home. I wasn’t embarrassed of how my house or neighborhood looked, I was embarrassed of the kids who were able to call Westminster their home. Rude. Negative. Egotistical children who thought they were better than everyone else. But, I am no longer a child from Westminster, but instead a child of Fountain Valley. 

My story in Westminster was unforgettable, but for the wrong reasons. It was my first day of 2nd grade at Post Elementary. My teacher, an old white woman with yellow and brown frizzy hair, looked like that big bird in Sesame Street. “Is precipitation here?” She says. Silence. “Haha I’m just joking, Rain Phan, are you here?” 

In confusion, I slowly raise my hand. I don’t even know what precipitation means, I thought. I could feel 20 different pairs of eyes on me. “Rain? Like the water that falls from the sky?” I hear a boy say. Everyone laughs. Yup, just like the rain in the sky. My cheeks are hot and bright red. The laughter resurfaces, a chorus of giggles and whispers. I give my attention to the colorful letters of the alphabet on the wall, but they blur together, a colorful jumble that doesn’t make sense. 

At recess, I sit on the swings alone, feet digging into the sand and watching kids play tag, their carefree laughter echoing throughout the playground. “Hi Rain!” A pale girl with long black braids and a bright red dress skips over and says. “Why are you so quiet? You don’t have to be shy! You can play with us!” This invitation catches me by surprise, but I accept. “Okay!” 

We join a game of tag with kids from all grade levels, and as I run, I feel a pulse of happiness go through me, the awkwardness slowly fading. “Is that your real name?” A boy asks, catching up to me. “Yes… sorry it’s kind of weird,” I responded. He smiles. “Cool! It’s like a superhero name! Can you make it rain too?” We laugh. 

A smile spreads across my face. Maybe being named Rain wasn’t so bad after all. I could choose to stand out rather than hide in the shadows—I am a girl learning to embrace what makes me different from the rest.

 Blind Appreciation

my own image

“Rain, you’ll regret this,” my cousin who was the same age as me said. Vanky had been working at the Orange Coast College swap meet every weekend for as long as I could remember. Most of our conversations at family functions began with a “how was swapmeet?” I didn’t need money. I just wanted to know what working in customer service was like, as I dreamed of opening my own cafe with my mother. 

It was 8 in the morning and we had just arrived at the swapmeet, everyone fully handed with supplies for the day. While Tymay– Vanky’s older sister, and my uncle went to the ice cream truck in the front, Vanky, my aunt, and I went to the ice cream truck in the back. “Since you guys are in the back, is this truck slower than Tymays?” I asked. Vanky laughed. She said that her truck was much more popular because her drinks were better than her sister’s. 

The day started off slow. Not many people wanted ice cream or fatty drinks in the morning. Suddenly, this old lady began to yell. “Ayer, vine y no pusiste mucho mango en mi bebida!” She complained. My aunt just countered saying that she didn’t have a lot of mango boba left. Her Spanish was impressive, probably better than mine since she had been working at this swapmeet for longer than I had been alive, despite me being in Spanish 3. I didn’t understand anything the lady said. My aunt told me that she complained about not getting enough mango boba in her drink yesterday, and she wanted more today. My cousin sighed. “Mom, you need to charge her more for the extra mango.” But, my aunt said that she was a regular customer for many years, and that she could get as much as she wanted. Vanky looked annoyed because she knew that she was getting scammed. 

As it reached noon, the line began to form. My aunt handled the ice cream, orders, and money while my cousin made the drinks. I was just there. The only thing I could do was line the cups with flavored syrup, add whipped cream, and put on the cap. My cousin seemed annoyed all day, she really wanted to go home. She wished she was anywhere else, not here. She hated this job. But, it didn’t seem bad to me but maybe that’s because I wasn’t doing as much as her. Every second she complained. I felt like a weight on her shoulders. 

As the day came to an end and we were cleaning up the truck, Vanky turned to me and said “I’m glad you came today. Not only were you a big help, it was nice having a friend here.” Most of the time I was just standing there. But I’m happy that I was more helpful than I thought.