By: Kat Lin
I was born branded — cloaked in the dirty yellows of the Mekong, and smeared with the reds of revolution. Histories I still do not understand were thrusted upon me at birth. Their colors were spat in my face before I could even comprehend what colors were. To them, I am dirty by the laws of nature. They were delusional to believe I would subscribe to such demeaning notions of personhood. Rather, I am whatever I create myself to be; I exist outside the bounds of any vilification or exotification that is forced upon me. The self is dynamic and ever-changing.
Some days I am the seemingly mundane moments I tend to take for granted.
My skin is the comforting glow of house lights late in the evening. My body is the summer that is steadily slipping through the neck of an hourglass. It’s some weekend in the middle of August and I’m at my auntie’s house again. The living room bursts with music: Teresa Teng. Wakin Chau. Fleetwood Mac. Bon Jovi. Karaoke staples in our household. Song lyrics cycle on repeat as my parents perform renditions of the classics with my aunties and uncles. They burn their throats with dark liquor in-between songs, and exhale the sting like dragons. Everyone in the house absorbs the jubilance that accompanies family gatherings (and slight inebriation). I sit with my brother and cousins in an adjacent room. We play card games and take turns grabbing cans of whatever’s in there! from the graying fridge in the garage. Darkness bleeds into the sky infusing the house with warmth. The singing becomes sloppier and so does our card work. At some point my parents leave while I insist my brother and I stay (because leaving would mean facing the cold that is perched outside the front door — though I’d never admit it aloud). So we stay. We stay until everything feels fuzzy and all we can see is noise. We stay until I have to coax my brother into our car and eventually coax him into my house. And suddenly it's the next day. But still some weekend in the middle of August. I’m at my auntie’s house again. The living room is serene and golden under rays of sun. I sheepishly admit to my auntie that my brother left his shoes..................I am yellow, but only of my own volition.
On other days I am visions of childhood that never leave.
My cheeks are bright like apples after spending hours under the sun. My knees are as rough as bricks from scabs developed over the weeks past. The simmering heat of a typical southern California September envelopes my thin arms. I’m sitting at a dinner chair, my legs barely hanging off the edge, swinging my head back and forth between my mother and my friend as they discuss the truck. She’s only
three years older than me, my friend that is, but she’s adamant to get her hands on my mother’s cherry-colored, stick-shift SUV Pathfinder. “If I promise not to drink till I’m 30,” my friend haggles in a way that only twelve year olds can, “will you give me the car?” I turn to my mother with intrigue, unsure of what she’ll say. Her reply is anticlimactic: “Sure. If it lasts that long.” It’s not a yes, but it seems to appease my friend seeing as she continues to promulgate her love of the vehicle. I personally don’t understand my friend’s obsession with our car. The air conditioner’s always broken and the passenger side window never rolls up. So, in the winter my blood vessels swell, blistering my fingertips. And in the summer the nape of my neck burns, staining my skin with a permanent blush. I attempt to shake my brain of the extremities of weather, and focus on a future where my friend and I occupy the faded ruby front seats of my mother’s car. But my mind is clouded by the image of 100° heat waves pervading the SUV and circling us in an endless loop. I want to caution my friend, warn her of my premonitions of suffocating blazes. My lips widen momentarily, but I shut them quickly. Her heart belongs to that car and I’m not one to crush dreams. Though it doesn’t matter anyways. My family donated the car a year later, and my friend never got the chance to fulfill her promise..................I am red, but only of my own volition.
About the Author
Kat is a sophomore from Valencia, California who enjoys drawing and creative writing.
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