Write a brief personal narrative about 1 instance in your life when you created, crossed, bridged, or resisted a border.
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Write a brief personal narrative about 1 instance in your life when you created, crossed, bridged, or resisted a border.
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I lean forward in my coxswain seat at the starting line. My eyes are narrow, but there is no crease in my brow. I glance down at the writing on my thigh “ It matters not how strait the gate, how charged with punishment the scroll, I am the master of my fate: I am the captain of my soul” (William E. Henley). I noiselessly mouth the words on my lips over and over, a cathartic chant preparing me for battle. I know what I’m doing – I’ve done it so many times before – yet my knuckles still turn white while gripping the steering cord.
Each of us in the boat impatiently await the command from the race official; the few words that puncture the growing balloon of silence and tension.
Finally the voice of the race official monotonously declares,
“This is the start. Attention… GO!”
The balloon bursts and in a blink we are off the line and speeding down the course. Five hundred meters in, and we are behind the leading boat by half a length. I notice them inching up on us which shakes me from the trance of my starting routine. The gust of adrenaline from the start can only propel us so far. I look at my crew and see eight different oars making eight different splashes. Eight minds glued to the end goal of winning rather than thinking about what it takes to win. Panic briefly overtakes me, and I feel like a sheep herder whose sheep have all gone rogue. Unavailing words fall out of my mouth until I remember the Duke Ellington song our coach quoted just hours before the race, “It don’t mean a thing, if it ain’t got that swing” (Duke Ellington). I close my eyes, listen to the fragmented rhythm of our boat and tell my crew, “let’s find our swing.”
There is a point in most crew races when one must look so deep inside of themselves in order to transcend from moving as an individual to moving as one unit with their crew. When a crew finds their swing, they are able to turn all the short term suffering into a perpetual bliss. Good crews are made of nine individuals who are able to become one through their trust and love for each other and who have a united to desire to win. They are able to sacrifice all individuality for each other and for the sport. In that moment of racing, I realized that our whole will always be greater than the sum of all of our parts. With a newfound focus, I herded my sheep, and together we crossed the border separating individuality and a coalition.
As we enter the final sprint to the finish line, I look down at the words sharpied on my thigh one last time. I look up and see eight oars enter the water together. One splash. One click of the oarlocks. One invisible thread connecting each of our hearts. My voice wavers yet my mouth curves towards the sky as I shout, “WE are the masters of our fate: WE are the captains of our soul.”
Fantastic. Very original and cool take on the concept of a border–one doesn’t normally think of there being a border between the rowers in a boat, but after reading this, I can certainly see how there would be one.
I like how you quote Invictus (one of my favorite poems, incidentally) to motivate your team. That’s just cool.
We passed the Princeton Cemetery every Sunday on the way to church. This particular Sunday my older sister Kelso was home from college. So, like most younger siblings, I was forced into the land of the backseat where child lock ruled all and I was to forfeit all rights to the radio.
With my head rested on the window I caught glimpses of the graves nearest to the road. Some were almost my height with intricate lettering and a glossy film to match. Others were quiet- just a name and the two dates no one seems to forget.
“Have you visited them?” my sister asked no one in particular.
A stiff silence.
“You should probably do that,” she sighed, shaking her head in disapproval.
No one had to say anything for me to understand. Ten is young, but you can sense tension and heartache at nearly any age. I knew instantaneously that both our brother and sister- their children- were buried there. But what I couldn’t believe was that they had always been there. Every Sunday their family drove past them without saying a simple hello.
I turned to look out the back window as they disappeared, fighting the seatbelt as it suffocated me. I wanted to see faces but they had come before me. All I could see were blurs of brown and patches of curls like the ones I had in baby pictures.
“We will, we will,” my mother said.
I knew even then that they couldn’t. I think it’s simply too painful to relive. Instead, they choose to pass them every Sunday like clockwork. What they see through car windows and iron gates I can only imagine. I imagine two dulled stones keeping each other company through stale winter nights- each only needing one date. I think of all of the laughs we would have shared, how their embrace would envelope me in warmth. It often feels as though they travel with me, constantly floating through my daydreams. Nevertheless, the harsh reality of time always seems to interfere.
Heart-rendering and powerful. The image of those two gravestones alone together in the graveyard is something that’s going to stay in my head for a while.
Like a city mural, I should be a vibrant blend of culture and history. Instead, I feel as though I am plain and colorless, unpainted and incomplete. I have asked myself, “Who holds the brush that would paint the mural?” Many people do. My father’s parents, immigrants from Iran who would abandon whatever was necessary to achieve their American dream, and yet still experience the backlash—they hold the brush. My mother’s parents, Los Angeles born American citizens who did not want their children to face the same discrimination that they habitually encountered—they hold the brush. My parents who raised six kids, only having their future and well-being in mind—they hold the brush. I, an American young woman, who sees her mural as dull, yet never really gave painting a try—I hold the brush.
I hold this brush as I straddle the three way intersection of my cultural borders. Persian. Hispanic. American. The color coating my brush does not hold the same hue as the first two. I wonder if I need to abandon my brush as my grandparents had to be able to trek onto the third. It is getting lonely all the way up their and my feet are starting to go numb.
As I sit, a little girl with short brown hair walks up from the corner of her own world. I see that her paint was on her hands and it stained parts of her cheek. It was blue. I looked further into the distance behind her and I learn that the people in her life left their brushes as the doorstep where they left her.
The border I had been straddling descends, and I finally feel my feet touch the earth and I am standing in front of her. I let the paint drip from bristle to palm and color the shell of her ear. She smiles. Her blue eyes glisten and smile.
It did not matter that my mural was unfinished, that I could not quite identify what the entire painting was. I did not matter that I had only been straddling the borders of my background, that I felt as though my paint could not complement either side. In that moment, I was complete. I was complete because I realized that I did not need to know who I am to show who I am.
I know that the paint won’t stay forever. I know that when she has an itch, she will rub on her ear and the pigment will flake away. Despite this, I still see blue on my fingertips.
“Who holds the brush that would paint the mural?” is a fascinating question, and I really like the way you go about answering it, looking first at your family and then yourself. It’s an analogy that works perfectly here. I think the easels of our lives are something that we never stop painting.
My alarm clock awakens me not with a “beep-beep” but with a shaking vibration heavy enough to rouse the deaf—and probably the dead, too.
Four senses activate when I’m pulled out of my slumber. The fifth has to wait a bit, as an immaculate silence always surrounds me with I wake up. (There’s a lot silver linings to be found in being deaf, and always having easy access to a peaceful night’s sleep is one of them. I pity the poor fools who have to spend actual money on earplugs.)
Every movement I make before putting my hearing on is done with something missing. My feet move across a carpet without a single “shff-shff.” The old hinges on my door make no such “squeeeak.” My cat, slinking up to greet me, opens his mouth without letting out a “mrow.” I eat a bowl of cereal, and there is no “grntch grntch grntch” that should come with each bite. The least inaccurate way I can think of describing all this is that it’s like I’ve pressed a giant “mute” button on the remote control of my life, but even then, deafness shouldn’t be confused with the silence that those with natural hearing know. When I have my hearing on, I can hear silence. It has a faint presence that sits on the edge of my consciousness, and there is still a possibility for sound that is utterly gone in deafness. When I have my hearing off, there is no silence. Only an absence.
Conversations with my family in the early morning are always an adventure. At the very least, I can still talk with my hearing off, so I have no trouble making myself understood. It’s understanding others that’s the trouble. Trying to tell me something when I have my hearing off means resorting to a bizarre amalgam of nearly-forgotten sign language, exaggerated facial expressions, and made-up hand signals. Add some very poor lip reading on my end, and the result is a means of communication that would make even the most hardened linguist feel faint.
Every morning, sooner or later, I put my hearing on. It’s a simple process. I twist the little rectangular battery into its port. I loop the processor around my ear and tap the magnet on my head. The border between the hearing and the deaf, once guarded so fiercely by the unforgiving rules of biology, falls away at an electric current as my implant powers on. The first noise I hear is always the startup noise that my implant makes.
Beep-beep.
Sound floods my mind, and suddenly the carpet and the hinges and the cat and the cereal have their shuffles and creaks and meows and crunches. My family can now talk normally with me. The loneliness of a missing sense disappears, and I’m back in the world where I belong.
As a precocious youngster, I had a particular knack for memorization; enthusiastic recitations of famous speeches, or performances of songs, were a frequent sight throughout our household. With an unqualified sense of self-confidence, I indulged in a bout of thespianism, and peaked in the titular role of Charlie & the Chocolate Factory, in which it was observed that I had a quirk for mouthing the lines of all the other actors in addition to my own. My desire for the spotlight quickly waned, but my relationship with memory grew muddy, distorted.
Early in my time at high school, my father was diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer’s, about two years after his father had died of the same disease. My memories of my grandfather, as he truly lived and was remembered by most, are confined mostly to photos and fondly written obituaries. But my memories of the final years of his life are visceral, personal, and difficult to come to terms with. My memories of him are of his memory. He became what he could or could not remember. The last time he said my name, my father’s name, his own name. The confusion, as though being pressed from all sides, panic giving way to a much more terrible calm, as though floating in a void.
I became obsessed with the boundaries between my own memory and reality. I would fixate, become paranoid of small changes. I would dissociate and lash out. I lost trust in myself, what I could believe, what, if anything, I could do with the experiences I had. I too, felt as though I was falling through a void and being crushed, feeling and not feeling, fear and confusion giving way to apathy.
History repeats itself, through memory, family, stories, art. My grandfather, my father, me. The boundaries blurred between their reality and memory, my reality and memory, of them and myself. The gap closing between their past and my future.
I am still learning. I am still understanding how to forge a healthy relationship with my own memories. I am still coming to terms, not with the death of my grandfather, or with my father’s illness, but with my own relationship to the present, and the memories of my future self.
Beautiful and heartbreaking, Rhys. It’s really neat that you have the self awareness to recognize how you responded to your father’s diagnosis and your grandfather’s death. I appreciate how you show that borders aren’t just physical, or even just bridging the gap between two people or two groups of people, but we have to cross borders within ourselves too
“In which it was observed that I had a quirk for mouthing the lines of all the other actors in addition to my own.” Okay, this line actually made me laugh. I can imagine you standing on stage, trying to be helpful to the other kids with your memorization skills, and it’s adorable and funny at the same time.
On a more serious note, your memory must have felt like an unfair blessing as you watched your grandfather battle Alzheimer’s. I can’t imagine what was going through your head in those times.
A touching and thought-provoking piece. Thank you for writing it.
I ate ramen for breakfast on the day we arrived at his house. When I climbed out of my chrysalis of a sleeping bag, my hair was pulled in every direction from the beanie I slept in. I unzipped the tent.
Connor and Sam were already awake, breath streaming over their faces like cigarette smoke. They stamped their feet by the Coleman, putting their bare hands on the pot with water beginning to boil.
The reason we ate ramen for breakfast is because it was cold. Really cold. I wore socks, underwear, gym shorts, sweatpants, three shirts, a sweater, and my beanie to bed. Still, when I woke in the middle of the night to pee and see the stars peering through the halo between the trees, we were all bent into fetal positions. The snow hissed and steamed when the piss bore a hole into it.
It was nearing the second month since I had left home. It was nearing the thirtieth time the broth steamed up my glasses and the noodles slipped from my mouth and splashed back into the bowl. Sam had stopped laughing at that weeks ago. We were leaving that day, as we did often — leaving snowy California mountains and crystal blue lakes for the desert, for cracks in the ground and for air so dry I would get nosebleeds in the mornings. We were making a home out of having no home, making stability out of constantly being in change.
The road signs blur after eight hours of driving, rolo candies and coffee cups emptied and deposited on the floor. The metropolis grew as we neared the end of our drive, the stoplights glowing softer with the purple sunset. The steering wheel turned left, right, softly straight to stop by the doorbell. I rang the bell, heard steps approach the door.
“I’ve been waiting for you. Come inside” A smile.
And in that smile what unspoken truths were communicated. I smiled back, put my hands in my pockets, and walked inside.
I loved the descriptions in this, of camping, of eating the ramen noodles, of the drive on the road, of sleeping in the cold, and so many other things.
I’m curious, who are you visiting at the end? And why did you spend two months camping? Maybe my reading comprehension is on the blink and I’m just completely missing the point, but I was a little confused as to what exactly was going on. But that’s almost nitpicking. I definitely enjoyed your writing style, and if you intentionally left expository details vague, that’s fine and the ambiguity doesn’t detract from the piece at all.
“Egy, kettő, három, négy, öt…” This was the extent of what I knew of my father’s native tongue, the Hungarian language, for the majority of my life. I had never learned about what it meant to be Hungarian besides eating mákos tészta – poppy seed noodles- and reciting these few numbers as a child. My understanding of being Hungarian always eluded and puzzled me. I suppose my father was too concerned with assimilating to his new American life after moving here in his mid-twenties and learning English that fully educating his children on their roots was never a top priority of his.
I always felt there was an emotional rift between my father and I. This was created not only by a language that I never knew, but with a lack of true understanding of his child and early adulthood. Of course I still loved him, but never felt as deeply connected to him, who was born and raised in Budapest, the capital of Hungary, as I did to my mother, who grew up in the Midwestern United States. Both my brother and I would often stop and question his idiosyncrasies. Why does he have an affinity for collecting physical objects? How does he sound in his own language, without the accent that would always prompt a “where are you from?” question from strangers? My father would try to describe his childhood and what it was like growing up under Communist rule, but what did that really mean?
This past year I bridged this emotional and linguistic border between my father and I when I crossed a few physical ones and went to live in Budapest with his older sister. I spent some months studying the Hungarian language, learning about our nation’s history, culture, cuisine, current issues, and unspoken beliefs, while finally connecting with his side of the family. Although at heart I still hold a very American worldview, learning to embrace this side of my father (and therefore, myself) that I never knew brought me closer to him.
I returned home proudly being able to speak Hungarian with my apa. Now, it’s the only language we use to communicate. I finally understand and can empathize with some of his strange tendencies that never made sense to my sibling and I. By taking time off of traditional school to explore this central European country, I was able to bridge an important gap that had always been present in my life.
Borders usually separate us; I love how this story contrasts that by having a border actually bring you closer together. I like how paradoxically, you had to get further away from your father before you could get closer to him.
It’s heartwarming how you found the answers to questions that you’d had for your father for a long time. I enjoyed reading this.
Reality and I have always had a fraught relationship. I grew up more within books then without, and when I wasn’t reading, I was thinking of what I had read. School was for constructing elaborate narratives that centered both a courageous me and a lot of dragons, or when I wanted to switch it up, fairies. I wrote long poems with sporadic rhymes and often tried to run away in order to begin my adventure. My actual existence, filled with long-form division and sitting for hours at a time, just couldn’t compete.
When I turned 13, I decided enough was enough. I was a teenager now, basically an adult. I had to stop losing my phone once a week. Beyond that, I was disenchanted with magic. It had failed to materialize in my life in any significant way. I decided to grow up.
And I did, for a while. I turned all my homework assignments in on time. I made friends with equally self-serious people, and we spent our time talking about school. I stopped reading all together and devoted myself to extracurriculars and schoolwork. I was deeply depressed and did not leave my bed on the weekends unless forced.
Despite my best efforts and self-delusion, I never actually entered the world of the real. My daydreams simply took a different form. My heart was a clenched, rotting fist and shadows whispered to me at night. I realized I was not particularly alive.
I am a uniquely stubborn person. I can force myself into good grades and silence. I’ll be attending Beginning Spanish until the professor gives up and lets me into her class. By the same token, I left my depression through sheer force of will. I attended therapy and began medication despite my parents’ best efforts. I clawed my way to the lightness.
Shadows still speak to me sometimes from the corner of the room. They whisper stories of solitude that no one else can hear. The difference is that I listen and respond. I am both here and not here, paying attention and planning a poem. The air is clear, green and full of hope, and I will be both in my surroundings and in myself.
Interesting story of how you tried to make your life ‘realistic.’ I think that’s something that’s impossible to do, no matter how hard we try, because the truth is always going to be stranger than fiction.
You have some great lines in here. “Reality and I have always had a fraught relationship” is a strong opening line, and I absolutely love “I clawed my way to the lightness.”
I like the hope in this piece.
I have lived in Salt Lake City, Utah my entire life. The most common question others ask me when I travel is, “Are you Mormon?” I am not Mormon, but Mormonism is heavily prevalent in Utah. Salt Lake City proper has the lowest percentage of Mormons in Utah, yet my neighborhood is almost entirely Mormon. One border I have had to cross in my life is bridging the gap between myself as a liberal atheist and those around me that are religious and usually conservative. Even though many of my neighbors are around my age, I never had any strong friendships with them because we were so different in our beliefs. One way I have attempted to bridge the gap with those around me is by befriending some people who were once part of the church but then left for a variety of reasons. I like to learn about Mormonism through a few of my friends who have left the church because I feel like I can gain a deeper understanding of their beliefs. In a way, I am probably the Other to them because I do not meet their ideal of what one should believe.
My friend Madeline, who is my age, is still part of the church but went to the same high school as me. She is one of two Mormons in my grade because most of the people in Salt Lake go to their district public school. I make a point to talk to her about her belief system, but also include her because she is the minority at my school. I think it is very powerful that she has such a strong sense of faith and I really admire her for it. The population of my high school is also extremely liberal so it is also interesting to learn about her beliefs about things like abortion and other social rights that are strongly contested on both sides of the political spectrum. In a way, Mormonism is a border that completely surrounds my life, but I never felt like I had to cross it. I did want to cross this border, however, because I feel as though I should learn more about other beliefs instead of closing off my mind and being completely dogmatic.
Interesting perspective. I don’t think I’ve ever met someone from Utah before, so it’s fascinating to hear what you think of the borders that exist between Mormons and non-Mormons there. Great write-up.
Rain dances upon the tin roof, its patter reverberating throughout the concrete room. A small window allows a weak beam of light to refract through its smudged glass pane, the surface crossed with metal bars. A metronomic drip counts the passing seconds, ripples chasing across the surface of water pooled upon the packed dirt floor. I watch out the frayed screen door, resting partially unhinged in its frame, my eyes detecting flashes of color as broken glass lining the adjacent wall catches in the daylight. I hear the soft murmur of voices conversing on the other side, traveling over the crumbling rock and magnified in our makeshift ward. With a gentle knock, the door is slowly pulled open and a small child carried in, motionless in her mother’s arms. I track the vibrant colors of her blouse, brilliant scrawls of purple and blue, as she soundlessly transfers the infant into the awaiting arms of a nearby assistant, hurriedly speaking to the translator. I train my ear, attempting to recognize any of their exchanged terms, the dialect remaining foreign. The swaddled newborn is exposed without protest, her skin clammy and dark hair pasted to her misshapen head, as the mother watches on apprehensively. Her eyes widen slightly to glance dazedly around the clinic before once again fluttering shut. The doctor calmly approaches the family, soundlessly pulling on her gloves and placing a trained hand upon the patient’s shivering skin. From my position in the corner I catch a few whispered words alerting me to the severity of the situation. Feeling forgotten I cast my gaze downwards, my sight landing upon a scattered pile of picture books, their covers worn from the careless grasp of other children. Peering back at me are the faded colors of a family picnicking in a park, the grass now a muddied green and the sky bleached to a startling white. The yellowing pages are traced with the tears of enthusiastic turns and mottled by a trail of fingerprints, while the sun wears a permanent smile in the upper right-hand corner. My attention is abruptly drawn back to the door, where a slight movement goes unnoticed by the rest of the medical staff. Rising silently I catch sight of a small boy peering into the room, his head dwarfed by an oversized hat, yet the rest of his body surprising bare. His large, curious eyes search the interior, obviously without any form of adult supervision. I reach for the storybook and approach him hesitantly, worried of scaring him off, attempting to formulate the words necessary for conversation. Looking outside I see the rain has slowed to a drizzle, the line of patients now extending through the gate and into the flooded streets. The long skirts of women drag in the mud, their delicate patterns dancing in the humidity, while children run barefoot through puddles. The small child stares up at me, his mouth agape as he totters in place, still slightly unsure of his balance. He reaches out, fingers searching to grasp the binding of my extended gift. Staring at the cover in awe, he moves in a trance to settle upon my lap, pulling me to the floor by my index finger. The cries of the infant ring out through the room as together the boy and I are pulled into a world of our own, sharing snacks among the pigeons of Central Park, kites flying above us and families paddling across the lake. Staring at the illustrations adorning each page, words are no longer necessary as the boy points in delight at dogs playing fetch and the birds soaring through the sky. Our individual languages are forgotten as we communicate through laughs and smiles, his infectious joy drawing me from my hiding place in the corner to the vivid hues and flavors of his own culture waiting across the threshold of the doorway. Pulling me through the churning crowd, I reach out to touch the starched fabric of handmade clothing, the rough rock of the wall, and the smooth wood of carved tops, spinning in a flash of color on the pocked cement. Stirred from the braying of mules and pulsating heat of surrounding bodies, I feel a tap on my shoulder. Turning, I find the child reaching out to fold a slip of paper into the palm of my hand. Slowly, I separate my fingers to discover a delicate drawing on the backside of a wrapper. It depicts the two of us playing in a park of our own, the grass reaching to brush our skin and trees towering overhead. He rushes to embrace me, murmuring unknown words of thanks as I feel the warmth of his illustrated sun.
This is a truly heartwarming story.
I’d like to know when and where this is taking place. I honestly can’t formulate a guess from what I’ve read in here–it could be any number of places in the world. Don’t get me wrong, the ambiguity of the location doesn’t detract–it actually adds something, makes the experience feel more universal, because it could be taking place anywhere in the world between two children with a book who don’t speak the same language.
Your line at the end, “He rushes to embrace me, murmuring unknown words of thanks as I feel the warmth of his illustrated sun,” was so, so good. Just a perfect way to end your piece.
Since arriving to America in 2005, I’ve contemplated the relationship between my refugee parents and I. Unlike typical refugee parents, they have yet to immerse themselves in the American culture. Instead they find company in other Somali Bantu refugees, eat Fufu practically every day, and dress unapologetically halal. They get by with very few English words and maintain connection with family back home. How they do it is unbeknownst to me. There is so much “whiteness” surrounding us, yet they stick with culture?
My greatest struggle has been trying to understand how my experience differs from theirs. In high school I came home to a Somali Bantu household and left as a different person every morning. Don’t get me wrong. I love my native tongue, my cultural clothing, and my rice and chicken. However, it’s always nice to grab some McDonalds or simply throw on some jeans.
The most conflicting piece of growing up was understanding that my Somali Bantu parents did not want me to be the typical Somali Bantu daughter. My community is full of young girls who get married at a young age. It’s rare to see any boy, much less girl, pursue their education. Yet, at the age of eleven, my parents were insistent on moving us across town to a predominantly white district. It was at this school that they believed I would thrive. I did not fall short of their wishes. At this new school, I struggled to fit in. It didn’t help that I was the only hijabi in the entire district. Often times I felt like I was being punished. But I “succeeded,” earning straight A’s every year.
My parents have never attended a public school or have had academic pressure weighing them down. They never understood what it meant to “hang out with friends” or “try out for sports.” Even “spending more than one hundred dollars on sneakers to fit in” was a foreign concept to them. To them, all that was America, and they wanted nothing to do with it. They simply wanted to reap the benefits by living vicariously through their children. Never did they want to do the hard work of living it.
My sophomore year of high school, I became involved with Slam Poetry. This completely divided my household. While my siblings saw it as an opportunity to set myself apart and express my thoughts, my parents saw it as a waste of time. They assumed that it would distract me from my school work and provide me with a big platform that I did not need. A muslim woman is taught to be quiet and submissive. I was not that! I enjoyed bellowing my thoughts and experiences to ignorant Americans. I loved learning about the oppression that led to the formation of America. I believed I had just as much a responsibility to share my experience as white Americans had to fixing their history. However, educating Americans was not on my parents schedule. Their dream was to go back home to Somalia and serve there. Part of that plan was to convince us, their kids, that we had a duty to provide service there as well. That service would begin with attending college.
Unfortunate for me, all my older siblings have managed to let my parents down. My sister, following in the footsteps of my mother, was married before she could even think about college. My oldest brother was swept by a culture of drugs and girls. My other brother, never passionate enough about one subject, dropped out of every college he attended. Me? I’m my parents last hope. I have to succeed for myself and for them. This means being the perfect Somali Bantu daughter, the Muslim representative, and an outstanding student. All this while being just the right percentage of American.
I have tried countless times to articulate my frustration to my parents. But English never translates perfectly to Mai Mai. I come across sounding spoiled and ungrateful. They argue “we came all the way to America for you.” and I say back, “well maybe you shouldn’t have.”
I can’t begin to imagine the burden you have to shoulder, with pressure coming from every place imaginable, along with conflicting messages and desires.
The last line really sticks out to me here. I know you’re saying it to be sarcastic to them, but is this something you’ve ever wondered about? How different your life would be if your parents had made a different choice?
I’m curious, with this kind of lifestyle, do you feel like you think too much about the future, or do you feel like you don’t think enough about the future?
Also, I can’t really say anything informed about your family from what I’ve read here so feel free to disregard this, but I feel like you might have a big disagreement with them coming on the horizon. Do you feel like you’d be prepared for that at all?
My favorite line in here is “I enjoyed bellowing my thoughts and experiences to ignorant Americans.” Good one.
Sammy Dubner
9/11/2018
Professor Cassarino
Border Narratives
I looked up in amazement at my father as the green highway sign that had just sped past us announced “MARYLAND WELCOMES YOU” “ENJOY YOUR VISIT” in bold white lettering. “Dad! Dad! Who’s Maryland? And why are they welcoming us? Will they have a dog I can play with” I shouted in excitement. My dad glanced back at me in complete bewilderment and confusion.
My dad, having regained a moderate understanding of what I was thinking, responded, “Sammy, you know Maryland isn’t a person, right? It’s a state. We need to leave New York to get to D.C.” “Have I ever left New York?” “Really? Of course! Where do Uncle Russ and Aunt Jess live?’ “Umm Connecticut?” “See! You’ve been out of the state before!”
I stared out the window of our Ford Explorer as we barreled down the road to our expected destination. I couldn’t comprehend it. How could I be in a different state and feel the exact same. I had always believed that travel was supposed to make you feel different. That it was supposed to introduce you to new things. But I was still me.
After talking to my dad some more, I learned some new things; I had already been to twelve states, including the four we had already passed through on our way south, and that I had already been to four countries. I wasn’t sure what to do until songs like “Have Love Will Travel,” “Ramblin’ Man,” and “Leaving on a Jet Plane” came on over the car stereo. I began to sob in the back seat.
I had uncovered an insecurity I never knew existed. I had always believed that travel was an adventure, and that adventure changed you, but here I was just having crossed the accepted line into foreign territory, and I was still the same person. As the Maryland countryside whipped past us, I took stock of what I saw; squirrels, birds, grass, trees, we had all of that in New York.
I was snapped out of my haze by the most innocuous question possible: “What’s wrong?” I explained to my parents what was wrong, that I was scared I was growing up because I had big ideas, that the world was so big around us, and that I thought I could never experience adventure again. My parents, in an attempt to console me, gave me an idea of borders based around compromise, and reminded me that adventure comes from within. Neither adventure nor travel should ever need to be validated by the number of borders you cross or the distance you travel, as long as you are creating experiences with new groups of people in unfamiliar territory, regardless of how far from home.
It’s really interesting that you were disappointed by the lack of difference between Maryland and New York. I honestly never had that problem as a kid, but I totally understand why you would have that disappointment after reading this. I like your conclusion. Travel shouldn’t be about how far you get, because that’s how you end up not being satisfied. It’s all about ‘creating experiences,’ as you said.
Over the summer, I crossed both physical and metaphorical borders into my Korean heritage. When I crossed international borders and walked on Korean soil for the first time, I finally found myself connected to my Korean family and identity.
Growing up in a predominantly white and affluent community, my Korean side had constantly been overshadowed by Western culture and habits. I knew little about my mother’s home country; only that she had immigrated at age 9. My Korean vocabulary was rudimentary, but I had no interest in expanding the list. I would always wrinkle my nose at fermented, spicy Korean foods, refusing the dishes so loved by the rest of my extended family.
As I explored the streets of Seoul, I learned to embrace my background and celebrate Korean culture. Sounds, sights, and scents that I had only ever experienced on Thanksgiving were suddenly normalized. Familiar words rung in the air like the voice of an old friend. The borders of my comfort zone expanded as I tried the dishes I had once rejected- including sushi that flopped on its plate. I no longer felt detached from my roots, too bothered with my American life to learn about my own heritage. I realized that Korean practices existed outside my grandparent’s church and aunt’s kitchen, on a much more powerful scale. Crossing a tangible border allowed me to journey across a personal border, bridging the gap between my Western upbringing and Korean background.
I relate to this on a personal level. My dad grew up in Turkey and he moved here when he was going to graduate school, and more than a few of my relatives on his side of the family have also moved to the U.S. But I’ve also grown up in a white, well-to-do community that’s quite different from the house in Istanbul that my dad grew up in.
I’ve never been to Turkey, though. It’s on my list of things to do in my lifetime, but I’m not sure when I’d be able to do it. I enjoyed reading about your appreciation that you gained for your heritage and culture–that’s something I hope I’ll be able to do when I go to Turkey someday.
By all accounts, my aunt was a fun, outgoing, social, athletically and academically gifted person. She rode horses, played tennis, swam, talked, laughed, read, played jacks, and seemed to be able to do anything she set her mind to. However, at the age of fourteen, she had her first psychotic break. Not long after that, she was diagnosed with schizophrenia and suffered from severe addictions to alcohol, nicotine, and caffeine. My interactions with her were very few. I usually saw her when my immediate family went to visit my grandparents in Tucson, Arizona during Christmas every other year. However, sometimes I would not see her. I would not talk to her. I would not even think about her. She lived in rehabilitation centers or on the street, wishing rather to be homeless than constrained by the crushing rules, medications, and voices. My mom would take an afternoon to go out with my aunt and my grandmother for lunch by themselves I would ask my mom how she was doing and that would be fulfill my quota for personal contact with her. She evoked a discomfort I did not know how to handle.
Then, quite suddenly, my mother received a phone call. My aunt had died. In the dry ditch of the empty riverbed that does not serve its purpose until the tumultuous rains of the summer monsoons. At fifty-two years of age, the forever deadly combination of vodka and medication had provided the breaking point to a lifetime of pain.
Four years passed quickly, and I found myself in the Philippines. In Baguio City, most of the people who beg on the skywalks and crosswalks have homes. Land is cheap. Food is cheap. However, many have physical or mental disabilities which prohibit them from working. One of these people was a woman named Edit. The center of Baguio City is crisscrossed by footbridges that span thunderous roads working to funnel people through the city like a crushing river. Edit sat nestled in the corner of one of the bustling footbridges, just to the right of the stairs. She sat there every day, rain or shine. Her blanket was laid out under her along with her tin can which begged silently for her. I still do not know how she was able to ascend the stairs without assistance. Her legs seemed permanently glued in a cross-legged position, her hands were twisted, and she was missing most of her teeth. She was mentally and physically disabled but could still understand and communicate. I first met Edit walking around the downtown area of Baguio conversing with others begging on the footpaths, most of whom were blind and elderly. The translator and I almost stumbled upon Edit. Her broken grin stretched to meet us as we squatted next to her, placing our backs firmly against the nudging, swirling tide of pedestrians attempting to cross from one bank to another with all possible speed. She murmured and muttered words which the translator then repeated. The picture of her story I received was broken and incomplete, but it was enough to form a frame. She had children, but she had no idea where they were. They were lost to her both in memory and in life. Her sleep was plagued by discomforts, physical and mental, and her greatest fears, her greatest prayers, were for her mother who had died an indeterminable number of years ago. She looked to be around sixty or seventy but, when asked, revealed that she did not remember her age.
She started crying as we spoke with her. Silent tears dripped down her nose. With every drop, I was shattered again and again by the love I felt for her. She was so alike, yet so different from my aunt. The same genuine desire to be heard and to have some physical contact, even contact as trivial as holding hands. The few memories of my aunt came flooding back as I spoke with Edit, and I mourned the being unable to spend such time and energy and love on my own family. Wave after wave after wave.
“In the dry ditch of the empty riverbed that does not serve its purpose until the tumultuous rains of the summer monsoons.”
This sentence is beautiful. It just struck me in such a haunting way.
I love the connection you drew between your aunt and Edit. After reading this piece, I now have the urge to call my family immediately and see how they’re doing.