I'm at home, sick with the stomach flu. I haven't been properly sick since the eighth grade. I mean, I've had my share of colds and fevers and "under-the-weather"s but I've been busy being an "adult". That basically means I popped some advil, ate my vitamin C and powered through.
"I have X amount of tests today, and X amounts of responsibilities I simply cannot delegate to someone else."
What a load of crap. Because the really adult thing to do would be to stay at home, avoid spreading the bug to other people, realize that missing a day of school isn't the end of the world, and heal. It's only ever children that play at "being adults" anyway.
Yesterday, halfway through second period, I developed a headache just above my right eyebrow. Then I found that my eyes couldn't focus and I couldn't read the paper in front of me. So I decided to get some fresh air but upon standing, my legs trembled and my head swam. I was more annoyed than anything. Didn't I have finals to study for? Didn't I have to prepare for an interview tomorrow? Didn't I have Lolita to read?
Yes. Yes, I did.
Finally, my friends knocked some sense into my bedraggled head and I wove drunkenly to the nurse. When I collapsed against the first door (first gateway to Hell), the awful artificial scent of "Autumn" assaulted my nostrils. I almost threw up right there. But because I have some kind of superhuman restraint, I staggered on into the nurse's office. I must have looked pretty bad, because she saw me and jumped a little bit.
"Oh dear," she said.
"hmm?" was the best I could manage. Probably not the most reassuring of responses.
After what felt like rigorous interrogation, she led me to a cot and inquired if I should like a blanket. I can't remember what I said, but she patted me on the leg, drew the curtains and left me, blanketless.
Lying on that cot was the singular worst experience of my life. I thought I was going to drown in my own vomit. It felt like my head weighed twice as much as my body. Waves of nausea rolled over me, although I was a reasonable temperature. That was just peachy. At my lowest, and I'm denied the comfort of saying: "ah, and I was racked with chills one moment and flames the next". Typical.
I clutched the blanket and pressed a corner against the offending eyebrow, but to no avail. I tried to drink from the cup the kindly nurse offered me, but somehow forgot how gravity works and succeeded only in pouring the damn thing down my neck.
At some point she called my mother and that horrible woman declared that she wanted to speak to me. Speak to me? Didn't she know I was busy turning into a vegetable?
"Wang Yuxiao (my Chinese name)!" her voice crackled on the phone.
"Hm-m-m-m?"
And the conversation went downhill from there.
My mother and the nurse agreed that I should probably go home and sleep it off. It's like they didn't even care that the devil was trying to steal my soul.
Anyways, a little while later, Sandra appeared with my stuff and agreed to drive me home during lunch. I told her I'd buy her weight in sushi. For whatever reason, she looked more concerned than grateful. When lunchtime rolled around, I tried to airily swing my legs off the cot and stride confidently off.
That isn't what happened.
Instead, I slid off the cot and fell into a crouching position. But Sandra wouldn't even let me appreciate being cat woman and helped me stand. She kept trying to support my arm, ignoring my indignant "I am a grown woman" declarations. She held my backpack for me, and led me out the school gates to the car. The security guard didn't even ask to see my ID card to check if I was allowed off campus. Racist.
When I finally got home, I got into my own, glorious, cushioned bed and fell into a deep slumber. Or would have, if not for the frequent trips to the bathroom. I won't go into the gorey details, but let me just say that I haven't thrown up in years and I think I forgot how. I'm a pretty quick learner, though.
The delusions were nice. I couldn't see anything at one point and I started sobbing because I was absolutely convinced I was dying of a brain tumor. Then I tried to eat a banana but my stomach wasn't having it. That was really heartbreaking. I also tried to tell my mother, when she got home, that I thought I was going bald. She thought that was the funniest thing ever, the heartless wench. She grabbed a handful of my hair and said:
"Bald? You? Look at all this hair? Ha! Ha!"
The Chinese have an awful sense of humor. Really hurtful.
This morning I woke up feeling...well, feeling pretty terrible, actually. But I felt coherent, and I felt purged. Pretty stressed, because I'm at home, blogging.
Jeez my head hurts.
But my mother brewed me a nice pot of coffee before she left so I guess she loves me after all.
Tuesday, October 21, 2014
Monday, September 15, 2014
We Eat
There are a lot of sports I have a basic knowledge of, but whose intricacies completely escape me. Football is on that list. Top five, probably.
I blame my parents. To this day, I have never watched a single football game with them. They understand it even less than I do. See, we grew up watching swimming and volleyball and gymnastics...you know, sports the Chinese can play. (shots fired)
I find football strangely fascinating. But for the numbers, the helmeted players could be anyone. There's some kind of battle formation whose cold, calculating logic is just beyond the reach of my brain. They have commanders, too, and seargents.
I have always wondered if sports were a way for people to play at war. War with their surroundings, war with their peers, war with with themselves.
So I took on the football spread for yearbook and went just last friday to take pictures at our first home game. I've watched three years' worth of home games from the stands. For three years I've found myself irrationally excited, because I'm sure my subconscious mind understands the game, though my conscious mind may dodder hopelessly around in circles.
But let me tell you this: watching from the stands is so, so different than it is walking up and down the sidelines, weaving in and out of players and other camera people, running this way and that. There's this raw, primitive energy I hadn't expected. Although I can see some of their faces peeping through the openings in their helmets, I don't recognize any of them. Although I'd know them in the halls, in my classrooms, wandering around town, I didn't know them then. They didn't look at me, or anybody else- they saw the team, they saw the field, and they saw the other players.
It was crazy. I've never seen anything like it before.
They didn't even notice the crowd, although they fed off its energy. When the other side scored touchdowns, groans rippled through their ranks. When our side did, they celebrated as brothers, screaming, pumping their arms and jumping on each other.
Toward the end things got a little nasty for us, and the entire team breathed and held their breaths as one man. They shared a single plateful of tension, of bundled nerves and expectation.
At some points, we gave up on taking pictures and simply stood and watched. Watched the battle unfold and the blood spill.
Like I said, it was pretty crazy.
I realize that if you don't go to my school, the title doesn't make a whole lot of sense to you. I don't entirely understand it myself, so I'm not going to try to explain it. It's pretty funny, though, to hear the crowd chant it like a prayer and make as though they're eating, holding imaginary plates and utensils. Whoever knew the minds of teenagers? Freaking nobody. Not even teenagers.
I blame my parents. To this day, I have never watched a single football game with them. They understand it even less than I do. See, we grew up watching swimming and volleyball and gymnastics...you know, sports the Chinese can play. (shots fired)
I find football strangely fascinating. But for the numbers, the helmeted players could be anyone. There's some kind of battle formation whose cold, calculating logic is just beyond the reach of my brain. They have commanders, too, and seargents.
I have always wondered if sports were a way for people to play at war. War with their surroundings, war with their peers, war with with themselves.
So I took on the football spread for yearbook and went just last friday to take pictures at our first home game. I've watched three years' worth of home games from the stands. For three years I've found myself irrationally excited, because I'm sure my subconscious mind understands the game, though my conscious mind may dodder hopelessly around in circles.
But let me tell you this: watching from the stands is so, so different than it is walking up and down the sidelines, weaving in and out of players and other camera people, running this way and that. There's this raw, primitive energy I hadn't expected. Although I can see some of their faces peeping through the openings in their helmets, I don't recognize any of them. Although I'd know them in the halls, in my classrooms, wandering around town, I didn't know them then. They didn't look at me, or anybody else- they saw the team, they saw the field, and they saw the other players.
It was crazy. I've never seen anything like it before.
They didn't even notice the crowd, although they fed off its energy. When the other side scored touchdowns, groans rippled through their ranks. When our side did, they celebrated as brothers, screaming, pumping their arms and jumping on each other.
Toward the end things got a little nasty for us, and the entire team breathed and held their breaths as one man. They shared a single plateful of tension, of bundled nerves and expectation.
At some points, we gave up on taking pictures and simply stood and watched. Watched the battle unfold and the blood spill.
Like I said, it was pretty crazy.
I realize that if you don't go to my school, the title doesn't make a whole lot of sense to you. I don't entirely understand it myself, so I'm not going to try to explain it. It's pretty funny, though, to hear the crowd chant it like a prayer and make as though they're eating, holding imaginary plates and utensils. Whoever knew the minds of teenagers? Freaking nobody. Not even teenagers.
Thursday, September 11, 2014
Waking Up
The sky wept for us on the first day of school. Hordes of indignant girls trudged through the wet hallways, sheltering their carefully styled hair and made up faces. Sandals had been traded for more practical footwear that thudded sullenly as they walked. The schoolyard was shiny with a kind of wet romance.
But it hasn't rained since. The California drought drags on, and the sun is hot on our cheeks.
I miss cold weather. I miss rain. I miss how walking to school in the morning, the wind would blow your hood off and your hair atumble. I miss watching fat waterdroplets roll of my coat and taking it off,safe and snug and dry underneath.
Summer this year is like Summer in Westeros-seemingly endless.
But I'm tired of sweat and soft, balmy perfumes and kicking off the covers at night. I'm tired of the Summer breeze. I weary of the scent of burning pavement. I'm sick of being slow and languid-I'm ready for the speed, the briskness of Fall.
We talked about Speed in my AP Lit class just last week. My teacher showed us a clip of a man named Carl talking about slowing down. Our society, Carl explained, was moving faster at a faster rate and maybe it was time to slow down and just Be. He said that doing things slowly was better: eating, moving, spending time with our children, making love.
But I like to be fast. I like the wind whistling past my cheeks. Last month I would have smiled lazily and said that I liked to be slow, but last month I was a different girl. Now that I am a different girl I need the sun to be a different sun. You feel?
It's too damn hot for tea. For whatever reason, I find this to be supremely insulting.
Someone in that discussion said that to him, being slow meant being able to stop and appreciate the silence and that speed was so noisy. I had to disagree. From my perch on the dusty cushion I sat on, I had to disagree.
Speed is silent. Think of the engine in a really nice car; sometimes it purrs but mostly it doesn't make a sound. You feel its power but sometimes you forget it's there. Speed means rushing by so fast that you can't hear what's around you. The warnings people shout at you as you pass are lost, sounds of laughter and of tears, the rumble of the sea, the clink of breaking glass. All you hear is moving air.
Stillness is noise. When you don't move too fast, you can hear things, everything if you want. The sound a hummingbird makes that would be lost inside a Mercedes. Slowness is nice, too, but I'm not in the mood.
I told you already. I'm tired of being slow. I'm tired of warm mornings and cold watermelon afternoons.
But it hasn't rained since. The California drought drags on, and the sun is hot on our cheeks.
I miss cold weather. I miss rain. I miss how walking to school in the morning, the wind would blow your hood off and your hair atumble. I miss watching fat waterdroplets roll of my coat and taking it off,safe and snug and dry underneath.
Summer this year is like Summer in Westeros-seemingly endless.
But I'm tired of sweat and soft, balmy perfumes and kicking off the covers at night. I'm tired of the Summer breeze. I weary of the scent of burning pavement. I'm sick of being slow and languid-I'm ready for the speed, the briskness of Fall.
We talked about Speed in my AP Lit class just last week. My teacher showed us a clip of a man named Carl talking about slowing down. Our society, Carl explained, was moving faster at a faster rate and maybe it was time to slow down and just Be. He said that doing things slowly was better: eating, moving, spending time with our children, making love.
But I like to be fast. I like the wind whistling past my cheeks. Last month I would have smiled lazily and said that I liked to be slow, but last month I was a different girl. Now that I am a different girl I need the sun to be a different sun. You feel?
It's too damn hot for tea. For whatever reason, I find this to be supremely insulting.
Someone in that discussion said that to him, being slow meant being able to stop and appreciate the silence and that speed was so noisy. I had to disagree. From my perch on the dusty cushion I sat on, I had to disagree.
Speed is silent. Think of the engine in a really nice car; sometimes it purrs but mostly it doesn't make a sound. You feel its power but sometimes you forget it's there. Speed means rushing by so fast that you can't hear what's around you. The warnings people shout at you as you pass are lost, sounds of laughter and of tears, the rumble of the sea, the clink of breaking glass. All you hear is moving air.
Stillness is noise. When you don't move too fast, you can hear things, everything if you want. The sound a hummingbird makes that would be lost inside a Mercedes. Slowness is nice, too, but I'm not in the mood.
I told you already. I'm tired of being slow. I'm tired of warm mornings and cold watermelon afternoons.
Friday, August 1, 2014
The End of an Era
Imagine something you've always done- something you committed to, sacrificed for, and cried over. It's what you identified with, and half the people you know you met through this one thing. Sometimes it seems like your life revolves around it- for good or bad.
It's shaped who you are, how you see the world. You can't outgrow it, even when you stop doing it. Because you can never just leave-it's a community that remembers you long after you try to go. It's a lifestyle that you can't forget.
Volleyball.
Pretty corny, huh?
But I'm finally doing it, finally quitting. I always told myself I would, but this time I know I am because the reason is a "shouldn't" but a "can't". Too many other commitments, and I'm just not brave enough to risk it. Not even for something I think I love. College, you know?
I'm not even going to try to explain to you my reasons. But know that they're solid, and that I had to choose between two paths. The choice itself was simple-I had no future in volleyball. It was something I enjoyed, and it couldn't give me anything more than health, friends, and lessons in discipline and patience.
But it was easy to choose the other option. Not so easy to live with it.
The movements I practiced so diligently, the muscles I so carefully trained are next to meaningless now. It doesn't matter now how high I can (or can't) jump, how quickly I can react to the ball.
What ball? It'll never be the same.
The words I need aren't where I thought they would be. I can't express how like a dance the blocking footwork was, as we traveling along the net during our warmup, how our outstretched arms stretched above the tape and the veins in my wrists looked when they crooked over the top. They looked pretty weird, bluey and all.
Even messing around on the beach or in open gyms, it'll never be the same. That sense of urgency, or purpose, and of team will never again exist. That's what I'll miss most of all.
But I suspect what ties me to a sport I'm too darn short for isn't any of that. I started playing when I was around 12, just before a noticeable dip in the road. Sometimes I would bring my problems with me onto the court, but they never left with me. The ball would smash against the lines I scored into my arm, until I learned to stop putting them there. Then they found their way onto other places. Better to wear your scars on your skin than your heart, I think.
Volleyball wasn't what helped me get better. But it was there. That's how these things are. Sometimes just being there is enough to help.
Watch for my daughter in the olympics 22 years from now.
Haha.
It's shaped who you are, how you see the world. You can't outgrow it, even when you stop doing it. Because you can never just leave-it's a community that remembers you long after you try to go. It's a lifestyle that you can't forget.
Volleyball.
 |
| Jo and I blocking. She's still recruitable ;) |
 |
| SDVBC 17-1, in case you were wondering |
Pretty corny, huh?
But I'm finally doing it, finally quitting. I always told myself I would, but this time I know I am because the reason is a "shouldn't" but a "can't". Too many other commitments, and I'm just not brave enough to risk it. Not even for something I think I love. College, you know?
I'm not even going to try to explain to you my reasons. But know that they're solid, and that I had to choose between two paths. The choice itself was simple-I had no future in volleyball. It was something I enjoyed, and it couldn't give me anything more than health, friends, and lessons in discipline and patience.
But it was easy to choose the other option. Not so easy to live with it.
The movements I practiced so diligently, the muscles I so carefully trained are next to meaningless now. It doesn't matter now how high I can (or can't) jump, how quickly I can react to the ball.
What ball? It'll never be the same.
The words I need aren't where I thought they would be. I can't express how like a dance the blocking footwork was, as we traveling along the net during our warmup, how our outstretched arms stretched above the tape and the veins in my wrists looked when they crooked over the top. They looked pretty weird, bluey and all.
Even messing around on the beach or in open gyms, it'll never be the same. That sense of urgency, or purpose, and of team will never again exist. That's what I'll miss most of all.
But I suspect what ties me to a sport I'm too darn short for isn't any of that. I started playing when I was around 12, just before a noticeable dip in the road. Sometimes I would bring my problems with me onto the court, but they never left with me. The ball would smash against the lines I scored into my arm, until I learned to stop putting them there. Then they found their way onto other places. Better to wear your scars on your skin than your heart, I think.
Volleyball wasn't what helped me get better. But it was there. That's how these things are. Sometimes just being there is enough to help.
Watch for my daughter in the olympics 22 years from now.
Haha.
The Best Place That's Not My Bed
The driveway to my friend Maria's house is almost always completely obscured by cars and shoes coming, and shoes going.
The house that Mama Horan built. Not with hammers and wooden planks and plaster, but with smiles and hugs and good Italian cooking.
The front hall is warm, welcoming. The polished floor gleams softly, but don't be fooled-sweep your bare foot along and you will find the ease with which you become a dog hair magnet. It's nobody's fault that Molly is an olympic-level shedder. A gift and a curse, really.
The kitchen is the best room in the whole house, except maybe the garage. It is large but not pretentious, clean but not austere, and exceedingly well-stocked.
The kitchen that Mama Horan built. With pancetta and olive oil and good bread-the scent of brewing tea as it hangs in the air, sweeter and headier than a lady's perfume.
They converted their garage into a den. Large, comfortable couches, a TV, and a fridge. One time I made virgin Sangria and we kept it in there. It made an awful mess whenever we tried to pour it.
Sometimes I like it better than my own house. I like the aura of acceptance here. Every time I leave I say good bye to Mama Horan by bending down to give her a hug. Usually she's lying on the couch in the living room, but I have to bend way over even when she's standing because she's so short. It's very comforting because my mom is way shorter than me too.
Maria told her about my blog and she wanted me to write about her. So here is that post, and may it evoke the same hints of a second home, the same lazy Sunday mood. Perhaps even you, reader, can taste the cheesy mostaccioli, or hear our laughter.
The laughter that Mama Horan shares. In the house that she built.
The house that Mama Horan built. Not with hammers and wooden planks and plaster, but with smiles and hugs and good Italian cooking.
The front hall is warm, welcoming. The polished floor gleams softly, but don't be fooled-sweep your bare foot along and you will find the ease with which you become a dog hair magnet. It's nobody's fault that Molly is an olympic-level shedder. A gift and a curse, really.
The kitchen is the best room in the whole house, except maybe the garage. It is large but not pretentious, clean but not austere, and exceedingly well-stocked.
The kitchen that Mama Horan built. With pancetta and olive oil and good bread-the scent of brewing tea as it hangs in the air, sweeter and headier than a lady's perfume.
They converted their garage into a den. Large, comfortable couches, a TV, and a fridge. One time I made virgin Sangria and we kept it in there. It made an awful mess whenever we tried to pour it.
Sometimes I like it better than my own house. I like the aura of acceptance here. Every time I leave I say good bye to Mama Horan by bending down to give her a hug. Usually she's lying on the couch in the living room, but I have to bend way over even when she's standing because she's so short. It's very comforting because my mom is way shorter than me too.
Maria told her about my blog and she wanted me to write about her. So here is that post, and may it evoke the same hints of a second home, the same lazy Sunday mood. Perhaps even you, reader, can taste the cheesy mostaccioli, or hear our laughter.
The laughter that Mama Horan shares. In the house that she built.
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| Giving Ellen's selfie a run for its money |
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