The Weight of All Things

Everyday is a new day, a new day to wake up, get dressed, and carry the weight of all things. Not just physical weight, no. Life would be so much simpler otherwise. No, one must carry the burdens, the dreams, the memories. The people. A million things, weighted upon the shoulders, the brain, and the heart.

Of course, there is the tangible objects that define me: my watch. It keeps me organized, lets me know what the date is, and when I can dutifully escape the confines of some of my... less interesting classes. I am helpless without it. I constantly find myself looking down at my arm even on the days I forget to wear it. On those days, my wrist feels unbearably empty.

And then there are my dreams. Throughout my entire life, I have been driven by the desire to be amazing at something. Not just average. Not just good. Amazing. I have wanted to stand out, I have wished to do what few people could achieve. As a child, I tinkered with the piano. I joined the swim team, and then band. By sophomore year, I had stuck with only the latter because by then, I realized that amazing didn't come easily. My ultimate goal is to find myself in the All-State band, and that dream, more than any other drives me the most. Because I have lived such a privileged life, everything I have ever desired has always managed to fall into my hands. Yet, this dream, like no other, has posed me with an impossible challenge. Regardless of where I end up placing next year, I will always be grateful for that dream because it opened my eyes to many things I took for granted. 

I also carry the inspiration of my sister. Not only do I admire her for her brilliance and her work ethic, but she is always there to cheer me on, no matter how frustrated I am. She understands me without me even having to open my mouth. She cries with me when I am down, and she laughs with me when I am giddy. She is the wiser one and always offers me advice whether or not I am willing to take it.

Then there is me, my actions and my words that define me. I carry my father's hardworking personality. I never allow myself to settle for less because there is no point of wasting my time with only a meager effort. I dedicate myself to doing what I do, not because I have to, but because I love to. I am ambitious. Sometimes, I find myself to be overly so, reaching for goals that are nearly unattainable. Yet, it drives me to work harder and longer for my dreams. I am also organized; I must confess I carry a color-coded agenda and organize my books by genre and book jacket color. My room is almost always tidy. If not, it's best to stay away because something is wrong.

I am also defined both by a memory of success and failure. I remember looking at the results of Region band my eighth grade year, feeling the overwhelming satisfaction flood me, knowing that I gave it all. I had everything to prove that I deserved my first chair. Yet, I am plagued by my losses: for the past two years, I have found myself looking at the same, disappointing results-- being so close to achieving my goal, yet not quite there. It reminds me that sometimes, life doesn't always go as planned and that no matter how much effort I give, there will always be someone better than me. It reminds me that there is someone who exists who has the same aspirations as me, and will work just as hard as me, if not harder, for that same goal. Both these memories motivate me to practice more because I wish to experience that gratifying happiness once again, instead of the tears of regret. They shape my motivation and sculpt my dreams.

I carry both these visible invisible things everywhere, and more. They form my words and my actions, and they help to define my desires and my will. I am who I am because of these things. Without the million different things I carry, I would be a completely different person. The weight of all these things may be heavy, and tough. But it is me.

America the Beautiful

When people ask me where I'm from, I always tell them: "Chinese, born in Japan." People always stare back at me with a puzzled look, as if it's something impossible to grasp. But then again, maybe it is impossible to understand; after all, there our heritage isn't defined by a single word. Who are you? is the hardest question that anyone can pose. Because there is no clear answer, no definitions in the dictionary that defines you. Sure, you can be quick to reply with a name, but what else more is it but a light garment you adorn? A tiny surface in a vast tank of water? Especially in America, deciding who you really are is a challenge because we're all of different nations, struggling to find a sense of place, roaming and hoping. There is a balancing act in embracing your roots and finding new heritage to define yourself.

Every few years, I visit China. There, I am so frequently reminded of the great hardships that my parents faced, and their journeys to America. And I honor their commitment to their success and their hopes for a brighter future for their daughters by listening to their stories of their past. How, my dad, under the odds, went to college. How my mom left her family behind.

My dad points to a street along the river and proudly says, "I used to walk through here to go to school. And now it's a historical site." And all I can do is gape at the distance that he had to walk, the miles and miles of treading on tired feet.

That's the most important thing, I believe, in tying the culture together-- understanding. Respecting. Cultures fade in and out; they get mixed and dyed with the colors of others, and that's okay. That's the searching part, finding out where to belong.

I tie my heritage together with rapid words of English and Japanese and Chinese to my parents. I nibble on some American food, but I still prefer my Asian food. I have more than a hundred volumes of manga stored under my bed and gathering dust. I help my mother with English. I hate watching anime in English dub, but I can't read Chinese to save my life.

This past weekend, Coca-Cola came under fire for their controversial ad, wherein America the Beautiful is sung in multiple languages. Yet, as an immigrant, that commercial resonated within me. It's a song about embracing our past and the beauty of our culture, yet acknowledging the fact that we are indeed, in this country that we should appreciate, free from harsh oppression and unwavering poverty. In essence, we are all diverse, with our own stories and backgrounds. And Coca-Cola is right: America is beautiful. In all different languages.

Ghost Story Inspirations

No story is truly original; tales are collections of patterns and insights that have been passed on for generations. Stripping the meat of stories, the structures of books are strangely similar. Snow White is Rapunzel who is Cinderella. So as every good storyteller does, I am turning towards the master of the thriller genre to help me write the haunting story-- Edgar Allen Poe.

In the "Fall of the House of Usher", Poe uses an unreliable narrator to tell the tale. By using such a character, it creates an ambiguity: did it really happen, or was that really a figment of imagination? Should I be afraid of the dark and creepy houses now, or is it the narrator who just belongs in the mental ward? The uncertainty adds to the chilling tale that Poe provides.

Poe also uses dark and chilling imagery to illustrate the setting.

 "I looked upon the scene before me--upon the mere house, and the simple landscape features of the domain--upon the bleak walls--upon the vacant eye-like windows--upon a few rank sedges--and upon a few white trunks of decayed trees--with an utter depression of soul which I can compare to no earthly sensation more properly than to the after-dream of the reveller upon opium--the bitter lapse into everyday life--the hideous dropping off of the veil." 

By depicting the setting as sinister, Poe prepares the reader for a haunting tale. The mood is ready and set in stone. It's time for the action to unravel.

Incest is a popular plot point for the thriller genre. Not only is it absolutely revolting, but it can also explain the weird genetic patterns that may sometimes occur in the story. In the case of "The Fall of the House of Usher", Roderick Usher and his twin sister suffered mysterious and rare illnesses that could be explained only by the intermarriages within the family. And like I said, definitely strange and perfect for a disturbingly fun story.

The return of a dead character can also add tension to the story. After all, nothing is really as sinister as death. And conquering death, now we're talking. It's unnatural, weird, but it's something that in a way, we all want to do. (Even Dumbledore agrees.) And therefore, an idea that would capture the reader's attention.

Finally, nothing better to end a story than an ambiguous ending. As a supernatural tale, the fine line between reality versus fantasy will be unclear, which would make the readers edgy after they finish reading it. Nightmares for a week straight, hopefully. To make grown men cry out in fear.

And that's the point, right? To freak readers out? Or am I just being extra evil?

Nonetheless, I think Poe would be proud.