no pants, just shirt dress

11.29.23. 

I'm in my warm pants. 

"BOSTON" on the left leg. 

Tomorrow is interview day and I feel nothing.

12.11.23.

The heater's on. I'm wearing no pants.

Just socks and a shirt dress.

I said "thank you for this incredible opportunity but due to my current circumstances, I have made the very difficult decision of withdrawing my candidacy."

A mix of dread and gut feeling. I took 72 hours to dance around it. I talked to everybody about it. Their guts were saying the same as mine.

"Don't do sales. Don't dabble in anything close to a pyramid scheme. You'd even have to pay for your own licensing. And only be making $3000 working your ass off for 90 days?"

So as I take in the uncertainty of the next continual months, my status as unemployed remains. 

What have I learned so far?

The job search is 50% submissions and doing everything technical. 

50% is protecting my spirit. Self-confidence. Joy. Reasons that keep my eyes fiery.

So that when it's time to speak, my voice is conveying the truth. I'm doing okay.

I'm doing well. Eating well. Feeling well. I like myself.

I like that I'm here, talking with you, discussing my career options. My potential to help your potential. 

Here's my name. Why I'm here. (I need to be here.)

I don't need anything. I'm simply here. Not needy. Not impatient.

Not greedy. I'll take any salary.

It's just my first job anyway. I'll re-negotiate in the next one. 

I like me.

And I think you'll like me too.

And if I ever work from home. Those days, I'd spend in the same shirt dress that I busted my ass off to get to you. 

It wouldn't be luck. Luck has no place here. 

temple energy

I'm not a negative person. I'm pretty optimistic when I get to leave the house at least once a day. Or dance to my favorite song of the week that day.

I force myself to write sometimes, even when I don't want to. A little bit like now. A stroke of genius, I convince myself, if I can connect with and express one feeling. Or if I can tug a memory off its shelf and study it. And maybe, find a new place for it to belong to. 

Today's Sunday. I easily convinced my family to visit the Buddhist temple that we frequent. 

Sundays are great for temple goings. The mornings usually run slow. No one wakes up anyone else. Yen leaves me behind in bed, my body hugging the bed. A quick inhale of air in case I feel myself drooling. Whatever light makes in would sober me a bit. Whatever I see and feel from the comforting space that is the back of my eyes, I take in the sensation. The whiff of bed. The whiff of myself, and whatever scents from central air conditioning fall on my covered feet, expanding in an invisible mushroom shape along my body towards the tip of my head. Cool air.

Mom walked in this morning, scooping egg into her mouth. She mumbled something about breakfast and maybe going somewhere. I closed my eyes again and went back to sleep. 

I turned to my side and grabbed my phone. Checked for texts from someone, and as I scrolled lazily, an "I miss you," from my good friend. The best text I received all day today, first thing in the morning. I smiled into my arm, replied, and lied on my back. Stared at the scruffly ceiling. 

I started to feel hungry and remembering how eager my mom was earlier this morning, egg-scooping, I got up slowly. Disorientedly went to the kitchen to cook an egg to go along with rice and bbq meat leftovers. Agh. So good. Damn good with my aunty's leftover fish sauce.

Everyone was doing their own thing. It will be Grandma's birthday in two days and so this weekend is her birthday weekend. She sat across from me while I ate, talking about all the plants she arranged that morning, probably since 7 am. 

"When you trim plants, cut diagonally or it'll look ugly and silly," she relayed to me. I was a bit confused between enjoying all the rice dish's flavors and hearing all about this botany action that I had to ask, "What do you mean, grandma?" 

"Let me show you." 

She grabbed a pair of scissors behind me and through the glass doorway, she looked at me while raising the pair of scissors. It was pretty cute of course. She trimmed the dead parts of the leaf diagonally and I instantly got it. 

I raised two thumbs up. Yen asked me about something. Agh, I forgot, but whatever it was, the next thing I knew, we made plans for the temple. And we went. 

"How do you feel wearing such gaudy floral prints, Ngoc?" Yen asked me after I put on my dress. 

"Hm... I feel powerful. I feel good." Yen doesn't feel the same about it sometimes and prefers simpler colored outfits. They do suit her. I just... I like looking loud sometimes. But honestly? I thought my dress was pretty calm and muted from my usual stuff, but maybe it's not so calm and muted for a Buddhist temple. Maybe.

The four of us wore our favorite outfits and we all looked great. So wholesome and pretty beans. 

Since the ceremonies and lessons already began, we all waited around outside a bit awkwardly, looking at the art and the nature. The temple had again, changed drastically since we last saw it. The reflection pool was emptied. There was a new 4-story structure behind the pool. The garden from the parking entrance into the temple was richly green and diverse, and instead of the pebbled roadway that we were used to, the parking lot was entirely white cement now. That was the starkest of it all. Was cement. Welp. It made the heat worse. 

Cement always makes it worse.

What felt stronger than before was how more in tune I felt to the energy of the space. Perhaps it was the abundant green nature tricking me or the way I was breathing in clean air, but my mind felt so quiet for the first time in a long while. 

Even as we stood outside waiting around awkwardly, I felt the edges of my skin relax. The tip of my nose, my finger tips. Whatever urges to fidget were quieter. Especially at the tip of my head, I felt a lightness.

Without even meditating, the earth beneath me felt closer than ever before. Mom felt brave and entered the ceremonial space, in the middle of the ceremony, and Yen and I followed. We disturbed no one as we sat down, gladly. They were preaching about the 4 noble truths and the 3 reasons that humans continue to hurt ourselves. 

For some reason, I keep remembering only one of the ills of the mind: "delusion." 

Deluded to think. Deluded, I am here today. I am a deluded bean. The delusion of even what you're chasing. Thinking it will be what makes you well -- but that thing won't. 

For a bit of time, I've just been traveling, being, and existing in my last year of college til now in a different space. I had a post-grad slump. I sat in my room for hours and hours and moments when I wasn't sitting, I was trying to find my next dopamine hit. Whether it be at the gym or eating Cane's or petting my dog -- you could even argue this was all me taking care of myself haha. 

And yes, that's the case. 

but nevertheless, there is something so forceful about standing on temple land that forces all my thoughts out. I feel clean and empty, like the brain I first had. There's nowhere more powerful and sacred than a quiet mind. Free of its own thoughts and worries and wants. Completely receptive it is, to the universe. The lessons to be taught. No pressure to be anywhere or be anybody.

Just, clean. The opportunity to have clarity is the day's best gift. And what gift it is to stand on sacred ground and feel enough to know everything at once. 

I am a being, I keep saying. I am a deluded being, I know. I know I'm searching for my highest self in all the mistakes I keep making. 

I know she wants to protect me, higher-self-Ngoc. Higher-self-talk tells me I need to be quiet and hear her speak.

now that I drive

I hate Houston more than I love it now. 

I was protecting how much I loved this city. Protecting all my reasons to stay where I was born and raised.

"Really?" Ms. Butler asked, sitting back into her seat, bewildered, "I think... here's what I think. Entitled. Everybody in this city."

The same word that crosses my mind as another fuckin' jerk last-minutely slides in, feet away from me. I slam the brakes. Someone else slams their brakes behind me. I don't curse. I seethe.

I take myself out on solo park dates. The 20-minute drive to Memorial Park just to see a little patch of an everglade, the sunset glowing against the water and turtles' backs. I take a seat on the cooled cement, my knees a little glisteny from mosquito spray. The bugs don't go for me as I face the little puffs of cotton in the sky. I think about how quiet it is. 

I have ADHD perhaps. Or something where my mind feels like it's on fire every moment of the day. Nothing quiets me. Nothing quiets everything competing to be first: the nail salon, LinkedIn, Indeed, resume touch up, alumni network, cover letter, how many apps are enough today, message back friendos, clean the house, wash the dog, exercise excuse me, eat more protein, interview prep, informational interviews, nail salon advertisements, nail salon lease renewal, dad's will signage, energy bill, drink less sugar, learn a new song on the piano, check up on little sis, water the plants, learn more Excel, make weekend plans ahead of time, YMCA membership, cancel Peacock!, sit straight, insurance overpay, don't be paralyzed by it all. I live every moment more exhausted than the next. 

Nothing quiets me the way going outside to stare at grass does. Focusing on one object like it's the only thing in the universe makes my head feel light. 

There's nowhere to be. I don't have to be anyone yet. I don't have to tell anyone my full name and why I want to be there. I am just a creature trying to figure out if that plant is edible.

Now that I drive, I don't even notice the clouds anymore. I don't even notice the sky. My mom gets to be a passenger princess. I would occasionally ask her, "Are you okay back there?"

Every time she says, "Yes," my heart gets a blip-blip. She nods away, sleepily, that is, until I have to push on the brakes because some very much entitled jerk rushes in. 

Now that I drive, I enjoy that fulfilling feeling of getting to the destination safely and driving in a smooth way that everyone feels safe and can sleep away. I'm not making money yet, but being trusted -- it's a damn good feeling. The lil miss that takes care of the rides.

Now that I drive, I realized how much I was missing when I didn't. When I relied on public transportation in this city built so poorly around that. 

Buses that don't come on time or buses that don't come at all. I stand there in my purple blazer, long pants, tucked-in shirt, while drivers passing by stare at my pedestrian self. Cars slow down. Knowing you're stared at but looking back at those eyes would make the moment mean something. 

So I keep my eyes away. The worst part about public transport is seeing how fast everyone else moves, so easily. Not having to look at bus schedules. It's their ease and my forbearance that drive me into a tiny pit of sadness. The heat above, the wind bringing dust upon my shiny, sharp self. The rushes of sound that remind me where I'm standing. Faceless speed.

Facelessness. 

I don't feel this way at all in Boston. Where there are crowds waiting for the same light with you. Where you're not alone waiting for a stop. There's someone to tell you the bus is quirky like that. "Haha, good. Phew!"

Now that I drive, I'm hungrier. I want to spend all my money on gas and convenience store food and ease my ache in the mountains, the rain, and alongside train tracks, tracing the length of time I've lost inside and the roads I've never raced on. I think about jumping into cold rivers, in nothing but a bikini bottom and covered in bear spray. I think about driving until I reach Big Bend for the first time and spend that first night sleeping outside my tent. Eyes taking in the breadth of the sky, about to cry up at blinking crystals I've never seen before. 

I think about how hard I chased myself out of the house to get there. All those little rebellions, took the car out, put my family in a fit as I spent hours in Memorial Park staring out at the Everglades, told them I'd be back by 9 but no one's used to it so my absence made them twist in their seats, all the "no"s I've ever heard just to drive myself home. So much stillness I had to bear because you didn't trust me yet. Me, who's traveled the world without you. Nothing but silence in this small place. All the asking I did so I don't have to ask anymore.

No permissions needed. Let me be free enough to drive the 9 hours. Eat the convenience store banana bread that I scrambled for years from the fridge for, fresh from the 4th grade. But to the "me" who could not fathom that I am out there.

I traded a lot of little moments for this. 

Now that I drive, I thank myself for enduring. 

Link to a random place: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NzfYSSmzaXU&t=6781s&ab_channel=SunnyWoman

Bombed Interview :)

Good morning Patty!

This is a follow-up email to update you that I um, I bombed my case interview haha. Before I dive into the facts of the matter, I must thank you for all the preparation you gave me yesterday. I am so grateful for your grace and always so lovely and wonderful. 

Ahhh. The facts are... um, I didn't even finish the case. My ears were all flushed and nervous and so I was hearing the prompt, but I didn't understand it ahhhhh. And spent time there re-clarifying basic points. I mis-read a word on the graph they gave me, I saw "with" instead of "without" and that changed my calculations. Ahhhh. 

And I had a lot of pauses. Yeah. 

Overall, very um, nerve-wracking experience and also of course, I do need to be kind to myself and understand yes, it was my first time ever doing a case interview but I also disappointed myself as well with my fumbly thoughts and words. I thought I could handle the pressure. I really did. 

And also, I really did hit rock bottom with an interview like this and don't anticipate an offer, but what I do know is that I'm still not discouraged at all by this experience. Casing is something I really want to be strong in and can see myself thrive in one day. I just know that it wasn't it yesterday but tomorrow and the days after this, wherever I am, I really do want to help people solve problems and it's so satisfying to me. 

Sorry for rambling! But consulting was something I came into very late in my college career. Like... the last 2 months of it. And I didn't ever consider it seriously until I started interviewing for it like yesterday and learning more about it and the skills needed to succeed in a case. Those are the exact skills I want to develop and especially the skill of having grace and not succumbing to pressure. That's probably my favorite skill haha.

I hope this finds you well. If you know of any folks who are consultants and might be open to having an unemployed mentee or how to go about finding a mentor in consultancy, I would love to learn more how to do that.

For now, I'll be back on the grind!

I hope this finds you well and thank you very much!

Warm regards,

DieuNgoc Nguyen

Dear Old Friend

When will we connect again? Like tonight? 

Paradise Pond shimmery, the last of its diamonds living. 

I wonder, when will I see you again?

I look at you. I look past you. I look back to the pond, big enough to be a small lake. I look back to the top of your forehead, the one I've given too many pats. To your smile, probably the one I made when I made that absentminded joke. Your eyes, that confirm my presence here tonight.

With you, I feel like I'm doing my job; I'm living.

I make a wish aloud as I raise my hand up in the dark, my hand and fingers make a new tree.

"I better see you again... after this." I look at you. 

Your lips move in the dark, a smile white, your hair lifting to the wind, "We will certainly try," you breathe out.

"So it's a yes then," I confirm, the space between my eyebrows folding. 

You laugh easily, slower than usual. We are pressed for time to press this memory of us and our histories, our complete friendship, into the cool air. 

The mosquitoes bite us for more.

"Of course, Ngoc. Of course!" 

"Good girl, haha." 

I reach for you. Arms wrapped around your shoulders, into a hug. How could I... just let you go? 

How could I do that? When the part that feels alive needs you?

Can any of us fathom what it took for me to find you? For you to find me back? And want me back? 

Our friendship, a string of Christmas lights. A castle-colored evening, every night. 

How magical I am with you. How brighter I burn. How you nourish my energy. 

How could I let you go and not cry and not hurt? 

You shall return to where you came from. I shall return. Our returns separate us. 

We will be a string of voice messages in each other's phones. Bursts of texts in the mornings and evenings. A random call I make, not random at all, because I'm heading out to the club alone that night. Because you are as well, and how are we going to feel even half of what we felt when we used to dance together? 

You will go into your 9-5, that new job after graduation. Your lunch, and then... our lunches when we shared them. I know... I would compare them too. 

Remember when... it was midterms season? It fucked everyone over. I kept getting fucked and how hard you fought for and chased your own sleep. You sought me out, in my own dorm room, for a hug. 

I held you there under my Christmas lights. I felt your tears on my shirt. I held you tighter. How badly I wanted this to be over, what was hurting you.

Remember when I wanted to go shopping that day and it was Friday, and since you're a damn good runner, you made it back in time to change and hop onto the G37 bus. We shopped and shopped and all my cute dresses, my favorite swimming suit, I got with you. 

Inevitable how bright you shine in my mind. 

The diamonds on that lake are still alive in my head. The sun hasn't set yet. 

When will I see half the diamonds I saw with you? Twirl like I'm in love to bachata. Shop and shop and feel so beautiful, next to you. And hold you because... is it not obvious? Is it not rare? 

I love you. 

Because, I cannot unsee my life, not without all the wonder you brought into it. You even bought the bread I liked.

I love you, my friend. 

Dear old friend,

I am reaching out today, because I want to connect again. Any time. 

At all. Always, reach out to me, any time. At all. I don't need a reason

to see you, silly bean. 

Miss ma'am. Somehow, the universe thought it right, when I sought for good friendships and good memories and growth and joy, that I found you. And that you may find me back. 

How hard we found each other and when we did, we had to stay. Let us choose each other, often as we can. The distance after this can't make time erase the pressed memories to pages of the days when I learned to love you and the days that I did simply, love you.

That is why, dear old friend, I will see you again.

"Of course, Ngoc."

when I pray

When I pray, all I ask is: the strength, dear Buddha please, to realize both dreams I've had and dreams I could never imagine. 

       My father and I drove past my elementary school a week ago.

When I pray, I pretend I'm there, in an unforgettably bright place, my mind a fortress, my heart an open flame burning white-blue. Let there be a voice from an ancestor who loves me whisper behind my ears, "You are here. You are true."

       I realized he drove me to school for 13 years, always in a truck. I realized how old he was. A glance to his face and a much skinnier skinnier frame.

When I pray, I lift both hands for the strings between my soul and my ancestors and spirit guides. How sure I am, that they surround and hum around me.

        I realized I had as much blind faith in myself as my parents did. Sitting in a car driven by your parents makes you feel like you're going somewhere without forcing anything to happen. 

When I pray, I pretend I hear their music. Wisdom, insight, words that passed through mouths I knew but came from somewhere beyond, all along. Words that found me exactly when I needed them.

        I was convinced, in every backseat, that doors will open. I just have to sit in the right seat.

When I pray, I feel a vibration course through me, pulling me apart. 

        My parents' gazes never changed. As long as I was in school, I was going to be someone great. That's the truth they felt in their bones. That's the reason I shiver with fear, every step I take. A heavy necklace interlacing across my throat, the charm a constant dull weight on my chest bone. 

When I pray, I wonder if time could reverse itself to before my reckoning. Back when I had time to afford being as careless with time as I wanted. Dog day summers. Sitting on the floor of my bedroom with my little sister, writing parodies of Taylor Swift songs.

        One day, there will be a reckoning. No matter your chances, you will always have a weight to remind you one thing: succeed and bring honor. 

When I pray, I think about that beautiful past. How I yearn to be that comfortable again. Maybe that's all I miss. That comfort of being a mindless, choice-less child.

        Culminate. Ruminate. Until I can only do one thing: choose. I have to choose well. I have to choose and then fight for that choice to be as true as myself. 

When I pray, I no longer see only myself. There's a moment and more where I feel the veins of the earth and the universe bleed through me. And then my family.

        It is both a burden and a gift. I am no longer a student. I am now the chooser. The maker. There is no academic institution that could hold me in that comfortable, easy-to-measure success anymore.

When I pray, I realize

        that all those years of my life when my Dad would drive me to school, I sat comfortably in that backseat. Watched the same houses go by for 6 years. Watched different houses go by for 3 years. Watched different houses go by for 4 years. I sat there comfortable because someone else had to bear all the choices. 

        I didn't have to bear one real choice. I bore few consequences. Life was a game, a numbers game or a letter grade or who were my best friends. 

        I was allowed that grace and that youth and that carefreeness, privileged to that backseat to life, because someone else drove me to school.

When I pray, I learn my life again. In a small glimpse. Like how in one drop of water, Buddha had seen, before Western science ever did, all the micro-organisms that could heal us and hurt us. More than life will ever know lived in one drop of water.

When I pray, I only learn and re-learn how blind I've been. How wrong I was. How hopeful I was. How all I can repeat in my head is for "me, me, me," for "I, I, I." 

        I want to re-learn my life again so I can be well. So I can choose well.

        I want to be well. To choose well.

        See well, to be well, to choose well.

What do I see now? When I pray? 

Exactly like you. An oceanic darkness. That's all I see. 

        I see no answers. None. 

        Just hope? 

        Because anything can live and hide in darkness. Things and possibilities I never imagined could exist are things I've never seen. And how can I see them ever, if they've only been in darkness. 

        So of course, darkness is all I'm supposed to see. 

        Of course, darkness is hopeful. 

        There are things I haven't seen yet. 

        In the reflections of my life and past lives. In the present day. In the futures I glazed quickly over with a brush, "I'll figure it out." 

         So when I pray, I am calm. I am still. To be ready and stronger and calmer, resilient to whatever moves and lives in the darkness. 

Every choice I make now, with the strength I keep praying for, is a different thud, a different noise, waking up different creatures and possibilities. I need the strength to carry the weight of each choice, just as others have done so for me. 

It is my turn to wake my own leviathans.

Episode 93: Society Sailing (Vault)

8/2/22

Below is a much older episode I had written, pulling it out of my vault!

A truly memorable experience in DC when I spent time with my host, last summer of 2022, when I was there for my State Department internship. :)

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I didn't remember the last time a "no reaction" was a valid reaction in a social setting. 

The wind of it disoriented me. 

Ms. Jennifer, my homestay host, had invited me to her Social Sail evenings, where she can invite one guest with her to board the sailboats on Thursday evenings. She's learning how to sail her own boat lately and it's an exclusive membership. We've become closer friends over the weeks and I hang on to every word she says. The invitation came and I knew the only answer was "yes!"

I boarded the subway from work to DCA Airport where she would pick me up. I waited at the wrong part of the airport. Asked a man if he knew where I was headed and luckily, he was headed the exact same way.

"If you don't mind tagging along, please do," he said kindly, his mustache a happy shape. 

I waved a big good bye to the nice happy but tired man and jogged to Ms. Jennifer's car. 

We got in and I immediately got into navigation mode, as I realized that she had trouble getting out of the airport and onto the right highway. Your girl is an experienced navigator. I do, um, steer wrong at times haha, BUT this time. When it mattered. I got it right. :D

We arrived at the edge of a park. I ran into the bathrooms to change out of my work clothes and into my maroon leggings and a yellow top that fittingly said, "~Happiness comes in waves~". Like, come on, that's too perfect. 

I walked out with my bag of work clothes to sign up for a name tag and reserve a place in line to sail with my host. Ms. Jennifer knew a lot of folks. She says "Hi" in this, "Hiiiihaha" way. Where a hello is immediately connected to a laugh. 

Like seeing you, brings me so much joy, my smile has to move.

After turning around from the reservation table and left alone a bit, I noticed a snack table. I came up to it, hungry. It was late and I hadn't had dinner yet. But as I walked there, I noticed how all the men, who were mostly older white men in their 50s or 60s were standing and talking, while the women lounged on the benches, resting and speaking. 

I also noticed I was the only other woman of color besides Ms. Jennifer. The only Asian woman and probably one of the youngest attendees there. Everyone truly was in their 50s to 70s. 

That made me feel a little shy, but I was never one to hesitate on flat pretzel chips. And I've been around older people all my life. My father's friends have always been in their 60s or 70s and were ones to advise me against boys and to focus on studying. "Bring honor to Vietnam, little girl!" 

Pouring these pretzel chips into my bowl, I felt eyes on me. Well, many curious eyes. Mostly from the men. The women were mildly curious. But the men made me feel like I shouldn't have worn my maroon leggings after all. A man who looked like he was in his 40s side-eyed me several times as I picked up a plate in a way that made me feel uncomfortable, or whenever I turned my back, I felt his eyes on me. Probably not on the back of my head. Perhaps I look ageless so he allows himself to do so. 

Hahaha. I'm 21. But I can pass as 30 when I speak. My voice, sounding like I have reason. Maybe wisdom. Maybe smarter than you. Maybe. 

Later, I would sit down with Ms. Jennifer, digging into my plate by the edge of the water. 

The shore was beautiful. Little ducks floated by. There were rows and rows of small sailboats racked on land and groups of men pulling these big shapes from the water, carrying them easily. The water reflected the deep oranges and reds of the setting sun. It was getting late and Ms. Jennifer and I grew less and less hopeful that we'd get the chance to sail. 

That man that I saw from earlier walked towards Ms. Jennifer and I. Greeted her happily, while looking at me. 

Giving me his hand, he introduced himself as "Call me Mike." 

He was as old if not, older than my mom. And a gut feeling in me told me not to call this man by only his first name. 

"Hello, Mr. Mike," I said, shaking his hand confidently, before he started to back away in a baffled way.

"Oh my god, don't call me Mister. I'm not that old!" 

"Haha, I was taught by my parents to respect those older than me." 

I forgot how he steered us both out of the next part of the conversation. 

But he would ask me in a really abrupt way, like he's trying to size me up quickly. Like I'm not worth a second of waiting. 

Question after question. Comment after comment made with no pause. He didn't want to hear what he asked for. 

"So... what are you?" 

"I'm Vietnamese-American, born and raised in Houston, Texas."

"You're born in the U.S. Why don't you just say you're American?"

It's my turn to be baffled.

"Because the Vietnamese part is very important to me."

I'm going to assume he heard only half of what I said, before talking about some other thing loosely tied to the little we were speaking about, about his time in Asiantown in DC or something or other.

I kind of blanked out. 

First, this guy wanted to be on first name basis with me even though he is much older. Then he wants to assume what is best for me, my identity? 

I excused myself quickly, and turned my back overhearing his voice baffingly say, "I'm not that old am I, to be a mister?". He asked Ms. Jennifer this, and her voice answered him confidently, "You're almost double her age, Mike! What do you mean?" 

"Woah, really?" 

Anyways, yup, maybe I do look ageless. But also, I'd rather not call you by your first name if I don't like you. 

Later, the evening drew warmer and warmer and after successfully getting on one of the last boats, I realized the joys of sailing. It's a team effort! There's a "JIB!" moment. Always a fun moment. I forget if you duck or you seek or something, but I loved the team work and every person on my sail boat were wholesome people. That was the energy I was receiving and it was true to its course.So much laughter. 

How DC looked so pretty from where we were. The edge of the Washington Monument touching the tip of the sky. A few blocks from where my office was. Ha. Look at that. 

Look at me, in a life float. Grinning all pretty. Look at her. 

Finding out all the joys of spontaneity and doing something new, and having one really really good person next to her all along. Ms. Jennifer. 

Ms. Jennifer. Is a name, is a person, is a state of being that a powerful woman possesses. 

"Imagine," I say, "yourself as a powerful woman one day." 

I say. "Yes." 

Later, another old ass man would hit on me. I was sitting on the boardwalk, the unwet parts, legs in a criss cross, when he walked up to me and Ms. Jennifer talking. He introduced himself and in the first 3 sentences of that introduction, explained he lost his wife a while ago and goes sailing to feel new again. 

I nodded respectfully. He's like in his 60s and I mean, those folks are safe beans? 

He stayed and talked with us for a long time, and I seriously thought he had known Ms. Jennifer or something, but I guess he didn't. 

After I felt the hint from Ms. Jennifer that she wanted to leave, I excused us both from his company, "Goodbye Mister ___". Farther away, Ms. Jennifer immediately looked at me, wide-eyed, "Do you know that man or something? I certainly don't."

"Gosh, no! I thought you knew him so I stayed and talked out of respect."

She looked me up and down and whispered in a low voice, protectively. "These men." She held my eye contact, "He's never talked to me before. Never. Not until today."

And then it clicked in my head. It clicked. 

And I barfed in my brain somewhere. BLECK BLECK BLECK EW EW EW EW. 

I'm effin 21 DANG YOU PEOPLE. DANG YOU FREKIN PEEPUL.

---

Later on the walk to her car, Ms. Jennifer would tell me: "Remember that man that was shocked when you called him Mister? My father taught me that I must use respect to distance myself from unwanted attention from men. And tonight, Ngoc, you received a lot of attention. At every step of the way, you distanced yourself with your words and your respect. 

I thought you'd have trouble tonight getting through this, but you did so well, Ngoc. You're a pretty girl and I'm glad you know how to do this now." 

Get off me, old men. 

Yee.

But also, get off me, periodT. :P

These weirdOS. 

This summer in DC, I'm learning about what I'm capable of in uncomfortable social settings, or just new social settings period. I'm very good at navigating in-person experiences and very ready. Very good at excusing myself because I can put myself first. Very good. At it all. :)

English may be my second language, and I can possess all its intricacies to make a woman bean like me, feel like a safe bean. 

Words are mighty. The folks that said it first said it true. Words protected me that night.

Because I know how to use em. :)

And even better when I got to share these strange moments with someone who loves me, Ms. Jennifer. My guardian of the night. ^-^

Episode 92: who I was

to that person, a thank you. 

Today wouldn't be as easy as it was, if I wasn't who I used to be. 

I used to be really determined about my physical health. Back at Smith, in those northeast winters, I would push myself to the gym on that 3x/week schedule. Weights and back and quads. I'd meet my friends at the gym. It was a social thing too, but in those cruel winter days, some rare days, I made do with solo gym time. After weights, I'd run a mile on the outdoor track at 5:00 PM, when the sky was so blue-purple, it was practically night. I'd race across the last thing with lights, which was the red bridge at Smith that crossed Paradise Pond river. The gust of wind above that river would enliven whatever dreary feelings I had about the constant gray days of a winter that crept into March.

I'd run with my knee-length black jacket on, which quickly dropped to the ground after I upped a steep grassy incline and reached the track. 

28 degrees F? Yes, I'd run in that. 22 degrees F? Yes. Of course. But nothing lower than that haha.

In my sports bra and leggings, I ran my mile. The woods at the very edges of the track would grow scarier and scarier as darkness drew in. I tried not to stare too much into the woods and rather, just focus on the steps in front of me, in case of black ice. Luckily, they salted the track too. :) 

The darkness would swallow me whole towards the end of my run. At that point, I'm so out of breath I don't have the strength to be scared, but made my way back down the steep hill. Past the whole distance of an empty, black soccer field. Across the lighted red bridge. And back into darkness again, between two woods for a short while, before I emerged out to the lighted main road. 

From there, I'd stroll all the way back to my campus house without my jacket, just bra and leggings. My bare shoulders and the tip of my head were bare to the winds and the cold. And my tired muscles loved loved it. 

I did this before even hearing of ice baths and now I know why my stamina is so good in cold weather haha. I'm not an overheating dog, ha. Lactic acid something. Dopamine and the weather. Maybe even mixed with the fear I felt for the dark every time I did this. 

I think about those days. 

How... cool I must have looked wearing little and walking slowly home. That slow stroll, as I cooled off. Embraced the winds against my bare chest. 

I'd stay like that until I reached home and my cheeks. Gosh, my cheeks would feel amazing. Pores all closed. Sweat vanished almost. The only thing that would betray where I'd been would be the incredible amount of salt on my skin if I tasted myself. 

I think about those days. 

And then today. At the YMCA again, where I did a lot. Not as much as I used to be capable of, but I'm looking to past me for guidance. I'm trying to reincarnate again and be her... again. 

I'm very grateful how past-me taught today-me how invincible I could be. How much my body could withstand so much, do so much, and love it. 

I don't want to be scared of the dark anymore.

I want to scare myself. With all the things I thought I couldn't do before. 

I want to be so brave that I could only be scared of the feats I do or the reflection of who I'll become.

Today, I went to the town hearing at Houston's City Hall. I loved it. I thought I had to get a job at some wonderful(ly) low-paying non-profit in order to understand my community's needs, but now? I realize you just go out to the public town hall meetings every Tuesday. Listen to people. Listen, make notes. See patterns. See why. And see how my council member did or didn't respond.

I sat and learned of the rituals of City Hall. The 3-minute speeches. Gosh. I was entranced. I'd go every week, heck.

Even my interest in public policy and storytelling, past-me got that ball rolling a long, long time ago. I'm just living out her interests as an adult. I'm living it up in a City Hall meeting, held at an hour that any working person can't probably make, because of all the time I now have as a funemployed person. 

Ha. 2 pm - 5 pm on a Tuesday?? Of course, there were only 20 ish people present. Clever.

And yikes. 

But in other news, the gym. The Y. I enjoyed it so much. So many classes and so many good people. 

I feel comfortable, but of course, I could never feel as comfortable as I did at Smith. That all-women environment. I mean, the Y has that option too. A women's only space, but I try to assimilate. 

I try to be co-ed, okay? So I can toughen up my self-consciousness, but it really is all in my head.

I'm a good bean. I've ran in 22-degree weather, bare shoulders and all. I've walked home alone. At night. Cried in DC at night. 

I can damn right do the Y. And stick by it. $40/a month!? for young adults. SHEESH.

LOVE. LOVE!!!! 

So, thank you past-me. To who I was.... I was something. 

I must have been something great if I were to even get here today. And try as I do, as I did, today. :)

--------------------------------------------------------

P.S. I'm going to try to make these episodes less poetic and more honest. The first thought that came out style, like when I used to in high school haha. 

I think I've lost the art of writing just to write, just a bit. 

I'm still poetic of course, but I'd like to care less about it, in my episodes. 

So from now on, poems will be more focused on that. But episodes are where I get to be honest. Be a sille bean. :P

Honestly though, I do try to stay positive, but lately, that's what it is. I'm grasping for positivity. Every single day that I live here at home. I try to. I do have bouts of sadness and loneliness and fear. All 3 at once sometimes. But I think... as long as I keep moving, or doing, or listening. Simply listening to the world, like I did today at City Hall... I remembered that I am a part of something great. I'm a part of a community. I am a part of a city. With lots of potholes. I'm part of something, sitting in that place.

Brown wood and white speakers.

So... I don't have to get better or feel better so that when others ask me how I am, I don't have to burden them with the honesty that I'm not feeling good. 

I don't have to. 

But when I move and when I do try, when I listen to the world. When I touch the world and the weights or the track below my feet or the bus home. 

I -- I'm moving through time again. I'm not stuck in one place, not in my mind, not in my memories of Smith, or my memories of who I used to be. Happier or whatever.

I'm moving when I'm on that elliptical. When I'm shifting the weight in my hands. I'm not supposed to feel happier, but I'm responsible for something in that moment. 

I'm responsible for myself. 

And that's a privilege. An honor. A gift. 

Sometimes, I forget that privilege. Sometimes, I'm so stuck in some liminal space and I drown. 

As I have, this past week.... it was really hard.

In the gym, I looked at myself always. The way I exhaled on the way up, the way I got ready on the way down. The way I took my breaks between sets, a little dancey dance. 

"I'm cute." That thought crossed my mind quickly. My purple leggings. My orange shoes. My nose.

That's it. I'm cute. Today, I'm cute.

She's not that happy, but she's cute.

Episode 91: Freedom

The truth is, I will be indefinitely living with my parents until I find a job. That's the truth. 

It's not a happy one, but until I can afford my own space, my own car and car insurance, this is the life. It's not a bad one at all. It's a compromise. 

I need to decide what's more important. Staying home and saving up money for my Masters and its living costs. Or leaving the nest early once I find my first job and have the freedom I want oh so desperately. 

I crave my freedom every day, but maybe all the freedom I need exists when I finally own my own car, rather than own my own space. More on this later heh.

The past 2 months living at home have revealed to me exactly what being a daughter entails. A good daughter. Not the kind of daughter I was when I was also a student, which was barely a daughter at all. I think I just woke up, stressed myself with homework and applications for internships or for school, ate, and patted a dog.

But now. Now. It's a lot of cleaning up after people. The kind of tidying work that goes unnoticed. Thinking of others all the time. Massaging everybody every evening. Mom's back is sore. Yen's injured area is tender. Dad's knees are inflamed. This is the kind of life my Mother has lived forever and dedicated so much to. The art of being present for others. Now that I'm fully invested in this role, whilst job searching, I realize how very rewarding and at times, exhausting this can be. 

In just one night, I've walked and touched everybody. Made several promises and plans for the next day. Fed and watered a dog.

I become one with my own home and family. I become a critical gear in the machine, doing important work shit. It's no longer just forms and documents or taxes that I take care of. It's necessary functions too. It's taking care of others.

My full time is taking care of my family and this home.

Shit, it's pretty cool. And fun. And awesome. I love it actually.  

This f-unemployed time is a gift. I am growing into it and it grows on me. I don't think that when I finally start my career and have a job, will I ever have as much time to invest in family and home as right now. So these times are the good times. I know that much.

To constantly give and give to those who love me unconditionally and have always been there for me. For this to be my turn is incredible. 

The only and biggest peeve of all this is not owning my own car. Haha, it's not a financially sound idea to own a car as an unemployed person right now, but this means I have to rely on others to get anywhere. 

So... I have significantly less freedom than I used to in college. This comparison makes me feel like I'm always reporting to my family. Where and when. 

I never ever had to report to anyone where and when in college, unless I was out all night to my roommate. But this level of worry from parents who are so scared of Houston at night... I get it. But it's exhausting to me. 

Houston is not at all a safe city at night, but I'm smart enough to navigate it. I was smart enough to navigate Singapore, DC, Smith, NYC, and California all alone at times. Every time I stay out or go out in the day, it's a where, when, and why, and with whom. 

The 4 horsemen of joy haha. 

I want my freedom back. I want my friends back. 

I'm literally home all day at times. Alone with myself, my own thoughts and job applications. Plans of going out, all the dancing I used to have at Smith -- scarce. 

It feels like a sad existence. 

I do try my best. I try, but too many memories of how it used to be. In college. with friends and plans like the drop of a hat. Always surrounded and enveloped by new experiences and stimulating conversations with diverse personalities. Agh. God. I miss that terribly. I ache for that every moment where I've felt that I've stayed in my house for far too long. 

Only to realize, Houston is wayyyyy toooo dang hot and unwalkable for a solo time. And... many other factors. 

I just, really want to feel like myself again. I would go on these solo trips to other Texas cities or California and be a good travel bean, escape to these beautiful places and all that, only to come back home to scarcity. Scarcity of people and plans and energy. Just in my room, scheming and then sleeping. Feeling myself shrink and shrink. Soooo unlike who I used to be. 

That abundant me. 

Not wanting to spend too much money on experiences, because... unemployment :I. 

My discipline for myself and my dreams shrivels a bit every day at home. Any momentum I gain feels like... I'm just gaining more momentum to be still. To sit still, sit at home, worry no one, go out nowhere, be sad. More mentum to be a sad bean. A still bean. Unchanged and quiet and alone. 

I feel oh so alone sometimes. 

All this dependency on family to get anywhere I'd like or meet anyone I'd like. All of this reporting. Worrying the family when I overstay or go out late. But shit, that's when I feel most myself. At night! Looking all shiny. Under a crystal globe.

I miss it all. 

I need to start anew again. I know. I know that deeply. I try, but then I feel more tired, like pushing against a wall. Hitting every wall every time. 

I feel stuck a bit heh. Plenty of stuck. 

Houston, agh. How much I hate your unwalkability. FUCK YOU! >....<

Welp. I try, you know. I try to be positive. I know this is temporary. But I feel like everyday, getting out of bed is so freaking hard, when there's nothing to look forward to. Like glue, on my back.

Freedom wouldn't feel like that. 

Episode 90: My Golden Castle -- A Late Episode of Singapore

**Note to dear reader: read this episode with this music in the background:) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hEu-5Pwq5Js&t=472s

Below is an old episode!! A bit more about my time in Singapore studying abroad. :)

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3.29.22.

Let it be fact that my second time at Universal Studios was in Singapore.

We took a cab there on Garima's moola of course, haha. All of us were excited to do everything. Naina was brilliant and brave. She could ride all the scariest rides and still come back for more rounds. Shikhar clung on alongside her, trying to convince himself it'd get better. Neha was all about it, doing everything and looking massively cute bean. Garima tried it as well and ended up liking it! God. I never tried anything scary. I didn't have the heart too. I'd pass away. I'm sure Ian would have liked to get on, but he didn't. 

There was a Transformers ride with a 1 hour wait time and instead of going with the rest to try the scarier rides with smaller wait times, he decided to wait with me even as I egged him on with the others. I know I'm not a charity case then but I kind of needed the charity. I'd be miserable waiting in line that long on my own. But in line, Ian and I talked about so much. So many questions. It felt claustrophobic too being in such a tiny dark space, with loud noises and flashing lights all around you, but the one thing I clung onto was the movement of our conversation. In and out of Korea. In and out of the U.S. 

Eventually we rode it and after, I swear to god, I thought the memory of the ride was better than the actual ride. I rode Transformers about 8 years ago and I swear... uh, I should have just left it up to memory. But alas, too late. It was over. The hour was over. And we headed out to wait for the others. When we regrouped together, it felt so nice again to hear all their stories of the scarier rides. We then decided to ride the Indiana Jones Pyramid ride I think, and I remembered from childhood again, that that ride would have a backwards drop in the dark that no one could anticipate. The wait was long again, but together, we played little games. Took lots of little pictures in the dark. 

Shikhar didn't anticipate the drop and his scream was the loudest, highest pitched thing I've ever heard. I couldn't help it, none of us could as we burst out laughing while the ride took us on its bigger spins and zips. It was awful but knowing how badly it scared Shikhar earlier made it much more bearable. When the ride was over, we had to all take turns laughing about this like kids. Gosh. 

Out in the sun, we did other smaller rides together. A pterodactyl ride that took us high up the trees. I hated it, like usual. I'm truly not meant for theme parks!! :( 

I'm made for water parks :D.

And alas, one of the last rides we waited on was the Jurassic Park ride. I anticipated a drop as well but unlike my 14 year old self who had the chance to but didn't get on, I got on this time. 21-year-old Ngoc did it. Got on. Got plenty soaked. Hated it. Ian hated the moment he heard he'd get wet. So he bravely watched our bags. Would later accompany me to revisit Shrek's castle while the others wanted to do more scary rides until closing time. So our group again, separated and will later happily regroup. 

(Theme parks are meant for waiting with your friends.)

And then... after a long day of it all. We reached Shrek's castle. I loved it so much. Grounded and golden -- It felt like home. I twirled and twirled as I took it in with my group of lovely beans. We all took a picture there together, one of my favorites of us.

My heart simply melted at its sight.

Golden and golden. Dreamy in all the colors that make me yearn for the truth I grew up with. Back to when my heart would pound at every Disney movie opening and my imagination ran limitless. Peter Pan is going to fly into my window any moment now. Back when I wanted to have royalty in my blood and a happy ending by the end of the year. Because I once believed, as strongly as I believed standing still and bathed in the sunsetting glow; magic is real. 

Staring up at spirals and gold upon gold of a castle convinced me so. These well-known shapes, even the scent of the air. A ball was going to happen in the evening and I'd happily be at the center of it all. I couldn't look away. I never knew I could want something so much, something so intangible and childish and almost forgotten, buried in my chest-- this feeling that my fairytale rested on these fake cobblestone steps. I was awed. Music drifted from all around, all the best soundtracks, telling me to fall in love. 

Fall in love with the magic I had once known so surely in my heart. 

Which is why I melted and couldn't stop thinking about going back after we walked through Far, Far Away so quickly. It was perfect tonight that I followed my heart and the magic I felt there, that I chose to overstay. Until they told us kindly to leave.

Ian and I sat there for what seemed like forever. I had been videotaping myself making a wish into Frog Prince fountain. I wished for the same things as I usually do. More certainty. That I will be where I should be. May my ancestors and loved ones guide me there.

And so that is what it is to stand below this sight (my picture below), and pretend. Yet feel so true all the magic that still lives in my heart.

what my christmas lights do

There are no dark corners here. 

How the gold of each small bulb dances and reflects on the shiny covers of my old books to the far corner, against the purple rose necklace I left hanging on my lamp, along my old orange-brown table so that I may only guess its darknesses.

I don't see darkness.

Bright enough to see a spirit. Not bright enough to wake up a late-night, sleepy but floating mind that writes these prose poems. 

Under the right lighting, I can tap into who I want to be at that moment. How incredible that different colors and brightnesses make me feel the world differently. 

How reliant I am on my eyes to move my mind and mood and attitude. For I am a creature.

I just wrote some letters tonight. New ones and started old ones. Everything is stamped. Now it's just getting these folks' addresses. I felt like writing these really belated letters because of the golden colors touching my forehead. 

A head pat. Half looking like my college dorm memory. Half making the room look like somebody else's room in a Christmas cottage painting. I sleep here.

I sleep here. And I hate it. I really hate turning off these pretty lights and seeing absolute darkness for the first 15 seconds, scurrying to my bed and hiding behind a plushie.

I hate waiting for my eyes to adjust. Something could be moving and I'm just alone, figuring it out. Eventually, the outside light of my neighbor's would move weakly through my window and light up the tip of my room. 

If only there were more dust in my room, so that when light travels, I can see its path. So that it might light things along its way, instead of just the wall. The room might be brighter then.

But in the morning, even at 11, barely noon, I turn on my Christmas lights. 

I open just one window's blinds. 

I mess around on my laptop.

And then I am transported into another atmosphere, the one that the movie plays at the end of a teary moment, the camera zooms out, exits the window out into the night and there you are, the viewer, enjoying the lighting of that space you were in only once you've left it. How easy it is to find light in darkness. As much as you yearn for it. 

But without getting too deep, this is how I like it. 

Feeling powerful and in control of my life is easier than I thought; it's what my Christmas lights do for me.

Thank you lights, for your exceptional power. Thank you me, for remembering it. :)

vulture

You can't keep living on a dopamine chase.

Nothing grows there. 

No amount of rain known to humankind can make the desert an ocean again overnight. 

Ocean. Life. Coolness. Lakes. Like...

You can search for as long as you wait

only to be as soon hungry as you were last full. 

For a word. A look. A wonder. For the end of this hunger.

Your eyes wide to the world. Heart open like book pages. Stories of success. Stories with the end, you have memorized. 

There are memories of the last happy high that survive. 

May you feel a third of that in the next page.

You can't keep trekking barefoot on burning, scorpion-filled sand. 

Don't ask when, who, what you'll be happiest. 

Your feet will only be stung. Red, swollen, barely scabbing.

What does one do in deserts if one does not move? If one does not search? 

Then one... shrivels? while one waits? 

Or do the burnings and stings of the search transform one's feet? New callouses. Adding heat resistance to numb your memory and next ache.

There is a memory, of when things were wonderful, but it is only a repainting as you trek. A metallic, shimmery mirage keeping you hungry.

How the heart aches, only when it strays from happiness.

How well the memory works, when it strays from the capability of making new ones.

How far one strays in the search for happiness. 

Happiness is not in a hormone. Is not dopamine. 

Happiness was never all that worth it. It's not that big a deal. 

No deal. 

Not real. 

Just a transaction, perhaps, between the world and yourself, where you make sure to take the most, leave with the best deal.

Of course, that's not true. 

Happiness is a part of something? A part of that last first-scoop-of-ice-cream memory. A part of whatever shit. Whatever. Add whatever nice memory you've got here.

I've already found the answer before. On purpose, I've just circled around it like vultures over carrion. For what purpose? I make myself laugh. Because, well, frankly... it's a lot easier to mess up finding the quickest route to dopamine than it is aiming the arrow at myself. At my own self-progress.

The bush is already beaten. The sun burns. The vulture circles.

I only dry up, shrivel and shrivel, from living and re-living the same truth.

I can't find happiness. I can't make it. I can't make anything that isn't far from being unreal. 

I don't know what I'm spewing here, but the thoughts are heading somewhere. 

The point is, I can't keep doing what I'm doing. 

I can't keep a hunger like this.

I've got to stop flying over dead bodies. 

I don't want to die feeling like a sad bean that has wasted her time finding something the easy way that in its easiness, always is the wrong way.

The better way for me is through it. No more circling. A cut. Across paper and memory. 

I want it to rip. 

I want to aim the arrow and shoot a straight. Keep things simple. Keep my eyes on the target, in the heat, feet scalding as I remember water. 

I remember water.

If the arrow is straight and I keep my eyes on the target, I hope I find myself just as I am reminded of myself. 

        A vulture is diving somewhere right now.

The water I had been searching for was always in my blood. 

        The vulture can only feast when it stops circling.

I imagine that arrow piercing my back. How it traveled across the globe, 360, from myself to myself, painting my back a red flower blossom. I fall where I am. The gasp that escapes is a mantra to time where I could have been.

Spewing nonsense on my knees about wasting my time and how silly I am. That I didn't. Simply, I didn't think to remember myself. I didn't want to.

But the water, may it be everywhere. Just as I remembered. Escaping from my back and cooling my skin for the first time on that desert night. 

I hope in the morning, I wake up. White shirt now crispy and maroon. That I walk on, never forgetting that I do have what I should have remembered much, much earlier, to save the many reincarnations I was as a vulture -- circling around the same damn problems.

Circling, seeing the truth, and still flying as if blind. I keep true to the inertia of the circle, and unlike a vulture, I don't brave the dive. My carrion decays below me.

------------------------------------

omg dear reader! this poem was like so out of the blue. I have no idea what happened. it started out so different from how it ended. I forgot every rule. I just went on, throwing everything around for a little bit, like this game I once really liked playing in my film class, OctoDad. 

I'm sorry for the bloody imagery. 

also, no cannibalism intended in the end. i was trying to say something loud in a basic form. heh.

i am being weird right now. i

am so

weird right now. feeling weirddddd~ 

I'm sober. 

And the whole arrow imagery, I am perfectly okay and would never hurt myself, but in the middle of writing this, I randomly clung onto the imagery of the arrow. And... heh. Yo, I promise I'm good. I'm making too many "I'm good" promises lately, haha, but they're all true. Dang.

daughters

are ghosts you can touch. 

exist in multi-planes, for your convenience. 

hover above ground, often in a scurry when hungry. 

are people that belonged to you before they belong to themselves, if you believe that. if they believe that.

are people that belonged to themselves before they belong to you, if you believe that. if they believe that.

get angry sometimes. blame you for it. and come back to you, with or without your apology.

don't come back, with or without your apology.

curl up, when lovesick. against a wall or such. 

are dangerous beings, in your eyes, when lovesick.

find their own fault first. 

fault you first.

can be tainted.

can be ruined.

can be influenced and be unforgivable for it. 

are beings you are most proud of. 

fuck up.

are beings you want to hug and worship.

fuck up.

are beings you've forgotten.

are protected.

are powerful.

are powerless.

hurt you the most, when they stray and burn their own way to the farthest edges of protection.

are protected from what? 

come to an age, when they realize their ignorance of the world was what made them so fearless. So, it was you, who separated the world from them. So, they arrive, thankful. 

are still fearless, despite their distrust. 

don't thank you. a nod in your rearview mirror before closing the back door.

are loud, in their bodies, minds, and speech, when out of sight.

are so careful, when expressing their bodies, minds, and speech. shivering in every darkness.

are so careful, for every reason you've given them and every reason they've lived to witness. may you never know.

weave worlds you can only glimpse into. 

have words to say. 

are made. women are made. and you made a daughter. you made a woman. 

were chubby, small things before they were anything else.

don't want to be called crazy. 

like softness and sweetnesses. 

don't forgive you.

don't forget you. 

say the damn words.

don't want to remember the things you said. 

remember what you said.

try. 

shiver in every darkness because of a world that's designed for the male gaze and male hunger. 

hide.

dance.

live in a world that naturalizes a woman's fear. 

hide.

dance.

are not ghosts you can touch. 

don't want to hide. they want to dance.

left for salt

"I'm leaving," I said, "for salt." 

Nothing new. Just leaving to feel something true. 

Leaving for a speck, for a feeling. Like the moon searching for nothing new, just her sun's light. 

What lets her be. 

Before, the daily existence was a waking up, a staying-in, a too hot to step out. An overheating dog with a tongue sticking out. Parents who accidentally leave their small kids in hot cars. Or forgot they had kids. 

I am a being. 

Before, I was a body. Well-rested. Sitting. Lower back pain from games, indigestion, unmoved. Not a feeling. "She's not a fool," my thighs and knees screamed as I sat still. They recalled all the excited walking, the uphilling, the little happy jogs out of pretty buildings. The consistent months and years of building their thicknesses.

"She's not a fool," my belly churned, after another cup of hot sauce, corn, cheese. After going unused since last season, between a sitting up and a sitting back.

"She's not a fool," my back cracked, so used to being shaped like a curve like my mother, as if it was me who breadwon for a family. 

Sat still. Stopped and stared. Curved like a cup on a dusty ass counter. 

Why all this? The stillness? 

"Unemployed" is the normal excuse. 

"I have few available friends in this city." 

"No car or insurance." 

Movement is bought then. 

It must be. I can only move freely when I can afford to. 

Luckily, I still can. Or, I can move freely when I know enough people in a city with cars who love me or who don't mind my company. A mosquito asking to be driven across midnight downtown for the city lights. A little girl in your front seat, thick from elotes and cup-shaped. Or, who had the memory to look at her yoga mat again, peacefully stretching only her back.

But today, amongst the mountainous outlines of a new memory I'm making, the Miami-like trees lining these wide-wide streets, and on concrete caked with sand, I found my salt.

I'm not immovable after all. I do have fucking feelings.

I learned to re-try salt's taste. 

Salt is in a wave. On a beach. In the eye-drying force of the winds against the surface of my chest. I lean into the wind, which salt rides. Caking my hair like the concrete I walk. Filling my mind like the vision of Huntington Beach's waves below the pier. Rolling and fucking real under a sunset, saltier with the darkening sky. It's when you can't see shit that its scent envelopes you, squeezing you in the darkness. In its stillness. 

Maybe all my stillness from before was not for naught. It was all a plot neatly set up so when I find my salt, I would be squeezed so tightly into a shape that even my disgruntled self cannot escape. 

But not even the moon can be still to accept her sun's light. Nor the sun to offer itself to its universe. They had to spin always. Never a stillness. Maybe in all my bouts of empty-feeling daily routines, I was always pulsing.

Salt cannot be buried.

Salt raises the dead. Salt is in every memory. The quantity of it I'm so certain of every time. As I sit in Phuong's room and type the softest I can when she's tucked behind me, I remember my own pulse again. I remember all my ache. The excuses to preserve each ache. The very ache that made me burn, hollowing out every cup I wanted to fill again. Moved me to fly out here to Southern California just to remember salt, this singular matter. 

I cannot be escaped. Sea, horizon, wind, and water. I cannot escape. 

Because I am enveloped by a matter. Matters. I am enveloped by forces that bring matter to matter to me, so that I may never forget how true I am.

Episode 89 - Your New Graduate

More than a month has passed. Your middle school turned high school turned college student is now a graduate. A Bachelor of Arts. 

I wake up in the morning with not one real plan in my head for the day. 

There's a coming of age that happens in your teens, but the harshest one I've experienced is the one I'm going through now. All those beautiful memories that I can only make in one specific place, where everyone is at a similar pace in life, and events and dances happen often. Where I felt so safe. A town so quirky, so small, but with so much to look at and do. There, I'd wake up in my college dorm with plans. Probably already exhausted thinking about them, but I had them nevertheless.

Now I wake up with few to none. Sometimes in the middle of the day, I have flashbacks of my graduation day. That's when it hurts most. Specifically when it was my turn to walk the stage. When the crowd roared and I didn't hear it. 

"They roared," Yen said, "and I don't recall. But they probably did." 

I made a little heart to the camera in my hands. A small "thanks and yes, I'm in love with you and this moment". My friends and my family who flew in to be with me. Everybody. Everyone I loved in one space. I wore the same sandals that I had paraded all over during my DC internship, all over Singapore when I studied abroad, the same one that saw all my late-night weekend dancing. The very same. 

I walked across the stage. At the end of the walk, I squeezed a girl. One of my greatest, kindest, loveliest friends: Miss Ivanna. I squeezed. Just as I had squeezed the many before my walk. And the many after it. 

Hellos and hellos and hellos to everybody as an hour before, we had lined up in the biggest line ever, and on the walk towards my seat, I swear I probably saw everyone I ever loved at Smith. I passed and waved and cried and put my little hands together into a heart for them. 

"Because I love you!" 

Because I still do.

Nothing is truer in this moment as I write this. 

I was the happiest I ever was at Smith. In college. Studying and stressed and obsessed. I had vague plans about my life that I didn't have to answer to yet. I had friends and plans every day. I would be caught in the middle of a big sandwich bite by a classmate. I was in the gym seeing the same good friends do their thing, cheering each other across the room. I was in class, having silly conversations, ones that Prof could hear. I was at dinner, making a friend cackle at another honest accident of mine. I was somewhere. 

I was. Happier.

And I hate saying this. I hate saying this. 

I wish it wasn't true. 

But nothing feels truer. 

I am at home now, with family. I have some plans perhaps, but all of them are almost alone. In cafes applying to jobs. In libraries picking up my book holds. On couches as I try to finish that very book. At tables playing League, sometimes catching a friend or two. All over the house wiping down every surface, tidying up every little thing. 

I do travel. I have traveled. And that's when I'm happiest. When I'm going to places. It makes me feel even a small semblance of the past me, of over a month ago. The possibility of invisible strings bringing me to you all along. I had it so good, and I knew it. 

How could I not then? 

I had it good. I had it good. I never blew it. It was too perfect.

My time at Smith taught me so many things.

1) An education rooted at a traditionally all-women's college showed me what an ideal world and classroom should feel like. Inclusive. Everyone is heard and given an equal chance to speak. 

2) The beauty of a place, as beautiful as Smith is in its autumns and springs, does motivate a little girl to go outside and picnic outside. My first picnics were here. On that lawn.

3) I crossed paths with one of my favorite authors of all time at Smith's Paradise Pond. I screamed about it for days.

4) Every study session. I mean, every. Someone's a fool and doesn't study. And so we end up not. :P

5) Drag bingo is a fantastic Friday night idea.

6) I am so complete, so whole on my own. I am so capable of creating beautiful moments with others, friends or strangers. I am so incredible for that, for making folks laugh with my timed wording or awkwardness. 

7) I dressed my absolute best to every class. Every day, I showed up. I have never felt more spiritually connected and in love with my body than in college.

8) I peaked. 

9) Smith flew me home when I was homesick. Paid ticket and everything. Gosh.

10) I love so well. And I deserve love.

Your new graduate deserves the world. She wants to serve the world.

I want to serve. 

I just... am quite at a new end to all this. A new whatever-this-is where I'm at home most if not all the time. 

When I'm not a student or employee or intern, I'm a daughter. It's a pretty answer on paper. It's not so pretty in real life. 

My time is everyone else's first. 

And then I remember a time when it wasn't. When it was mine. 

I remember when.

But the upside is I've never been more free in my life. I'm the most lonely right now, the most plan-less, yet the most free. 

And I have never been more scared in my life.

It's Distracting

he said, how any of my sweet words would echo in his head. 

How eager he was to text me again. Too eager that he'd text me while I slept.

Him being awake, with me alive in a picture as soon as he closed his eyes, was a "pretty little curse." 

In the morning, I woke to paragraphs. I woke to confessions. To well wishes. A half-delirious desire of us penpalling one day, brightly dried flowers falling from the envelope.

I woke up smilin'. Eager for his embrace.Eager to be held by someone so sure about me for once. Was I ever as sure about myself?

He re-taught me the best thing that I learn and learn again: the right one makes sure you know. The one is unafraid. Unafraid to bend at his knee before you.

His heart pulsed in my hands, blood dripping the floor.

It's this kind of guy that you're afraid of. It's the ones that were good to you. 

He was good to me. 

He bowed before me. Scared. Confident. Promising. 

And god, was he beautiful. The sharp eyes of a sorcerer. Lines upon lines on a body that felt like, "mine". Strong from 6 hour hikes a week. If the word exists, then it's "god".

And god, how the skies changed at his laugh. Made my stomach a mess. I would always waver, if I ever heard it again.

How incredibly smart he was. Every idea of mine, he met. Every idea of mine, he enjoyed and extended. I can't finish what I started. He's already made the idea something else. I'm caught, laughing. Surprised. So quick-witted, we were chasing each other.

And god, his voice. I never heard a voice more beautiful. Actually. 

Truth, I say. 

In just a few days, how quickly Taylor Swift's "Daylight" flooded my playlist. "Golden golden like daylight." The moment I awoke, his voice meets my screen. My face flooded in joy.

It's this kind of guy, who makes you dream and want so much. 

These guys hurt you the most. 

I miss that beautiful, beautiful voice. 

6 months have passed since. And the stain of "love", was it? 

How quickly you came into my life. How dare you. How dare you fucking

haunt me. 

A 10-day stay was all. Every night. Every hour of those days, I felt like every guy before and after you, could never ever compare. There could never be anyone else that could make me so fearless. 

To the point of recklessness. How vulnerable I was. I was wide open for when you hit me when it hurt most. I never expected to be burnt by you at all.

6 months later, I still... burn. Thinking about you. 

Is it anger? 

No. 

Is it thirst? 

No. 

Is it regret?

If only... I had you for longer. Maybe I could have convinced you to stay.

Then it must be anger?

Yes. How could anyone leave me the way you did? Like it was easy. 

To fall for you the way I did. Like it was easy. 

Because it fucking was

distracting how when I meet anyone else, like I have in the past 6 months, and wonder if I'd feel even a third of what I felt with you. 

Just a third, would do. 

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Another break up poem! Gosh, my love life on my blog is only represented in its after glory.

This blog post was actually inspired by a different guy in mid-December. It was going to start like this, 

"'it's distracting,' he said, if his car smells like me

and now he has to drive home through the storm, alone like a littler man."

That guy, let's call him D. 

But then, New Years Day came along, and I met J. And it was history. So now, this poem became completely J's poem. 

J is... another person who haunts me. Wildly, even half a year later. How dare he? 

But other than that, I promise I'm okay haha. I'm good bean. :)

Episode 88: "You're On Your Own Kid, You Always Have Been" - TS

I'm in someone else's living room. A friend's. Elise's. Its beautifully decorated couches greet my eyes. The coziness of this place brings me so much joy. Last night's movie, Persuasion, was the loveliest movie. How much yearning Anne had for Wentworth. How much agony he had for her. I cried. 

Elise and I still thought about it long after.

When was the last time I was in Wesley House's living room? When was the last time I was in Haven's? And I didn't know it? 

There have been too many lasts this past week. 

Tomorrow, Sunday, May 28th marks my one-week-a-versary since my graduation. 

I don't think I've properly sat somewhere and cried yet. 

I don't think I've properly sat anywhere within myself to take it in, accept my new reality as the graduate. 

I'm a graduate. An alumni. 

I'm scared. But I mean, my reality is much better than the survival my parents fought for every day to make it in Vietnam and the U.S. I'm literally traveling around NYC right now. And planning a trip to Colombia with friends. Returning home tomorrow, finally. This whole thing of being on my own and taking care of myself is coming to an end for now. I'm scared, but it's only because of a luxury that I, not my parents, can afford. 

I'm scared of possibility, not survival. 

I am unemployed. I am part of the transition group of people. 

Mom and Dad call me every day to make sure I'm okay. I may be a graduate but I'm someone else's baby.

My friends ask how I am. My little sister updates her friendship plans. 

My salsa and bachata weekend plans with Achillea and Merna. Movie nights and lunch dates with Neha. Friendship cuddles and hanging out with Ivanna. Restaurant visits and cafe dates with Manal. Rolled ice cream dates and long walks with Phuong. Working my shifts with Achillea, Merna. Welp. Running into my boss in my opening shifts. Running into everyone ever on campus and being someone's "hello" and "I'll catch you later."

I give the longest hugs but I wish I hugged everyone longer. My all. I wish there was a return button. 

There is a flurry of memory. Of people who loved me. And I loved. I was never ready to leave. I was only ready to love.

Timoteo and Celia said it gets better after college. You're free to be who you really are.

Free of homework. Financial independence. Write.

But will I ever have that again? To live so close to friends?

I don't know how or where I am, even as I travel in space and time and meet new people everywhere, but I only know that the plane home is alone. 

I only know that the possibility I had worked so hard for these past 4 years was for myself. I only know that the surest thing is the end. The goodbye or maybe-see-you-again after I hug you. 

Were we always made to be alone again?

I'm usually the optimist. I swear I still am. 

Just, this pain, this hurt from the goodbyes over and over again, this change that I am reluctant to accept, will I always board ships of no return?

18-year-old-me could never imagine when mom and yen dropped me off at Cutter Ziskind with my bags and Cuddles, my sleeping bunny, that I would grow so attached. That Chi Xuan's words, as the gray Northampton sky touched all the windows of the Japanese restaurant, were true: these would be the happiest years.

I didn't believe it. Northampton, this tiny ass town with little to do?

The same town I'd dance bachata every other weekend.

Happiest years of my life?

Friends that gripped for my hands back. "Stay", I said in my heart. One arm wrapped around you. The other hand still holding on my new black diploma cover, the one I gave a heart to the camera and a twirl for: "DieuNgoc Khoa Nguyen."

Where was I the night of March 10th?

In Chapin House, waltzing with Neha. Her perfect curvy shape against my hand, allowing me to lead through every step. We had so much fun, we couldn't stop. We danced to songs I'd probably have at my wedding. 

At a Smith basketball game. In my pre-clubbing outfit. White on white and surprisingly, those were Smith's colors that night. Morgan, the top athlete of the year, looked riveting on the court. My eyes followed every speed and grace. The players were the monks and the court was religion. The ball, a mantra. And my favorite, #5, she made me scream so loud, dunking it every shot. My voice was sore.

At Amherst's Monkey Bar. The only one of two on the dance floor. The dance floor looks crazier and crazier with less and less people. A woman, a stranger felt my butt. She took too much. Mariem stayed at the bar, drinking an alcoholic drink more sweet than it was holic, while Achillea requested for Bad Bunny to be played. We were the only 2 on the dance floor anyways. I kept re-sticking in my ear plugs and pulling them out and re-sticking them. A man tried to dance with me. His moves sucked.

In Antonio's pizza. I left ordering nothing. Should've. Saw Kobe, an old writing mate. I was a singular girl again amongst a sea of 5'6+ white men. Such an alpha female move to be in line and order nothing. 

We made it on the bus, not before belting "A Whole New World" like we our hearts were whole.

I think about that night a lot.

an email I wrote to organizers and future student leaders of the Jar Project at my college

*below is an email I wrote about a jar project that had angered me for so many reasons. I finished writing it yesterday at 4 pm after 3 hours of perfecting it. when it comes to race and community and dialogue, I deeply care about those kinds of discussions. when activism is done in a way that hurts the community more than it was before, that's when I get angry. especially when such discussions were entrusted to student leaders that promised to represent me, voices like mine were overlooked. left out.

activism should be as healing as it is forceful. hurt does not fight hurt. i hope that my email below introduces ideas that future student leaders at my college would consider when thinking about the impact they're making on our small, liberal, bubble-like campus. 

i say a lot when i'm angry.

hope you'll enjoy the tea below ;)

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4.22.23.

Hello, 

My name is DieuNgoc Nguyen, a current Smith college senior and here have been my consistent thoughts of the late jar project and the impact of the Student Power Coalition thus far from it. 

I understand Leela has stepped down as president, but from word of mouth, I heard that Leela was also a part of the Jar Project's organizing so I have included Leela in this email as well. 

**And to Tamra or the SGA Office, if I can have your help in forwarding my email here to future candidates of SGA, that would be very helpful. Much of the future of race relations on campus is in their hands. 

I may be a senior with just one month left. I've never been a part of SGA. I've only viewed it from afar and occasionally filled out surveys at SGA tables at most. So yes, I'm not very involved on campus in government, but I deeply care about the Smith community and the conversations we have around race. I was the lead organizer of a past event centering Anti-Asian Hate amidst the pandemic, so race discussions are something I am at least familiar with.

This email is for the Student Power Coalition, nestled within SGA. And to SGA as well. To future SGA candidates. And to the leaders who approved of the Jar Project.

I admire your goals and values to make smith a more equitable place. I am a first-gen, low-income student myself. I also worked the opening campus center shift that saw the additions of obscure quotes from confessional and two white sheets of paper with the words "WHITE RAGE" at the center of it all. Of course I was curious, so I got really close to the new changes of the wall of hats and read each confessional quote taped to the exhibition. Confessional is an anonymous space. I looked back at the title again. "White Rage." With no context given, I understood that the new wall art was supposed to highlight how all these obscure quotes must be about something race-related. I remember how that morning there was a lot of talk about what these White Rage posters were about. Again, such little context. Just, words claiming something that held a lot of weight but had no context. 

It absolutely felt like fear-mongering, for the zero context it had. Different quotes on different doors. Students of color in my friendship circles would speculate for days that different confessional quotes were on different houses based on whether or not that Smith house had majority POC or not. Whatever it was, it felt as if whoever put those quotes up had information about the inhabitants of that house. Of course, upon further speculation, I realized all these quotes were criticisms of the Jar Project. 

However, very few people I knew could make this connection. It felt as if I was the only one who knew, so I found myself explaining this connection to many of my friends of color who were alarmed by this on their doors, and friends who were white who were also alarmed by this. 

So I asked myself, "what the heck is going on? How are anonymous quotes criticizing the jar project automatically under white rage? It makes me white to criticize the jar project?" SPC is a committee under SGA. SGA is supposed to represent my voice, and as someone who works the night shift too at the CC, I haven't been able to share my thoughts yet. So here they are.

So far, the actions and approach of the Jar Project in its pursuit of equity and inclusion, I feel does not represent my values. Neither does it include me. I don't know how you folks gathered input from the community to go forth with a project that you thought helpful to the community, but certainly not from folks that have my values when approaching activism. I'm going to assume you folks found input and validation amongst yourselves. That's fine and all except, you're a subcommittee under SGA. Again, the role of which is to consider my concerns and find a way to reach out to me. Neither of this was tended to. So I'm going to assume the BIPOC, first generation, low income demographic that your circles work within does not include a Vietnamese American first generation, low income student as myself. 

You might disagree with me and the way I approach activism on campus, but I don't think you're creating a healthy environment for future, long term, truly long term, community discussions and ownership about race and equity. I understand the intention of the jar project is to give students who've experienced racial discrimination from a big act to a micro aggression to be honest to their "perpetrator" who must qualify as a white person. Perhaps that really is how you view racism. But see, that does two things. (1) it makes the situation very black and white. Racism doesn't just source from white folks, which is the hallmark of your project. There's many types of racism. Racism even between communities of color which is rarely talked about. Racism based on motherland politics. (1.5) With just a jar expressing feelings, there's no next steps. For such an ambitious project that required tapping into one's innermost pain, there was very little guidance. No next steps to heal.  Simply air your thoughts. But what about the possible retaliation later? And considering the other side receiving the jar, it would feel like a witch hunt. So now, individuals just need to learn to better hide their biases, in broad daylight, but hiding is not productive in race discussions. 

(2) looking at the long term consequences of your impact so far, you're making a community where it will only be more difficult to talk about race, not without a fear of stepping on toes or making indelible mistakes. Again, with no next steps, the receivers might do well by saying sorry, but what's exactly happening? What's the outcome that you truly wanted to achieve? Because certainly, individual healing is not achieved, not when neither party knows what to do after sending a jar. And certainly, community healing is not achieved, if the organizers of this project have unintentionally or intentionally created a culture that will only ever be anxious and fearful when discussing race in public spaces. And that limits the quality of future race conversations on campus, especially between non-POC and POC folks. 

And it is exactly race conversations between non-POC and POC folks that we need to increase both the quantity and quality of. But SPC's impact might very well limit both, if not just the quality.

It's important at Smith that we continue talking about race. So the values of your work are critical for that. However, to me, for the conversations around race to be truly thriving, truly alive, truly fearless, we need to approach it in a way that allows the people of Smith College to know that there is room to make mistakes together and to adapt and grow together, at the individual level. At the systemic level, where there is profound institutional racism, the phone line is open. That it's actually a dialogue. Actually a conversation. Involving everyone. That we are not just talking to a wall and that we ourselves are also not a wall. 

So perhaps this issue, you can deal with as SPC within SGA and forever be limited by not representing enough voices like mine. Or you can make your own club that best represents your own interests. But I hope you'll consider my points when creating your impact. That you truly leave this space better than when you came into it. 

That it's not about setting up a space that feels like fear-mongering to get to your goals (like waiting for a jar to get to your door or waiting for the retaliation you might receive after sending your jar to a person that knows it's probably you or reading context-less posters with words that inspire fear and trepidation). There are other ways to reach justice. There are other ways for dialogue. 

For making everyone included in your activism. 

It is forever a lonely uphill battle if you cannot even identify your own allies or inspire fear in the communities you promised to serve.

For many reasons (like safety of the students, I'm going to assume important housing information and details landed in your hands to deliver the jars) that even I didn't get to discuss so far, I fear that your jar project, which started from a very important space, has left our community with more cuts than you went into it. 

And it has angered me so. Thank you for reading. Happy to discuss and learn more.

Thank you.