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.

Where Do All My Hairs Go?

[Read this post to this music: I'll Be Home for Christmas Except It's April 2023]

I blew some wittle strands off my laptop.

It seems I only ever get onto this blog to write anything about my life when I'm in crisis. 

Homework crisis. I don't know what I don't know again. 

I sit still under the rain. When the rain leaves me drenched, I sit still under the sun. A leaf floats from a nearby tree and lands on the spot between my eyebrows, because I'm soaking up the sun that's suddenly arrived all week.

Perhaps there's a pair of sweatpants headed my way. A leash in their hands. The sweatpants pass me by. The dog turns around, eyes searching for any familiarity in me. Its paws continue skipping ahead. I'm not even a friend. Maybe one day I am. 

My own hands are holding onto a fine pen and small notebook, the size of my palm. So small, it's only meant for memorable quotes said by friends at most. Or doodles of whales circling moons at its least.

A notification that my 4 new phone cases from Shein have arrived make my phone chirp. Each case is decorated with images I've probably already dreamed of before but never thought to make a business idea out of. If only I had that entrepreneur mindset along with my econ degree. And thank god I only dream shit. Not draw them too. I'd be unstoppable.

There's a laugh across the street I could recognize anywhere. A part of me longs to be where that laugh is, but maybe we're no longer close enough for me to suddenly reach out. My hands search for the next thing to write.

Ah. Another list. 

A small notebook of lists. Always and always about things I haven't done yet. And not the things I've already done.

The very tips of my hairs come into perspective as I focus on the page on that small notebook in my lap. 

Split ends. Almost everywhere if I look hard enough. Split ends where there are none. I pull softly on a small bunch of them and again and always, a hair already free from my head and only waiting for another force to let it go, separates itself from all the other hairs already stuck on my head. 

That hair slides along the other hairs. Goodbyes. To everybody. 

I pull it all the way out and examine the entirety of its thinness. Its length. Not delicate at all. 

I rub it one way. And then the other way. I pinch it between my fingers. 

Then another hair already on my lap, perhaps from a while ago, comes into perspective. I really do stress shed. Maybe that dog from earlier saw it before I did and was wondering why I didn't put my loose hairs back on my head. 

But what's left is left. 

With two strands in my hands. And a pen. And a notebook on my lap. 

I can only hold onto so much. My hands are wittle after all. Good for making comparisons of "ohmigod your hands are so bigggg compared to mine" with hands of single men who have promised me from head to toe that they are single and are absolutely not in open relationships and who managed to actually make me blush. 

My little sister would suggest maybe to wait for the next biggest wind. 

"Then you let it go." 

Fucking wise-woman shit. 

So I wait for a wind that never comes. Not for the next 14 minutes. 

While I wait, my lips wish for a sweetness. Like Dr. Pepper. Rock sugar and artichoke juice. 

I remember the days when I used to wait all the damn day to get home. Autumns that felt like summers. Spring that felt like summers. Some lucky afternoons after school, my grandma would have it already made: rock sugar and artichoke juice. "Now we add the ice. You can't just drink it the moment you get home. Wash those hands."

I gulp it anyways. Straight from the jug. 

Fucking wise-woman shit. 

"Come here boy. Tch, tch. No more sniffing. We gotta go. Come on." Sweatpants sweats past my thoughts. I'm trying to remember my grandma right now, come on. 

Yes, she's still alive. No, I haven't called her in 2 weeks.

I wonder if sweatpants ever had the opportune to chance on such a wicked combination. Rock sugar and artichoke juice and ice. The dog turns and looks at me again. A bit more recognition this time. 

Yes, I've seen you before. 

A wind should pick up by now. Blowing all these poor strands that took a while to grow on my head, away from me. The wind will carry the strands to the patch of grass the dog wanted to sniff earlier. 

Maybe if the dog passed that grass a third time. And my strands were there. Maybe the perfume I wore today, painting those strands, would be something to recognize, if we ever meet again. 

Episode 87: Uncertainty

I am brimming in it. 

What am I going to do with my life?

Questions I've avoided answering are hitting me in every direction. 

I am a floating piece of bright purple tissue paper. But unlike something that floats and goes with the wind, I am more like a paralyzed rock. 

I am not moving because I don't know how to write and talk about myself. I'm unsure if I'll bring real value to any space. Sure, I do it here on this blog. Sure, I do it when I force myself in my classes. But... there's real urgency now. A start of a career. What am I to do after I leave college? 

My social life. My life life? 

Like a strike of lightning, I wish I had the answers. 

I wish I was more comfortable clarifying my life path earlier. I wish I weren't so paralyzed. Feeling so useless. So unfit. So weak. 

So dang small. 

A part of me is just tired of fighting for myself. 

The life after Smith is a life full of self-advocacy. Self self self. How alone alone. 

I am scared. Less scared of uncertainty than I used to be. But heck, I truly have no idea what to do next. No fucking clue. 

How 22 of me. Heh.