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. :)

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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. :)

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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.