"Self-portrait"

I am excited for school. Yep, it sounds strange, but knowing that I have only 8 more months til graduation makes me happy :-) School just started and my desk is full of books and papers already. Well it's what I get for taking 7 classes in my senior year haha. But I can do it! Anyways, one of my homework is taking 3 "self-portrait" pictures. "Self-portrait" is in quotation because I cannot have my face in the pictures, but the objects that represent my personality. Uhm I have never approached photography because I don't have that kind of artsy sense which can recognize or read the soul behind the objects haha. I think photographers are amazing artists... Even though I do painting and drawing, the way I perceive art is different from photography. Anyways, with my crappy digital camera (I am just thrilled to know that my school is lending us those professional "bulky" camera soon hehe!), I walked around my apartment and took 3 close-up shots of those objects which I thought to be a good representation for my personality.

A stack of textbooks - hardworking?

Uhm no, it does not mean I'm a nerd. I wish I was one though. Why books? Well, when I was in high school, which was a life-turning-point for kids in Vietnam, I screwed up. While other kids spent all their time studying in order to get into the best universities, I just ran around and caused troubles. I think it was in senior year when mom wrote me a letter. Sway from the main topic for a bit, but writing letters has been a tradition among my mom, little sister, and me. There was always something we could not express in person, and letters had become the best communication tool of us. Words were poured onto that thin piece of paper and that was how we set our problems straight. I love it. Anyways, back to mom's letter before I left home for college in the States..

"Dear my daughter,

[...]Your grandpa passed away when I was 6 and grandma alone raised three of her kids up. People looked down on us because of what we wore and ate. It broke my heart to see grandma work so hard, yet barely fed three hungry mouths, and she had to bear with the cruel judgement of society. I could not do anything, but studied hard to make her happy. I am where I am now is because of education. Thi, education is important. In our family, the only way to stand up is education...[...]"

Well, I grew up experiencing with some unhappy moments of that unfairness happening in our own family, but the young selfish me just wanted to ignore the matter. Even though mom had been telling about the story, it just went from this ear to another one. But that letter, blurry texts from her tears, hit me hard. That's why I am working very hard in college. It is not only because of me but also my loved ones who have always been proud and supportive.

Art supply - artsy?

I love art. A lot. Very. Freaking. Much. But I wasn't supported to major in art. Even high school cut the art program out. I keep it as a hobby though. It's something I can sit all day and bury myself in colors (sadly my schedule is a jealous b*tch). Anyways, it's just my stress outlet:-)

Sticker note - ambivert?

My sister and I are going through a tough time. One night she came home, burst into tears, and that was when I felt so powerless. I have always thought I have my life in control, yet the fact that I couldn't protect my little sister from inevitable broken heart made me feel weak. We were raised to believe that actions were stronger than words, so we barely expressed our love verbally. We learned the way to feel and perceive love from what others do for us, not what they say to us. I did not know what to do at that time and I had to leave early in the morning, so I left a sticker note on her laptop. Days later, it was still there, so I asked her why she didn't throw it away. "Well," she said, "it is nice to have some evidence of your love once in awhile, isn't it?" That melted my heart :-)

Okay, enough of random things :-) At least I just dusted my blog haha.

Kids being kids

Just something to brush off the dust on my blog... I have stayed with different families for some years and they all have kids in the house. Kids are fun. They get on my nerves sometimes, but most of the time, you get to have someone to laugh at. Hehe. Anyways, I got off work early today and my artsy need kicked in. Too lazy to get my pencil color from the bottom of my suitcase, so I did some quick sketches in Photoshop :-) They are just a few silly moments of the kids I used to babysit. Enjoy :-)

On writing...

I have to admit that I like writing. A lot. I don't know what has happened to me. When I was young, I could write whatever I want just in a flash. Now, I just stare at my laptop screen for hours and all I can think of is some sentences. Sometimes, I want to write something beautiful and sophisticating, yet I end up scribble something a kindergarten kid can come up with. Sigh. So, to figure out what is wrong with my wild child's imagination, I had an assembly with my brain. Well, it was a frustrating meeting with her...

Me: Okay brain, I have an idea. My life is fantastic! Let's write something to show my appreciation to everyone who makes it better. Something nice and philosophically...uhm...some life lessons...You know? Make it beautiful! Make it sparkle! So everyone knows I can write?

Brain: Hmm okay...How about "I love banana?"

Me: No, no, no, not about food! Well, if you don't want to write about philosophy, let's write about my loved ones, okay? About my beautiful childhood? What shapes me into who I am today? How about that? Those sound spectacular, don't them?

Brain: Ohh, I get it! I fart rainbow!

Me: Are you kidding me, brain? Can you just work with me once? Fine, I go to bed. Bed sounds better than you. Zz Zz Zz....Hmm so comfortable...

Brain: Hey, wake up, lazy butt! The world is waiting for you out there! The birds are chirping over the rainbow and they want you to depict the beauty of the nature. Get your butt off the bed and start writing! Life is fantastic and you cannot waste it by sleeping, idiot! I can see sparkling fairy flying. I can see flowers flowing. I can see stars twinkling. Come on!

Me: Oh gosh...Why?

So...that is the story why I have not had any decent posts on my blog...

Why don't I believe in Santa Claus any more?

           I know it is not Christmas season, but somehow my friend and I ended up talking about whether Santa Claus was real or not. And I guess July always reminded me about Christmas because four years ago when I was in Boston, I accidentally wore a shirt saying Holiday Seasons and on that day, the Boston radio played Christmas songs in July. Well, everything about Boston is always special to me. Okay, so why don't I believe in Santa. When I was young, I used to look forward to presents from Santa Claus on Christmas. I used to write him letters every year. I used to look up at the sky to find a glimpse of snow sleigh with a fat jolly man in it. Just like other kids, I did believe in Santa. Then what happened?

            When I was in third grade, I saw an ad about meeting Santa Claus. I came home and insisted on meeting Santa Claus. Little did I know that my parents had to pay for that "service." Well my wish was granted and I got to see Santa! I waited and waited. My mind filled with all the imaginations a child could have with Santa. I imagined him coming to my house in a snow sleigh even though it never snowed in Vietnam. I imagined to touch his white hair and give him a kiss on his red cheek. I imagined he would run his fingers through my hair and give me my present. No. None of those things happened. What happened was just like holding a mirror and smashing it on the floor. All my images about Santa was blown away in a second. Well, the "Santa" came, but he was not on a snow sleigh. He was on a motorbike! Oh, oh, and he was skinny! Oh, oh, and he was an Asian guy wearing a fake beard. Oh, oh, and he gave me cookies instead of what I want! It was a very awkward silence talking to him because my young mind had figured out that he was not the real Santa... And the worst part was my parent had to pay for him! Sigh. That was it. But when I have kids, I'll still tell them that Santa is real because well, I don't know. The kids deserve a childhood filled with fairy tales I guess. 

      

Uhm this is not my Santa...

Mom's punishment

My mother, just like most Vietnamese mothers, punished her children with spanking. She "ordered" my dad, who was a carpenter, a nice wooden stick just for punishing us only. That "sacred" stick had a nice and distinguish position in our living room and it was like a dead scary devil who kept staring at my sister and me whenever we were in trouble. My dad, even though he was the one who made the stick, never used it. He was actually the guardian who we ran to when mom reached for the stick because he would stop her. The stick was used regularly when I was in elementary school. I grew taller than mom during my middle school years and I was thrilled with that "advantage" because I could easily take the stick from her and run away, just like a golden retriever grabbed the ball and never wanted to give the ball back. And that was how I got away with punishment in middle school.

High school years came, and mom did not have to use the stick much. It was not because we behaved better. It was just we were smart enough not to let her know we screwed up. I was quite a troublemaker in high school, but I was so good at covering my bad doings at home (shh don't tell my mom). One day, mom found out about my habit of skipping classes. Oh. Gosh. She was devastated. She was a teacher and never could she allow a student skip her class; now her own precious daughter, who she thought to be a good student, dug school all the time. I came home that day thinking about all the excuses I could make to get away with this. How horrified I was when I saw mom standing at the door with the stick in her hand. Mom started walking toward me and I started running. I ran upstairs real fast to hide and I thought, at the moment, a ninja could not beat me in running. Mom did not say anything. I could not find anywhere to hide, so I turned around and got ready to take the stick away, just like what I had done in my middle school years. Her eyes were wet and red. She lifted her arm. I closed my eyes... "Whoosh" I heard the sound of the stick hitting on the skin surface, but it was not on me. It was mom hitting herself. Mom cried, "I am..a... bad mom... I don't..hic... know how...to raise...my own...child..." Nothing. Nothing. Nothing could ever describe how shocked and scared I was. I burst into tears. I cried out loud and ran to hold her. My mom was so small; I held her tight in my arms. "Ma, I'm sorry, ma...I'm sorry, ma..."

It was effective. I did not get in trouble any more after that incident... It has been three years since I left home. No one could ever spank me with a stick. I am on my own and I am responsible for myself. Oh, I want to call mom and cry like a baby, but that would freak her out. Yeah, all moms are the same, always worry...I guess this is why I keep a digital journal to myself haha.