“Your father gave this to me. He got it in France.” She took a whiff of the open case and smiled slightly. “I should throw it in his face, the son of a bitch.”  Her smile vanished, replaced with a grimace.  Still, she handed the box to me and told me to put it in her room for safe keeping.

After twenty-seven years of semi-blissful marriage, my parents were finally separating.  It had been a long time coming.

I had driven 500 miles home to help my mother move.  My aunt and uncle had offered their place. They were very welcoming and understanding of my mother’s circumstances.  I knew they were relieved that they could finally spew out all the shit they had been holding in about my father. He was not a well-liked man on my mother’s side of the family, or really, in most circles.

He’s the kind of guy that viewed the world through a very narrow spectrum.  Never mind his way being the “right” way.  His way was the only way.

I used to think he was just misunderstood, that people just didn’t get him the way I did.  And maybe for a period of time that was true, but then something happened.  Slowly, but surely, he became what I can only describe as a curmudgeon. A word I never fathomed using until this period of my life.

My father seemed to have lost sight of the rest of the world around him and became so socially awkward that I couldn’t bear going out into public with him. Strangers aggravated him to no end, and no matter what they did, whether it be walking too slow, or driving too fast, he would find a reason to cuss them out.

All of this was dismissible, at first.  Things that can be overlooked because your father is still your father.  But then one day, while talking to me, he severely damaged my piety to him.

He was telling me how I needed to take over managing the family’s finances, because, and I quote: “your mother is stupid.”  I think he meant for it to be a compliment to me. I should have felt honored that he would want to give me such responsibility.  But I only felt the harsh reality of my father’s real persona coming into light.  He was mean and everyone else had seen it before I did.  I felt, well, stupid.

“Mom, why do you have so many of these?” I held up a box of multi-colored scrunches. “Also, you should never wear these in public.”

“Why? What’s wrong? They hold up my hair.” She took the box from me and shuffled around some more bathroom essentials to make room for them. “Besies, I like them. They remind me of you.”

“How? Why?”

“You used to wear them all the time. You always wanted to wear the same color as me.”

My dear mother. She had a habit of clinging to images of me as a child so tightly that it was difficult to breathe sometimes, for fear that the way I inhaled and exhaled would be too unrecognizable by my mother’s standards. I must have been the perfect kid, because my mother won’t let me forget what I used to be like.

“How’s work?” My mother’s voice echoed down the hallway as I stood in her new bedroom.

I hesitated to answer, pretending that I just couldn’t hear her. It was such a simple question, but I only had a handful of lies with which to answer. The truth had escaped me, because I hadn’t yet faced up to it.

Besides, how does one talk about sexual exploits, that may have gotten one fired from their job, to their parents?

Yours Truly,

v

Truth is sometimes not all mothers are wonderful, even if they are our mothers. There’s a lot to be grateful for, sure. There’s something in motherhood that one just can’t understand until you are one, and I get that. But the frustrations, and the disappointments, those are legitimate also. The negative feelings are just as important as the soft, warm, squishy ones we hope for.

Because, in the end, mothers are humans also. Faulty, faulty humans. Sure they possess the capability to be our superheroes, but that doesn’t mean all of them know how to tap into that power.

When I finally told myself, I mean really tell myself, that my mother was human. That’s when I also realized that I needed to communicate with her the same way I do with anyone else I’m ever frustrated with. I think we hold these expectations, as they probably do with us, and we forget sometimes that mothers and daughters are also person A and person B.

Anyway, I’m rambling. More importantly, I like that you’re doing Creative Non-fiction. I think there’s nothing more interesting than true life stories. And it seems you’ve got a lot to tell. Thank you for sharing.

I read in your little bio thing that you’ve been writing in paper notebooks since you were seven. I’m impressed. I used to write in paper ones also. Those were the days. Now look at us. Online Writers Workshop. The new frontier.

Glad you’re on board with us.

-v

I don’t even know where to begin. With what to begin. When. How.

It seems like an endless roundabout with you. Most days we are driving along seamlessly. Mother and daughter. A bond that can’t be compared to any other two entities. I know you and you know me. It is love in the greatest depths that word holds.

And then, there are nights your relentless phone calls and text messages lead me to believe that you still have absolutely no idea what my life is like, or how I live it.

And I’m not even really sure what it is that makes me so angry about your concerns for my well-being. I should just shut up and be grateful, but deargodalmighty! does it make my teeth clench and my fists shake.

I think there’s just this part of me that wants you to get it. I just want you to get it. You know what I mean? I want you to understand why it is more necessary to have a social life than it is to get to bed at a reasonable hour, (which for you means 9p even though you’ll call me at 11p), because I’m not just gallivanting around aimlessly. I’m connecting with people. I’m creating with people. And I get to bed. And I get to work. And for twenty-six years I have never faltered as a daughter. And for the eight years that I have lived in Los Angeles I’ve never gotten myself into some crazy heap of trouble you had to bail me out of. I’ve never made “terrible” decisions. My record is so clean you could eat off it.

Still, you are a mother. You have to worry, that’s your job, so you tell me. But is it? Because sometimes I get so frustrated that you give yourself that sole job that I want to scream at you to expand! EXPAND! Try something else. Try being the mom that just wants to connect with who I am at this juncture in my life, instead of constantly reminiscing about the child who used to cling to you so much. Try being the mom that wants to go on adventures with her kids, instead of telling them no when you know it’s futile.

Anyway, I’m venting. That’s futile also. We are both too stubborn to really give more than we feel comfortable with. You’ll continue to remind me to do things like brush my teeth and eat, and I’ll continue to be annoyed but allow it.

This is us. Mother and daughter. The greatest of loves.

-v

Anyway, aside from that, I must say that I really appreciate that mostly all your writing that I’ve read has involved characters that are Filipino. And it’s not stated, and it’s not the subject matter, it’s just ingrained into the story and in the characters. It’s the way I like writing also.

They say to write what you know, and often times I feel like that just refers to subject matters, content, but for me it also means the background of which the characters come from. I don’t really feel like writing an Asian American story that has to start in Asia, just so I can explain how my characters live, just so people will get it. No. I shouldn’t have to. They should just be. And if you don’t know what “bangus” is, then look it up. Because that’s what I did.

Anyway, I appreciate that. I appreciate you and your writing. I like the stories you tell. I also like you, as a person. I know we don’t know each other that well, but we’re around the same people, the same areas. And it’s nice that our paths cross this way.

I hope that you keep writing. It’s important that what you have to say gets out there. Really.

I’ll be reading. And I’ll see you around.

-v

This is something part fantasy, part reality.

I want to let you know that there is a period of time between now and then that is going to feel like the darkest place you’ve ever been. It’s going to feel very lonely. And it’s going to feel like it’s never going to end. I want to let you know that it will only feel like a long ride, but it is actually very short. In comparison to how much more time you’re going to have as soon as you exit this period.

Because after you exit from this depressing ride, you’re going to move a thousand miles a minute. You’re going to be traveling so fast that you’ll wish you could slow down but you can’t, because that’s how life and time work when you’re having  fun.

I want to let you know that you’re not alone. I’ve driven through this tunnel before and every time it feels dark and damp and cold and drafty and you’re wondering why this tunnel is even here in the first place. Why you couldn’t just take the long way around. It’s harder to go through it, that’s why. And that’s what will make you a better driver. A better traveler. A better lover.

Just better.

Trust me.

Yours,
v

We don’t know each other. At all. So, this letter will consist entirely of assumptions. And random trains of thoughts, because what better way to get to know each other for me to be candid with you.

With that, I want to say that I hope you have given up on the workshop. I understand that life can get busy sometimes. It’s life. We value the present much more than the idle time it feels like it takes to sit and write. Believe me. Whenever I miss a letter I’m telling myself, “but hey! I’m hanging out with my friends. I can’t write now!”

But the next day, I always regret it. It’s like not feeding a pet, or not watering a plant when it starts to dry up and brown. It’s almost like a responsibility, to write. But it’s only a responsibility because we obviously have stories to tell that need to be told.

You have words, “Kyle’s Words” that deserve to be recognized. Going off just from the darkness of your first few pieces, it makes me curious as to the kind of person you are. Are you usually happy or serious? Are these stories based off real events? Do you aspire to be a writer? Do you like fireworks?

Anyway, I hope you keep writing, because believe it or not, I’m reading. Imagine me breathing over your shoulder while you’re hunched over your computer. And I’m eating shrimp chips very slowly, so the crunch is extra emphasized. And saying things like, “Hey, I like that.” How’s that for inspiration? Just kidding.

I’m just interested in what else comes out of that mind of yours.

Keep it real.

-v

When I read them, I immediately connect with the writing in them and the imagery. It brings about the strangest feeling that I’ve read this stuff before. Which really means, I’ve felt these things before and you’ve extracted all these feelings and put them into drawings. How?? Why?? When??

It’s very fortunate that we’ve come into each other’s lives, I feel anyway. It’s funny how it didn’t happen sooner, with us both knowing one Mr. Mike Fu. But it makes total sense that that’s how we’re connected.

I think we are both drawn to people with whimsical thoughts, because we have whimsical thoughts. I’m going off the assumption that you are a romantic, just like me. Maybe not in the typical sense where we write/draw roses and hearts, no…definitely not like that. But in the sense that we believe that simple things can represent great amounts of love.

This is why I have faith in our project. Why I don’t mind the pace at which we are going with it. Because it is in our patience that the work will result in greatness. I did not mean for that sentence to rhyme.

Anyway, you have inspired me a great deal, my friend. And you have honored me by putting my words into visuals, and allowing me to see these scenes come to life.

Thank you for that. I can’t wait to continue on our journey together.

Fondly,
v

I have this slight, silly, fear that some day I’m going to just lose it. I’m just going to go completely insane and retract into all the worlds I’ve created on the page, and sputter and spin and walk in circles repeating the same phrase over and over until someone else notices how brilliant it is. I have no idea where this fear stems from. It’s not grounded in any kind of logic. There is no pattern of mental illness in my family. And I’m such a logical person that sometimes it doesn’t make sense that I write in the creative genre. Still, it’s there. And for whatever reason, I let it sit there in the corner of my most inner thoughts.

And why? Because I also secretly believe that if I ever do go mad, when I’m right on the cusp of that phase in my life, that’s when I will write my best stuff. Because I will be free from the constraints of logical thought that tells us what we’re writing needs to make sense. It needs to translate well to our audience, we need to be able to communicate things clearly.

But what if you wrote for yourself, to yourself, without regard for format or reason? I wonder what that would turn out like.

Anyway, what am I trying to say to you? I think it’s that I believe you should fully embrace your paranoia and write and/or paint as though you have to get all the ideas out or they’ll make you go crazy. Just let it all burst forth, with great conviction!

You are a very talented individual. You should trust that what you create is going to enhance the beauty in this world. Because it has for me.

Till our next meeting.

-v

I appreciate you, good sir. I appreciate how passionate you are about being a teacher, and how, even when not standing in front of a classroom, you can’t help but exude…being a teacher.

It’s a wonderful thing, really. Your constant words of encouragement to practically everyone and anyone are the kinds of things we need in this world. Your energy, really, is what we need in this world.

I enjoy existing in this space with you. As writers that are dreamers. As dreamers that are writers.

On another note, I notice that when you read your pieces to an audience, you sometimes prompt them with the fact that you mainly write for the page. I just wanted to let you know, that your pieces work very well off the page. They leap, in bounds, due to your voice. You read very powerfully, and your pieces are captivating.

I don’t think there’s any need, at all, to say that bit. But that’s just me.

Until we meet again.

-v