Clarisse Liclic

“Suburbia, Immigration, and Tangled Thoughts: A Collection of Creative Essays”

Table of Contents
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Self Evaluation Page 3

Why I Write Page 4

Literature Then, Literature Now Page 7

No Flour Means No Bread, Right? Page

10

What I Wish I Could Tell You: After Ryan Van Meter’s “If I Knew
Then What I Knew Now” Page
12
To Do List Page 15

Street Cats Page 18

Can You Hear Us Now? Page 22

Lift the Curtains Page 25

The Five Stages of Grief Page 29

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Self Evaluation

It was difficult to internally check myself in the beginning of this course and ask myself what
exactly I should be putting forth if I was unsure of what to expect in the first place. However,
given the first few classes and weeks of the course, the rhythm in which I should be working
slowly began to make much more sense. Unlike most of the other individuals in the class, I knew
I was taking this course in different circumstances. This doesn’t mean that I want to spend my
evaluation comparing my efforts to that of other classmates, but one thing that was imperative
for me to understand was that I had taken on the responsibility of an Independent Study in a
genre I had no real background in.
As we spent the semester analyzing and discussing a variety of creative nonfiction essays, I knew
my goals went beyond simply exposing myself to new written works. I assume a good majority
of the rest of the class had similar goals, somewhere along the lines of improving their technical
writing skills. I find this important and it certainly is a part of my overall goal. However, as the
semester went on, and my collection of weekly responses grew from one to two to three and so
on, I realized that my goal through this independent study was more than wanting to be a good
writer. Like the writers we spent time with throughout the semester, I wanted my writing to be
real. I wanted my creative responses, all of which were either structurally or contextually
inspired by the essays we read, to matter to me. My primary goal with this portfolio was to find a
way to develop my own collection of essays that were about my own nonfictional reality in
creative ways.
Did I achieve that goal? The hopeful part of me likes to think so. Prior to this class, I almost
never allowed myself to creatively write for any academic class. I just didn’t have much
opportunity to do so. As much as I want a dynamic portfolio with excellent writing, I do have to
hold myself to a standard that of a novice creative writer. That being said, did I exceed those
expectations of myself? I’d like to say so. I can satisfyingly say I exhausted myself – within
reason – this semester with cultivating creatively written work one after another, a feat I had not
accomplished before this course.
Mentioned earlier, I had not been immersed in the genre of creative nonfiction as intensely as I
had been before. What I understand most now is the lack of limitations when it came to the
structure of how these nonfiction pieces are developed. Throughout the semester, I was
introduced to a variety of examples of the genre and each were unique in the way that they told
their stories. In return, as we were asked to respond to each piece, I found frustrating that at
times, I wanted to replicate a well-thought out response to the authors’ work. Most of my
frustration came in the sense of wanting to write about a similar subject matter, as the idea of
focusing on one individual thing was often kind of difficult. However, over time, I found that
simply taking inspiration for a creative response didn’t mean that the similarity between my
work and theirs had to be extremely close. From point of view to a single simple subject, I
managed to take the writings we examined in class and create my own collection of work
inspired by family and suburbia, identity or the loss of it, love, learned lessons, and the journey
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I’ve been on to make myself not feel incomplete. Because of the freedom of our responses within
this course, I was able to create my own narrative about hope and culture and the people I adore
and that those aspects of my life, among others, are worth writing about.
Lastly, assigning myself a grade does not feel too difficult. I’m not sure if this means I’m
egotistical in any sense, but I wouldn’t hesitate for a long time to say that I may deserve an A in
this course. I believe that with the expectation that I was taking this course in a higher level
through an Independent Study, I have exceeded both that expectation and the general
expectations of the class to produce quality work of my own design.
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Why I Write

I think I have a wicked sense of imposter syndrome. Perhaps most creators feel this way

and they go day by day, fearing that someone will eventually announce to their corner of the

world that they have nothing that is worth etching into history. No, I don’t mean some grand

timeline, filled with world wars or new inventions – although there are thousands of creators

who’ve earned their place in the books – but rather, those who sit in cafes down the street with

dreams their photography might end up in some local gallery, a maximum occupancy of 75

curious admirers. Those who hope to quit their day jobs and become fulltime bloggers who post

about baked goods we just have to try. Ordinary, normal people who have an itch to make some

kind of content. Those kind of people. I belong to them, but a tiny sliver of myself aches with the

thought that I might be a fraud. I am hardly a writer, but trying very hard to be a good one.

I used to dream in late nights of being a writer. It was my first and worst lover. I filled

dollar store composition notebooks with stories that I thought would fly off shelves. I’m not sure

where those notebooks are anymore.

I’m trying to realize now, that at the time, I didn’t want to be a writer. It was to be an

author. To have my name mass produced on paperback novels, responsible for creating a small

world that means something to people was something I thought I always wanted. I wanted that

recognition, that sense of accomplishment, and as I find myself turning eighteen, nineteen, and

now two months past twenty without that pipe dream in sight, I feel as though I’ve failed that

girl. Writing felt as if I was trying desperately, clinging hard to an idea I knew I had let go of so

long ago, the same way I let go of clothes that don’t fit or paper napkin messages from old lovers

that weren’t mine. I’m trying to realize now that while I may not be an author of any kind, far
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from being a New York Times best seller, that I’m still a writer. I see it in so much of what I do.

I see it in the tucked away notebooks with sloppy details on how my days are spent; I have a tiny

fear of forgetting it all. I see it in the articles I write for creative startups, where I go on and on

about sustainable living in fashion consumerism. I see it in the sticky note messages I leave in

the morning, romanticizing the way he looked the night before when we were deliriously

scouring the city for cheap dinner. I know the pizza was bad, but I make sure to mention them

anyway.

Tonight, I am planning to buy a box of envelopes and floral stamps to send to faraway friends.

I’ll fill them with pressed flowers from the sidewalk or tea bags just in case they could use one,

or perhaps both. I haven’t decided yet.

Tonight, I am dizzy with the realization that I write because it reminds me that this life of mine is

loud and that my dream didn’t wither – it just changed.

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Literature Then, Literature Now

“The narrative uncertainty causes many of us to turn to genre fiction and predictable movies
(even if they are about disaster)—they allow us to pull down another story like a shade and sit in
a place where we already know the ending.”
Elizabeth Outka
“How Pandemics Seep into Literature”

I think in some ways literature is a novelty. This feels strange to say, especially when so

much of literature is inherently repetitive in nature and the genre overall consists of stories that

are thoroughly recycled over time. What I mean by novelty, however, is that literature will still

always feel new and exciting despite its nature. There must be some reason why we flock to the

young adult dystopian literature when so much of it is always about some underdog kid defying

society. We’re attracted to every version of slow burn romance, because we know in the end, the

guy will in some way get the girl. Even old fairytales get twisted into modern dramas: rags to

riches, the big bad wolf, and sinister plots behind candy houses. We cling to literature in spite of

it. We know the endings to these stories. Whether we’ve read them before (and we most certainly

have) or we’ve lived them ourselves, we can’t escape the sense of voyeurism that happens when

new literature feels familiar.

This past summer, I read Emily St. John Mandel’s 2014 post-apocalyptic novel, Station

Eleven. In short, it follows a construed timeline with scattered memories of the events of

following before and after a flu pandemic swept the globe. Sound familiar? It was an eerie

experience to indulge in a piece of literature about a pandemic while simultaneously living in

one. Like the current coronavirus health crisis, the novel’s very own “Georgia Flu”, was

unexpected, unimaginable, and catastrophically deadly. I found the enjoyment I had gotten from
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reading that novel at the time I read it was exceptionally strange. If I wanted to escape the

constant stream of news of the pandemic that came from my living room television, I would go

upstairs and read bits and pieces of a book about the aftermath of a separate fictional pandemic

instead. Doesn’t that sound strange? It’s a paradox at best, but I suppose a lot of how we live life

is a paradox within itself. We’re terrified of the dark and the strange things lurking in it and yet,

we wait in lines for rickety haunted houses. We live in fear of the unknowing possibility of being

attacked in broad daylight, but we love listening to true crime podcasts and the retelling of

unfortunate victims. There is a fine line between reality and fiction. While both can tell the same

story, we actively choose to go into one where we know what we are getting ourselves into. It

stems from our control or lack thereof. When we retreat to these fictional versions of reality, we

can take the reins and offer ourselves some kind of comfort, knowing how situations play out.

We’re attracted to the suspense, danger, and threats within fiction, but we know that there is an

end. I can put Emily St. John Mandel’s Station Eleven down, but I will have to return to the

ongoing uncertainty of living amidst the coronavirus pandemic. It makes perfect sense to retreat

to fiction, even if said fiction mimics reality.

“And finally, there comes the aftermath, both for our bodies and for our culture. Whether in
illness or in observation, our own bodies are busy now. They are recording our pandemic, setting
in place the reverberations that will echo into our future.”
As the events of post-apocalypse life in Station Eleven occur, the novel focuses on both

the primary plotline of a travelling performing arts symphony of survivors as they hike back and

forth throughout the United States East Coast, putting theatrical performances for whoever is

left. What’s interesting about the novel however, is that the flashbacks that occur throughout the

story belongs to that of one member of the symphony; the rest of the flashbacks are pockets of

time on individuals connected to her life who are not part of her present story. Elizabeth Outka
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brings an interesting point about pandemics and what they can do for creativity/literature. Her

piece introduces intriguing questions as to what can come out of the coronavirus pandemic, when

it or should it ever end, and how years down the line, will we be introduced to a new wave of

health crises-inspired memoirs, poetry, novels, etc. The pandemic itself has already introduced

an influx of new kinds of art and while the virus itself may usher us into a new era of life, I

wonder what is to come. For the symphony in Station Eleven, it took several years of recovery

before these various survivors can come together to bring back the arts in post-apocalyptic

United States, continuously performing even twenty years after the world’s downfall. They put

on Shakespearean plays and recruit musicians even when the world feels as if there is no place

for the arts. I think the miraculous thing both Outka and Mandel address is the immortality of

‘fiction’. So badly, as people we hope to escape from the real world or at the very least, try to

make some sense of it. Outka talks about the 1918 influenza pandemic inspiring literature with

elements that reflect how the authors lived through the Spanish Flu, the coronavirus pandemic

will no doubt do the same. This past summer, while reading Mandel’s work, I had also been

working with a small team of young creatives to develop the brand’s annual print publication.

One of the sections was titled “Quarantine Reflections” and I had managed to curate a selection

of art that was inspired by the ongoing covid-19 life. From Facetime photoshoots by a

photographer who couldn’t conduct them in person to poetry discussing the mundanity of

quarantining at home, the pandemic had still inspired us to create little blips art that reflected our

realities. Outka and Mandel convey that interesting thought. We are people who will inherently

create – in any kind of form – and while a pandemic may be our daunting subject matter or

inspiration, we’ll find comfort in the certainty of that is was ours.

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No Flour Means No Bread, Right?

“Fuck the bread, the bread is over.”

I’ve been thinking a lot about what Sabrina Orah Mark’s mother said to her when she

found herself without flour. I suppose at the moment she was in grief, having just lost out on an

opportunity that wasn’t hers to have at all. All one could do in that situation is hyper focus on

that loss, so while other options seem unreachable, wheat still exists and there’s the opportunity

to harvest it for themselves instead. I think that makes sense. No flour, no bread, right? However,

even if I don’t have no flour, it doesn’t mean it’s completely gone. It’s there, but it’s not mine to

have at the moment. I think Sabrina Orah Mark’s mother was right. Fuck the bread. The bread is

over. Opportunities come and go and when one intensely focuses on the loss of a step towards

that opportunity, perhaps they have to let go of the opportunity itself. I thought about the flour as

her job interview, the one with university professors about her potential fairytale lectures. No

flour, means no bread. Losing the interview meant that she ultimately lucked out of that specific

job. What’s the use of worrying about something that no longer could be hers?

Opportunity or lack thereof is quite interesting. In the countless videos, comments, and

articles I’ve seen about how to prep for college, no one told me to be ready for change. Well,

they do – but not in the way I need to understand. Going from high school to college is a

significant and major life change, regardless if I’m going to an in-state university or expanding

my horizons and travelling somewhere far. That newfound independence is a change within

itself, and that is no small feat. However, no one really told me to be ready for the change. No,

not one singular change, but the consistency of it. College is a fluid transient stage. My twenties

are incredibly free, but college can be misleading. I expect that four years at a university will be
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pretty consistent in the similar vein as high school was, but two and a half years in, I feel the

exact opposite. The situation remains the same: I’m in college. However, college is transient in

the sense that nearly everything is temporary. I find myself in a brand new environment, and the

people, the places, the situations, and the opportunities are always changing. No one told me that

to succeed in college, to truly find myself, I have to be ready for the free-flow nature of it all.

Opportunities are interesting. In college, where the sky is the limit, it feels as if opportunities are

exceptionally abundant. The paths I can take, the end zones, are all within reach. I think this can

be dangerous.

Isn’t it a saying that too much of something can be a bad thing? I find this to be quite true

for anything in life. I guess that is why greed is a deadly sin. Too much is no good. When it

comes to opportunities and being in college, I’ve learned over the years that holding on too many

opportunities prevents me from achieving one. Two and a half years ago, I had opened up my

future to a wide variety of plans: publishing, law school, teaching, public relations, etc. I knew it

was out of fear. I couldn’t commit. It took time, but sooner than later, I realized that I couldn’t

cling to the possibility of all of these. It was too much flour. It was overwhelming to say the

least. It was difficult to let some of those opportunities go without feeling like I was giving up,

but it didn’t take long for me to understand that I couldn’t be successful at an opportunity if I

was too focused on many that weren’t actually mine at all. Letting go of so much can give you

the chance to see what is meant for you. If I don’t have flour, perhaps I can make something else

with what I do have, right?

Fuck the bread, the bread is over.

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What I Wish I Could Tell You: After Ryan Van Meters “If You

Knew Then What I Know Now”

I love you the way I love Sunday mornings – standing in the kitchen, dancing to lonely

songs as the sun peeks through window blinds and feeds the potted plants I impulsively bought

online a week before.

I love you the way I love the holidays, how every year, we end on back to back

celebrations and wrap presents and carve out resolutions we’ll probably forget about two months

later.

Would you believe me if I told you that one of these days, you’ll feel good, truly good for

the first time in years in spite of everything that still lingers? I want to tell you about it all: how

you’ll finally learn to take care of your body and stop hating the way your crooked teeth look in

pictures and tenderly accept that the marks of your skin will fade eventually, instead of cursing

their presence in the first place. You won’t ever stop painting. You’ll wish you would have spent

more time honing your craft, painting empty glass jars that’ll sit on your shelf between old

picture frames. If you do end up buying those pastel leather journals, don’t throw them away

weeks later. You’ll realize you have a terrible fear of leading a useless life, forgetting every

memory worth remembering. Your first real lover will realize this too and he’ll sit on your bed,

sifting through the pages, and you’ll smile and pour out your thoughts on paper, knowing he’ll

come back to read them later.

I know right now you burn at the fingertips when you reach for something else, for the

better things in life. It’s hard to want what you think you don’t deserve. You’re accustomed to
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reclusive nights, to dastardly inner self-hatred. Your brain will have the tendency to bully itself.

It comes in waves. You never know when the anxiety will be too loud for you to bear with. I

suppose your head likes the element of surprise. You won’t understand why you are the way you

are. At times, you’ll feel like you have nothing to really worry about, and these occur often

during basement parties, restaurant dinners, afternoons in the backyard. They’ll be temporary

and fruitful. They’ll help you forget for just a moment - but you’ll know, deep down, your wiring

is different.

I still remember those feelings fondly – the ones that made you feel like you were

nothing. No one ever told you that explicitly, but nothing stopped that idea from running wild.

You feel like someone else, someone who wasn’t meant to be what they turned out to be. You’re

wrong. You just never had the opportunity to be your own mind, body, and whole being. I wish I

could tell you not to think too much about it. I know you will. I can’t stop that from happening.

If you do let it get to you – which you will – I wish I can tell you that it won’t hurt as much

anymore. It’ll be distant feelings that you’re climbing your way out of. It’s a long journey, one

that will feel like an impossible pipe dream. For someone who’s terrified of heights, you’ll be

surprised to learn that someday you’ll want to take that jump and leave what they said behind.

It’s freeing, which is frightening to you, but you’ll breathe easy for the first time in a long time.

It won’t hurt as much anymore. I hope you’ll figure that out soon.

You’ll think it’s strange that you’ll ever reach a place where you aren’t haunted or hunted

by your own head. If I could, I’d tell you that one day you’ll muster up the courage to actually

speak about this part of growing up during an interview with your cousin. He’s starting a new

show. He tells you it’s about mental health and overcoming adversity and that each episode will
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be casual conversations with friends and family. You’ll think it’s funny, because overcoming any

kind of adversity doesn’t seem like your truth – but it is.

You’ll sit in your lover’s apartment – you know, the one who actually likes to hear about your

days – and talk over video chat with your cousin for two hours, being open and honest about how

life wasn’t easy. You’ll feel light and warm, laughing loudly at the way he jokes about our

parents. You’ll find comfort in knowing that the pressure you felt growing up wasn’t something

you made up. Afterwards, you’ll turn to your lover and film videos of him trying to put together

a bookshelf before dessert. It’s tragic to watch him be too cautious about baking boxed brownies.

You won’t think twice about the mornings you used to spend, wishing you could change every

molecule in your body. The songs are still lonely, but they’re beautifully written and when you

dance to them in the kitchen the next morning, you’ll feel anything but. You’ll let your lover take

polaroid pictures with unkempt hair and wrinkled pajama shirts. It won’t matter what the pictures

look like. You’ll be glad to see yourself the way he sees you. You won’t be terrified of being you

anymore.
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To Do List

I’ve been wondering about how he’s doing. What is going on in that gorgeous head of his? Is he

thinking about me? Does he still think about me? Even after all this time, three hours apart,

months away from his touch, does he still long for mine? I hope he does. He’s finally coming

tomorrow morning. The boy I love is visiting for the weekend. It has been a while.

I’ve been an impatient person for a long time. Only on the inside, because I was taught to think

of myself secondly. But when I want something more than usual, I ache for it and bite my lip and

think about what’s to come. The boy I love is visiting. This means time slows, which is unfair,

but I’d wait for ages if it means I get to trace the freckles and sun spots on his skin in person

again.

It’s the morning before his arrival and I try to jot down a rushed to-do list for the day:

o Fold laundry

o Prep packages for post office

o Vacuum bedroom

o Wait for his morning texts

o Water the plants we bought in the winter

o I’m surprised they’re still alive

o Take a shower

o Laugh at the way he tells me he spilled his sweet tea first thing in the morning

o Think about making an omelet for breakfast

o Stay in bed and talk to him on the phone instead

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His voice is groggy but I can hear his smile anyway. I hope he can hear mine. He’ll wait to pack

clothes for the weekend till last minute, but I remind him to do it now anyways. He won’t. He’s

stubborn like me. The boy I love is visiting soon. Does he think about the way I miss him? Does

he know how much I wished it hadn’t been so long? In almost two years, we’ve spent more of it

apart than I would have liked. I can feel my stomach in knots, but I tell myself it’s a good thing.

The boy I love is visiting for the weekend, and it’ll be like another first hello. That’s what it feels

like sometimes. No matter how long I’ve been tethered to him, I hesitate for a second to touch

the constellations on his back until he kisses me for the third time and I finally see the stars and I

know they’re mine again.

I end the phone call and glance around my room. I’ve rearranged my bookshelf and taken

pictures down since the last time he was in my childhood bedroom last summer. Bits and pieces

of growing up are etched onto the walls, but I’ve favored better memories for the ones that used

to be hastily taped up when I was fourteen. He likes to ask about the days before I knew him,

before I grew into my own person. I don’t mind telling him, but I prefer to not dwell in the

person I used to be. We both have a habit of keeping memorabilia – old trinkets from arcades,

movie theater stubs before streaming was a thing, letters written in ballpoint pen – but the

difference between him and me? He likes to revisit them often and the stories that they came

with. I appreciate them by holding on, but I don’t think about those memories much. I tell him

about them anyway, because they weren’t all that bad, and I know he likes to listen.

I think about the last thing he said: I’ll be there so soon love. I think about it again and again as I

brush my teeth with the last bits of bright blue toothpaste, careful not to spill water on the

countertop. When he says things like that, I don’t need to wonder. His thoughts are simple. The

drive will be a little long. He’ll pick up gas station breakfast and bottled espresso shots and blast
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90s rap along the countryside. He’ll wake up early out of an anxious night of sleep, or lack

thereof, and he’ll leave early because he’s impatient like that. He won’t try to keep himself busy.

He’ll think about me the way I think about him. The girl he loves is waiting for him to come

back to her.
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Street Cats

I never thought of myself as a cat person.

At the ripe age of 20, I’ve had four dogs in my house throughout my lifetime. It was

never something I gave much thought to. They were dogs. Our dogs. I loved each of them

deeply, even the ones I can barely remember, my little toddler hands grabbing at fur, precious

thing. My father has five sisters. Each of them owns a dog right now. He, the only son, is a

natural standout; he has two.

I never thought of myself as a cat person. It wasn’t because I despised cats. My boyfriend

and I have a tradition of going to the pet store on our favorite street in the city and taking a peek

at the creatures up for adoption that week. I still love doing it, but they aren’t my cats. He’s a cat

person. His mom back home has six. Or perhaps eight. The number and names are questionable

he tells me. He’s always had cats. He never thought much of it, but when he left home for

college and began spending months away from the double wide trailer that housed all the cats, he

realized he was.

I don’t remember much from my childhood well, but I would like to try. Isn’t that a

cursed thing? Purple hands, suffocated thoughts, and yet all I have is the urge is to write about

the life I’ve lived. I think memories work in that way as well. We cling onto the photographic

ones, because they’re perfect capsules of time that we can so clearly see. The exposure doesn’t

matter. We remember it well. Yet, I know this isn’t a phenomenon unique to me. We have

memories, wormholes and black holes that we can kind of sort of possibly make out, but not

quite. We’re not sure things happened the way we think they did, or even if they happened at all.

I have a strong feeling that I used to be a cat person, at least, for a split second I was.
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I used to live in the Philippines. I was native there. They say that so much of your

development happens in your childhood, but by the time I left, I was five and most of my

development was learning how to turn mumbling sounds into words and knowing when too

much cereal would lead to spilt milk. My mother told me she knew I would be an exceptional kid

– at least, I was expected to be. She named me after that brilliant female FBI agent in Silence of

the Lambs, you know, the one with the cannibal criminal with the wickedly interesting voice. I

spent most of my childhood feeling anything but. I don’t remember much from being in the

Philippines. I feel like I should be more Filipino than I am. I love my culture, but I grew up with

a different version of it. Filipino-American is, believe it or not, vastly different from Filipino.

The Philippines is there. It’s my home country. Part of me will always be tethered there, but the

string is heartbreakingly fragile to me; I can see it in my broken tongue, in the food I don’t know

how to cook, and the mannerisms that make me so distinctively American.

I never thought of myself as a cat person. I had friends who had always had cats and

could pick them up with ease, not nervous at all about the way their claws slash in and out of

those furry hands. In the Philippines, my house was somewhere in a low class city neighborhood.

There was a yellow room, somewhere, that I’ve seen through pictures and I remember the white

tile floors and potted plants. There was a small gated alley in between my house and the

neighbors, and there were always cats. Cats! Wild ones! Some were skinny, some were rather

normal looking, like the ones you’d see perched up on bay windows or bookshelves high off the

ground. There were others though, that belonged to the streets. Matted fur, flecks of mud

between their paws, and scars that took way too long to heal. I remember seeing one with old

gash wounds on the side of his thigh and another little scar on his crooked tail. Alley cat. Those

were the kinds of cats I knew. I had friends throughout the years who had cats, but I was never
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quite used to them. I remember the alley cats. They would come in and out and I remember my

mother and aunt would leave plates of leftover chicken and spaghetti and whatever extra meat

we had from stew pots the night before. The cats weren’t our cats, but they were ours. I’m sure

they scoured the streets, wandering strategically from place to place, avoiding the traffic close to

the city and the hawker that would come through the neighborhood every morning with his tofu

breakfast cart, unamused by the cats that watched him tread by. No matter the random storms or

hot and humid days, the cats would come back.

I am not a cat person, but I am in awe of those alley beasts. They belonged, but they

didn’t, and yet, they still did. I don’t know what it’s like to not be so unsure of who you are. I

remember my home country. I know the customs. I can hear the language. I get the jokes. I eat

the food. Everybody else sees it too. They might not exactly see the Filipino blood coursing

through my veins, but they don’t see the American part of me first. My eyes are too different and

my skin is just a few shades too dark to be a tan. They see it, but when I look in the mirror

sometimes, I don’t. That’s the difficult thing about being two things in one.

Sometimes I wish life was as easy as the dog and cat question. Are you one or the other? If

you’re both, people accepted it. The labels were uncomplicated. Identity does not come as easy.

I’m sure I am a dog person. Always have been, always will be, and no one questions it. When I

tell others that I am Filipino-American, I have to hesitate. They don’t understand what that

means unless I explain myself, and even then, I don’t always offer the whole truth. I tell them:

“I’m from Northern Virginia, but I’m originally from the Philippines.”

“I’m from the Philippines (but I’m not an international student).”

“I live in Northern Virginia.”

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“I’m originally from the Philippines, but I grew up primarily in Texas and Virginia.”

“I was born in the Philippines, but I immigrated here when I was young.”

Don’t you see the pattern? It’s always part of the whole - or the whole but the whole comes with

a contradiction. Sometimes I am too Filipino to be considered American, but other times too

American to be considered Filipino. I ache thinking about the way I want to cling onto that

tether, onto that hyphen that separates the two, because I know I am not only one over the other.

But if I cling tight, so tight, will I break that tether or will I only reinforce that barrier even more

so?

I was too young to understand the way those cats were everything I was not. I was too

young to understand that someday, I might be in a constant tug of war between the two halves

that make up my being. Filipino-American. Two identities, forced to share one body. Forever at

odds, never whole. The hyphen says it all. I think about the cats sometimes and the way they

live, so sure of themselves. They were kings of the street, but they were also my friendly

neighbors, coming in and out of the gate next to my house. They were two things in one, and yet,

they didn’t live as if they were in a tug of war between the two. Granted, I’m sure their lives

were anything but easy. I think about the scars and spots of fur caked in mud. That didn’t matter

to them. They knew what they wanted, what they needed, and they knew their place. They

weren’t perfect, but they were whole. I haven’t felt anything like that for a majority of my life.
 Liclic 22

Can You Hear Us Now?

In her riveting article, “The Personal Essay Economy Offers Fewer Rewards for Black

Women”, Stacia L. Brown says it best: “Publication of Black memoirs and autobiography is

usually contingent on prevailing over systemic bias, discrimination, or oppression”. While I may

be unable to speak on behalf of Black female writers, Brown’s point offered a thought-provoking

potential examination on this point of BIPOC exploitation within the personal essay and fiction

genre as a whole. As an Asian American writer, storyteller, multimedia artist, and overall,

longtime creator, I found that this idea of dependence on trauma within the narratives of people

of color to be quite on point. From an Asian American perspective, we can address the

conception that our stories presented to the world are often that of the likes of loss, immigration

and assimilation, and what I like to call The Burden of Achievement. It is as if the common

pattern of Asian American narratives falls under one of few categories. When it comes to

contemporary representations, we mean that of pieces that embody our backgrounds and stories,

not sorry excuses of representation through white-dominant casts with token Asian characters -

but that is a discussion for another time. 

Brown mentions broadly that Black personal mythologies are often stuck within the range

of being stories about fighting against the system that works effortlessly against these

communities. As I have mentioned earlier, these distinct story categories become especially

complicated when we consider that the Asian perspective offers a different voice than that of an

Asian-American. The categories break down even further between these two distinctions as

assimilation for an Asian writer may be an essay about having to transition from one culture to

another. Assimilation for an Asian-American may be more so finding that balance between their

heritage culture and the one they grew up in. It is these distinctions that often get overlooked and
 Liclic 23

become lumped together as similar tales of suffering. It markets itself off as the great Asian

(American) story, and people, both in the community or not, buy into it. Others might cling onto

these niche narratives because they feel like its proper exposure to a cultural/racial experience

they don’t know. On the other hand, members of the community itself may have no choice but to

cling to any kind of representation at all. While these stories are important, as any kind of proper

representation should be, it’s difficult as an Asian American to consistently praise stories of my

people that hyper focus on struggles and upbringing. This doesn’t mean that I don’t particularly

enjoy these kinds of personal mythologies, ones about individuals fleeing to America for a better

life or a first generation immigrant struggling to accept her parents’ traditions while growing up

in Western culture. I do. However, when our worth is marketed and determined by how much

we’ve suffered and our trauma is utilized for exploitation, it can be damaging to both Asian

writers and readers. Similar to Brown’s point, it carries various kinds of notions that writers of

color may be subjected to a contest of who suffers more.

Is it our fault for consistently bringing these narratives to public viewership? Not

particularly. I find it unfair to criticize writers for having no choice but to work around an

industry that prizes the exposure of racial struggles. When white writers and characters become

the default protagonists or storytellers of personal narratives that don’t have a single thing to do

with race, we’re expected to look for discussion facilitators elsewhere. It’s worth thinking about

that context when it comes to how issues of racial discrimination and education is burdened on

the shoulders of minority groups. Now within the field of publishing and editing, it’s worth

noting the reality of how this burden is often the only story we’re able to tell. It’s now become up

to a writer of color to provide self-interrogative work about their hardships (which only
 Liclic 24

constitute for a fraction of who these writers are or what voice they provide for the world) in

order to even secure any kind of visibility.

 Liclic 25

Lift the Curtains

There’s an unspoken contract between parents and their children. We walk a fine line between

seeing one another as individual people versus the roles we play in our own homes with one

another, regardless if we happen to be in the same room or not. One phone call and I am humbly

reminded that I am my mother’s dutiful daughter, the young girl with dark hair and timid eyes

that she raised to be poised and respectful and perfect and simple. That’s the role I play.

Sometimes. I try to mostly, but lately I’ve been cursing it, casting it aside and turning to my

wretched insides, knowing that there’s a bitterness inside of me.

By bitterness, I don’t mean that I’m not poised nor respectful. In my house, we are taught to be

polite because a hierarchy exists internally and externally. Within my family, we’re polite to

those in the ladder rungs above us. We have specific words in our mother tongue that teach us

this at a young age. Whether we share similar blood or not, the women around me are all aunties

titas, my father’s brother-in-laws and gambling friends were uncles titos, and the latter continues

for my generation as well. I haven’t called my older brother by his first name in years. Each text,

I’m reminded of the role he plays in our family as well: kuya. To my small handful of younger

cousins, I am their ate. For my mother, I am her anak.

Her child.

It comes as a snowball effect, that realization that you are your own person and not just the roles

you were given to play. I consider myself to be a good actor. My parents still think I like our

church. They don’t necessarily acknowledge I’m in love. They think I haven’t dabbled in things

dutiful, perfect, simple daughters don’t do. I’m an excellent actor. However, I’ve been realizing

lately that I do not want to act anymore. That wish is an impossible feat, because there will come
 Liclic 26

the times that I have to play that role for their sake and for mine – but I’m closing the curtains

more and more. I am my mother’s daughter, but I am my own person as well. I’m polite to others

around me; I have that kindness and I was taught that kindness because it was my place in the

world to let others know that they have my respect always. However, that perfect and simple

daughter they wanted? That is a lie I have fronted for years. Now I’ve come to terms that I am

far from them. Several months ago, I finally took my body and mind back. I realized that she’s

delicate and sensitive, but strong-willed and opinionated. She has to be if she wants to survive

and outrun the expectations she cannot meet and the beliefs she refuses to have. I realized not too

long ago that playing the role my mother wanted for so long meant that I couldn’t distinguish

between the character on spotlight and the actor backstage. The lines were written for me and I

spent a childhood pretending being molded into a role I didn’t choose.

I lived without living.

I matured without really maturing.

I grew into a person who wasn’t whole.

I couldn’t read in between the lines and it took me until the end of act two to understand that my

role is dynamic. There is more to the character I am meant to play. I didn’t and I don’t have to

follow the script. Improv, I think is what they call it. I tried to explain to my mother what improv

was, but she didn’t quite understand why anyone would take the time to pay attention to

something unplanned when the jokes could have been written far in advance. She likes to watch

stand-up comedy sometimes, but often she loses interest anyway because she does not

understand the jokes within the stories the comedian tells. I, on the other hand, appreciate those

well-written lines. I’ll spend nights with John Mulaney stand-up specials. The lights are out and
 Liclic 27

the house is quiet, for once, and I won’t have to think twice about the kind of role I should be

playing. I used to live for nights like that. Before I had taken my tiny chance at freedom, I lived

for nights like those. Much like John Mulaney would control the narrative of his New York temp

escapades or disastrous college nights, I, too, could control what would happen next. Perhaps

because my mother didn’t think much of stand-up comedy or improv, I, on the other hand, paid

close attention to the ways in which these individuals could make and unmake the narratives they

tell and the people they are. Even with improv, unscripted and unplanned, they hold tight onto

their own individual roles in the scene. Someone else might impose a role onto them, but they

have the opportunity to take that character and write who they want to be on the spot. Beyond the

likes of comedy, I forget that roles aren’t simple. Open the curtain again and again, the show

goes on for weeks on end, but the actors aren’t stifled. The stages are set and the marks have

been practiced, but the characters they play are entirely in their control. They cannot just recite a

scene. The dialogue and cues are written for them, but it’s up to the actors in how they play a

role. Pensive. Devastated. Afraid. Jubilant. Shocked but only for a spilt second because both the

actor and the audience know the secrets that were spilled in act one.

Sometimes I am afraid of that bitterness. I worry often if it’s selfish to think of myself as

anything but anak or ate or neng. The terms aren’t interchangeable – they mean slightly different

things depending on who’s in the scene – but they’re well weaved within one another, with a

deeply rooted culture of supposition and intent. No matter how hard I want to rewrite the script, a

part of me will still be anak or ate or neng. Sometimes I desperately want more than that. My

mother has determined who she wanted me to be, but isn’t it ultimately up to me decide how the

role can be played out? I think perhaps that’s the complicated notion of being born into

characters that are already written for you. Is it selfish to want to abandon it? Or is it more selfish
 Liclic 28

to neglect what it’s supposed to be and instead change it to your own desire. At what point do I

ask myself if I’m crossing a line? At what point is it no longer making the role your own and

instead, something entirely new?

I think there is a lot more to improv than what we might think. At first glance, someone might

see it as nonsense, a free for all entertainment with no real substantial matter. But look closely. I

can see the gears turning, each cog twisting one by one as soon as movement starts somewhere.

It might seem like a domino effect, but I can see the push and pull and the authority that comes

with it. It takes a lot to be able to roll with the punches, be open and free and mold themselves

into characters and stories that perfectly play off of one another.

I think that’s why improv works.

It isn’t nonsense.

It isn’t complete anarchy.

My mother might see it in that way. She likes structure and roles. I understand that, but I can

appreciate the freedom that comes with being able to decide for yourself and yet, appropriately

playing along with the rest of the stage.

 Liclic 29

The Five Stages of Grief

A note:
I wanted to explore the idea of generational grief in my own words and my own terms.
While each stage is not tethered to single memory or concept, unlike the work of Anne Carson’s
“The Glass Essay” which breaks apart our linear understanding of memory, the emotions are
what I hope to pull into focus. Her series is broken into separate streams of consciousness, the
memories are scattered, and yet it perfectly reflects the distraught feelings she must have felt in
the past – even in the present as she writes about it now. I hope to capture that. The Asian-
immigrant experience is so closely tied to this idea that we are what our parents have destined us
to be – not necessarily just living up to their expectations of the kind of child they raise, but this
destined identity is a response to that journey from east to west. Migration.
These are the five stages of grief: mourning a kind of life and independence lost.
The “I” in every written piece in this collection belongs to so many. It for those who
understand the weight we’ve carried on our shoulders, knowing that we’re tethered to this fateful
existence of repaying a debt: a debt to our cultural roots, to our history, to our parents who have
sacrificed and endured so that we may be given enough motivation to hit the ground running. It
is for those who have truly felt guilty, loved and heartbroken, robbed of a life of ease, proud,
trapped, not enough, a disappointment, not the right kind of _ _ _ _ _ (‘asian’ or just ‘child’),
under pressure, and hopefully just a little bit content. It is for those who have had to bite back
their tongue, calculate the amount of mistakes they’re limited to, and have spent this race of life
with the highest of stakes.

i. denial

I
I think I want to have a new home.
no, not the kind with four walls and a roof.
not the kind where I can peel yellow mangos while shamelessly dancing in the kitchen.
not the kind where I can sink into mint blue couch cushions and wait for the rice to cook.
I already have that. I
want one where I’m not tethered. floating, but chained to the ground. a ghost of the life my
parents wanted me to have. perfect academic career, classically musically trained, poised, polite
obedient with a native tongue.
 Liclic 30

I think it’s out there. that there exists a morning where i can wake up without this tragic parasite.
that perhaps, I can breathe easy and live for myself and not for them. I want that feeling of home.
not a bed with linen sheets and sleepover memories, but a home within myself. I want
satisfaction. I want a cure, to rid myself of what’s sitting on my shoulders. I want once, just for
once, to not be terrified when the phone rings.
mom or dad. either way, i must brace myself for that tiny possibility that I will be reminded of
my good _ _ _ _ _daughter duties.
I cannot forget.
It’s at the bottom of my daily checklist. wake up. get dressed. pack my bag. oh, and don’t forget
that every opportunity and loss is an opportunity and loss for us all.

I
I am not miserable.
I have a kind life:
beautiful friends, someone that loves me, siblings and parents and relatives that i am proud to
call mine.
but i carry my family with me, this permanent fixture like the color of my skin.
and sometimes, i stay up past midnight,
wondering just how i can get to that home for my heart.
the kind that can pump blood without pressure.
i think it’s out there.
it has to be.
it is
isn’t it?
ii. anger

Sometimes
sometimes I think about the curse they have given me and I recoil in disgust.
a writhing body, a visceral reaction.
sometimes I think about the curse and how it has set me aflame.
engulfed in an inferno, take me away before I burn at the fingertips.
sometimes I think about this spiteful existence and all I can feel is robbed.
 Liclic 31

who do they think they are?

and who do i think i am to be okay with it?
crying infant, i did not ask for this.
do not tell me to relax.
do not tell me to not try my best, that instead i should just do it.
do not tell me i am wrong for staying up past my bedtime at sixteen
because when you ask a child if they surpass all others,
a child who thinks the future equals flying cars,
you will get a soul tormented and torn and blazing with hushed rage.

You
you have isolated me,
stuck me in some kind of prickly throne,
forced to fall apart at the sight of failure
and
utterly afraid that you’ll find out i am not what you want me to be.
but at the same time,
I am frenzied and furious.
ready to ignite a kind of war
I know this is unfair, I say so.
iii. bargaining

Please
please give me something else anything else that privilege they’re walking around with I
can see it look it’s there theirs please why can’t it be mine as well I grew up here why do
I still feel like an outsider too _ _ _ _ _ to be american too american to be _ _ _ _ _ please
take out the hyphen nobody ever sees it as whole its two halves of a whole that doesn’t
exist right isn’t that what it is please all I want is to check a different box sometimes
checking _ _ _ _ _ feels inappropriate please that’s what I am I know that’s what I am but
I am the wrong kind not the one anyone expects not the right shade of yellow to fill your
quota not the right kind please give me something else anything else because sometimes I
can feel myself standing in the shadows of these real americans go back to your country
 Liclic 32

they don’t say it usually but someone does I’ve heard it and so have they and that’s what
they think because it’s a funny joke right it’s kinda funny really funny you wouldn’t think
people like me would say it but because we’re _ _ _ _ _ we can we can tease and joke
about our stereotypes because they are ours and sometimes they’re true but I stumble
around and trip over myself and when I’m amongst the other I can’t help but hold my
breath and wait and anticipate that one of them will look at me funny or that one of them
will be that kind of purple violent and unleash the gross hate and utter a few words that I
brace myself for please give me something else I didn’t want this and there’s nowhere to
turn because this is supposed to be my home 50 states I’ve lived in two and yes I call
them home but because i have no choice my heart and my skin belong elsewhere I’m at a
crossroads give me something I’ll play the role I’ll do anything I’ll give it all up for
something else audition for something new trust me

iv. depression

I
I wonder what counts as the first heartbreak
that once the cosmos aligned and manifested the great tangled mess of human emotion
I wonder when in history someone experienced the making and unmaking of their heart
shredded to pieces in the wake of something ugly
or something happening over time, the way flowers wilt in those garage sale vases on the counter
either way, I’m sure it must’ve hurt
I know that pain well

She
she’s a friend of mine
has been since I was eleven when my father asked me why I didn’t want to be a doctor
but at seventeen
I figured out how to keep her quiet
this thing, far from being a stranger, will come over
she’ll sit at the dinner table and let me rampage
pace around the tile floors and scream at the top of my lungs
and when I’m finished
 Liclic 33

she’s still there

she’s silent
but she’s just as devastating
she fills the room with this acrid smell and i weep
cry till I’m numb
not because she’s something scary
but because she’s something familiar.

There
there isn’t much to say
how could you speak if you’ve felt silenced for so long
how do you unlearn something
that has kept you locked up in your own head
that’s hard isn’t it
what is there for me to do
besides
let it happen.
v. acceptance

I’ve
I’ve spent years trying to find ways to explain it to everybody else. i hoped that they could see
the microscopic anomalies that knit me together, the reasons why i work desperately and
endlessly and quickly and so much so that i am worn to the bone.
But I realize now that perhaps I should explain it to myself.
I want to understand what happens in my head, what sort of magic and tragedy happens when I
look in the mirror and see that i am the product of sacrifice.
I am not that crying infant anymore.
I did not ask for it,
but it is mine to hold and take.
and in spite of it all, I love my roots.
 Liclic 34

I love the smell of peeled mangoes and the mint blue couch and washing the rice.

Don’t
don’t get me wrong.
I still deny sometimes.
get angry.
beg and bargain.
cry.
but I know now more than ever
four months past two decades of life
that I can hit the ground running, chasing opportunity
because I am defined by the color of my skin
and because they crossed the ocean with my brother and I
so that I can
and I will.
I know I will.