Sivongsa 1

I often wonder if I’ve gone off the deep end.

Then again, that’s all subjective.

Pride. Honor. Legacy.

Papaya Soap:

Do you know what papaya soap is? What it’s meant to do? It’s meant to remove the

“dirtiness” out of skin. That’s what my Mother told me, that and to always use papaya soap.

It never smelled bad, or stung, or felt weird, or anything like that so I never really had a problem

with it while I was growing up. Not if it made my skin feel smooth or if I could look like the

pretty lady on the box. However, I never really understood why Lola (Grandmother in Tagalog)

would also rub my face with ginger and knees with lemon juice daily.

Remove the dirt they said.

Remove the darkness they meant.

Then somewhere along the line I learned that people like me, like us, could never be

beautiful. Not if we weren’t a special shade of birch wood or kissed by a fake tan. However if we

thought we found a safe space, a space where we could be beautiful too, we were wrong.

Together, we learned that the same rules apply. Not even our own kind, our people who look like

you and I, would consider us beautiful.

Deep down, I knew that this couldn’t be entirely true.

That there must be a lie in that statement somewhere.

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But no matter what I thought, the surface seems to always matter the most. So I never

stopped using that bar of papaya soap that was reserved for me (sometimes scrubbing my skin

red); I didn’t tell Lola how much I hated the smell of ginger on my face or how much it burned

like the sun; and I continued to contemplate dipping my hair in lemon juice (as rumors had it,

lemon juice could bleach anyone’s hair).

Become prettier they said.

Become whiter they meant.

“Beauty is pain”

“It’s not racist if I say it”:

As I grew older, I came to realize that I was that kid.

The one that no one wanted to associate with.

I spoke differently, acted differently, and ate differently. Understandably because no one

wants to be associated with the word ‘different’ at that age, everyone kept their distance.

So I learned, that in the land of a thousand lakes, the only way to combat different was to

live in everyone’s expectations. To their ideas of what an Asian person is and what they do. So I

never took their jokes aimed towards the people who looked like me as an insult (I thought it was

some sort of initiation to be like everyone else). I let them think that I was more intelligent than I

actually was; and never told them the words “I don’t know.” I also let them make fun of what I

made for lunch, always asking if their dog or cat was inside my lunch box (which led me to eat

quickly or skip). I even allowed them to think that I was Chinese or Japanese, because that’s all
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they ever knew and cared to know. Sometimes I tried to laugh along when they made fun of my

‘chinky’ eyes, mimicking the small shape by stretching out their own.

But sometimes, no, oftentimes after those silly jokes finished; I wished that my eyes

would be like theirs and return to a ‘normal shape.’

But if it made me feel less alone, then let it be.

Who is more pitiful: the bullied or the bully?

Which situation is worse: the bullied becoming the bully or the bully becoming the bullied?

Pride and Joy:

I understand that a parent’s only source of bragging rights that they’re entitled to do in

public is about their child. No one politically correct would ever say something against that.

However, I never expected it to extend into our family. It was almost never the men, save that

one uncle, but it was the women at the kitchen counter with a few glasses of wine and a fancy

cheese board. Often, I would hear them laugh and speak in Tagalog, and if you didn’t know

Tagalog don’t expect a translation from anyone. It will never happen. But here, here is where I

learned about the women’s warfare tactics and how it comes in many different shapes and forms.

Subtle digs, false approval, high pitched laughter, and even outlandish expressions to make

themselves appear more honest than usual.

Don’t let my Mother know, but this compare and contrast chart she has going on with her

cousins, it pits us against each other. It makes the divide between us bigger, uglier, and

unnecessary. When they suddenly have the audacity to ask us why we don’t get along anymore;

we can only offer pitiful smiles as if we don’t know the reason why. I’m disgusted by the fact
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they think it’s a phase when it’s really a product of their actions. Besides, it’s not like we wanted

it this way. It’s not like I don’t want to talk to my other cousins, but there’s such a gap between

us that there is nothing to talk about. What else is there to say, except, I miss the days when we

didn’t understand Tagalog. The days when we would plan sleep overs, make monsters in the

kitchen, or just do stupid nominal things without anyone else saying something about it.

But those memories are just memories, and these talks were never really about us.

It was about them.

It was always about them.

I think we were just the casualties.

“She is the best dancer, she is the greatest musician, she is the most athletic, she is the prettiest,

she’s the one heading for med school and she is the most social butterfly you’ll ever meet.”

“And what does she do?”

“Her? She… She…”

“Poor Unfortunate Souls”:

Black and white, white and black.

Two foot pedals and a mysterious third.

I used to think that the only thing that could come out of such an instrument could be

something beautiful, melodic, or at least pleasant to hear. I used to find freedom in developing a

skill that everyone can appreciate. The surge in being the best against the others. However, once

I sat down on the bench with the piano in front of me and the audience silent as a ghost.

I went deaf.
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The keys that once produced a beautiful sound, not three hours beforehand, began to

screech at me to stop – but I kept playing. I kept playing in hopes that if I hit the keys harder then

the sound, any sound, would come to my ears. That if I kept my cold hands on the keys then

perhaps, I could feel the vibrations. That if my eyes continued to try and differentiate the

differences between the lines, the dashes, and the circles then something would kick in.

Something to redeem what was left of the minute and thirty seconds.

It did not happen.

I couldn’t tell which was worse, being disappointed or being the disappointment?

Would you rather be the pioneer or the legacy?

What if you were caught in between?

To be a son:

The funny thing about legacy, is that traditionally it’s only carried out by the male

members of a family. During Pau’s funeral, I realized that our legacy will end with me, my

sister, and my cousin Amy. Jerry did not carry our last name, Debbie didn’t either, but she was

also female, Steve had his Dad’s last name, which left Kevin.

Again, our legacy, our story, and our name will die with us in the most traditional sense.

I never thought I would be such a traditionalist when it came to family lineage and the

importance of it. Not until I saw, I felt, and I listened to the blatant disrespect for our—my

family.

Is there a way to convey such irritation for someone who cannot appreciate or at least

understand the importance of who they are? I can count a handful of times that I ever wanted to
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physically hit someone, and my hand was twitching. Had it not been the formal funeral day or

the fact that we were in public, I might have acted upon it.

However my anger issues aren’t the focal point of this story, this is about Kevin. I

thought that maybe anti-social Kevin was just out of his element during the entire ten days’

worth of funeral gatherings, so I excused him. However I can never excuse the words that came

out of his mouth.

“Oh, I know (the front row is reserved for family), but I want to sit in the back just in

case I fall asleep.”

So not only did he not want to honor our--my Grandfather by following tradition (that

I’m not well versed in, but for a dead man I would learn), something my dear cousin Steve would

kill for; Kevin didn’t even want to offer any sort of respect for a dead man by staying awake. The

only reason he was probably even there had to be because of Bao Soi (Bao Soi – Uncle Soi). Not

even Kevin’s mother came by during the entirety of it.

I never felt so angry, so guilty, and so motivated.

So angry that it was Kevin, the one who could care less, to have the responsibility to

carry the name.

So guilty that Steve couldn’t participate because it was his birthday on the formal funeral

day, that in itself is auspicious, and for him I would have given up my position as the speaker.

So motivated to keep our legacy alive, one way or another.

Who am I to ask for redemption?

I who rejected my people first, now I grovel to understand them.

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[Entry Deleted]

Mentality Soup:

Ingredients:

1. Dreams – However much REM allows or as much as you can get a hold of

2. Hope – As much as you can get a hold of

3. Imagination – Enough to write a story but not enough to make the newest Epic

4. Motivation – Only enough to plan world domination but not execute it

5. “Chemical X” or Substitute with Ingredients below – Use sparingly (extremely

bitter)

a. Depression

b. Disappointment

c. Expectations

d. Isolation

e. Reality

f. Society

g. Unexpected Events

Procedure:

Step 1: Gather all ingredients.

Step 2: First mix in a large bowl Dreams and Motivation. Once combined, add in

Imagination until it looks like magic.

Step 3: Carefully add three drops of ‘Chemical X’ and make sure not to overmix or add

too much. Otherwise you must start over. No exceptions. *

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Step 4: Add in all the Hope possible to perfectly balance out the bitter taste of ‘Chemical

X’ and let stand for twenty-one years.

Step 5: Enjoy!

*Even if you have to start over, no matter how many times, it’s better than stagnation. Anything

is better than stagnation.