First Grade

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“Don’t cry,” my mother tells me. I am in first grade, with a pretty knapsack and a lunch she packed me, and first grade always made me cry. “But I want to stay with you.” It was, to my five-year-old self, the most dramatic thing that I had to spend the whole day away from her, and I didn’t understand it. “You’ll be home soon.” -- “Don’t cry,” my mother tells me. It’s a habit that, as a twenty-something year old woman, I pretend I had grown out of. I’m sitting on her couch writing poetry – a piece from San Francisco that would one day become a friend’s housewarming present – and airplanes always made me cry. “I’ll just miss you, that’s all.” “You’ll be home in a few months.” None of us could have predicted a fucking pandemic that had probably already started, or known the next time I’d come back would be almost two years later. -- “I told you not to cry,” but I know she is also crying. She has stage four colorectal cancer, and we both wrote a piece with the exact sam...
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To New Beginnings

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I found this quite by accident. It is a post titled All Beginnings are Hard, that I wrote in some dazed state in my first two weeks in this city.

𝑆𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑡𝑖𝑚𝑒𝑠 𝑝𝑒𝑜𝑝𝑙𝑒 𝑠𝑎𝑦 𝑒𝑥𝑎𝑐𝑡𝑙𝑦 𝑤ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑛𝑒𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝑜 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑟.

𝑆𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑡𝑖𝑚𝑒𝑠 𝑖𝑡’𝑠 ℎ𝑎𝑟𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑏𝑒 𝑎𝑢𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑐, 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑓𝑒𝑎𝑟 𝑜𝑓 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑜𝑓𝑓 𝑎𝑠 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑜𝑓 𝑎 𝑙𝑢𝑛𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑐 𝑖𝑛 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑛𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑎 𝑔𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑝 𝑜𝑓 𝑠𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑟𝑠. 𝑊ℎ𝑦 𝑑𝑖𝑑 𝐼 𝑐ℎ𝑜𝑜𝑠𝑒 𝑃ℎ𝑖𝑙𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑙𝑝ℎ𝑖𝑎? 𝑇𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑡𝑢𝑑𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑠 𝑎𝑡 𝑃𝑒𝑛𝑛, 𝑡𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑚𝑒𝑑𝑖𝑐𝑎𝑙 𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑐ℎ𝑒𝑟, 𝑡𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑓𝑜𝑙𝑘𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑚𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑑 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑗𝑜𝑏𝑠, 𝐼 𝑓𝑒𝑒𝑙 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝐼 𝑛𝑒𝑒𝑑 𝑎 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑜𝑛 𝑏𝑜𝑟𝑑𝑒𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑜𝑛 𝑙𝑜𝑔𝑖𝑐𝑎𝑙. 𝑊ℎ𝑦 ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒? 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑡𝑟𝑢𝑡ℎ 𝑖𝑠 𝐼 ℎ𝑎𝑑 𝑎 𝑚𝑎𝑝 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑈𝑛𝑖𝑡𝑒𝑑 𝑆𝑡𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑠, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝐼 𝑛𝑎𝑟𝑟𝑜𝑤𝑒𝑑 𝑑𝑜𝑤𝑛. 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑡𝑟𝑢𝑡ℎ 𝑖𝑠 𝐼’𝑚 𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑎 ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑠𝑒 𝐼 𝑠𝑎𝑤 𝑖𝑛 𝑎 𝑑𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑚, 𝐼’𝑚 𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑛𝑒𝑐𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑠𝑜 𝐼 ℎ𝑎𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑐ℎ𝑜𝑜𝑠𝑒 𝑎 𝑐𝑖𝑡𝑦 𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝐼 𝑑𝑖𝑑 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤 𝑎𝑛𝑦𝑜𝑛𝑒. 𝑆𝑡𝑎𝑟𝑡 𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑜𝑛 𝑚𝑦 𝑜𝑤𝑛 𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑚𝑠.

𝐴𝑙𝑙 𝑏𝑒𝑔𝑖𝑛𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠 𝑎𝑟𝑒 ℎ𝑎𝑟𝑑. 𝐼𝑡 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑎 𝑠𝑝𝑒𝑒𝑐ℎ 𝑖𝑛 𝑎 𝑐𝑟𝑜𝑤𝑑𝑒𝑑 𝑠ℎ𝑢𝑙 𝑔𝑖𝑣𝑒𝑛 𝑏𝑦 𝑎 𝑠𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑟 𝑜𝑛 𝑚𝑦 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑟𝑑 𝑑𝑎𝑦 𝑖𝑛 𝑡𝑜𝑤𝑛. 𝑂𝑛 𝑚𝑦 𝑏𝑖𝑟𝑡ℎ𝑑𝑎𝑦. 𝑊ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝐼’𝑑 𝑠𝑘𝑖𝑝𝑝𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝑖𝑚𝑒 𝑧𝑜𝑛𝑒𝑠 𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑤𝑒𝑒𝑘, 𝑎𝑡𝑒 𝑚𝑦 𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑛𝑒𝑟𝑠 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚 𝑎 𝑏𝑎𝑔. 𝑊ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝑖𝑡 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑓𝑖𝑛𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑦 𝑠𝑜 𝑠𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑏𝑒 𝑠𝑢𝑟𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑑 𝑏𝑦 𝑠𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑟𝑠. 𝐴𝑙𝑙 𝑏𝑒𝑔𝑖𝑛𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠 𝑎𝑟𝑒 ℎ𝑎𝑟𝑑.

𝐼 𝑤𝑎𝑛𝑡 𝑡𝑜 𝑡𝑒𝑙𝑙 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑚 𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑖𝑔𝑛𝑠. 𝐴𝑏𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑎 𝑠𝑡𝑟𝑒𝑒𝑡. 𝐴𝑏𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑎 𝑛𝑎𝑚𝑒. 𝑃𝑖𝑛 𝑎 𝑚𝑎𝑝 𝑡𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑑𝑎𝑟𝑡𝑏𝑜𝑎𝑟𝑑 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑠ℎ𝑜𝑜𝑡 𝑛𝑜𝑟𝑡ℎ 𝑜𝑓 𝑇𝑒𝑥𝑎𝑠. 𝐼 𝑤𝑎𝑛𝑡 𝑡𝑜 𝑡𝑒𝑙𝑙 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑚, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑦𝑒𝑡 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑏𝑒 𝑑𝑒𝑓𝑖𝑛𝑒𝑑 𝑏𝑦 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑠𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠. 𝑆𝑡𝑎𝑟𝑡 𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑟. 𝐴 𝑐𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑛 𝑠𝑙𝑎𝑡𝑒. 𝑆𝑜𝑚𝑒ℎ𝑜𝑤 𝑡𝑜 𝑏𝑒𝑔𝑖𝑛 𝑓𝑟𝑒𝑠ℎ 𝑦𝑒𝑡 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑦 𝑡𝑟𝑢𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑚𝑦 ℎ𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑟𝑦, 𝑔𝑢𝑖𝑑𝑒𝑑 𝑏𝑦 𝑚𝑦 𝑝𝑎𝑠𝑡, 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑑𝑒𝑓𝑖𝑛𝑒𝑑.

𝑇𝑜 𝑛𝑒𝑤 𝑏𝑒𝑔𝑖𝑛𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠. 𝐴 𝑡𝑜𝑎𝑠𝑡 𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑘𝑖𝑡𝑐ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑤𝑒𝑒𝑘 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑓𝑖𝑟𝑠𝑡 𝑑𝑎𝑦. 𝐴 𝑙𝑖𝑡𝑡𝑙𝑒 𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑙𝑚𝑒𝑑, 𝑎𝑙𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑦 𝑑𝑟𝑢𝑛𝑘 𝑏𝑒𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑒 𝑑𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑜𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑖𝑚𝑝𝑙𝑖𝑐𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑚𝑦 𝑛𝑒𝑤 𝑏𝑒𝑔𝑖𝑛𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔. 𝐸𝑥𝑎𝑐𝑡𝑙𝑦 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑𝑠 𝐼 𝑛𝑒𝑒𝑑𝑒𝑑.


𝑇ℎ𝑖𝑠 ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑠𝑒 𝑖𝑠 𝑎 𝑐𝑟𝑜𝑠𝑠𝑟𝑜𝑎𝑑𝑠. 𝐴𝑟𝑒 𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑚𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑠 𝑖𝑛 𝑡𝑖𝑚𝑒 𝑗𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑎 𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑠𝑖𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛?
𝑇𝑜 𝑚𝑒, 𝑛𝑒𝑤 𝑡𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑙𝑑 𝑜𝑓 𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑏𝑙𝑒 𝑝𝑖𝑙𝑙𝑎𝑟𝑠, 𝑎𝑢𝑡𝑢𝑚𝑛 𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑣𝑒𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑟𝑒𝑑-𝑝𝑎𝑣𝑒𝑑 𝑠𝑡𝑟𝑒𝑒𝑡𝑠.
𝑇𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑚𝑎𝑛 𝑤ℎ𝑜 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑦𝑠 ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑛𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑦 𝑤𝑒𝑒𝑘.
𝑇𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑏𝑜𝑦 𝑤ℎ𝑜 𝑐ℎ𝑜𝑠𝑒 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑜𝑤𝑛 ℎ𝑜𝑚𝑒, 𝑑𝑎𝑟𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑐𝑎𝑟𝑣𝑒 𝑜𝑢𝑡 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑜𝑤𝑛 𝑟𝑒𝑓𝑢𝑔𝑒 𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑐𝑒.
𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑏𝑢𝑠 𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑝. 𝐴 𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑖𝑛. 𝑅𝑎𝑖𝑛, 𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑠𝑒𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑢𝑛 𝑔𝑙𝑖𝑚𝑝𝑠𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ 𝑡ℎ𝑒 ℎ𝑜𝑟𝑖𝑧𝑜𝑛. 𝑆𝑢𝑟𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑑 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑠𝑒𝑙𝑓 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑠𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑟𝑠 𝑜𝑛 𝑏𝑟𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡𝑙𝑦 𝑙𝑖𝑡 𝑠𝑡𝑟𝑒𝑒𝑡𝑠. 𝑇ℎ𝑖𝑠 ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑠𝑒 𝑖𝑠 𝑎 𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑠𝑖𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛.


𝐿𝑎𝑠𝑡 𝑛𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝐼 𝑑𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑚𝑒𝑑 𝑎𝑏𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑖𝑚𝑝𝑜𝑠𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑐𝑖𝑡𝑦 𝑠𝑡𝑟𝑒𝑒𝑡𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑎𝑛𝑐𝑖𝑒𝑛𝑡 𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑛𝑒. 𝐼 𝑤𝑎𝑛𝑡 𝑡𝑜 𝑡𝑎𝑘𝑒 𝑖𝑡 𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑖𝑛. 𝐵𝑒𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑜𝑛 𝑚𝑦 𝑜𝑤𝑛, 𝑓𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑐𝑜𝑙𝑜𝑟𝑠, 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑦 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑜𝑛𝑠 𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑒. 𝑊𝑎𝑙𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑑𝑜𝑤𝑛 𝑚𝑦 𝑠𝑡𝑟𝑒𝑒𝑡, 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑎𝑚𝑒 𝑠𝑡𝑟𝑒𝑒𝑡 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑡𝑒𝑛 𝑦𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑠, 𝑑𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑜𝑓 𝑎 𝑤𝑎𝑦 𝑜𝑢𝑡. 𝐼 𝑤𝑎𝑛𝑡 𝑡𝑜 𝑓𝑒𝑒𝑙 𝑏𝑒𝑖𝑛𝑔 ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒. 𝑀𝑎𝑟𝑣𝑒𝑙 𝑎𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑐𝑖𝑡𝑦. 𝐿𝑒𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑣𝑒𝑙 𝑜𝑓 𝑖𝑡 𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑛𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑒𝑛𝑑.

And when we all pull out of this, it shall be this new again.

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