halyconicabditory - Tumblr blog

[halyconicabditory]

Explaining the layout / Table Of Contents

I used tumblr to create my portfolio as I am not computer science major, nor do I have the money to buy a website.

The layout is simply straight forward.

On the Left is an introduction as to what and why this website exists. Click the "sections" tab to find a link to my writing playlist if you would like to listen while you read, or know what I listen to while I write. Below is a search tab where you can use key words to find a specific piece or section or quote.

On the right is every piece I included in my portfolio.

It has started with my written responses to various excerpts and media we have gone over in class, or other writing.

500 words on your favorite trip

Amy Tans "Mother Tongue"

New Muslim Cool

Next Includes my timed writing pieces. These were held in discussion posts during class. We would have 10 minutes to respond to a prompt our professor had asked us to write about.

9/16

9/26

10/4

10/18

10/21

11/1

11/15

11/22

11/29

12/6

Followed by my papers I have written for this class.

P1: Pictures of you

P2: Names and Writing

P3: Nationality / Language

P4: Gender

Finally, it is complete with my thank you/special note to the reader about my experience with this class.

Don't Forget to click the "next" or "prev" at the bottom of the page to continue reading

[halyconicabditory]

500 Words on Your Favorite trip

It was 4:55am.  My alarm  had gone off and I quickly woke up and shut off the blaring noise coming from my phone. I looked around the room and saw my three friends still sound asleep. I grabbed a towel, put on my flip flops and my bag. I slipped out of our  hotel room and started walking towards the beach. It was  dark out,  the sky was turning a dark purple changing its hue from the pitch black it was not even 5 minutes ago. I laid the towel down on the beach and sat down. By every minute the sky was getting brighter, showing the silhouette of the birds in the sky. Their caws harmonized with the crash of the waves meeting the sand. I put my headphones in and watched the sunrise. 

I was 15. I was apart of a school trip to costa rica. It was the second to last day of our 11 day endeavor. I've gotten used to traveling by now. I had been overseas, i've been to multiple countries on multiple continents, but this was different, I wasn't with my family. It was a fun trip with my friends, it was 25 kids and two teachers with controlled  freedom. That also meant never being alone. You wake up sharing a bed with one person and the room with three other girls,  you ride the plane with everyone, you're exploring the countryside on the back of a horse with 25  other people. I just wanted to appreciate this gorgeous country for my own experience, something I didn't  have to share with everyone else. As selfish as that may be, I just preferred to be on own. Call me introverted, but as an only child,  it was something I grew to know.  I don't think I broke any rules. There was a curfew.  It was 10pm. But it was morning by now. There were days where we had woken up at 6am to go zip lining in the rain forests.  Besides, it was the hotel beach, I wasn't leaving property, and I wasn't going stray. I knew I would be safe, and I was. 

I sat on that beach towel, I had music playing in my ears. Even being so close to the equator the absence of the sun in the sky made the air nippy, but comfortable. My toes dug through the sand, covering them completely. I felt grounded and connected to this place, more than I was able to before. It was warm and it felt weird but it was nice. The waves were  bringing the water closer to be with every crash. My perspective with space was not very great, having to move every so often when the water start to  come in contact with my skin. Light started peaking through the horizon, with the glimpse of a  bright hole raising slowly.  A few people walked along the water. It was nice, knowing I wasn't completely alone but we were in our respected space. A bark in  the distance started getting louder with the incoming  vision of a dog  running  through  the  sand in  and out  of  the  water, tongue flapping through the air. What a lucky dog to live here. By now the sun was up and the sky lit up in pink and orange and blue.  The heat started to set and I could feel that it was my cue to head back. I picked myself up, brushed the sand off and headed back to the chaos of my group. 

[halyconicabditory]

Amy Tans "Mother Tongue"

I have loved Amy Tans work for years. I remember watching the Joy Luck Club with my head resting against my mothers lap as a child, and reading the book in middle school with a better understanding. I think when Tan writes about how she had caught herself saying "Not waste money that way" I relate a lot. When speaking with my mother or even texting, I look back and think what the hell did I just say? But I know that my mother would understand it, as she writes the same way. I love writing, I take pride in my essays, so looking over my botched wording irks me sometimes, but there isn't a lot of shame when I talk to my mom. I can relate to Amy Tan more than I expected. Must be a reason why I loved the Joy luck club, or how my mother and I would laugh at scenes when watching because of how comedically spot on certain situations can be. My mom came to America in 2001, two years before I was born and her english was very spotty back then. I know she faced a lot of racism towards the local PTA moms who would exclude her or laugh at my moms attempts of conversation. She was smart tho, she worked as the senior resident counselor in a half-way house helping others, she had a degree in psychology, yet a lot of people looked down on her and thought of her as nothing due to a language barrier. Throughout the years however, I found myself being able to translate my mothers broken english into regular, proper english as quick as I could read words on a page. It makes time go by easier, so I don't find it harmful. 

[halyconicabditory]

New Muslim Cool

New muslim cool is about a young(ish) rapper who changes his entire lifetsyle, devoted to the muslim faith. Growing up in Pittsburgh PA, Hamza (formally known as Jason) changes his life for one that he believes that is better, as he used to be involved in dangerous activities such as drug dealing. His family adapts, as they are puerto rican and catholic, and knew nothing of the muslim faith, but accepts him for his new path in life. His family is still shocked, as they worked hard to put them through catholic school, but is pleased with this outcome of having no drugs or alcohol active in their life. The documentary follows on how Hamza started his journey, as he was young and smoking on the street when a sheikh came up to him and  exposed him to the muslim lifestyle. Hamza begins to start a safe community for muslims, that attracts a large community that wants to live a clean and better lifestyle. Following muslin culture, Hamza met his wife on an online website, straight to marriage. 

Although Hamza is truly devoted to his new lifestyle, his past can and still follows him throughout his life. The mosque was raided while everyone inside was held at gunpoint, on the 4th of July. While it may not have been Hamza's own personal faults entirely, the post 9/11 world makes it harder for everyone in America who practices the religion. As things had began to start to die down, Hamza made an effort to collaborate with Carol Elkid, a jewish woman to share both practices among their religions to bring light through their poems. Hamza - dedicated to his craft and the possibilities of living a promising and clean life, focuses on his rap career. 

The unfortunate part, is that even though Hamza has changed his lifestyle and truly believes in what he stands for, the world we live in is truly stuck in a fear mongered state, post 9/11. I think the unfortunate past of Hamza did set him up, and carried with him leading to his arrest, but most Americans and the government are ignorant and hesitant to trust or believe anyone practicing the muslim religion out of pure xenophobia. We can see that Hamza truly wants to make a difference, but they do not care. A lot of people are blinded by their fear and what they were told to believe or hear. 

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Timed writing 9/16

How do you see yourself as a writer? Do you write any on your own?

Do you enjoy writing? Hate it? Struggle with it?

What are your strengths as a writer?

I can see myself as a writer. I end up writing in my journal most nights, depends if I have anything to say. I can't write poetry or anything other than a surplus of words that flow out of my brain onto paper or onto my computer.  I enjoy writing, but it depends if I have an itch to do so. If I am unmotivated or lack the expression or creativity, I struggle to sit in front of a blank page and get a few sentences down. But when i'm willing to, I can write for hours and waste pages with a bunch of words I l translated from my thoughts. I tend to repeat myself a lot and also start to lose track of what I write and go off topic loads of times. I would start with one idea and travel into 5 different topics that are somehow related, like a really bad game of telephone. I believe that my strengths are being able to describe a situation or feeling in a beautiful way, I think I can really dive into a topic if I focus on it.  

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Timed writing 9/26

What are the differences and similarities between a passport and a book, in terms of both physical appearance and what they contain or allow you to do? In what ways to they allow you to participate in other experiences?

Expand on the metaphor and remember, write as much as you can in the ten minutes you have.

Passports and books are the same thing when It comes to production. A thick paged cover that withholds pages within in. However, Books are what brings you into the life of someone else. Wether it be a fictional story from their own thoughts and personality, or a non fiction biography about someone else. Passports hold the individuals personality and their own story. Enclosed with your awkward government approved picture taken at the post office or the fluorescent lighted CVS and Wallgreens. Its small, compact and sturdy yet it holds your travel experiences and an official way to proclaim your identity. Books can transport you to different countries without the hassle of packing and TSA lines, they invite you to travel into the world of someone else and their life. Passports help you cross borders and help you create memories and stories to add to your own personal story. Passports almost act as children's books. Scarce writing, and the stamps act as illustrations that hold so much information without having to expand through words. Its colorful, its messy and it has the ability to influence you through what you do, as how books can inspire and teach through words and drawings, the decal printed by these stamps hold stories, experiences and life learned lessons that you can share to others or keep to yourself 

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Timed Writing 10/4

For today's Timed Writing, I want you to tell me about a favorite author or genre of yours. The genre could be fiction, nonfiction, sports, news, comics, online fiction etc.

You may or may not have a favorite book or author, but if you do, tell me what it is about them that you like so much?

My favorite author would have to be J D Salinger. I was introduced to him by catcher in the rye which is my favorite book, however I really love Franny and Zooey and For Esme with love. I think he is a wonder "contemporary" author, although having a few classics give or take. I dont read as much books as I used to, I do like reading articles, specifically from this online magazine called Rookie which is no longer running, but all their stuff is archived and able to view for the public. I read a good majority of the classics along with a bunch of young adult contemporary novels and poetry books. Recently I've been diving into comic books, my boyfriend is a huge fanatic and he gifted me about 6 comic books and im trying to read it all at the moment. 

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Timed Writing 10/18

8:36am

I hoped into bed last night at the early time of 10:30. I had just washed my face after spending the day watching movies instead of studying for my french midterm this morning. My overheated laptop warms the blanket it lays on, adding another factor of un-comfortability in my overheated room, saved by a $30 fan from bed bath and beyond. Time has tricked on and it was now 1am. The lights were turned off and it was a quiet space interrupted sporadicly by the creaks of the school issued bed with every toss and turn. A natural insomniac, I couldn't sleep. It was the worst mix of unease. The room was boiling, I was sweating, the fan blowing directly on me shared a chill calling for the blanket to cover me. The blanket created a sauna. The nerves of a midterm was running throughout my body. My stomach dropped and I was unaware if it was caused by hunger or nervousness. The dim light reflects off my face and creates a halo against my wall. Mindlessly scrolling through tiktok, switching through games of solitaire on my phone. "I need to go to sleep" I think to myself. I check the time. 3:45. Oh my god. I need to go to sleep. I set three alarms. 7:30, 7:45 and 8am. I turn my phone off and I close my eyes. I toss and I turn again. "Ok, maybe If I scroll through tiktok again it will make me tired". It did. I wake up to the annoying tone of an alarm. I toss and turn. I wake up again to the noise of the alarm. I toss and turn. I wake up AGAIN to the toss of the alarm. I look at my phone. Its 7:45. I turn off the remainder of the alarms. I will just close my eyes for five minutes. I started to dream and for some reason the most interesting and most remembered dreams happen in the period of time I was to rest for 5 extra minutes. The dream was all over the place. Rooms connecting rooms that are located in different areas. Friends hanging out with friends who dont know each other in the real world. My boyfriend shows me an email he recieves on his phone. The time: 8:36am. I jolt up. I awaken with fear. I look at my phone. It is 8:36am. I leap out of bed and rush to put on my clothes and run to my 9:05 class, in time for my midterm

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Timed Writing 10/21

After watching the John Green video, how would you describe those individuals or communities that most contributed to you learning something. This doesn't have to be academic. It could be social, sports, music, dance, online communities etc. How do you define "community"?

In real life, i am surrounded by a music community. From elementary to my underclassman years in high school, I was in a very strong, chorical and classical musical community.  From learning notes, to how to play them to singing them to performing them. Then in my sophomore year of high school, i leaned away from the performing aspect and dove into the music I enjoyed on my freetime (i.e 90s rock, alt, psych and modern psych, indie etc etc). I started making friends with friends who were starting bands. I ended up becoming their manager, scheduling house and garage and basement shows, I was their personal photographer and I would end up helping produce their music that they would put on spotify and bandcamp and soundcloud to share. I started to be surrounded by a community who loves the same kind of music. I ended up having a very solid and fun group of friends to hang out with. 

My boyfriend is a part of a very active online film community. They communicate a lot on comics, and movies they enjoy. They all met on twitter and instagram I think, and they all have an online podcast they make discussing popular interests in the film and pop culture community. Theyre able to make this via discord due to the fact that some people live in NY, some in flordia, north carolina, pennsylvania and even London. Dedicated, they meet up once a year in North Carolina for a few weeks, and they shoot short film, and other directorial projects. Theyve done this for a few year and are all very close friends. I am not apart of it by association, but also made a name for myself rather than just "the girlfriend" and am able to express myself and my interests, since I am very interested in film. 

[halyconicabditory]

Timed Writing 11/1

We are 3 papers into the semester. Of the 3 assignments we've had, which has been your favorite and/or the easiest for you to write about? What kind of writing or assignments do you prefer? What has been your greatest challenge with these papers? What have you learned about your own writing process?

Have you begun to notice any themes or connections emerging from the papers you have been writing or the things we have been discussing in class?

Creative writing has always been easy for me. Writing is very much a flow process for me, I struggle with writing drafts or writing days before the assignment is due. I think the stress of having something done in a limited time urges me to write faster. I really enjoyed the names paper. It was an opportunity for me to reach out and connect with my mom and learn more about her and myself. I think the theme is just being able to explore ourself and where we come from and who we are. 

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Timed Writing 11/15

For this Timed Writing, describe the importance of collecting to you. Did you collect something when you were younger? Do you now? (Music, baseball cards, books etc.) Do you have a special place for your stuff?

When I was younger I used to steal cassettes and CDs from my parents and keep them to myself. I would shelve them in my bookcase in my room and listen to them constantly. I still do, I added vinyl records to my collection of physical music now. In middle school I had received a record player. I spent my years now collecting music new and old. Going to the local record store and buying 15 $1 records of albums from the 40s -80s. I watch out for record store day to find limited and one of a kind records. I have a lot of pride in it. It reflects my music taste and commitment to it.

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Timed writing 11/22

Where have you been? Where are you now? Where are you going?

If I could draw out my life or even the past few months on a piece of paper, It would not be a straight line, or a curved line like a 7 year olds lazy attempt of drawing a rollercoaster. My canvas would be thick and be the incomplete picture of something you would not be able to figure out yet, as it is not finished. Everything is shaded. A good balance of brightly colored shades and the grey ink of a pencil. There are no straight lines. The pencil and what I could imagine of only oil pastels clash against each other, contrasting each others significance. The bright colored oil pastels represent the wonderfulness and happy times I have had. The led shading from light to dark blends as it has also been tough, but I don't know what causes it other than my depression that slips through the cracks it finds in my mind. Regardless, it still looks beautiful. I might have blessed to find beauty and art through whatever mood I am in. Sometimes I feel as if I am mad as my best creativity and urges to create, write and experience is when I am at my worst. I look at Poe, Path, Woolf, Satler. They have created masterpieces in their despair, and it worked.

Winter is hard. It always is. I find it beautiful no matter what. There is beauty in everything but the silence is what ties it all together. I love blue hour, or twilight in my early or late days. Winter brings a grey hour. The snow that lays over everything it can touch, reflecting onto the sky, where everything looks grey. Winter makes school tough on me, I lose all motivation, I lose myself, I lose my grades. But I have done it before, and I will do it again.

[halyconicabditory]

Timed Writing 11/29

What are your 5 tips for writing?

Write when It comes to you, do not force it

Have a good playlist in the background to listen to

Write what you know

Be in a place that makes you feel comfortable, whether it be physically or mentally

Write for a reason

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The final timed writing 12/6

How do you see yourself as a writer? Has anything changed for you? Is it still difficult? Have you found new muscles (to quote Coates in that video)? Have you come to enjoy it? Do you still maybe not like it, but have you found it something that you can do?

Every time I get the chance to write for a period of time, I start to believe I am a better writer than I was before. I also get an idea of "maybe I could do this for a living if I just write everyday". I think I'll keep it in my back pocket and write for myself and for my own personal enjoyment as I go on. I think I really needed the push with the prompts that were given to me, as I do lack in creativity when it comes to starting an essay or entry of sorts. I definitely feel a lot more confident in what I put out now. 

[halyconicabditory]

P1: Pictures of You

The sky glistens with red and orange streaking through the light blue sky. I sit at the back of the car moving around with the blankets and pillows tossing around every time the tires of the car rolled over every crack in the road or every branch that fell and took its place on the ground. My stomach was uneasy and I gripped the bottle of water in my hands. It was six AM and we had started to make our way to the top of the mountain. However, it wasn’t just any mountain, it was a volcano on the island of Maui in Hawaii. The roads were cut up by ripped black tar, abraded by time. Surrounded by greenery, there was comfort in the trees blurring as we drove past them. Every minute we started to drive higher up from the starting point, which was closer to the sea, grounded by the earth. 

The height wasn’t what I was afraid of. Being up in the clouds with the birds in the sky is not something I dread in my days. I was not even fearful. It was the lingering feeling of a survivor's PTSD. That sounds so silly. I was in no war, I was just at the wrong place at the wrong time. November of 2017 to be exact. Instead of my normal habitat, the cold and bustling New York, I was on the Island of Bali, covered in rain forests, and palm trees, and instead of native New York jumbo rats, there were monkeys along the road. Whispers of an active volcano since August were going through one ear and out the other. It could burst at any second, or it could remain calm, it was unclear, you were just filled with wishful thinking that it wouldn't happen when you were there. Everything was alright and calm when we embarked on our trip to the island. It was beautiful. Clear blue waters, bright skies, and the smell of rain and plants wafted through the air. We had started our trip at the southernmost tip of the Island. Surrounded by tourists, restaurants, and beaches, It was truly a paradise. We decided to spend our week endeavoring to travel throughout the island, hotel hopping for experience and accommodating travel locations. Life was good. Until it didn’t. The volcano had erupted, shaking the earth's ground, the hotel floor, and our plans. It was as if we had attracted bad luck as the hotel we were staying at that night had ended up being the closest one to the volcano. Panic had sunk in, the lobby was filled with a lot of angry and scared Australian accents demanding hotel staff to accommodate them, as equally scared natives were trying to go home or were forced to stay and work for the luxury of others. Everyone else was calm like they were preparing for something they already knew, and I guess they did know how to survive volcanic eruptions, it was preparing everything like the Jersey shore does during Hurricane season, but I didn’t understand. I was just some girl from New York, I had felt so small and so helpless. This was the norm for them, and they encouraged us to go out and experience life as it is. We spent the next day exploring the area, treading lightly, having to take shelter in local shacks and huts every time a burst went out. We would come home to show a trail of ash falling out of my hair as I rinsed it out and tried not to slip every time the building shook. I am not a fearful person, but my body jumped and tingled with every thunderclap and roar of this mountain as I tried to sleep that night, following into the morning, when they had to evacuate us from that area of the island. We ended up shortening our trip when there was news that flights were being canceled in and out of this small island. We headed to the airport and were greeted by the packs of people that were common for areas like JFK, but not the local airport on Bali. Our flight was delayed due to congestion on the runway, and flights were being canceled all around us. Time went by and nerves were reeling through. After three hours, we were finally able to board. Landing back In a surrounding country which was where my mom was from, greeted by familiar faces of aunts, uncles, and cousins. Enthused and glad we arrived as they informed us all flights were grounded and canceled shortly after we departed. I was feeling lucky and assured as ever, but the feeling of guilt and uneasiness filled up my emotions. Why were we so lucky? What will happen to everyone that is stuck there? What now?

That was 4 years ago. I am humbled and very grateful my parents have taken me on their excursions around the world. I don’t fight our trips or debate what we should do, except for when my parents announced we would go to the top of Haleakala. I enjoy hiking, it is one of my favorite pastimes when I'm home, bored and I want to go out. However, after one google search, I was hesitant to step foot near this mountain. It was a dormant volcano and was known for its beautiful sunrise over the clouds. But an inexplicable feeling crowded my gut, fear, and uneasiness. I went along with it and got into the car at the break of dawn. The sky was dark but some stars shone through, reflecting over the water. It somehow enlighted a sign of hope through my fears. Over time the nerves were kicking in like I kept getting shots of adrenaline put into me. The sky was getting brighter and looked so beautiful it seemed mystical. The higher we went, the more clouds we drove through. The white fog started to surround our car, almost mimicking the fog of despair flowing through me. I didn't realize it was some sort of PTSD, but I kept remembering the feeling of ash falling on my skin, the way it felt on my skin and burned my eyes. I remembered the feeling of lying awake and being awoken by the sounds of thunder. The feeling of officials yelling at us to turn around and leave the island. That feeling wasn’t something I enjoyed remembering. I put my headphones on to drown my thoughts and looked out the window. We arrived at the top and parked in a lot that was at around 8,000 feet. The top reached around 10,000. It was cold, colder than down below near sea level. It was desert-like too, the greenery had disappeared about 3,000 feet lower and the ground was covered by sand and rocks. My dad and I climbed to the top, where my mom stayed in the car because she was the one with a fear of heights. I felt silly, of course. I knew it was dormant, but just the idea of Volcanoes freaked me out. Mice and lizards scurried in and out of rocks, crossing our paths and disappearing into little holes in the ground. The wind was strong and whistled in the air, getting noisy as we got higher. Then we reached the top. It was beautiful. More than words can describe. The clouds sat nicely along the curves of the mountain around us. The sun glistened through the cracks of the clouds and was rising by the minute. I took a look out and saw the craters of where the volcano had erupted years ago. A deep breath here and a deep breath there, and then I noticed how still everything was. The clouds were moving slowly but steadily. The shape of the horizon made it look like the sky hugged the earth. The sound of the wind started to blend with the deafening silence. Everything was still, everything besides my hair flowing with the wave of the wind. I looked around and realized how small I was but From a different perspective than last time. I could imagine this very thing I was standing on were to explode, I can only do so much. I took another deep breath in and slowly exhaled. It was tough to breathe up here, but I was able to do it. More sense seemed to come in as I exhaled my fear and nerves. This wasn’t going to explode. I was not going to die and I just needed to enjoy where I am and realize life moves on and so will I.

[halyconicabditory]

P2: Names and Writing

Jackson? Here. Jamie? Here. Jessica? uh, Jess uh Jocelyn? um, I'm sorry is it, Jess.. e .. lyn? My cheeks fill with heat and I can tell they're getting redder by the millisecond. I raise my hand, my throat feels clogged, and I clear it. "It's Jess. You can call me Jess, It's easier." I slouch down trying to melt with the chair, unnoticeable by those who surround me. What a stupid name I think to myself, I wish it was easier. Embarrassment lingers in my head, and it will repeat at least three more times with a different teacher with the same butchered pronunciation this semester, and again for the rest of my life. However, That’s now, Let’s go back a few years.

On an archipelago, 180 degrees from where I was born, was my mother in 1997, 6 years before I was born. She was always smart and she always thought outside of the box. On her normal nine-to-five Monday through Friday work day, she headed to her office. Respected, well-known, and hard-working. She didn’t need another job, but she thought about her future. She wanted a place of her own, a house for herself, her soon-to-be husband, a few kids, and many dogs. She knew there would be an easier way to obtain a good house, at least from the inside. She called a familiar friend to get her foot in the door, and on her lunch breaks, she would read real estate books here and there. And just like that, she was ready to sell her first house. Give and take a few real estate legalities, there were no strings attached. Just a prominent woman and free weekends, she was ready for her first open house. Weeks went by, no buyers, but she didn’t give up. She was persistent. One day a lady came in with her young daughter, with a name my mom had never heard before. Jesselyn. “It's french,” said the lady. “It means hard-working and successful woman” My mom fell in love with the name. It was unique, it captured what my mother wanted her future to be, similar to her, hard-working. She had a good feeling, maybe it was the name, maybe it was her commitment to her dream, but she sold her first house, to an unsuspecting woman, and her daughter, Jesselyn (JESS Lean) . Two houses later, a broken-off engagement and a one-way ticket to America, my mother arrived in New York in 2001. Fast forward a year later the feeling she had when she sold her first house lingered back to when she met my father. 14 months later, adamant about choosing the name of her firstborn daughter, I was born.

In a predominately white suburb of New York City, just 45 minutes north was an elementary school packed with eager 4 and 5-year-olds embarking on the start of their educational lives. A chorus of “Hi’s”, “Hello’s” and “I like your spiderman backpack” echoed through a colorful classroom. “What’s your name?” asked an eager 5-year-old boy named Tommy, knuckles deep in his nose. “I think her name is Jesselyn,” said our kindergarten teacher in an elongated and heavy vowel-toned voice. “Are you ok with Jess?” Bright-eyed, eager 4-year-old me went along with it. I didn’t want any trouble, I was four! Sheepishly, I believed I had to agree. For the rest of my primary and secondary school years, I went by the nickname “Jess”. Hiding the latter of my name, hiding also the uniqueness that went along with it. For 13 Years I lived through the facade of “Jess”. A normal, all-American name, for a normal, all-American girl. People I’ve never met insist they know the true way of pronouncing my name, even including my dad, who pronounces it as “Jess uh lin”. Butchering the accent with their American tongue, convincing me to even doubt my mother, who gave me the name. I have never met anyone with the same name as me. Never, until I walked into my french class on a Friday morning at 9:05 am. I took my seat and the professor walked in and jumped right into attendance. “Jesselyn?” “Here,” I said in unison with the girl sitting directly to my right. We both laugh and look at each other. “Oh my god,” we speak at the same time again. The professor continues on as we reside in our own small talk. “Have you ever met anyone with the same name?” “No.” wow. It was too good to be true. I asked her “How do you spell your name?” She responds. Perfectly announcing each letter until she skips the second E and goes straight to the L. “J E S S L Y N” aha! Not quite the same, unique on its own as well. We bond over shared experiences of mispronunciation and awkward roll call happenings. I haven’t spoken to her since the first day of class. Maybe the interrelation was too weird. Maybe we wanted to be our own as we have our entire life. A friendly wave and hello here and there, but never in-depth as our first encounter. 

The experience I have with the name goes deeper than I realized. It was not just an uneasiness with myself. It turned out to be some weird internalized racism I felt towards my mother, and who I was. Angry at why she had chosed such an obscure, nonconforming name. I did not blend in. It made me stuck out. No one besides my mother and her family and friends could pronounce it correctly. Oblivious to my own inner racist tendencies, going along with my father and my American friends, mimicking my mothers accent when she yells my name. I am older and I do regret it. I have a deeper understanding. My name might be weird, but I was born here, I speak a universal language, I fit in with or without using my full name. My mother, who worked endlessly and started a new life in a new country is who experiences this endless racism. Born as Indahwati (In - duh - wat - tee) in her country, she was also given the name Aylie ( I - Lee) , as her Chinese name. Before ever stepping foot on American soil she went by Indah (In - duh), Indahwati and Aylie. Beautiful names that I adore. While starting her new life she was forced to adapt and start a new american name. Ellie (El - lee). No one would ever dare to even pronounce Indahwati, and Aylie was too confusing. She took her name Aylie, and changed it to Ellie. Hearing my father refer to my mother as Ellie has made me sad recently. The lack of respect or courtesy to attempt to say her name, choosing the easy way out.  Researching the origins of my name has led me to a deep dive that not only exposed the importance of my name but also the importance of self worth, character and psychological impact it has had on me and my mother as well.

I don’t know why I’ve always been ashamed of my name. It eases over as time goes on and I learn more about myself and being able to be comfortable in my own skin and what I would respond to when the call of my name is being said out loud. I can not help but wonder if maybe under different circumstances regarding where I was born and where I grew up If I wouldn't be taught to be disappointed and to hide my name.

[halyconicabditory]

P3: Nationality/Language

The whir of the toilet flushing in the background blended with the sink, flowing water crashing with my toothbrush and I stared into the mirror. I looked into the mirror. It was a blank stare. Like an endless staring contest with someone, I could not figure it out. A constant crisis of my identity. Who am I? Suddenly It was quiet, the water blended into a white noise that became nonexistent. I just stared, stared, and stared. Until I blinked. Reality had resumed and I dragged the toothpaste onto my toothbrush and continued getting ready. This was my morning routine for years in my later middle school and early high school years. Wake up, go to the bathroom, stare at myself, get dressed, and go to school. I did not know who I was, and it troubled me for a while. I felt as if my clothes and my skin were just me acting in a weird simulated video game. Who am I?

My loving parents could not be as different as they were similar. They both loved the same music, having duplicate copies of Santana and Enya, and Michael Jackson on CDs that piled up in our outdated entertainment center under our TV. They both had the most interesting lives before meeting and creating a life together, and me. A half-white, half-Asian kid living in a white suburban area. My mom had taught me her culture and her language as I grew up in a different, Americanized setting. What was normal to me was weird and strange to my friends and teachers. Superstitions, foods, and ways of acting had made me alienated from the people around me. It was not normal to take your shoes off every time you stepped into someone's house or to take them off before stepping onto a rug when it was reading time in your kindergarten classroom. It was not normal to feel guilty if you did not finish every crumb left on your plate due to generational fallacy. It sounds ridiculous. How do you not know what you look like? It was difficult. I was half -Asian, half-white. There weren't mixed kids like me in my school. They were either all white, and there were 5 other Asian kids. the other Asian kids acted a lot more "Asian" than I did, so I assumed I was white. I felt so alone in these ideologies and experiences. However growing up, I took on Americanized ideas that my mom did not agree with. The idea of Halloween freaked her out, and hanging out with friends on school days was just blasphemous to her. There were days when my mom would work late which would excite me because the only time I was allowed to watch Disney channel was when my dad was home and my mom would not find out. These were the subtle occasions and nit-picky cultural differences that made me want to break away from my mom's side and the culture that was taught to me at such a young age. I had felt so excluded from the normal American lifestyle that I wanted so badly. An American culture that I thought I had fit in so well.

I grew up visiting both sides of my family. 24-hour flights at the age of 6, only to be reminded of how American I was and how I was so strange to the people I could understand so well. It went hand in hand with winter road trips to my aunts upstate and occasional family dinners at my uncle's. The constant appraisals and jokes on how I look so much like my mother and nothing like my father. I had his nose but lacked the blue eyes and blonde hair he carried. I did not understand what they were talking about. In an ignorant and clueless way, I thought they were all joking. I truly believed I looked and acted like an all-American girl. I sure acted that way, I would talk back to my parents, I would fight over bedtimes and I would beg for Mcdonald's. In these ways, I was treated like an American child, so I believed I looked like one. It wasn't my fault. There were no iPhones and selfies and I was limited to the amount of Asian representation in the media. It was the early 2000s. My skin was as light as my father's, and my eyes were squinted like my mother's, but I wasn't looking into my own eyes, I saw what was visible to me, and that was the color of a fair light peach tone. It did not have a hue of a beautiful yellow like my mother's. I was oblivious to things I could not understand yet. These comments from opposing family members and classmates were so odd to me. The adults were nicer, but I still dealt with playful racism that was disguised as racism. I lived through this until I could understand what it was. It started to sneak up on me. I was dealing with the hardships of puberty and emotions that were growing by the hour. I was feeling so sad and developed a deep insecurity.

I didn't know who I was, and I didn't like how I was being perceived by everyone else. I had no one to relate to, except for one girl, adopted from china and we were great friends. Or so I thought, It took me a while to understand that maybe I was looking for more friends who were similar to me, and overlooked all her qualities and how she was ultimately a bad friend. I was limited in my friends, It was a mix of the casual racism in my community and how I was also extremely shy and introverted. I didn't talk to a bunch of people but I had my school friends, friends who I would sit next to in class and walk in the hallways with, but never after school, and the ones I did hang out with, it was never lasting, I went through cycles of friend groups until I felt comfortable. I spent a great deal of my time online. I kept headphones on and spent my free time listening to music, watching movies, reading books, and having online discussions. I had gotten really into a lot of alternative 90s 10's music and new wave stuff from the 80s. Not a lot of people around me listened to that stuff. I spent my free time doing theater and found a great community in that, that was so accepting of everyone. This carried onto high school. Through our fall play, "She Kills Monsters" set in the 90s we were able to collaborate on a playlist that went along with the show that introduced me to my friends with similar taste in music. This helped me find a group of people who we grew up with sharing interesting and helped shape each other, where we felt the most comfortable. I started spending most of my time with them and they became a second family. I found an identity along with them and they helped me be more comfortable with who I was, where I was from, and what I looked like. 

I am not delusional anymore. I know what I look like, and throughout the past 5 years, I have accepted and become more comfortable with who I am. I am American, I am an American girl, but I carry along with me a history of culture and language that I keep special towards my mother and her community. It sort of is a double life, or my mom's side is like a not-so-secret side of me that I have. I can only strive in my future to understand more than I know because it is never too late and you can never stop learning. The people in my life are uber-specific, and it makes me who I am.