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It does no harm to the romance of the sunset to know a little about it. —Pale Blue Dot, Carl Sagan
Do I dare Disturb the universe? In a minute there is time For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse. —The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, T. S. Eliot
To make a thing as simple as an apple pie, you have to create the whole wide world.
I don’t believe in fate. But I’m desperate.
Desperation makes us compromise our principles, beliefs. And it really shows how fragile those beliefs are, to crumble so easily in the face of adversity.
For most immigrants, moving to the new country is an act of faith. Even if you’ve heard stories of safety, opportunity, and prosperity, it’s still a leap to remove yourself from your own language, people, and country. Your own history. What if the stories weren’t true? What if you couldn’t adapt? What if you weren’t wanted in the new country?
In Korea, the family name came first and told the entire history of your ancestry. In America, the family name is called the last name. Dae Hyun said it showed that Americans think the individual is more important than the family.
Names are powerful things. They act as an identity marker and a kind of map, locating you in time and geography. More than that, they can be a compass.
Desperation translates into every language.
People say these things to make sense of the world. Secretly, in their heart of hearts, almost everyone believes that there’s some meaning, some willfulness to life. Fairness. Basic decency. Good things happen to good people. Bad things only happen to bad people. No one wants to believe that life is random. My dad says he doesn’t know where my cynicism comes from, but I’m not a cynic. I am a realist. It’s better to see life as it is, not as you wish it to be. Things don’t happen for a reason. They just happen.
Everyone’s got someplace to be. Finding God is not on the schedule.
I’d give anything to really want the life my parents want for me. Life would be easier if I were passionate about wanting to be a doctor. Being a doctor seems like one of those things you’re supposed to be passionate about. Saving lives and all that. But all I feel is meh.
People spend their whole lives looking for love. Poems and songs and entire novels are written about it. But how can you trust something that can end as suddenly as it begins?
I can’t think of anything clever or witty to say. I’m having trouble thinking and looking at her at the same time.
There’s a Japanese phrase that I like: koi no yokan. It doesn’t mean love at first sight. It’s closer to love at second sight. It’s the feeling when you meet someone that you’re going to fall in love with them. Maybe you don’t love them right away, but it’s inevitable that you will.
But the poetic heart is not to be trusted. It is fickle and will lead you astray. It will tell you that all you need is love and dreams. It will say nothing about food and water and shelter and money. It will tell you that this person, the one in front of you, the one who caught your eye for whatever reason, is the One. And he is. And she is. The One—for right now, until his heart or her heart decides on someone else or something else. The poetic heart is not to be trusted with long-term decision-making. I know all these things. I know them the way I know that Polaris, the North Star, is not
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If people who were actually born here had to prove they were worthy enough to live in America, this would be a much less populated country.
“There’s hope,” she says simply. Even though I hate poetry, a poem I read for English class pops into my head. “Hope” is the thing with feathers. I understand concretely what that means now. Something inside my chest wants to fly out, wants to sing and laugh and dance with relief.
To grow up is to grow apart.
“Tragedy is funny.” “Are we in a tragedy?” he asks, smiling broadly now. “Of course. Isn’t that what life is? We all die at the end.” “I guess so,”
“You’re not your dad,” I say, but he doesn’t believe me. I understand his fear. Who are we if not a product of our parents and their histories?
Maybe part of falling in love with someone else is also falling in love with yourself. I like who I am with her.
you can love someone and still have a not-so-great relationship with them.
You poets are obsessed with stars. Falling stars. Shooting stars. Dying stars.” “Stars are important,” I say, laughing. “Sure, but why not more poems about the sun? The sun is also a star, and it’s our most important one. That alone should be worth a poem or two.”
The thing about falling is you don’t have any control on your way down.
Life is just a series of dumb decisions and indecisions and coincidences that we choose to ascribe meaning to.
We tell ourselves there are reasons for the things that happen, but we’re just telling ourselves stories. We make them up. They don’t mean anything.
Growing up and seeing your parents’ flaws is like losing your religion.
I open my mouth to ask for more facts and specifics. I find them reassuring. The poem comes back to me. “Hope” is the thing with feathers. I close my mouth. For the second time today I’m letting go of the details. Maybe I don’t need them. It would be so nice to let someone else take over this burden for a little while. “Hope” is the thing with feathers. I feel it fluttering in my heart.
Maybe she was right. I’m just looking for someone to save me. I’m looking for someone to take me off the track my life is on, because I don’t know how to do it myself. I’m looking to get overwhelmed by love and meant-to-be and destiny so that the decisions about my future will be out of my hands. It won’t be me defying my parents. It will be Fate.
Sometimes your world shakes so hard, it’s difficult to imagine that everyone else isn’t feeling it too.
Some people exist in your life to make it better. Some people exist to make it worse.
“Do you think it’s funny that both of our favorite memories are about the people we like the least now?” I ask. “Maybe that’s why we dislike them,” she says. “The distance between who they were and who they are is so wide, we have no hope of getting them back.”
The trouble with getting your hopes too far up is: it’s a long way down.
“Here’s what we’re not going to do. We are not going to argue. We are not going to pretend that this isn’t the worst thing on earth, because it is. We’re not going to go our separate ways before we absolutely have to. I’m going with you to your parents’ house. I’m going to meet them, and they’re going to like me, and I’m not going to punch your dad. Instead, I’m going to see whether you look more like him or your mom. Your little brother will act like a little brother. Maybe I’ll finally get to hear that Jamaican accent you’ve been hiding from me all day. I’m going to look at the place where
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Its the "is that okay with you?" that really drives the stake in
“Maybe these cards aren’t such a great idea. Can you imagine if everyone had the power to mess with everyone else’s lives? Chaos.” But of course, this is the problem. We already have that power over each other.
Maybe I’m naïve, but I do not give a single shit about anyone’s opinion of us. I do not care if we’re a novelty to them. I do not care about the politics of it. I don’t care if your parents approve, and I really, truly don’t care if mine do. What I care about is you, and I’m sure that love is enough to overcome all the bullshit. And it is bullshit. All the hand-wringing. All the talk about cultures clashing or preserving cultures and what will happen to the kids. All of it is one hundred percent pure, unadulterated bullshit, and I just refuse to care.”
I never before thought that not caring could be a revolutionary act.
meant to be doesn’t have to mean forever.
Sometimes, forever means a lifetime. Sometimes, forever means a day.
Am I making a mistake? Maybe. But it’s mine to make.
time and distance are love’s natural enemies.
