Jane became a dyke,
two years ago.
Jane was raped when she was four,
until she reached the age of seventeen.
Her brother raped her.
And now he's gay.
He offered Jane to his friends in school,
And got payment for selling his sister.
Jane is my friend.
We lived in the same place.
And at every woman that goes into the door of the place we lived,
I admire those women.
Battered and abused,
They choose to take charge of their life.
Sometimes I wonder if the world would be better if it is just filled with women.
In the life of these women i met,
Men have left nothing but a deep scars.
Father, brother, boyfriend, cousin, nephew, neighbour, boss that raped women.
Every day i hear these stories.
I don't know.
Friday, July 14, 2006
Thursday, July 13, 2006
Dead Corpse
One day,
I got back from school,
And a lot of people were gathering in front of my house.
There were carpets all over the house.
Carpets means that we are expecting visitor.
Carpets means that there was a gathering.
I thought that my parents decided to do gathering,
Either for business or social purpose.
I took off my shoes,
Looked at all the stranger,
Looked at flowers around the house,
And people sitting quietly.
I saw my cousin crying.
And there she was.
My grandmother.
Laying in the bed.
Dead.
My mom told me to change my uniform.
I don't know what to wear.
I never faced death before.
I don't know what's appropriate.
I don't know what is proper for a funeral.
In a split second I decided to wear something black.
Because that is what I saw people wore in movies- whenever there is a funeral.
Just as I walk out of my bedroom door,
My mom told me to change again.
I should wear white, she said,
Because it symbolizes purity.
The way the funeral is going to be.
I sat and just watch around.
I do not feel any sadness.
Or any loss.
I feel indifferent.
I guess she simply didn't matter to me.
I looked at my father.
His eyes are red.
He tried to hold his tears.
I looked at my mother,
Sobbing and reading the holy book.
I looked at my cousin,
She was hysterical and hugging the dead corpse.
I just stare at the corpse.
Everyone in the room was looking down.
Trying to show condolences.
Some of them pretended to be sad.
And i feel bad,
Because I was not crying.
I was not sad.
To me, she has long been dead.
I never really liked her.
I thought of what an awful person I was.
For not feeling any single thing,
When a woman that was my roommate died.
I tried to remember our happy moments together.
But I can't.
Because I don't think I was happy,
Although we spent over than 4 years together.
From the time she was healthy,
Until she became paralyzed.
I feel nothing.
Just numbness.
And I feel guilty for not feeling anything.
For maybe I am just cold and distant.
And then my dad, my mom, I and my cousin went to the chamber.
We washed her.
Seven times.
And there was her.
Lying in front of me.
Our stretched feet were below her dead body.
She was naked in my legs.
This woman who was my grandmother is naked in front of me.
I saw her breast,
Her pubic hair.
I stared at her face.
Her mouth half opened.
The messy hair all straightened up.
I feel disgusted.
But not even one tear ever falls down on my face.
I still can't believe my last memory of her would be my astonishment of seeing her wrinkly body and pubic hair.
And people expect me to be sad with that image.
But all that I could feel is shock.
Except my mother,
I have never seen any other woman naked in my life.
Thank God my legs were holding her calves.
Therefore I could just stare down and see her feet.
And we put white cloth on her.
She looked like frankenstein when we washed her.
Now she looked like a mummy.
Wrapped in white cloth.
I helped carry her body.
It was heavy.
I got to hold her butt.
We carried her to the living room.
Laid her down in the carpeted floor.
They made a ribbon on the top of her head with the white cloth.
She looked ridiculous.
Thank God she passed away, at least she wouldn't feel ashamed of the way she looked.
They put white powder on her face.
The only part that was not covered with white cloth.
And all the family member gathered.
To give the body the last kisses,
Whispered in the ear of the body goodbye.
I looked at what people did.
I listened to my mom asking for forgiveness in the body's ear.
The body was once my mom's mother in law.
Wanting to fit in,
I tried to think of what to say,
Whether to ask for forgiveness,
Or to say my love.
I prayed that I don't have to come to the body.
But it is inevitable.
My turn came,
The whole room set their eyes on me.
Oh eyes, please shed tear for me, I begged.
Do not let people think of me as a cold bitch.
Oh heart please feel sadness, I prayed.
What kind of a grand daughter am I?
And nothing happens.
So I looked down.
I mumbled words to pretend that I was saying something.
And then I went back to my seat.
They put flower to her nostrils.
As if they haven't known that she no longer breathe.
As if they need to make it much more obvious.
And then we carry her to the cemetary.
I watched as they put her body in the ground.
I just watched from far away.
I was bored.
That night,
I sleep as if nothing has happened.
I was 13 when I first encounter death.
The death of my roommate, house mate, and grandmother.
After that, I become more and more experienced in pretending to mourn over death.
Being the member of class representative,
I was always sent to say condolences,
Everytime anyone related to school member dies.
In one year,
I attended three of my classmates' parents funeral,
My teacher's spouse funeral,
And a fellow schoolmate's funeral.
I remembered what to say,
As if they have written a script for me.
Of how loving that dead corpse was once before,
And how the family member should be strong and to continue living.
Although I didn't know any of those corpses story.
To mourn seems to be a necessity.
And i needed to pretend to mourn.
I know what kind of funeral I want.
If I were to die,
I would donate all my organ.
And whatever that was left of me,
I want to be burned.
So people wouldn't be terrified to see my naked body.
And let my ashes be one with the air.
For at last I am free to follow wherever the wind takes me.
I shall fly like a bird,
At last gaining freedom.
And there shall be no tomb for people to mourn.
I do not seek people to cry in remembrance of me.
I would rather be forgotten than to cause sadness.
And I have never feared death.
The only thing that I fear of death is not being able to say the words that were never spoken.
And I always say everything,
Fearing that people that I care would die without even knowing what I feel for them.
Dead corpse,
I fear you not.
I got back from school,
And a lot of people were gathering in front of my house.
There were carpets all over the house.
Carpets means that we are expecting visitor.
Carpets means that there was a gathering.
I thought that my parents decided to do gathering,
Either for business or social purpose.
I took off my shoes,
Looked at all the stranger,
Looked at flowers around the house,
And people sitting quietly.
I saw my cousin crying.
And there she was.
My grandmother.
Laying in the bed.
Dead.
My mom told me to change my uniform.
I don't know what to wear.
I never faced death before.
I don't know what's appropriate.
I don't know what is proper for a funeral.
In a split second I decided to wear something black.
Because that is what I saw people wore in movies- whenever there is a funeral.
Just as I walk out of my bedroom door,
My mom told me to change again.
I should wear white, she said,
Because it symbolizes purity.
The way the funeral is going to be.
I sat and just watch around.
I do not feel any sadness.
Or any loss.
I feel indifferent.
I guess she simply didn't matter to me.
I looked at my father.
His eyes are red.
He tried to hold his tears.
I looked at my mother,
Sobbing and reading the holy book.
I looked at my cousin,
She was hysterical and hugging the dead corpse.
I just stare at the corpse.
Everyone in the room was looking down.
Trying to show condolences.
Some of them pretended to be sad.
And i feel bad,
Because I was not crying.
I was not sad.
To me, she has long been dead.
I never really liked her.
I thought of what an awful person I was.
For not feeling any single thing,
When a woman that was my roommate died.
I tried to remember our happy moments together.
But I can't.
Because I don't think I was happy,
Although we spent over than 4 years together.
From the time she was healthy,
Until she became paralyzed.
I feel nothing.
Just numbness.
And I feel guilty for not feeling anything.
For maybe I am just cold and distant.
And then my dad, my mom, I and my cousin went to the chamber.
We washed her.
Seven times.
And there was her.
Lying in front of me.
Our stretched feet were below her dead body.
She was naked in my legs.
This woman who was my grandmother is naked in front of me.
I saw her breast,
Her pubic hair.
I stared at her face.
Her mouth half opened.
The messy hair all straightened up.
I feel disgusted.
But not even one tear ever falls down on my face.
I still can't believe my last memory of her would be my astonishment of seeing her wrinkly body and pubic hair.
And people expect me to be sad with that image.
But all that I could feel is shock.
Except my mother,
I have never seen any other woman naked in my life.
Thank God my legs were holding her calves.
Therefore I could just stare down and see her feet.
And we put white cloth on her.
She looked like frankenstein when we washed her.
Now she looked like a mummy.
Wrapped in white cloth.
I helped carry her body.
It was heavy.
I got to hold her butt.
We carried her to the living room.
Laid her down in the carpeted floor.
They made a ribbon on the top of her head with the white cloth.
She looked ridiculous.
Thank God she passed away, at least she wouldn't feel ashamed of the way she looked.
They put white powder on her face.
The only part that was not covered with white cloth.
And all the family member gathered.
To give the body the last kisses,
Whispered in the ear of the body goodbye.
I looked at what people did.
I listened to my mom asking for forgiveness in the body's ear.
The body was once my mom's mother in law.
Wanting to fit in,
I tried to think of what to say,
Whether to ask for forgiveness,
Or to say my love.
I prayed that I don't have to come to the body.
But it is inevitable.
My turn came,
The whole room set their eyes on me.
Oh eyes, please shed tear for me, I begged.
Do not let people think of me as a cold bitch.
Oh heart please feel sadness, I prayed.
What kind of a grand daughter am I?
And nothing happens.
So I looked down.
I mumbled words to pretend that I was saying something.
And then I went back to my seat.
They put flower to her nostrils.
As if they haven't known that she no longer breathe.
As if they need to make it much more obvious.
And then we carry her to the cemetary.
I watched as they put her body in the ground.
I just watched from far away.
I was bored.
That night,
I sleep as if nothing has happened.
I was 13 when I first encounter death.
The death of my roommate, house mate, and grandmother.
After that, I become more and more experienced in pretending to mourn over death.
Being the member of class representative,
I was always sent to say condolences,
Everytime anyone related to school member dies.
In one year,
I attended three of my classmates' parents funeral,
My teacher's spouse funeral,
And a fellow schoolmate's funeral.
I remembered what to say,
As if they have written a script for me.
Of how loving that dead corpse was once before,
And how the family member should be strong and to continue living.
Although I didn't know any of those corpses story.
To mourn seems to be a necessity.
And i needed to pretend to mourn.
I know what kind of funeral I want.
If I were to die,
I would donate all my organ.
And whatever that was left of me,
I want to be burned.
So people wouldn't be terrified to see my naked body.
And let my ashes be one with the air.
For at last I am free to follow wherever the wind takes me.
I shall fly like a bird,
At last gaining freedom.
And there shall be no tomb for people to mourn.
I do not seek people to cry in remembrance of me.
I would rather be forgotten than to cause sadness.
And I have never feared death.
The only thing that I fear of death is not being able to say the words that were never spoken.
And I always say everything,
Fearing that people that I care would die without even knowing what I feel for them.
Dead corpse,
I fear you not.
Unability to Read a Map
I claim not to be able to read a map.
Because I don't know my way around.
I believed that I cannot read map.
But somehow, in the back of my mind, I know it is not true.
My highest IQ is in telling spatial difference.
My favorite subject in Math is when they do rotation.
I can tell all the direction of the winds without any difficulty.
But I chose not to know how to read map.
Because then, just like everything in my life, I know someone will be giving me a direction.
Until I realize, I don't have to be that way.
As I walked my way for the past 6 hours throughout Boston,
I remembered the time when I can actually read map.
I remember going through Singapore for the first time,
10 years old and lost,
I held my brother's little hand,
Trying to find our way back to the hotel.
I know I can't show my unability of knowing my way around.
I can't show that unability,
Because my little brother,
Whose hand is shaking and is tightly squeezing my hand,
Depends on me.
I have to know the way to lead the direction.
I barely know English,
And we got lost in this strange country,
All because of our initiation to play hide and seek.
Half an hour later,
We find our way to the hotel.
We waited until our parents got back to the hotel.
And for me to take the blame for making them worried.
But now that I know more,
I choose to remember my ability to read map,
Than remembering how my parents got angry although I can read map.
Life is full choices.
And life is what we make of it.
For now, I choose to believe in myself,
And what I am capable of.
Because I don't know my way around.
I believed that I cannot read map.
But somehow, in the back of my mind, I know it is not true.
My highest IQ is in telling spatial difference.
My favorite subject in Math is when they do rotation.
I can tell all the direction of the winds without any difficulty.
But I chose not to know how to read map.
Because then, just like everything in my life, I know someone will be giving me a direction.
Until I realize, I don't have to be that way.
As I walked my way for the past 6 hours throughout Boston,
I remembered the time when I can actually read map.
I remember going through Singapore for the first time,
10 years old and lost,
I held my brother's little hand,
Trying to find our way back to the hotel.
I know I can't show my unability of knowing my way around.
I can't show that unability,
Because my little brother,
Whose hand is shaking and is tightly squeezing my hand,
Depends on me.
I have to know the way to lead the direction.
I barely know English,
And we got lost in this strange country,
All because of our initiation to play hide and seek.
Half an hour later,
We find our way to the hotel.
We waited until our parents got back to the hotel.
And for me to take the blame for making them worried.
But now that I know more,
I choose to remember my ability to read map,
Than remembering how my parents got angry although I can read map.
Life is full choices.
And life is what we make of it.
For now, I choose to believe in myself,
And what I am capable of.
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
Bibi
Bibi is the epitome of my first page in making my dreams come true.
He is a proof that there is someone who believes in my dream.
He is also a good listener.
He has unconditional love, although i squished him a lot of times.
He survives through pressure, especially the pressure of my chubby cheek, because a lot of times i sleep with my cheek on his stomach.
I am planning on taking a trip with him, a roundtrip, all around the washing machine.
I wouldn't join him, but I will be his companion.
I hope he doesn't get sick with all the movement.
I wish he could smile back and cry with me when I'm sharing my feelings with him.
But I know that would be too much to ask.
I wonder, if Bibi is alive, would he still be besides me, or would he leave me.
I think he will.
He got nourished with all my stories and touch.
I hope he would not be torn.
With Bibi around, who needs a sleeping partner?
p.s. I hope Bibi is not hurt whenever I tie his ears together...I think he look cute that way...
He is a proof that there is someone who believes in my dream.
He is also a good listener.
He has unconditional love, although i squished him a lot of times.
He survives through pressure, especially the pressure of my chubby cheek, because a lot of times i sleep with my cheek on his stomach.
I am planning on taking a trip with him, a roundtrip, all around the washing machine.
I wouldn't join him, but I will be his companion.
I hope he doesn't get sick with all the movement.
I wish he could smile back and cry with me when I'm sharing my feelings with him.
But I know that would be too much to ask.
I wonder, if Bibi is alive, would he still be besides me, or would he leave me.
I think he will.
He got nourished with all my stories and touch.
I hope he would not be torn.
With Bibi around, who needs a sleeping partner?
p.s. I hope Bibi is not hurt whenever I tie his ears together...I think he look cute that way...
Mr. Hilliard
My very best friend that I found in Belmont is Mr. Hilliard. A big, african-american, well built man, who starts his day everyday with a smile. We will walk together to the gazebo at quarter off for cigarette- meaning cigarette for me, and inhaling my smoke for him. We share the same compassion for food, which explains why we ate more than three hotdogs and hamburgers on the fourth of july. His eyes sparks with a childlike look when we talk about cheese- especially peta cheese. He would share his love of BB King and blues music with me- while my mind is digesting this new thing that was introduced to me.
Seeing him everyday is like a delight to me. To see someone who passes the full circle of live of doing something that he loves-helping others. He makes me laugh, when he frowns like a child everytime I tease him. We have a lot of things in common, like our hesitation to accept compliments. The biggest tease for each of us is complimenting each other, and we will be pouting for somewhat five minutes-before we started laughing.
In his 67 years old of living, he is looking forward to start a new life and a new page in life. No regrets. And he is one happy fellow that I want to be my friend forever. He wants me to continue living, and I told him that I also want him to do the same thing. He would look at me like a kid, while I give him advice as if I'm 67 years old.
We both have difficulty realizing that we need help, not because of our snob feeling, but more for wanting not to bother others. We sabotaged important relationship in our lives, and only tell how much we love the people in our live to each other.
Being unable to go outside for 4 whole years and talk with people, I am honored that Mr. Hilliard lets me be a part of his life. He is my grandpa.
I remember vividly, one time during our cigarette time. he was helding a white stone. He keeps on looking at that stone with a proud look. He boasted to me happily that he found a lucky stone. I told him I don't understand what a lucky stone is. He looks utterly amazed and tell me what a lucky stone is. And he looks at that white lucky stone as if it was a diamond. I can't help but to smile to see how happy he is with his new toy. It was then I know that I deeply cared about him. As the cigarette time is finished, I tell him that it is almost time to go to groups. He looked at me and stand up. As we walk to go to groups, as he looks down to the ground beneath my feet, he handed the stone over to me. "I want you to have my lucky stone", he said. I was speechless. I know it was hard to find a stone anywhere in that place, not to mention a white stone just like the one that he held. I know he has pain in his knees and could not walk any farther than 1 miles. And I know that he loves the stone, just by the way he plays and looks at the stone. I was surprised that he would do that for me. Before tears starts rolling, I quickly say thank you and avoid seeing him. Unable to express emotion as we both are, the occurence may seem like the coldest moment between us since we don't say much.
And now, I still carry my lucky stone everywhere. I put the lucky stone inside my most expensive purse. My horsebit gucci purse. For the stone is much more expensive than the diamond or purse that I wear.
Mr. Hilliard sincerely wish me luck for my life. He did it by giving me stone. What he didn't know, is that meeting him is the luck in my life.
I am sorry that I never said this to him, but I know he will run away if he hears this. But I know he know how much I cared about him.
I tried so hard not to cry when I left the place. I never had the chance to say goodbye to him because they quickly ushered me out of the place. As I walked with my two big plastic bags, he and only he alone, came to the window and knocked two times as I see tears fills his eyes. I quickly waved my hand to say goodbye, and give the biggest smile. Because I know he wants me to be happy. Twenty steps later, I broke down and cry. Twenty steps farther from him, I pour my sadness in tears, because I don't want him to see me cry.
I cried because I treasure our time. I cry because he might never remember me anymore. In his 67 years old of life, he begins to forget things and often ask me the same question for three times.
I cried because I could not contact him. We never exchanged phone numbers and he never pick up phone calls.
I cried because I don't even know where he lives or where he is going, except that he's going to Veteran Aftercare.
But as sad as I am, I would never exchange those memories. And with every luck that I have in my life, I will look at my white stone and wish him the same thing.
Bob, shall we say...ATTTTEEENNNHUTTT together...the way you tought me to do it..the way we used to do it....
Seeing him everyday is like a delight to me. To see someone who passes the full circle of live of doing something that he loves-helping others. He makes me laugh, when he frowns like a child everytime I tease him. We have a lot of things in common, like our hesitation to accept compliments. The biggest tease for each of us is complimenting each other, and we will be pouting for somewhat five minutes-before we started laughing.
In his 67 years old of living, he is looking forward to start a new life and a new page in life. No regrets. And he is one happy fellow that I want to be my friend forever. He wants me to continue living, and I told him that I also want him to do the same thing. He would look at me like a kid, while I give him advice as if I'm 67 years old.
We both have difficulty realizing that we need help, not because of our snob feeling, but more for wanting not to bother others. We sabotaged important relationship in our lives, and only tell how much we love the people in our live to each other.
Being unable to go outside for 4 whole years and talk with people, I am honored that Mr. Hilliard lets me be a part of his life. He is my grandpa.
I remember vividly, one time during our cigarette time. he was helding a white stone. He keeps on looking at that stone with a proud look. He boasted to me happily that he found a lucky stone. I told him I don't understand what a lucky stone is. He looks utterly amazed and tell me what a lucky stone is. And he looks at that white lucky stone as if it was a diamond. I can't help but to smile to see how happy he is with his new toy. It was then I know that I deeply cared about him. As the cigarette time is finished, I tell him that it is almost time to go to groups. He looked at me and stand up. As we walk to go to groups, as he looks down to the ground beneath my feet, he handed the stone over to me. "I want you to have my lucky stone", he said. I was speechless. I know it was hard to find a stone anywhere in that place, not to mention a white stone just like the one that he held. I know he has pain in his knees and could not walk any farther than 1 miles. And I know that he loves the stone, just by the way he plays and looks at the stone. I was surprised that he would do that for me. Before tears starts rolling, I quickly say thank you and avoid seeing him. Unable to express emotion as we both are, the occurence may seem like the coldest moment between us since we don't say much.
And now, I still carry my lucky stone everywhere. I put the lucky stone inside my most expensive purse. My horsebit gucci purse. For the stone is much more expensive than the diamond or purse that I wear.
Mr. Hilliard sincerely wish me luck for my life. He did it by giving me stone. What he didn't know, is that meeting him is the luck in my life.
I am sorry that I never said this to him, but I know he will run away if he hears this. But I know he know how much I cared about him.
I tried so hard not to cry when I left the place. I never had the chance to say goodbye to him because they quickly ushered me out of the place. As I walked with my two big plastic bags, he and only he alone, came to the window and knocked two times as I see tears fills his eyes. I quickly waved my hand to say goodbye, and give the biggest smile. Because I know he wants me to be happy. Twenty steps later, I broke down and cry. Twenty steps farther from him, I pour my sadness in tears, because I don't want him to see me cry.
I cried because I treasure our time. I cry because he might never remember me anymore. In his 67 years old of life, he begins to forget things and often ask me the same question for three times.
I cried because I could not contact him. We never exchanged phone numbers and he never pick up phone calls.
I cried because I don't even know where he lives or where he is going, except that he's going to Veteran Aftercare.
But as sad as I am, I would never exchange those memories. And with every luck that I have in my life, I will look at my white stone and wish him the same thing.
Bob, shall we say...ATTTTEEENNNHUTTT together...the way you tought me to do it..the way we used to do it....
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