little braids

this was the most recent time i visited my parents. i stepped into the elevator, an armload of groceries that i insisted on carrying to spare either of them the effort. my father held the door for one of the building managers. 'oh!' she said, looking at me in surprise, studying my face and my father's face. people have always told me we looked alike; i wouldn't know. 'your son! ... sorry. daughter? i'm so sorry! your son??'

my father laughed. 'it's not the first time, it's not the first time,' he assured her.

because earlier that day, my father's youngest sister called me on video chat so she could see my face, 'it's so weird,' she said, her voice somewhere between awe and poison after she shared her bafflement at the shaved sides of my head, the mass of dreadlocks spilling down to my waist. 'you look like a nice young maiden from the back, and a weird boy from the front!'

i was sure it was meant as a jab; from across the room, my mother yelled at the tablet i held. 'i lucked out with this one, you see? i only had to put out the effort to raise one kid, and got both a son and a daughter.'

my cousin, a few years ago, said: 'you see, it's good for us that you come and visit.' she touched the knotted strands, still learning to bind to each other at that time. 'last time, you came here with blue hair, and no one on campus knew what to think. this time, look at how many people have blue or orange or purple hair! next time you visit, i'm sure we'll all have braids like yours.'

there isn't a chinese word for dreadlocks that they know; they all call them braids. little braids, little braids. how can you have so many little braids, cousin? that is hair like the africans. our hair is too smooth and thin. how can you do that?

'you can do this,' i once assured a security guard who gently touched my hair at my invitation.

'i'm half korean, my hair's so straight,' she wailed.

'i'm all chinese and no black, and it worked for me. you just gotta stick with it. i believe in your hair.'

Permalink
14 March 2018 23:04

broom

i needed to bring a broom from my house to the studio; it laid laterally across the top tube, the bristles comfortably nestled between my panniers on the rear rack. a bungee cord wrapped thrice around it kept it in place, but i kept knocking into it with my knees.

i had to straddle it, like i was riding a broomstick, like a witch. pedestrians stared.

this was not the strangest thing i've carried by bicycle.

Permalink
13 March 2018 22:20

still winter

sometimes, the windows are bright rectangles leading out of the dark room, giving visions lancing into the distance of trees, houses, birds, skies. in a moment, though, the squall blows through, and the hole becomes a soft white blanket shifting furiously in the wind.

it's still winter, i remind myself. the disorientation of the seasonal time shift hasn't slipped from my grasp yet; i easily lose track of how long i can wait before the sun sets. it's still winter, because the floors are so cold i almost cannot bear to stand. it's still winter, even as buds push desperately for an ever-clearing sky.

the clouds part again, and the sunlight smashes into the earth. i can pick out birds nests and dog crap and upended lawn furniture. but it's still winter.

Permalink
13 March 2018 21:59

broom

i needed to bring a broom from my house to the studio; it laid laterally across the top tube, the bristles comfortably nestled between my panniers on the rear rack. a bungee cord wrapped thrice around it kept it in place, but i kept knocking into it with my knees.

i had to straddle it, like i was riding a broomstick, like a witch. pedestrians stared.

this was not the strangest thing i've carried by bicycle.

Permalink
12 March 2018 18:51

spin cycle

'it's meditative, in a way,' i say, as i lean over the washer and stare down through the lid. when the spin cycle gets fast enough, the shiny dome on the bottom of the basket shows my face, distorted through the reflection of my face on the glass top. the screen flashed 'UE' at me when i came to move my clothes into the dryer, everything crumpled at the bottom in a wet heap because it was unable to finish the spin cycle.

i have to manually reach in and rebalance the load, predicting where each article will end up as it crawls up the sides of the basket, hoping everything settles in a way that doesn't spook the computer's sensor. at the peak of the spin, the machine vibrates slowly away from the wall, and i brace against it to keep it from slipping into the uneven spot around the floor drain.

the display counts down, from 12 to 9, then to 11, then to 4, then to 15, then to 10, then to 8. i feel a glimmer of hope at 3, thinking that it's not too much further from 0, but then it stops spinning and floods the channel with water again.

i'm not sure what this game is anymore.

Permalink
11 March 2018 20:49