The end of a series — or is it??
This one has taken a while. This happens when you try to make too much of nothing. But that’s life, right?
And so I started on my grand, independent adventure to Southern California and was promptly shot down. I’d become too soft and tender after leaving my immune system to cope with a very controlled environment, and it was like I was in my first year of teaching again — any sort of change or moment of relaxation would allow my body to let me know things were not going so…
(In a manga, this would be one of those .5 episodes. But it’s not a filler!!)
Today, I must tell you about strawberries.
I’ve lived all my life believing I was a good person, but I’m coming to the realization now that if my life were a movie, or a novel, or a drama, or an anime, I probably wouldn’t be the intrepid, highly positive protagonist, even though my stream-of-conscious narration and delusional tendencies beg for otherwise to be true (I can’t help it, it’s the narcissist in me). I realized that probably, I’m not a very good person at…
I’ve been following hints well.
As promised by my last episode, I did visit goats. I did not muster up the courage to ask about mothers and baby calls.
I did learn, however, that immediately after birth, the mother goats (the tour guide told us the name for them but I forget… some are called nannies but I’m not sure if immediately, they become nannies or if that word is relegated to ultra mother goats who’ve mothered generations of babies) —
I learned that immediately after birth, the mother goats lick all of the blood and placenta off the baby…
A short one
Based on my last strand of thought, when I think back to Streams I’ve Played In, I always think of one (with some remorse, for the amount of possible environmental stress we might’ve caused it) that goes along the camping sites in the redwoods in Sanborn Park.
They were exciting because at a certain time in the year, you could actually lift larger rocks and find crawfish or the red newts or salamanders flitting around in the top layer of the mud. This was before I became scared of any murky parts of water or thought about…
I started out last time by claiming that maybe this pattern started eight years ago, but that may be false, so let me retract just in case I’m wrong; I’m still sorting through the clues, see.
It’s hard to have transitioned from being a passive observer of such things to following the clues whole-heartedly, so thanks for your patience. I now use “thanks for your patience” in a lot of my work emails instead of “I’m Sorry” because I read that it makes you seem less passive, and people will take you seriously. I’m not sure if it works. It…
I have always secretly believed that I have a superpower for noting patterns. (Surprise, the secret is out now.) My family tells me I’m a top-notch narcissist. I think it’s a compliment in a time when the world is all about devaluing you. Anyway.
I can’t really tell you when it all began, but that’s what happens with such patterns in life.
It kind of just starts to build and build, and I’m sure there’s some psychological theory or perhaps even a mathematical one that explains it. I’m sure some smart-ass will read this and tell me it’s…
Schools are strange places.
I grew up in San Jose, cocooned by the neighborhood and community that surrounded me. Nearly all of the students in my classes were first generation immigrants. It was a given that you spoke a different language at home than at school.
My only memory of people making fun of my school lunch was when I packed a sandwich and pretty horrendously, we only had purple ketchup (why was this even a thing)… so my sandwich was purple. I have some pretty vivid memories of my friend’s faces when I revealed the sandwich.
Ibuki moved to…
I miss my mother’s youth
Such shy smiles in old photos
But I have memories too.
Light filtering through the plastic curtains
of our apartment while she holds me
She lived with her husband’s mother
and at 30 felt like her life was over.
It’s no wonder that her feelings might
have transferred over
to a growing fruit in her womb
Yurumi — it means fruit, or summer.
But my grandmother named me.
When I was born my dad could
not join and her mother came instead
— Once, I overheard her tell
my friends’ mothers that she cried
when she saw…
I would like to write a poem
But can only think
Of traffic, middle fingers, and the heat.
The train and the fields are inspiring.
The mountains too.
But there’s a lot of construction right now on 17 —
My friends get invited to martini nights in the city
To share beautiful poems about their ancestors
and my eyes go red when I try to review other people’s work
I only now know how to remember
my grandfather’s face; she kept
him in photographs in the top drawer
I don’t even know his name.
“There was no poetry in camp,” a man narrates.
“Unless you consider dust..poetry
“Unless you consider mud.. poetry
“Unless you consider cruelty.. poetry…
Dr. Satsuki Ina did not know she was going to make films. Or that those films would win awards. After teaching abroad for a year and returning to D.C. to settle reparations for her family, she stepped into an exhibit at the Smithsonian. “We the People”: a study on violations of constitutional rights.
She continued through the exhibit and froze in front of a large, black-and-white picture of a man standing in front of prison bars. …
Teacher in San Jose. Writer in secret.