These are samples of my writing. The first is my 2nd place entry from the Denise Gess Literary Awards for Creative Nonfiction. The second is a poem I wrote about a bad relationship I was in.
The Bridge
Nostalgia. My memories are tainted with the bias of childhood perceptions. But the art of remembrance still extracts meaning from days long passed. Days when the sun could elicit no more than a small shadow cast from my undeveloped frame. Days when the act of running resembled a graceless, teetering waddle, for my legs were short and still fairly new. “Pain” bore no meaning and that meant viewing the world as wholly beautiful. It meant that life was a game of tag, running from something but still laughing because you’re not afraid, you’re having fun. We all ran; my sister, my cousins, myself. Some of us chased, some of us fled, all of us laughed in youthful euphoria.
It was a normal afternoon. School was out but work continued on for our parents. Grandpa, retired but almost as full of energy as us, would take us to Knight’s Park in Collingswood. It was safe, it was fun, and it was always the same. He’d pick us up in his old grey truck and take us to the park where we’d wear ourselves out. We’d climb and run and jump and holler, “You can’t catch me!”
The exertion was always joyful despite frequent splinters, grass stains, scraped knees, and dirty palms. Knight’s Park had swings and slides and other typical playground equipment. But it also had this structure that looked like a set of monkey bars mangled into a sideways spiral shape. I think it was supposed to resemble a snail. Starting from the end on the outside, I’d scale the metal structure. At first, it was effortless to grasp each rung and make my way through the swirl. But as I reached the point where the rungs began to spiral back and my body was forced to turn upside down, I’d panic and shout, “Grandpa! Grandpa!”
He’d rush over and firmly grip my sides as I released my hold. After he planted me on the ground, he’d say, “Be careful, or else you’ll get hurt.” I’d nod as if I took his words with any sort of value and then run off to do something else just as dangerous.
When it was just about time for him to take us home, he’d call out to us. It was time to walk to the bridge. When I was small the bridge seemed to be miles away from the playground. The trek to such a structure seemed to take forever. When I walk that distance now, I realize the exaggeration of my young mind. Despite the distance, I loved the walk. My sister and my cousins and I would pick up rocks that we thought looked cool only to eventually toss them into the large pond that we walked along. The water was a murky green pushed gently by the breeze and rippled by the intrusion of our discarded rocks. Geese and ducks also stirred up the water as they excitedly swam toward us; the ripple rings advertising spots where food might have been tossed in. We continued to toss rocks not to tease the birds but because we were too young to know that geese and ducks don’t eat rocks. We were trying to help without realizing the futility of our actions. Even after discovering we had not actually tossed in anything edible, the geese and ducks would continue to follow us hopefully.
I’d pick up sticks and feel the caked on dirt rub off onto my hands. The sun would shine brightly on my pale, dirty skin and I’d walk along with my family enjoying where I was. I suppose I appreciated those times as I experienced them, but nowadays, I long for such unadulterated happiness and ease. Walking along I’d look everywhere around me and observe as much of the park as I could. The sweet, smoky scent of autumn flooded my nose but I was too young to suspect that somewhere a fireplace was in use. A soft breeze caressed the bare skin of my face attempting half-heartedly to permeate my windbreaker. I viewed the world through my first pair of glasses with the big, purple and blue speckled frames. I saw copper-colored trees and did not understand why they changed from green to orange. I just knew that with fall came leaves the color of mac and cheese, a major staple of my young diet. I did not understand that the leaves were dying. I accepted the chromatic metamorphosis of nature as something amazing and beautiful. Back then my view of death was overshadowed by youthful ignorance.
Death. It is no longer a beautiful thing. It is ugly, devastating, and unbearable to watch. That is why I didn’t visit my grandfather in the hospital. Grandpa was strong, lively, charismatic, and handsome. Life was about taking care of the ones he loved, creating music, and pulling pranks. That person fading away in the hospital was skinny, weak, and losing the ability to fight. Lung cancer clawed at him, leaving nothing but the shell of someone once beautiful.
Grandpa had been an accomplished trumpeter, singer, and piano player. My father took an old album from a band Grandpa played in and transferred the songs onto a CD. Track 1 has no lyrics at all and yet it speaks to me. It is of my grandfather manipulating his trumpet to bellow and sing and moan in a way that no vocalist could possibly imitate. The emotions that he is feeling in the song are audible in every drop and climb of tone and tune. The buttery softness of some notes is complimented by the deep, gurgling pitch of others. The piece flows with each feeling and for three minutes Grandpa is alive again. Because of his dedication to such an instrument, his lungs were strong and therefore the cancer couldn’t take him as soon as it should have. But the curtains eventually closed on my grandfather. Cancer overpowered what music sought to strengthen.
I couldn’t save him, I was twelve years old. I couldn’t bear to see that shell sitting in the hospital, for doing so would only confirm the inevitable. I didn’t want to accept that the man dying in some white, sterile room was the same that walked my sister and my cousins and me across that bridge in Knight’s Park. That old, wooden bridge with only small chips of red paint left to embellish its rotting planks. There were many cracks in the bridge and this made my one cousin nervous. Just as I exaggerated the walk to the bridge, he exaggerated how large the cracks were and how small his own body was. He was certain, every time we crossed, that he would slip through. My strong, comforting grandfather would take his hand every time and lead him across while the rest of us passed carelessly to the other side. How did cancer manage to take away someone so invincible?
Diseases. I have my own. Heart disease, pancreatic disease. I have become very familiar with hospitals. A heart palpitation led to panic, which led to EKGs, x-rays, 24 hour heart monitors, dietary restrictions, ultrasounds, medications, more time spent waiting than actually talking to a doctor, visit after visit after visit. In 2009, on the Monday after my senior trip, I was in the hospital getting a cardiac catheter. I awoke to my parent’s faces which were painted with concern. Ventricular Tachycardia, they told me. Abnormal heart rhythms, potentially dangerous, surgery highly recommended. That Wednesday was April Fool’s Day but this was not a joke. I signed papers saying, “Pull the plug if you make me a vegetable,” and then they cut me open. A defibrillator sits above my heart, protruding slightly beneath the scar. My grandfather once had heart surgery as well. If he were alive, he’d probably want to compare our scars.
A month after the surgery, I began waking up three or four times a night to use the bathroom. My mouth was parched in insatiable agony. My muscles cramped every morning, forcing me to jump from bed and stand pressing against the wall to stretch the pain away. My vision would focus in and out making it difficult for me to read notes on the board or in a textbook at school. I was very tired, more so than usual. Diabetes, they told me.
I wear a medical ID bracelet on my left wrist. It’s very simple; an elongated and rectangular silver plate makes up the ID part of it. The topside is embellished with the EMS symbol. The underside reads my name, my emergency contact number, and the words, “Heart Defibrillator Device Type One Diabetes”. My father says he’s going to get me a new charm to put on my bracelet for each new disease I contract. My family jokes because they know if I don’t laugh, I’ll cry. Laughter is the best medicine, I suppose.
When I was younger, I’d exaggerate how sick I felt on days when going to my grandfather’s seemed much better than going to school. That was every day, to be honest. Sometimes I got away with it. My mother would call him up and ask him to watch me. He always said yes. I would cuddle up in a blanket on his soft, brown couch and watch early morning cartoons. Grandpa would come in with a tray of steaming hot chocolate and heavily buttered toast. It was the same breakfast he always made. With the hand not holding the tray, he’d tug at the corner of his eyelid and bow before me. In a Chinese accent, he’d say, “I am your waiter, Ping” and I would laugh for I was too young to notice the racial insult.
At his house we’d also play checkers and watch TV and he’d even let me have a little bit of ice cream. Back then I thought I had everyone fooled. I know now that he only pretended to think I was sick. When it came down to the cancer, I pretended he was healthy. If he had been alive during my surgery, I’m sure he would have met the nurse at the door so he could take the tray and turn into Ping, my old friend. He would have made the unpleasant hospital food somewhat bearable. When I was put on bed rest after my release, I was aching for my grandparent’s soft, brown couch and the supervision of my grandfather.
Regret. I cannot sit around and think that visiting him could have restored his health. I am no such savior. How I felt walking along the bank of that pond is a feeling I will never be able to recreate. I have experienced situations now that have made me realize just how blissful life was in those moments at the park. Without my Grandfather, Knight’s Park simply cannot be what it once was. I couldn’t bear to see my Knight, my grandfather, wasting away. But I wish I had. I wish I had been there to thank him for caring for me in the way that only he could. I wish that I had held his hand as he crossed the bridge out of this life.
A Message to my Ex
Leave her alone
She doesn’t know
How you imitated the wind
when I wore skirts
How you practiced the artistry
of rolled paper
How gently you crafted it
a contrast to how forcefully
you said
Try it
Try it
Try it
She doesn’t know
that our lips could not meet
without interrogation
Are you ready yet?
That pressing four word sentence
with emphasis on that last word
a signal of your growing impatience
She doesn’t know
how you treated me on Valentine’s Day
in your room
when the words slithered persuasively
from your hungry lips
just as your hand slithered
to my thigh
She doesn’t know
why the sight of crimson stains
makes me cringe
A constant reminder of you
in my very room
She doesn’t know you’re a liar
Because she doesn’t know you
like I do.
The Bridge
Nostalgia. My memories are tainted with the bias of childhood perceptions. But the art of remembrance still extracts meaning from days long passed. Days when the sun could elicit no more than a small shadow cast from my undeveloped frame. Days when the act of running resembled a graceless, teetering waddle, for my legs were short and still fairly new. “Pain” bore no meaning and that meant viewing the world as wholly beautiful. It meant that life was a game of tag, running from something but still laughing because you’re not afraid, you’re having fun. We all ran; my sister, my cousins, myself. Some of us chased, some of us fled, all of us laughed in youthful euphoria.
It was a normal afternoon. School was out but work continued on for our parents. Grandpa, retired but almost as full of energy as us, would take us to Knight’s Park in Collingswood. It was safe, it was fun, and it was always the same. He’d pick us up in his old grey truck and take us to the park where we’d wear ourselves out. We’d climb and run and jump and holler, “You can’t catch me!”
The exertion was always joyful despite frequent splinters, grass stains, scraped knees, and dirty palms. Knight’s Park had swings and slides and other typical playground equipment. But it also had this structure that looked like a set of monkey bars mangled into a sideways spiral shape. I think it was supposed to resemble a snail. Starting from the end on the outside, I’d scale the metal structure. At first, it was effortless to grasp each rung and make my way through the swirl. But as I reached the point where the rungs began to spiral back and my body was forced to turn upside down, I’d panic and shout, “Grandpa! Grandpa!”
He’d rush over and firmly grip my sides as I released my hold. After he planted me on the ground, he’d say, “Be careful, or else you’ll get hurt.” I’d nod as if I took his words with any sort of value and then run off to do something else just as dangerous.
When it was just about time for him to take us home, he’d call out to us. It was time to walk to the bridge. When I was small the bridge seemed to be miles away from the playground. The trek to such a structure seemed to take forever. When I walk that distance now, I realize the exaggeration of my young mind. Despite the distance, I loved the walk. My sister and my cousins and I would pick up rocks that we thought looked cool only to eventually toss them into the large pond that we walked along. The water was a murky green pushed gently by the breeze and rippled by the intrusion of our discarded rocks. Geese and ducks also stirred up the water as they excitedly swam toward us; the ripple rings advertising spots where food might have been tossed in. We continued to toss rocks not to tease the birds but because we were too young to know that geese and ducks don’t eat rocks. We were trying to help without realizing the futility of our actions. Even after discovering we had not actually tossed in anything edible, the geese and ducks would continue to follow us hopefully.
I’d pick up sticks and feel the caked on dirt rub off onto my hands. The sun would shine brightly on my pale, dirty skin and I’d walk along with my family enjoying where I was. I suppose I appreciated those times as I experienced them, but nowadays, I long for such unadulterated happiness and ease. Walking along I’d look everywhere around me and observe as much of the park as I could. The sweet, smoky scent of autumn flooded my nose but I was too young to suspect that somewhere a fireplace was in use. A soft breeze caressed the bare skin of my face attempting half-heartedly to permeate my windbreaker. I viewed the world through my first pair of glasses with the big, purple and blue speckled frames. I saw copper-colored trees and did not understand why they changed from green to orange. I just knew that with fall came leaves the color of mac and cheese, a major staple of my young diet. I did not understand that the leaves were dying. I accepted the chromatic metamorphosis of nature as something amazing and beautiful. Back then my view of death was overshadowed by youthful ignorance.
Death. It is no longer a beautiful thing. It is ugly, devastating, and unbearable to watch. That is why I didn’t visit my grandfather in the hospital. Grandpa was strong, lively, charismatic, and handsome. Life was about taking care of the ones he loved, creating music, and pulling pranks. That person fading away in the hospital was skinny, weak, and losing the ability to fight. Lung cancer clawed at him, leaving nothing but the shell of someone once beautiful.
Grandpa had been an accomplished trumpeter, singer, and piano player. My father took an old album from a band Grandpa played in and transferred the songs onto a CD. Track 1 has no lyrics at all and yet it speaks to me. It is of my grandfather manipulating his trumpet to bellow and sing and moan in a way that no vocalist could possibly imitate. The emotions that he is feeling in the song are audible in every drop and climb of tone and tune. The buttery softness of some notes is complimented by the deep, gurgling pitch of others. The piece flows with each feeling and for three minutes Grandpa is alive again. Because of his dedication to such an instrument, his lungs were strong and therefore the cancer couldn’t take him as soon as it should have. But the curtains eventually closed on my grandfather. Cancer overpowered what music sought to strengthen.
I couldn’t save him, I was twelve years old. I couldn’t bear to see that shell sitting in the hospital, for doing so would only confirm the inevitable. I didn’t want to accept that the man dying in some white, sterile room was the same that walked my sister and my cousins and me across that bridge in Knight’s Park. That old, wooden bridge with only small chips of red paint left to embellish its rotting planks. There were many cracks in the bridge and this made my one cousin nervous. Just as I exaggerated the walk to the bridge, he exaggerated how large the cracks were and how small his own body was. He was certain, every time we crossed, that he would slip through. My strong, comforting grandfather would take his hand every time and lead him across while the rest of us passed carelessly to the other side. How did cancer manage to take away someone so invincible?
Diseases. I have my own. Heart disease, pancreatic disease. I have become very familiar with hospitals. A heart palpitation led to panic, which led to EKGs, x-rays, 24 hour heart monitors, dietary restrictions, ultrasounds, medications, more time spent waiting than actually talking to a doctor, visit after visit after visit. In 2009, on the Monday after my senior trip, I was in the hospital getting a cardiac catheter. I awoke to my parent’s faces which were painted with concern. Ventricular Tachycardia, they told me. Abnormal heart rhythms, potentially dangerous, surgery highly recommended. That Wednesday was April Fool’s Day but this was not a joke. I signed papers saying, “Pull the plug if you make me a vegetable,” and then they cut me open. A defibrillator sits above my heart, protruding slightly beneath the scar. My grandfather once had heart surgery as well. If he were alive, he’d probably want to compare our scars.
A month after the surgery, I began waking up three or four times a night to use the bathroom. My mouth was parched in insatiable agony. My muscles cramped every morning, forcing me to jump from bed and stand pressing against the wall to stretch the pain away. My vision would focus in and out making it difficult for me to read notes on the board or in a textbook at school. I was very tired, more so than usual. Diabetes, they told me.
I wear a medical ID bracelet on my left wrist. It’s very simple; an elongated and rectangular silver plate makes up the ID part of it. The topside is embellished with the EMS symbol. The underside reads my name, my emergency contact number, and the words, “Heart Defibrillator Device Type One Diabetes”. My father says he’s going to get me a new charm to put on my bracelet for each new disease I contract. My family jokes because they know if I don’t laugh, I’ll cry. Laughter is the best medicine, I suppose.
When I was younger, I’d exaggerate how sick I felt on days when going to my grandfather’s seemed much better than going to school. That was every day, to be honest. Sometimes I got away with it. My mother would call him up and ask him to watch me. He always said yes. I would cuddle up in a blanket on his soft, brown couch and watch early morning cartoons. Grandpa would come in with a tray of steaming hot chocolate and heavily buttered toast. It was the same breakfast he always made. With the hand not holding the tray, he’d tug at the corner of his eyelid and bow before me. In a Chinese accent, he’d say, “I am your waiter, Ping” and I would laugh for I was too young to notice the racial insult.
At his house we’d also play checkers and watch TV and he’d even let me have a little bit of ice cream. Back then I thought I had everyone fooled. I know now that he only pretended to think I was sick. When it came down to the cancer, I pretended he was healthy. If he had been alive during my surgery, I’m sure he would have met the nurse at the door so he could take the tray and turn into Ping, my old friend. He would have made the unpleasant hospital food somewhat bearable. When I was put on bed rest after my release, I was aching for my grandparent’s soft, brown couch and the supervision of my grandfather.
Regret. I cannot sit around and think that visiting him could have restored his health. I am no such savior. How I felt walking along the bank of that pond is a feeling I will never be able to recreate. I have experienced situations now that have made me realize just how blissful life was in those moments at the park. Without my Grandfather, Knight’s Park simply cannot be what it once was. I couldn’t bear to see my Knight, my grandfather, wasting away. But I wish I had. I wish I had been there to thank him for caring for me in the way that only he could. I wish that I had held his hand as he crossed the bridge out of this life.
A Message to my Ex
Leave her alone
She doesn’t know
How you imitated the wind
when I wore skirts
How you practiced the artistry
of rolled paper
How gently you crafted it
a contrast to how forcefully
you said
Try it
Try it
Try it
She doesn’t know
that our lips could not meet
without interrogation
Are you ready yet?
That pressing four word sentence
with emphasis on that last word
a signal of your growing impatience
She doesn’t know
how you treated me on Valentine’s Day
in your room
when the words slithered persuasively
from your hungry lips
just as your hand slithered
to my thigh
She doesn’t know
why the sight of crimson stains
makes me cringe
A constant reminder of you
in my very room
She doesn’t know you’re a liar
Because she doesn’t know you
like I do.