Monday, September 29, 2014

from edith, to gladys: correct me if I'm wrong

hey, we made it to this day!
When we were seven or eight, we met at the ranch house on Scotland Drive every Wednesday for MPM lessons. You saw a plate of lumpy, cold 红烧肉on teacher's kitchen table and, to fill the awkward silence between yourself and my mom, said loudly that you'd like to eat it. You had a birthday party at the Los Gatos Karate studio and demonstrated how to break a board but no matter how hard you kicked it, it wouldn't break, so they gave you a new one.

When we were nine, we collected zip-line choreography into a handbook, co-authored with Nova. With that we reached our athletic zenith. You passed me notes written on paper towels that certified my membership in the Martini Club. I didn't know what martinis were, but you seemed worldly and wise because you had a older sister. She began to teach me violin. After lessons, I would take home maple-leaf-shaped cream cheese cookies. Sometimes, I would tag along with your family to San Francisco to hear her play, and in the car we watched The Prince of Egypt and Indian in the Cupboard. Once, a con-man took your dad's tickets.

When we were ten, I think we both liked the same boy. His calves looked like twigs and his eyelashes were long and he liked you in kindergarten, which made me jealous, I think. With my little brother, we watched The Incredibles in theaters and in your room re-enacted our favorite scenes. You whipped out the sparring stick and some scarves and we performed The Arabian Cat, with the lights off for dramatic effect. Whenever I tried to hold Donna, you would correct my hand position for fear I upset her stomach. We still went to San Francisco from time to time, and on the way home, we jim-jammed to Wine Red and other Hush Sound (Shh Noise) tunes. This was our "tomboy" phase (T-shirts and short hair, riding a boy bike).

When we were eleven, we were both in Mr. Lyon's class (yes, the class that was punished for putting too much emphasis on "sss," which is kind of weird, looking back). At this time Jennifer Ho planted Tutti-Frutti jelly beans in the tanbark to see if they'd become a splotchy, pukey-colored tree. Thus began the Age of the Apothecaries: we mashed up honeysuckle and stuck banana slices on tree branches to dry. I think your bunny passed away at this time, and you were heartbroken for a week. Tomboyish mannerisms evaporated; you were wearing your sister's old AE knits. Also, you were one head taller than me. For Halloween I aimed for Dementor but looked more like a hooded chimney sweep, chim chim chiroo. At Jonathan's house before Kumon we "killed the innocent person." Those golden animal crackers came in packets of pink, blue, and green.

When we were twelve, we fought quite often. Like Romeo to your Julianne, I wooed you with irritating Calvin and Hobbes-themed cards, passed across the hall, until you became my friend again (but not really). So I turned to Tiffany R, and you to cool buddies like Nadia and Elise (who put Jason T's hat in the bathroom) and other Cohnites. We wrote Ashley troubling letters which were discovered. Now braces adorned your bunny teeth; they changed color, but mostly were your favorite purple. Despite the tough times, we formed a band and declared Jonathan the manager. For inspiration, we watched "Sexy Back" at his desktop computer. That summer Ashley Lowe moved to Thousand Oaks, so we went to Tartini with her, and had a sleepover that was ruin of all future sleepovers: you got sick and mal-performed at Bin Tang Badminton Camp.

When we were thirteen, we were thoroughly teen. Token Juicy jackets: hot pink for me, demure black velvet with gold zippers for you. Trips to Valley Fair gave us meaning. Every day was so very chock-full of classes, silly ones that featured Cardio Days and team handball. P.E. shorts became my uniform, but you were always careful to maintain appearances. We made French videos and looked forward to monthly Fleur de Cocoa; Hera regaled us with movie plot synopses. Chinese school occupied Friday nights; ski trips occupied winter breaks. Once, in a buffet, we saw Kevjumba. Once, you licked Alvin's cheek, and Derek kissed mine. Once, you liked Austin D HAHAHA

Your fourteenth birthday at Elephant Bar.
Only for you, gerbil, do I expose my
mysterious eyebrowless-ness...

When we were fourteen, we were good girls, becoming serious now. Serious about reading, about church, about puppeteering people. A capricious lunch group consisting of Maggie, Karen, Rachel, Sarah, Casey, Annanya, Stephanie, and Monica was at once frightening and comforting; members were ousted from time to time. You, Casey, and I climbed Montalvo (not, we stayed at the base) and found that magical resonant spot. There was a group on facebook called "Julianne's Sighing is Relaxing" and how right they were; it still is! For your birthday, you had a sleepover (woah!); we went to Kitsch Couture and ate lemon bars and took home mugs for goodie bags. That was the first time I seriously considered the width of my thighs, because of those lemon bars. At graduation, nian gao was happy; you had a beautiful tapestry-like dress with yellow edges, and got honor roll. 'Twas the year of the slender saluki. Also, of the DC-trip: truly formative life experience (physically formative, that is: leaf in palm).

When we were fifteen, time began to run. At homecoming we wrapped green mesh around our heads and safety-pinned our black T-shirts with golden safety pins, per your suggestion; you'd read it in InStyle. After watching people freak I went home and wrote a ferocious letter; you were a chill cat. Those ski trips still existed; I fell in like with Logan and followed him home every day. Yuning--that senior girl with the pierced-ear boyfriend--called us annoying, but we giggled on. You liked the Kings of Leon song "Your Sex is On Fire," which sounded like "your socks are on fire" to me. I became a choir weird-o and TA'd orchestra, dancing in the practice rooms to arrangements of The Barber of Seville. That vegetable Jeffrey entered your life at this time, and suddenly you had a sweet-heart, and became perpetually pigeon-toed. He came to youth group, where we discussed dating.

When we were sixteen, we no longer had Chinese together (no more 奶黄包). But we went to Sausalito and marveled at paperclips bent into rabbit shapes; two happy mothers, two happy daughters. Blue waters and sunset; Joshua Bell was delicious to hear and see. You ate Penne Primavera, pronounced correctly. We lifted weights in P.E. with Kristie/Gloria/Rachel, and one day, a rogue Catherine Liu bounced into the mango-body-sprayed locker room. You went to Winter Ball with Burrito (Calvin Academy standard terminology), and to Sadie's with someone else, that good buddy (Vivian and I used bumpy paint to make you T-shirts). That spring, we began trekking through Narnia to the farmer's market; that summer, our moms began Zumbing. You ventured to Valencia and New Haven; I held on to you from home.

When we were seventeen, we sought to secure tomorrow. I put my head down and practiced piano, and seldom saw you outside of school; those hours of APUSH spent passing baby carrots back and forth and monitoring Rohan's head-droopiness were so precious to me. Mornings in Chinese with Kristie and Sabrina: I'd crane my neck and check your teeth for you whenever you asked. We escaped in October to a Croatian concert, one to remember forever. Fomenters of Switzerlandish revolution were we, and hoarders of ex-boyfriend house-elves (not to mention stalkers of the UV-deprived). I began to drive; once, I dared to sneak you to TJ's. Thanks to you, Samuel came along and plucked my holly leaves and wove a wreath (thank you, again, for him). You faded a little bit from my sight, but I loved you all along.

My eighteen is very different from yours, for yours begins today. Mine included all the sad milestones: college-grubbing, graduation, Spain, farewells. Your eighteen arrives on the brink of the unknown. We're older, still young; a bit battered about the heart, but still whole. It's been over a decade with you, now. A decade of the dearest best friendship, of so many "seasons of love" impossible to measure but in laughs, cups of water, hugs, paper bags, words. On your last night in Saratoga, you didn't hear my operatic weeping in the car as I drove home; my brother had to take the wheel. For your departure ushered in a very different season of love, one marked by distance and divergence; but there is hope in that all seasons come and go. Thank you, Julianne Wey, for every day that was and is to come.

I always remember your birthday because I was baptized on this day in seventh grade--another kind of birth. It's a precious tie that I have to you, one that ensures our friendship forever. God bless you in your eighteenth year.

Thursday, September 25, 2014

you, there: listen to your mother's words


Yes, the video is bluish and the chorus a bit too rock-ballad, but this song belongs in the ear-diet of all those with moms that constantly feed that ear.

Argonaut Elementary, 7:30 pm on a mid-May Friday: the cowbell commands all Chinese schoolers to convene. In preparation for the graduation show, Lin (or Wang or Hsu or Wu) Laoshi has us listen to Jay Chou's "聽媽媽的話" (listen to your mom) for homework. Stepho played the drums, Julianne strummed, I tickled the plastic ivories, Jonny rapped (ever the T-pop connoisseur),  and Mandy/Derek/et al did interpretive dance-clapping. Later on, in high school, the video clip fit nicely into every Mother's Day Project assigned to us by Mrs. Fan.

It's nowhere near May or Mother's Day, but I've got the song on loop. It's the story behind it that gets me: Jay Chou's parents divorced when he was young, and he was raised by his mother. She sent him to piano and cello lessons, and supported him after he graduated high school with grades too shoddy for university. When Jay's father cursed his muddled musician of a son, his mother shielded him, patiently prodding him forward. Jay Chou is Taiwan's pride today. He credits his mother for her unwavering faith in his talents, for nurturing and pruning them until unlikelihoods unfolded into success.

周杰倫有一首歌讓我特別感動,就是“聽媽媽的話”。我們小時候每個星期五晚上去Argonaut上中文學校。有一天,我們班在準備畢業表演。老師叫我們一起唱“聽媽媽的話”。 有些向朋友打鼓,有些彈吉他,有些跳舞。我幫他們彈鋼琴。媽媽們聽我們好像挺高薪!

從那年以後,我每一個母親節會給我的媽媽彈周杰倫這首歌。“聽媽媽的話”真的很有意思,因為周杰倫在謝謝他自己的媽媽不停的支持他,雖然他想當音樂家。他的爸爸不理他的時候,他的媽媽一直站在他身邊。周杰倫成為了一歌很棒的音樂家:他所有的歌曲是自己寫的。他還拍了一步非常好看電音叫“不能說的秘密”;我常常聽到年輕人學他彈琴。據我所知,他屬於台灣的英雄!我很高興他記得好好謝謝他的母親。我有時候忘記謝謝我自己的父母保持希望。





Saturday, September 20, 2014

invert carpe diem

Photos are the best prompts!
Just over a year ago I met this kind of flower in a field somewhere in western Massachusetts (deja vu) and at that precise moment I fell in love with the East Coast. We shall see if this love lasts through the winter. How fortunate I am to walk paths lined with lace.
My roommate and her friend have very festive hair. Jenn, the girl with the pink and blue 'do (like Jamaican ice), says that her hair becomes elastic when wet, like stretchy spaghetti. At night, my roommate wraps her curls in a lovely lavender bonnet because they can't touch cotton.
I taped family photos next to my pillow. Somehow, they convince me that the sum of flawed parts was perfect. Favorite ones: watching Amy Tan's Shagua with my brother in Li Ma's room; riding scooters with Sarah; my brother's plastic firetruck bed (the sleepovers began then); and sitting in Dad's lap in Ann Arbor. 
These two come as a set. Red umbrella and piano books in hand, I set out to post a letter to Samuel and practice for an afternoon. Rain is the world's eyeliner, darkening pretty lines. Also, New England is full of graveyards (Sometimes I feel like my writing has regressed to a fifth-grade level).
My Birkenclogs get wet and so do my toes :(
Three yellow boxes on black: this is Carr Hall, site of Midd Inter-Varsity Christian Fellowship, after Sunday praise night. Two professors attend the meetings--two of hundreds. But even though the light at Midd is small, it's bright.
Dad taking a selfie (...) at SFO with mom before she left for Taipei. She surprised me by writing a beautiful poem for her own dad: 
女兒,我要走了! 
回到那美麗的家鄉,我的母親和我們的主在那裡迎接我。
我知道妳愛我,所以我不能走的無牽無掛,我頻頻回首,只見泣不成聲的女兒。 
那個活潑可愛,喜歡跳舞的小公主,那個慰藉我喪女之痛的小天使,她泣立在我面前⋯
我不願意走因為她仍然須要我。
但是我的敵人死亡,一步步逼近,我拼命抵擋⋯
我的主把我從死亡中搶救出來,原來祂戰勝了死亡,把我安置在永生的起點。
美麗光明的家鄉不再遙遠,讚美的詩歌遠遠響起,好似我母親的呼喚⋯
女兒,不要哭泣, 
我為妳祈求那滿有恩慈的主,
祂應許我,有一天我們會再見面。
在那美麗而遙遠的家鄉,她快樂的跑過來,就像當年的小公主。
My first "essay" for German class, entitled 'Waggelpudding,' (which means Jello if I spelled it correctly). Ich bin nicht Berliner!
A happy place in the basement of Sunderland Language Center. Nobody goes there in the evenings and on weekends. I love the lamp's company. There's a sign taped to the stand that says "Please do not move the bench because it's hard to play while sitting on the floor."
At 4:45 today a handful of Wonnacott Commons members piled into a white van and barreled through the countryside. We hiked to the top of Snake Mountain, where we feasted on Cabot cheese, cider jam, apples, three loaves and no fishes.
And that's the Middlebury story so far! 
Thank you, God, for every day.

Friday, September 12, 2014

things that people have said that I say in a different way


(Bettina's class is best)
In all artistic experiences, audiences seek authenticity. Music is a tricky art to assess, as it evolves with every performance; the same notes may sound entirely different, depending on performer, setting, instrument, and even humidity levels. Thus, performers of Baroque music face a specialized conundrum: is it best to adhere to period instruments and interpretations, in the process constricting that essential musical evolution? Can a long-gone artist’s intentions be authentically conveyed on the modern stage? In comparing harpsichord and modern-piano performances of Bach’s second keyboard concerto, one finds musical merit in both instrumentations. 

Classically-trained ears are accustomed to hearing harpsichords embedded in Baroque ensembles, seldom stealing the spotlight. Therefore, when featured in concertos, the harpsichord blends without seam into the tapestry. The modern piano, on the contrary, stands out in this context. Each rounded pearl of a note, in contrast to the crisp taps of a harpsichord, is a cool stranger to the Baroque ensemble. Also, because the sound of a piano is associated with solo performances, the ensemble sounds at times superfluous. The harpsichord converses comfortably with other period instruments, but is harder to “dig” out of the ensemble; the piano sounds pleasant, but out of place.

Both performers approach the concerto with tempos appropriate to their instruments. The harpsichord and its orchestral companion languish together in luxuriant conversation, taking time to ensure that every interval is absorbed by the listener. The pianist, on other hand, executes the concerto with Mozart-like energy, prioritizing the precision of his attacks. Not a note falls out of place, whereas the harpsichordist staggers notes slightly, yielding an unsynchronized richness.

While both performers differentiate the voices with equal care, the instruments themselves limit the performer’s ability to do so. On the harpsichord, voices ring clearest at extremes of the keyboard; high notes sing brightly, and bass notes slice through the fray. Voices occurring in the mid-range are less memorable. The harpsichord’s dynamic disability allows only for “terraced” occurrences of loud and soft. The piano’s percussive nature, however, permits inflection within each phrase, and constant character changes within one voice.

Interpretation-wise, the harpsichordist plays with forthrightness, perhaps encouraged by the unmistakable insistency of instrument. The pianist expresses as an introvert would, revealing in wisps the ability to freely glide between piano and forte. Thus, the harpsichord speaks best to the distracted ear--as any ear would be, by the polyphonic nature of Baroque music--and the piano takes advantage of its incongruity.

(#liberalarts)





Thursday, September 11, 2014

I'm here now

... and it is beautiful. Vermont and California seem worlds apart--here, the grass grows longer and greener, and the flowers are far lovelier. I think that's because they're buried under snow for seven months. So, when they do bloom, they bloom boldly.