“You have to stay away from unknown people, boys, unknown substances, foreign objects and did I mention boys?” That was what my dad said as he halfheartedly approved of me to go on my first school trip. This excursion was unlike any other. This trip involved driving to France with just a group of teachers and several of my friends for three weeks. That is hardly what one would consider an experience that a fifth grader should have...
In all of my years of growing up in Southern California—where it is cool to drink Starbucks coffee, wear oversized sunglasses, and carry dogs in purses—why would I join something so uncool as Marching Band? Every time I even mention that I play flute in band, I’m hassled with quotes like, “This one time…at Band Camp…”..
Armed with bright pink flyers, I gathered my courage and marched into T.T. Minor Elementary School, hoping to convince fifty tiny six-year-olds that soccer could be as much fun as fifteen precious minutes on the playground.Having played and loved soccer my whole life, I wanted to give back to the soccer community...
“Hi. May I take your order?” I recited the standard greeting as I always did, just polite enough to say I had tried but brusque enough to remind them to make it quick, that I had other customers to deal with after them. I cannot even recall what he said next, only that the voice placing the order was unmistakably his. The color draining from my face, I hazarded a glance upward, peeking out from under my McDonald’s visor...
Fluent in sign language before spoken English, I have maneuvered between two languages and syntaxes every day of my life. As the child of deaf parents, I have interpreted in many awkward situations that children are not usually present for: doctor visits, legal appointments, and my own parent-teacher conferences. I was four when I first became the voice for my parents...
When I hear a song that speaks to me, that enters my body and radiates out of my tingling chest and into my other limbs, warming me and making me breathless, I know that it is not that I want to dance, but that I have to. I need to roll back my shoulders, to hit the beats and respond to the rhythms that seem to reverberate through me. My sudden burst of energy is redirected into my legs or arms, and I strike the floor with my heel or gently roll my toes over the floor to pad my landing as I descend from a leap...
I curiously watched men strolling along in rubber slippers and cringed at cars honking as they swerved past pedestrians. Tearing my eyes from the crowded streets of Shanghai and turning my head up to my mother’s, I said, “I want to tell everyone that I am from New York.” Even at so young an age, my words were tinted with a sense of superiority. I wanted to disassociate myself from a race that was often misted in the stigma of Communism, for being less civilized and socially unjust—I was not alone...
On the outside, I look like a regular teenager, walking into my high school on the first day of my senior year. On the inside, my brain struggles to think in three languages. My stomach churns. I desperately want to go back to Korea, where even though I was different on the outside, I felt at home on the inside...
“This is going to be a very special dinner”, my parents had told me. I was about 12 years old, and I was certainly no stranger to gourmet food. I remember unfolding the menu and seeing “it” listed on the appetizer page. As I ordered, the rest of the table squealed. The dish they were repulsed by was something I couldn’t have been more excited to taste. “You’re going to eat snails?” cried my little sister. I, an American 12 year old boy, had ordered a plate of escargot for dinner...
Back