angustifolias

[angustifolias]

One of the hardest things you have to learn is nostalgia is a liar about everything, but especially about the first boy who held your hand and kissed your cheek and tried to braid your hair at the mall. It tapes up the cracked frames of your polaroid memories, the times where your conversations danced as platonic, though you wonder if that was ever the case. Someone asked if you were siblings or dating once; the answer was neither.

Reminiscing is dangerous when nostalgia smoothes past the part where he took his words and aimed them directly at your chest. Bullseye. You barely knew what to do with yourself, after. You could have crawled into the coffin and made your bed in it, just like he said you would. And maybe, you would have, had it been worse.

But he was wrong. You clawed your way out of the grave, brushed away the dirt under your fingernails. You are standing in the sun right now. You did better than survive. Kicking, screaming, fighting. Unrecognizable to everyone who once knew you, but you survived. Too bad he's not around to see it, but the truth is, you don't need him. You never did.

- 25 July 25

[angustifolias]

Looking back now, you understand that this is the voice of a pessimist. This love is softer, gentler. So.

With a mirror, we begin anew: everything reflected in sequence.

Unfortunately, the insecurities have gotten the best of you. Instead of quieting them, you despaired. Sounds about right for you. It's a crisis or a birthday? They've still come through. They penned you into their busy lives, carved out a niche for you to perch upon. Your best friend flew 5 hours to see you; the boys drove with insistence and without complaint. You've cried into the phone more times than you can count, but someone always picks up the damn phone. They were always there.

I am sorry for the unkindness. I have done you all a disservice.

The ride home from the airport sobered us all, a somber unease settling on the seats. Six hours later, my hands are still clenched around the promise they handed us at the airport. This will not be the last time. This is not goodbye.

- 15 mar 25

If only someone told you that things would be different now, would you have been better prepared? Or would everything play out the same? Over and over. Richard Siken was right. This is a very old story. Someone always has to leave first.

The circles that orbit you keeps growing, expanding as you venture forth into the world. What this means: everyone drifts further away. You see each other on birthdays and crisis, hoping it's enough to sustain a bridge built so long ago you've already forgotten what it was built on. It's one of those things you want to last forever, though it has been years since someone told you wanting only gets so far.

But you only see each other during birthdays and in a crisis. And it's your birthday, your crisis. You're not privy to the part of his life where your friend of seven years and counting comes to you, asking for advice and help and celebration—only in exchange. Makes you feel useful. But the truth is you are no longer someone he leans on, but it always makes you wonder if he ever did in the first place—not that you begrudge him his happiness. He has a girlfriend. He's chasing a degree in a field he likes and a prestigious summer internship awaiting him.

You're thrilled for him, seriously. You rejected him once and never really got over the feeling of another heart breaking. You want him to be happy more than yourself, and seems like he's on the way to finding it. But—

You are scrambling for air in a deep sea lake, and there are new lines etched in the ground now, ones that weren't there before, ones you know better than to come close to. Keep this wall between you—you may be close, but not too close. No more hugs; no more leaning on his shoulder when you're tired. You do the thing you do best: making yourself as small as possible. You don't want to be a threat. Watching them makes you miss your boyfriend more, even, makes you wish he was here with you. Hypocrite. You are another example of thing that makes you sad.

And this is where the story ends. You love your boyfriend dearly, but you were hoping for something more than two neat lines: brides on one end, grooms down the other. Your other friend says you guys should just get married already. Because that is always the destination. You follow the white picket fence to the front yard, pass the oak tree to the wrap around porch. Two children and an animal. Tradition follows tradition; another pair of hands clasped together in holy matrimony. The End. Happily Ever After.

Given time, sure. You'll get married. Elope, courthouse, barefoot in the woods—doesn't really matter to you. Or maybe you won't, but either way, when that day arrives for you or for someone you love, what comes after? What if you aren't interested in two children and a pet? What if you are stuck on one path, and the rest stand firm on the other?

Childhood friends become memories and memories wither away. If it isn't you, then it'll happen to someone you know. Now that you're watching it in real time, an emotion you can't name wells up in your lungs. You think it might be grief.

Later: he is more content than he has been in a while, your friend tells you, softness coloring his voice. You face him and see someone else sitting there: a friend, perhaps even a dear friend. But he will never be your friend again.

- 13 mar 25

[angustifolias]

If only someone told you that things would be different now, would you have been better prepared? Or would everything play out the same? Over and over. Richard Siken was right. This is a very old story. Someone always has to leave first.

The circles that orbit you keeps growing, expanding as you venture forth into the world. What this means: everyone drifts further away. You see each other on birthdays and crisis, hoping it's enough to sustain a bridge built so long ago you've already forgotten what it was built on. It's one of those things you want to last forever, though it has been years since someone told you wanting only gets so far.

But you only see each other during birthdays and in a crisis. And it's your birthday, your crisis. You're not privy to the part of his life where your friend of seven years and counting comes to you, asking for advice and help and celebration—only in exchange. Makes you feel useful. But the truth is you are no longer someone he leans on, but it always makes you wonder if he ever did in the first place—not that you begrudge him his happiness. He has a girlfriend. He's chasing a degree in a field he likes and a prestigious summer internship awaiting him.

You're thrilled for him, seriously. You rejected him once and never really got over the feeling of another heart breaking. You want him to be happy more than yourself, and seems like he's on the way to finding it. But—

You are scrambling for air in a deep sea lake, and there are new lines etched in the ground now, ones that weren't there before, ones you know better than to come close to. Keep this wall between you—you may be close, but not too close. No more hugs; no more leaning on his shoulder when you're tired. You do the thing you do best: making yourself as small as possible. You don't want to be a threat. Watching them makes you miss your boyfriend more, even, makes you wish he was here with you. Hypocrite. You are another example of thing that makes you sad.

And this is where the story ends. You love your boyfriend dearly, but you were hoping for something more than two neat lines: brides on one end, grooms down the other. Your other friend says you guys should just get married already. Because that is always the destination. You follow the white picket fence to the front yard, pass the oak tree to the wrap around porch. Two children and an animal. Tradition follows tradition; another pair of hands clasped together in holy matrimony. The End. Happily Ever After.

Given time, sure. You'll get married. Elope, courthouse, barefoot in the woods—doesn't really matter to you. Or maybe you won't, but either way, when that day arrives for you or for someone you love, what comes after? What if you aren't interested in two children and a pet? What if you are stuck on one path, and the rest stand firm on the other?

Childhood friends become memories and memories wither away. If it isn't you, then it'll happen to someone you know. Now that you're watching it in real time, an emotion you can't name wells up in your lungs. You think it might be grief.

Later: he is more content than he has been in a while, your friend tells you, softness coloring his voice. You face him and see someone else sitting there: a friend, perhaps even a dear friend. But he will never be your friend again.

- 13 mar 25

[angustifolias]

For someone majoring in graphic communications, it's strange knowing how pedantic it may seem to obsess over every little detail. Must you really debate the gorge between using can I and may I? Does color matter?

In lieu of an answer, I give you two truths and no lies:

1.) It's not her fault my mother inherited her mother's tongue: sharp, lashing, absolute. Never have I experienced anything more skilled at cutting one down to the quick than the sound of her voice when she's angry. There are no flowery words or rounded corners to soften whatever blow comes next. There is no predicting the fall.

2.) It's not my fault I inherited my mother's tongue, either. Over the years I've learned to hold it down, suffocate any rebellious thoughts that threaten the peace we share. To say nothing is better than saying something far worse: self preservation dictates I should sit there and take it. Sometimes it could be considered gentle, like waves lapping at a cliffside. Other times, high tide announces itself without warning.

Even the gentlest of waves will wear the stone, slowly and surely. Erosion in real time. But these crashing waves have been around for a very long time, so perhaps we are past even wear. We may even be worse than ruins.

- 19 feb 25

[angustifolias]

Tell me this: is it selfish to want to be happy? To want to step outside of your room and not feel scared? To think of yourself first, for once, instead of always deferring to what others want? Does that make it wrong?

Here is the problem: you are too sensitive; you take things too seriously. If you point to the problem as something other than yourself, then you are making excuses for something that you will never fix overnight. She is not your friend; she is your mother. What is a disability to her, if not something that can and must be overcome?

It's some sort of strange binary that runs this house. You can be happy and bad, or you can be good. Someone has to be the bad guy, and if not her, then. Well. You are too sensitive and you can't take criticism. Honesty must be brutal, punches cannot be pulled. It's a sink or swim world; don't you know that? You will teach yourself to swim or you will not, and her faith in you speaks of another more sinister thought: you are not allowed to fail.

Your name, once translated, describes a type of silk: study, durable. You were made to be strong, but you want something softer. Oh, you want somewhere you can rest, can breathe. A minute to start over, kindness upon yourself. Must one always be moving forward? Here is a rest stop, a liminal space, a place that is not meant for one to linger in for too long. Take a breath. Refresh and refuel; have some water and something to eat. So you make this promise to yourself, of a better day ahead. You don't have to burn out to find it.

- 14 Oct 24

[angustifolias]

Today is my childhood friend's birthday. He's turning 21. We haven't spoken in, oh, 13 years; we were 8 and knew nothing of the things to come. The very next year, we both move schools, and we never see each other again.

His birthday is still embedded in my phone. I keyed in the contact myself, punched in the numbers for his birthday—a contact with that and nothing else, no email, no phone number, no address. I think our moms are Facebook friends, but I don't dare ask about him. How could I?

I spent years holding on to the memory of him, while he grew up and turned into someone I will never know, told to me from the mouth of a friend of a friend of a friend, but every time, I can't help but think, I hope you're doing well, but more selfishly, I hope you think of me. I have known and cherished this memory far longer then I have known and cherished this friendship. That's how nostalgia pulls you in, isn't it?

No love is ever wasted. It's what I keep telling myself, but I have spent enough time in the past as of late. So, one last time:

Happy Birthday. I hope you are well.

- 16 sept 24

[angustifolias]

As a girl, your hobbies should include things like a respectable string instrument and reading or knitting or whatever it is demure girls do these days. Instead, tragically, you like video games. You don't really know why. But even in the virtual world, you'll escape the feeling that you're not welcome here. It's not something that's only restricted to being female. Being Asian-American is one of those things that feels like both a blessing and a curse, something to be proud and ashamed of.

You straddle the line between two worlds but can never full step into one, and it's always the little things that remind you of your place. Today it's an innocent question: what's your favorite cooking element. They say crockpot, you say wok. And then someone else chimes in, okay [redacted]. It's not the first time you've been called that. It probably won't be the last. It sinks in like a shot from the doctor's office, slow and steady. At first, you laugh it off and don't respond. Then, you seethe. How dare they. How dare they.

But it's the internet, so of course they dare. They have nothing to prove and nothing to lose; you are the opposite. At birth, you were charged with two crimes: being female, and having "the wrong kind" of immigrant parents. The very same heritage you're so proud of marks you as an outsider to the rest of the world. It's something you'll carry with you for the rest of your life, something oh so heavy. But you can't put it down.

- 13 Sept 2024

[angustifolias]

intrinsically, we all know that fast fashion is a global problem. customers, manipulated into buying; we are sold the product of fitting into society. advertisements bombard us, twist the narrative until we have "no other choice" but to buy, buy, buy. workers, manipulated into selling their lives in exchange for a penny or two. long hours, poor working conditions. here, survival is the only thing that matters.

but the lady who cleans my workplace has a new backpack. she proudly displays it: sleek leather, compact, neutral colors that'll complement any outfit. something I'd probably find at forever 21 or any of the other big name brands you'd find in a shopping mall. "guess where I got it from," she says. "looks so real, right? no one can tell the difference."

"amazon," i say.

"nope. too expensive." it's the first time i've heard the words amazon and expensive put together. i consider saying temu, but then remind myself that this is a different audience. i've never met someone here who shops on alibaba or taobao; it's not going to be temu.

"shien." she nods, smug, and i nod along, because i can't tell her she's responsible for the destruction of our planet. i loathe bezos, yet i'll still order things when it's convenient. in a way, we all have a hand in our own destruction. still, we are the lucky ones.

it's expensive to be either eco friendly and poor, and you can't be both. to care about the planet, you must have this much money. on the other hand, the median for a cleaning lady's salary is three-quarters of my city's living wage. it's the essentials, and the essentials only, with a little money saved on the side to keep you going. if it's between a $10 mass produced t-shirt and groceries or a $80 hand embroidered cruelty free silk blouse, you'd pick the groceries, every time.

every time.

- 8 sept 24

[angustifolias]

you're the exception again. you try not to think about it, like how you've got dishes to do and a cat to take care of and schoolwork to complete and a degree to chase. but your mother gave birth to you, so now you have to cater to her whims:

massages, because your brother won't. sewing, because it's your hobby. laundry and vacuuming, because at least you're semi reliable. but can't a machine only work for so long before needing maintenance?

you're tired. you try not to think about it because when you think about it, all it does is hurt. you don't want it to anymore.

- 30 aug 24

[angustifolias]

Yesterday you threatened to tow an entire slew of cars. Double parking, occupation of disability spots without permits, parking in fire lanes, you name it. You go out there and issue warnings, watch as cars pull away—some, but not all. And then: You're going to ruin their party. A car pulls up, right in the fire lane, and you kindly inform the driver of your intentions. To him, you are a nightmare. Have you no shame? Have you no heart? This is a once in a lifetime event; if you tow, you'll ruin it. Do you have nothing better to do on a Saturday?

Not really, you say. Clearly it's not the answer he's looking for, but in his eyes, you must keep your eyes glued to the cameras, itching for the first chance to abuse your power. You and your coworkers take turns arguing with him—a childish act, but not as childish as a fully grown man beefing with two young adults trying their best to do their jobs. (You pointedly leave this part out in your status report of an email. Your boss doesn't need to know.)

But you don't tow, because in the end, your threats worked. All the cars move; you sigh in relief. The worst of the weekend must be over, right? Wrong: today brings another party where they reenact the previous night. You're so tired of all these things happening all in a row, but someone beats you to it and calls the police. You're just a girl in a t-shirt. He is a man in uniform with blank tickets stored under the dash. So they all grumble and whine, but they move their cars, and then you can breathe again. Party or not, it's still illegal, and by parking there, they're taking the chance on a community's goodwill.

You're always so worried about how people perceive you. You have to be good; you have to be perfect. You tie up your hair for work and put your best foot forward, repeating your mantras. Someone will always be angry; you can't please everyone. It's about time that you remember it.

Be kinder to yourself. You're doing the best you can.

- 28 July 24

[angustifolias]

You're oh so sleepy, but you still have to write, committing to the task you've set for yourself. It's hard—harder than you thought it would be. You'd collapsed on your bed in a sleepy haze, and woke up to videos your best friends messaged you. See, you don't have those social medias, so in order to send it to you, they have to oftentimes download the video, then upload it to whatever messaging platform you use. Quite tedious, just for a 30 second video, let alone multiple. And yet, they still do it, have been doing it for months and months. Isn't that just another way to say, I was thinking of you? That I see you everywhere in my everyday life, in the ordinary?

But you're also thinking to yourself, don't you do the same thing? You make little trinkets and send memes and cat pictures and stay up late on the phone. You'd drop as much as you could in a crisis. You can't help it, either. You love and love and love, but sometimes you don't know how to say it without sounding like a politician. I love you. So you will your thoughts to them with every thing you send, hoping they'll understand what it is you're really trying to say. I love you. You're important to me. I love you.

Perhaps on some level, they already know, and you don't need to say anything at all.

- 26 july 24

[angustifolias]

You keep forgetting to write—not a good sign for a project less than a week in. But today was nice. You go climbing and eat fried chicken and waffles after, screw up your face when you realize you got the wrong order. It wasn't supposed to be spicy; you'd picked no spice. If this was no spice, you didn't even want to imagine what medium would taste like. Except this was medium, and no spice was exactly how you'd wanted. It makes for a funny story to recount. It gives you something to write home about.

- 25 july 2024

[angustifolias]

Sewing, colored pencils, pixel art. All these pile up on top of the already teetering stack of things you've tried: knitting, piano, guitar. Drawing, painting, sculpture, crochet. Embroidery. Dancing. You'd find it hard pressed to fine something you haven't tried, or haven't at least tried something similar.

You pick up new medium after new medium in search of stimulation, to scratch the never ending itch buried in idle hands. And you excel, more than you thought you would, and now you're thinking maybe they were right. You do have the power to create things after all.

It wasn't too long ago you fretted over not having any work of value. Now, you don't feel like burning what you make, which is an improvement over the inferno you once wished for. You allow yourself grace, and these hands take things slowly.

And you pick yourself up, and keep moving forward.

- 24 july 24

[angustifolias]

15 months ago, you were a twig. Today, you are still a twig, or as your brother puts it, 100 pounds soaking wet, but you are just enough not a twig that when you flex, your arm doubles in size. That's what should be important, right?

Instead, your brother notes that your armpit hair is less than a centimeter long. Shave it, he says. You tell him he's upholding patriarchal beauty standards, trying to police your body. He tells you you're taking it too seriously, that it was just a joke.

You didn't find it funny.

You hate the fact you are always supposed to laugh it off, no matter what it is, like you are a mannequin for enjoyment. You have to fall in line just like one. You were flexing on him, he says, so he had to put you in your place.

Righteous anger burns through you, the very same anger that people laugh off as an overreaction. Women aren't allowed to be angry, just like they aren't allowed to be muscular, and you are both. Why can't you be both? It leaves a bitter taste in your mouth and the feeling the world wasn't built for you. You don't think it ever was.

- 23 july 2024

[angustifolias]

You weren't really sure what to write about today. It was like any other day, laundry and dishes and vacuuming, scheming up ways how to work your way into your mother's acceptance. Every piece of folded clothing, every clean square inch of carpet, every spotless dish all add sand to the imaginary hourglass. It has to be enough this time, right?

Yes and no. You have both always and never been enough.

See, your mother wants to take a family vacation, but that means leaving your cat behind, and that means finding a sitter. You're not too keen on going, but you've already sat one out, and it doesn't seem like she'll let you do it again. But finding a sitter?

What do you think? Your mother says when you ask for her to chip in. A trick question, one that gives you no ground. You've already said what you think: of course you'll pay for most of it, all if you must. She's your cat. You can afford it, she says under her breath, then, louder, when you ask: Nothing. She's already dusted her hands off this little scenario, and you understand this conversation is now over. You wonder if your asks have ever been greedy, demanding. You wonder if you have been anything other then demure and easy to trample on, a wild flower.

Yes, you can afford it. It's why you have a job. But you wanted to know if she would provide the safety net if you fall, and it doesn't sound like she will. You'll sink and she won't save you, and she'll call it love. You're used to it.

- 22 july 24

[angustifolias]

So maybe you're not cut out to be a manager. The pressure on your shoulders feels more like an anvil these days, and it presses down into your bones. You're slouching into a doormat.

You have a single job: enforce the rules. Tell them no, stand your ground. Over and over, until they get the message.

If we talk about exceptions, what is the correct answer?

See, it's not about the rules or how they constrict. It's about how many inches one can take from it. What's another step? You've given one already. You know this. If every rule is bent, what's the point of having rules entirely? It's what your entire job is based off of, and yet: You want to be kind, to see the problem from both sides. Always so worried about what others think of you. Is your job worth a child's disappointment? A mother's wrath, a father's exasperation? Whose peace are you keeping?

You're a cog in the capitalist wheel for 11 hours every weekend. You may not act like it sometimes, but you are.

You don't really know how to be anything but hard on yourself, don't you?

- 21 july 2024

[angustifolias]

It's funny, how many blogs you've started in the name of something, anything. Most lay empty like barren wastelands, unseen by most eyes. Here is a fresh example—another blog, another intention. You present a project fulfilled in thought only; you must finish it by hand yourself.

It's been a long time since you last wrote something. You feel as if you have so many things to say, but now, given the chance, the words rush up your throat and get stuck between your teeth and tongue. Each word clamors to be first, demands to be said. What then? Where are you supposed to start?

The beginning. You start at the beginning. It all sounds so simple: you want to write, so write. Write everyday about everything and nothing at all. What more is there to it? You're arguing with yourself about how to best present yourself, too worried about you'll be perceived. It doesn't matter. Fail or succeed, you'll try and try and try, and you'll raise your glass, once again, in the name of another something. The journey's only just beginning, after all.

- 20 july 24