This essay is written from the point of view of the fictional character Malia Blu. Tell me a story that doesn’t end and I will tell you one that does. Sing me a song in all the languages in the world and I will reply with a word. A conclusion, a happily-ever-after, a period. Aren’t those what we desire? My name is Malia Blu. Concrete, simple, true. My adoptive mothers named me after a friend who died before I was born. My surname, my mothers chose when they married. I was born in China and I live in the United States. I am twenty-years-old. This is who I am. I am a person who is depressed, anorexic, extroverted. I am a sister, an adoptee, a writer. I love visiting the beach down the road. I appreciate the rain dripping down my roof. I take pleasure in laughing with my friends on Zoom. I know who I am. Except when I don’t. Ask me to tell a story about myself and I will tell you one that doesn’t end. Beg me to speak English and I will shout in Bulgarian or Cantonese. A continuation, a hodgepodge, a question mark. Those are what we hate. I don’t know my birth name. Do I even have one? I don’t know where I was born or how my biological parents met. I don’t even know what region of Zhejiang Province I’m truly from. Maybe I’m not even from Zhejiang. Is this who I am? Please. Just give me all the answers. Shove confidence down my soul. I crave to breath in and out with hope. I’m tired of day-after-day not knowing who I am. I am exhausted by the pain that has always existed and still thrives in this world. I want to smile at a friend without feeling like a fraud. Make me brave. Make me kind. Make me, me. Except, that is not how the world works. Share your story with the world and it will give you both answers that end and answers that don’t. Let words drip from your fingertips and mouth and only some will comprehend. A conundrum, a head-scratcher, an ellipsis. Maybe those are all that we are. Thank you for reading! If you like my story, please don’t be afraid to give it a share. Comments are always welcome and I love hearing your thoughts. Question: Do you think Malia is right in seeing identity as fluid?
0 Comments
It’s hard to believe things will get better. There is so much pain drifting around us. The anti-Blackness, the hunger, the warfare. Protests demanding justice for lives cruelly lost are met with swarming hate. Our short attention spans translate to some treating advocacy work like a trend. I feel hopeless. When I think about the history of the world, my immediate thoughts are of pain. The threads of wounds made long ago wind themselves around me. America prospered thanks to the greediness of colonists and the exertion of slaves. Famines in Europe and Asia in the 1900s caused my Irish and Chinese adoptive grandparents to emigrate. I reside in the US most likely because my biological parents were poor in China and could not afford a girl. If I really let my brain analyze, almost every good thing that has happened to me is the result of others’ struggles. The food I eat? The clothes I like? The chromebook I use to write? All the work of underpaid laborers. I have taken numerous mindfulness and wellbeing courses and the guidance I am provided over and over is to be grateful. Gratitude is what will make me happy. I hunger for gratefulness. It’s a simple solution to a complex world. Yet, something snags me. How can gratitude make me happy when, inherently, suffering is the reason for my pleasure? At times, I have trouble comprehending the good in the world, in other people, and especially in myself when there has always been and still exists pain. I know I can’t solve Earth’s problems on my own and I admire all the people who are stronger than me who encourage me to continue. I crave the hope that carries these remarkable people like Angela Davis, Malala Yousafzai, Ceyenne Dorsohow, Crystal Echo Hawk, and so many more. Compared to them, I feel like I am a child lost in a forest with a dark canopy bearing down on me. Ghosts flit around me crying for love and affection and the stars glimmering above me are hidden. Yet, when I take the moment to breathe, I can feel the chilled, but soothing air. I can smell the crisp flowers and hear the little crickets. The ghosts are still there, but my senses empower me to listen to them. As I keep walking, I may not be able to see the stars-- maybe they are unattainable-- but I can see the beauty drifting around me that inspires me to continue moving. The ghosts simply needed someone to listen, to care, to act. Their stories are sad and painful as well as full of love and strength. I wish they lived in a world where they did not have to be so strong. I can only control myself and what I do and by allowing the little sparks of hope to invigorate me, I can keep listening and I can keep moving. Getting eternally lost in my desperation helps no one. I am grateful for the air, the flowers, the crickets. I am grateful for this moment of spirit. Even when I fall back into despair, I can remember that hope, like pain, drifts and it will come back. Thank you for reading! If you like my essay, please don't be afraid to give it a share. Comments are always welcome and I love hearing your thoughts. Question: When was a time hope drifted for you?
|
AuthorI'm Darcy Ridge, creating stories that all revolve around family and identity in a myriad of ways. In the past, I have shared multiple stories and published a novella online. You can find me on Wattpad and many other social media websites. They/them [Image Description: black background with the words "Social Justice and Mental Health Resources" in white in the center /end ID]
Click image for a list of social justice and mental health resources. Archives
November 2020
Categories
All
|