Tag Archives: Love

Let Your Parents Tell You Their Stories

I can’t count on my two hands the number of times my parents or elders have told me the same stories, both trivial and significant, thinking it was the first time they’ve shared it. Or how many times I’ve sighed, rolled my eyes, and said to myself, “Omg. This again.”

I can, however, think of five separate and distinct moments where my dad told me of the time he’d gotten so drunk he fell asleep two nights straight in a compost heap and thought he’d die from alcohol poisoning. Or the time he went skinny dipping in Lake Superior. Or the night he got so high and was pulled over by a cop for driving under the speed limit when he felt like he’d been driving the DeLorean.

I used to think that he’d tell me these same stories to deter me from making bad choices– as if the hundredth iteration would really drill it into my head.

But now, I think back to how he would smile telling me about how young he had been. How scary it was in the moment but how funny it had become in hindsight. Reading in-between the lines of his laughter, I learned how it’s okay to want to experiment, make mistakes and collect experiences like a librarian collects books to put on her shelves. To enjoy life and remember the passing moments it affords you. And most importantly, to force your kids to listen to them one day.

Because what are memories if not drafts of the stories we’ll one day share with others? And what are stories if they’re never passed on?

As I continue to hone my understanding of “adulthood,” or the illusion we cast of it, the more I start to appreciate storytelling as a reliever from the stresses and challenges of life, of hardships that age us.

So, I think my parents know exactly when they’re sharing the same thing to me, and I don’t think they care. In fact, I’m sure they enjoy it, which is why they do it.

And I enjoy it, too.

Because they’re growing older and might not be around tomorrow to tell me again. Because the tenth time could be the last. Because they get funnier each time. Because when I hear them again, I find new details. Details that have nothing to do with the story itself, but with the person telling it.

It’s a wonderful thing to feel connected to those we love. And the stories we share are more than just their words or their lessons to be learned. They’re the movement of the bodies telling them, the tones of their voices, and the embellishment of their details.

They’re spaces of belonging and connection that make words and people feel like home.

They’re branches off the same tree bearing fruit that continue to feed a necessary part of us.

And they’re the bridges between bodies that won’t always be there to walk along.

So let your dad remind you that candy was a dime a dozen when he was a kid. Let your mom tell you again of the time she fought a boy in third grade because he liked her. Let your Lola and Lolo lecture you weekly about what life was like before the age of technology.

Let them tell you these chapters of their lives. Cherish them. Because these are the threads in an endless tapestry that decorates an otherwise dreary world.

The First Time I Fell In Love

The first time I fell in love, it was with my best friend. He was kind and smart and I was 16 and filled with the passionate exuberance of my first time. We sat next to each other during most classes and snuck touches past our teachers. I’d ask, “What if someone catches us?” and he’d dare me with his eyes, “Who cares?” The first time I fell in love was the first time I felt how soft lips could be, how excited your body could get. How deep conversations could run. We talked about our darkest corners and spent countless nights texting till the sun rose, walk into class with sleepy eyes and repeat. But we didn’t care. We were in love. 

When I first fell in love, I was naive. I balanced between being self-centered and too giving at all the wrong times. He’d tell you I was flirtatious but I’d argue I was just friendly. I’d say he cared too much about how others thought of him and he’d claim that that’s the world we live in. He’d say I was crossing a line and I’d retaliate, “We’re just friends.” We were reckless and irresponsible and too full of young love to understand that the world is so much bigger than the conversations we had in between textbooks. We were still finding ourselves.

The second time I fell in love, I didn’t fall right away. He was older and more experienced and I just wanted to have fun. It wasn’t a sudden spark in the darkness, but a gradual connection that molded itself into something I never saw coming. I had left my home to live in a new place and he stood beside me as I explored new experiences. He showed me how big and how small a hectare of land could be, how many worlds could be built in-between the space of two bodies. How I didn’t have to feel ashamed when blood would run down my legs unexpectedly or when he’d find deodorant marks on my black tops. I learned how to take as much as I give in the shadows of my bed, how to free my body from expectation and see my own skin as a home instead of a temple.

The second time I fell in love, I was still young and carefree and unprepared for heartbreak. I’d flirt with other guys to see if he’d notice and he’d pretend he didn’t. I asked if he loved me and he said, “No.” I lied and said I didn’t either. I remember crying for weeks, waiting for the moment I could listen to music or feel enjoyment without wanting to throw up. We agreed from the beginning that our relationship was temporary, that distance wasn’t worth the effort, but in-between the lines of every message we sent thousands of miles away from one another, were unspoken desires and hopes. But he showed me that memory is fickle and that details fade, grow dusty and crinkle like aged paper. Eventually pain subsides and we learn to grow and be grateful.

The third time I fell in love, I had no plans or expectations. I had no idea relationships and love could be so complex. That I could fall for a girl. I learned how to talk and listen and relate, how to understand the push, pull, and collision of emotional and physical connection. She taught me how to see and be seen, and how love–– real love–– should be given. I’d spend early hours working on papers and assignments and she’d drop me food making sure I ate, giving me the lemons in her water, and running with me even after a long day at work.

But the third time I fell in love, I learned how toxic I could be. How loud I could yell and how hurtful my words could be. How selfish and callous we can be when we know how much someone loves us. How much it hurts to let something go but how much better it feels to know we’re no longer poisoning something pure. The third time I fell in love, I realized I didn’t deserve more. She did.

The last time I fell in love, I didn’t want to. I wanted to live and grow alone for a long while with no distractions. I had a plan and he was in a different country. We barely knew each other and I told myself I’d never confine myself to a long distance relationship. He was in the military, wanting to come back home. I was in the middle of my busiest semester and I wanted to leave, to place roots somewhere else. It was everything I didn’t want. But you don’t really get to decide who you fall in love with.

We spent hours every day texting, calling, learning how distance can’t stop your heartbeat from picking up speed when you see their name pop up on your screen. Learning that the last time can be just as new as the first time. Learning how to squeeze a whole year in 10 days. Learning how to plan 5, 10, 20 years down the line with the same person–– what we’d name our dog, our kids, what color our sheets would be, who’d do the laundry and who’d do the dishes, and how we’d stop our Roomba from falling down the stairs.

But the last time I fell in love, I learned how forgiving I can be. That love alone isn’t enough. I learned that feelings scar and scare us. Remain vivid markers of things we’d rather forget, things we carry with us like a skin tag. That unkept promises metastasize into deeply rooted insecurities that we try to lock inside ourselves but that can never truly stay hidden. That even when we’re in love we can still be unsure, but still, we keep trying and hoping it was always meant to be. And maybe one day It will be.

Don’t Date A Girl Who Reads

I’ve read “You Should Date An Illiterate Girl,” and “Date a Girl Who Reads” and now I come to you, bold letters and hands to hip to say, “Don’t date a girl who reads.” 

Don’t date a girl who reads.

A girl who reads will know if you’ve really read Pride and Prejudice or if you’ve lazily googled the summary on SparkNotes. She won’t be impressed by the way you understand the symbolism in Animal farm because it’s already painfully obvious. She knows Romeo isn’t a figure of love and that Gatsby didn’t need Daisy, he needed a therapist. A girl who reads might love Heathcliff but she also understands that his deep and brooding nature is unactualized potential and that his codependence on Catherine hinders him from healing his own childhood trauma. 

Don’t date a girl who reads if she’s gone through all 585 pages of Moby Dick. She can tell when a climax is not worth the endless chapters of exposition and will not wait for you to take action. And if she’s versed in Morrison, well good luck, because she knows not to fall in love, but to rise in it. She’s read long books and short ones and knows when a story should’ve ended pages ago (Read: The Old Man and the Sea) so don’t draw out the tension if the resolution is mediocre. She will grow bored, steal the pen away and write her own ending. She’s read and reread the most divinely crafted proclamations of devotion, ones that have been dog-eared, wrapped in Hughes’ blue cloud-cloth and crafted to syntactic perfection. She’s read these passages so often that she’s ingrained them in her memories and houses red alarms in her heart that are triggered when someone comes close to reciting them. So don’t be discouraged when she’s unmoved by your “hey, u up?” text at 3 in the morning.

When Venus tells Adonis to “stray lower, where the pleasant fountains lie,” a girl who reads knows Shakespeare is talking about oral sex. She is well versed in fuck boy rhetoric of all kind. She does not want the illusion of selflessness cast over the “you deserve better” cliché. She’d rather have the unconditional love between James Carstairs and Will Herondale.

A girl who reads will want a Luve that she can fold into a red, red rose or write into a sonnet and she wants a heartbreak that has her crumbling into oblivion or shouting into the void because she knows that a perfect love is boring to read. She craves dynamism, multiple climaxes in one story, oscillating periods of passion and discontent and knows that the initial wave of infatuation often gives way to a period of indifference held together by an implicit contract of loyalty and commitment, but that it’ll rise into another crescendo if both characters are patient and determined enough. A girl who reads doesn’t revel in stagnant waters, she rushes towards the waves, towards the other shore Márquez has promised. She knows that that real love isn’t just one or the other, it’s everything–– it is all of it.

You cannot offer the world to a girl who reads. She has gone beyond the white, male pages of the canon and travelled with Hosseini and Lispector, with Pavlova and Tan and Tolkien and knows when to romanticize the world and when to live in it. She’ll read Hurston, and Roy, and Allende and despair when she realizes that Kerouac’s fabulous yellow roman candle-lit night is not the same tainted midnight as Laurie Anderson’s. A girl who reads is not a coffee stained manuscript waiting for your eyes to rove over her at a cafe. She does not fill her shelves with de Beauvoir and Wild and Walker so that you can idealize her into an overdone trope. She does not want the responsibility of opening your eyes to a new world and is not filled with hidden messages waiting for you to annotate between the lines. A girl who reads couldn’t care less if you’re enchanted with the way she smells the pages of a book or runs her fingers through the deckled edges.

She is bold, sans serif font underlined and italicized to her own liking. 

But don’t date a girl who doesn’t read, either.

A girl who doesn’t read might choose to buy a dress or a new pair of shoes instead of a first edition Vonnegut. She’ll zone out at poetry readings or drift into a daydream at the first page of Hunger Games but come alive when you flip to the Western Conference. She might even use a paperback copy of King as a doorstop.

And you know what all this will tell you? Nothing.

It will tell you that it doesn’t matter if a girl would rather spend her Saturday nights drunk and celebrating the beauty of another woman she just met in the bathroom or if she can shotgun a beer faster than the post-nut clarity after your 7 minutes of mediocre performance can hit you. It doesn’t matter that she can’t stylistically analyze a single page of The Sound and the Fury and that she cannot be romanced with Neruda or Pound because she, too, will not be not swayed by your rehearsal of another man’s words and empty declarations of commitment without action.

Maybe she doesn’t read literature or critique the classics, but that doesn’t mean she lacks the intellectual capacity to have deep discussions on politics or existentialism, that she cannot color your life with more shades of cerulean than the Pacific Ocean. She won’t recognize Woolf or Dickinson but she’ll still demand passion and wonder and will see right through any shallow understanding of love and womanhood that many have painfully attempted to categorize under literate and illiterate. She, too, will despise the way others correlate her intellect with the number of books on her shelves and scoff at the way women have been grouped and pitted against one another in outdated binaries.

And in that moment, you’ll find that a girl who doesn’t read can be just as formidable as one that does, that there is no hidden value to be found in a girl that reads that cannot be found in one that doesn’t, that philosophies and values learned through text are not inherently superior to those formed by experience alone.
And when you realize this surface-level perception of literacy and of women is a fragile pairing wrought from a dirt stained lens, it will intimidate you and it will destroy you. 

So if this is how you view us, don’t date a girl who reads.
Don’t date a girl who doesn’t read.
In fact, don’t date a girl at all.
None of us want you.

Note: I actually really enjoyed reading “Date and Illiterate Girl.” I appreciate it’s purposeful diction and beautifully crafted syntax and understand the piece for what it is. “Date a Girl Who Reads” was kind of cringe-y at some parts, but there were passages I identified with. So consider my piece as not an attack to these respective authors but a response to all the boys who’ve labeled me and many other women as “coffee shop girls” or a “party girls” without understanding that these designations are empty labels devoid of any true substance, that it disregards the multitudinous identities a woman can adopt. 

My First Poem of 2020

clip art flower.png

 I wrote a love poem once

But the words never made it on paper
Instead, they flew right out the window
And they rose and fell and evaded me 
before shooting across a rose covered sky
Like a comet during a sunset

For two decades,
They followed the waves of the Seven Seas

Crashed against the banks of countless countries
Weaved their way through Chocolate Hills and 
Machu Picchu, along the Great Pyramids of Giza, 
Through the South Pole, and then into the Northern Lights
Where they stayed for a long while. 

And for a time,
I thought I had lost them forever

That they had fallen into some dark abyss
With no one to catch them
Or found their way into a stranger’s distant dream
who would wake up that morning
And forget.

I had never imagined
that they would have fallen haphazardly onto your lap
–– unannounced and without preamble

ages before I had even heard your name,
 

and

I would have never dreamed
That the stars and the moon and the countless suns
had all planned the exact moment
 when we would meet,
me, with my unmarked paper

you, with my worn and well-traveled words

and that you had been waiting
       all this time
to return them to me. 

 

a simple confession

       I don’t know the exact moment it happened.
I don’t remember where or even how.
But suddenly the stars were silent,
the sky devoid of everything
except the w h i s p e r of the moon.
So subtle I almost missed it.
It called out to my weary heart
trapped my unsuspecting gaze,
and in the midnight my soul soared
helplessly towards the only light.
Only to find
I had been looking into your eyes
the entire time.

Things I’ve Learned About Love at 22

We all know love requires trust and love is patient and love is kind blah blah blah. You guys can read all in another article or just watch A Walk to Remember. Below is my unfiltered and candid opinion of my own experiences.

I have to admit, I’ve been working on this piece for a while. And if you want full disclosure here, I’ll probably be revising this as I grow older and (hopefully) wiser. I’m not going to provide background on my love life in order to convince you I’m a credible source because let’s face it. I’m not. Hello!! I’m only 22!! I am not a love guru, nor do I wish to ever be one, and this post is most definitely not a “How To” guide for a successful relationship. But while I’ll be the first to admit there’s still a lot I need to learn, I also know that I’m not an idiot, so I have to have learned something. Here are some of my experiences and lessons learned and because I appreciate you all so much, I’ve compiled them in a list for easier reading.

  1. Love not a linear path– it goes up and down.
    It’s a lot of work to love someone and, admittedly, a lot of heartache.
    You often hear countless iterations of “love isn’t complicated. It’s people who make it complicated,” which I think is dumb. Granted, the sentiment is completely valid and has merit BUT you can’t remove an integral part of the equation– people! Without people, there is no love. So if love is an action, it requires someone to act on it; and unless you’re perfect and always make the right choices, love is going to be hard, dude.We’re going to mess up. Life might get in the way. Your partner is probably going to hurt you and you’re not always going to be the same starry-eyed lovers throughout the relationship. Yet, that’s also the best part of it all because the good times become great knowing you’ve both made it through the fire.
  2. Don’t idolize your partner
    When we first meet someone, it’s easy to cast an illusion over them. Infatuation blinds us to flaws. What happens when that illusion fades and we realize that the person we were so obsessed over is, in fact, human? Shocking! I’ve learned that we shouldn’t idolize our partners. The more we put them on a pedestal, the more strain they’ll be under to meet our expectations, which doesn’t leave room for mistakes in the relationship–– or growth. Just let them be human. The rest will work itself out with proper communication and understanding.On the flip side, it’s pointless to try an portray yourself as a “ideal” version of yourself because you’re afraid they’ll leave if they see the ‘real you.’ I’m not saying you should be a bum. But love requires us to be honest with who we are. We weren’t designed to be perfect. We were designed to be better. How can we improve if there’s nothing to work towards?
  3. If you’re not going to be vulnerable, there’s no point
    No one wants to be the first to open up. We never know how the other person is going to react to our flaws and insecurities, but that’s intimacy. That’s love. That’s what makes your person different from all the others– the trust and openness you build with them. Without being vulnerable, they might as well just be another person you pass by on the sidewalk.
  4. Love is the little things 
    My first love baked me a cake for my birthday, likely because he didn’t drive and didn’t have a job to buy me anything fancy, but it’s one of my favorite gifts to this day. In my last relationship, my partner dropped me dinner at midnight because she knew I’d been at school all day and hadn’t eaten and likely wouldn’t have otherwise. I’ve always felt most loved when my partners reminded me to get off Twitter and finish my paper or when we’d go out to eat and they’d give me the lemon in their water without asking because I love lemons. Such small things but every tiny action was a substantial reminder that they were listening to me. The little things were the reassurances that they loved me.I think social media and viral videos of couples decorating their significant others’ bedrooms with a million balloons and obscene amounts of red roses and lavish gifts has misconstrued the purpose of grand gestures. It’s almost become a competition of “Look what MY partner did and what yours didn’t,” “My relationship is perfect,” or “Get you a man like mine!” Don’t get me wrong– it’s great to have someone go above and beyond for you. But that’s not love. That’s a performance. You can definitely have both, but you shouldn’t confuse the two.
  5. Love is scary, bro
    If you’re anything like me, you’ve subconsciously sabotaged one of your relationships at one point or another for no other reason than you’re afraid. You’ll pull away or push your partner away because you’re scared to fall in love. After all, it’s easier to move on when you didn’t invest any substantial part of yourself. But do it anyways.The worst heartbreak I experienced devastated me. I cried every night for almost a week. Worst of all, I couldn’t listen to music and I live for music. It’s the one thing I start and end my days with. But I’d physically want to throw up when I tried to listen to anything– even sad songs!! Imagine!! But that’s how I knew I had loved him because it hurt that much. Even now, I never want to feel that way again, but I also know that’s probably not going to be the case. Love is a risk. So take it. Even if it doesn’t work, you’ll learn more about who you are, what you want, and what you need and perhaps fall in love with yourself instead in the process. Isn’t that nice?
  6. Testing your partner’s love for you gets you nowhere. 
    Don’t test someone’s love. It’s dishonest and if you have test them to prove they love you, then your relationship is lacking. If you have to push them away to see if they’ll come back and fight for you, that’s a lack of trust. It’s not love. If they love you, they’ll show you. They’ll listen to you. They’ll communicate. In the end, we all do what we want to do anyways.
  7. Love should never feel like it’s at the expense of your own happiness
    (My friend actually gave me this one. Thanks, D.)
    We romanticize the idea of someone taking care of us first–– of doing everything in the service of those we love most. Which, while noble, without any balance can be extremely burdensome and detrimental down the road. Love requires some sacrifice but love, itself, shouldn’t be one. If it hurts you more than it heals you, is it really worth it?
  8. Your partner shouldn’t be your everything.
    I understand that life is an endless obstacle course with breaks being few and far between and we need people to help us overcome our latest hurdles. We aren’t built to be solitary. We need people to live a life worth living, but we shouldn’t exclusively need one person. No one should be the end all, be all of your entire existence.Yes, spend time with who you love. Give them the best parts of yourself. But love requires space every now and then. Love yourself and your partner enough to recognize that you both need a life outside of each other. Be individuals.
  9. Soulmates aren’t real/ Love is a choice
    Look. I’m not jaded. I don’t think unconditional love is unachievable. I think there are a select few people who’ll fit you better than most, but I definitely don’t think there’s only one person out there for you. If love is a consistent choice you have to make everyday, then you choose a soulmate. You’re not given one by the universe.Here’s a quote that sums up my believe perfectly. A poetry book by Criss Jami once read, “To say that one waits a lifetime for his soulmate to come around is a paradox. People eventually get sick of waiting, take a chance on someone, and by the art of commitment become soulmates, which takes a lifetime to perfect.”
  10. Finally, Love is a mystery and no one has all the answers.
    Even having typed all this out, I know there’s still so much more I don’t know and so much more I need to learn, but life is for the learning inclined and dull without any mysteries. So I’m perfectly okay knowing I don’t have it all figured out.

I realize that a lot of this might come off preachy to some and someone is bound to disagree with me, so let’s have a conversation. What have you guys learned about love so far? Let me know in the comments below.

 

 

Letting Go

Today, I painstakingly unfolded a crumpled piece of paper
That I had been carrying around with me in my pocket
For weeks it had been imprisoned too tightly in my fist
Compressed to the point that I had torn the edges,
trying to pry the page free of its strict creases, over-bent corners, and smudges
With its alternating lines of happiness and despair in now unrecognizable print

I unfolded it from the awkward skeleton of emotions it had become
From the confining lines of unshared passions and unsure promises
And with sure and gentle fingers, with a little bit of sadness too, I refashioned it
with all its imperfections and all its torn sides– into a blue paper crane
That could crane its paper neck, and flap its paper wings
& I let it go, set it free into the deep wilderness of random debris
of empty cartons, and wasted food, all encased in a plastic bag in the corner of my kitchen

when my heart caught up with my sight, when it saw how my hands were brave enough to do what it had failed to
it felt unburdened and f r e  e,
& in that moment, light as a breath
I let loose the bent wings of my own paper soul,
suddenly wild and unencumbered

and I, too

took

      flight

And That’s When I Knew

And that’s when I knew
when you turned to me and gave me your hand
Warm and welcoming
I felt the creases of my paper heart
                —Still fragile and apprehensive
Helpless and willing—
Iron itself smooth

You were the silent storm
returned and redoubled
The wind, so strong, so sure,
so definite and unyielding
that threw me once more into the merciless ocean,
into the current I couldn’t fight against
dragging me down deeper
into cerulean waters

Still, I dived– Headlong
unthinking and unafraid,
Into the tides that stretched
                        Far along the horizon
Sun drenched and smiling
In a chaos of our making

And that is when I knew
We were the eternal pattern of ebb and flow,
of the tides crashing on the rocks and sandy shores,
An imperfect but inevitable wave
being pushed away but ultimately returning
by force above its control.

 

just another dumb poem

pt. 1

I refuse to romanticize myself. I am unstable and indecisive.
Impatient and overly impassioned by the smallest things.
I think too much over minute details. So much so that it paralyzes me.
I hate apologizing and I’m too proud to be vulnerable.
Get bored easily and compensate by being impulsive
My hips often bump into tables and I can’t control my facial expressions to save my life.
I hate the beach and pizza is gross. I take days to reply back and often forget what people tell me.
I spill my water on myself at restaurants, pull doors that are meant to be pushed,
and say “you too” when someone wishes me
Happy Birthday.
I am not a handful. I’m not even two
I would fill 5 hands and still overflow
I’m an incomplete puzzle with missing pieces
And waiting for me to open up
Is like standing in line at the DMV
I am an endless winter
That’s constantly on fire
And I am
a hopeless mess
But if you want me
like I want you
Then I would be your mess

pt. 2

I am imperfect and constantly under construction
But I’ll tell you when your hair looks terrible
And kiss the stray strands that won’t stay down.
I’ll cut the crust off your sandwiches
And buy great gifts I know you’ll love
Open all the links you send me through text
trace circles across your arms, run circles around your mind
bury my fingers through your hair
and laugh at every joke you tell.
Even if they suck.
I’ll follow you to new places, run errands with you, get excited when you get excited
split the tab or buy you lunch when you’re sad.
I’m honest and loyal, and know all the best lookouts
You don’t have to tell me to be there for you, I already know.
I’ll find your best angles
Frame them in every corner of my mind
Amidst the chaos and mayhem.
I would be your perpetual autumn,
In a snow-capped summit
and if you deserve it
And if you’re patient enough
I will show you
All the best sunsets