To Build a Home

Far too early on the morning of January 8th, I found myself drunk at Gate 26 inside JFK. I was out late the night before, and crutched on less than 1 hour of sleep and 2 bites of a stale $13 turkey and cheese, I still felt the whispers of last nights inebriety as I crossed my fingers the plane hadn’t left without me. Once I was safely strapped into my seat, I closed my eyes and hoped sleep would overtake me quickly. Though the plane was yet to move, I felt the tremors of motion staking me awake. When we finally began our ascent, the man next to me uttered a quick prayer and I joined him silently, though I suspect we were praying for two very different things. 

It was the first time that this journey didn’t feel like a homecoming. Though the flight felt vaguely familiar, it was met with a sense of nostalgia that was as new to me as it was alarming. The view out the window enchanted me enough to ignore this small anxiety. The hard lines of mountains and canyons felt so different from the soft green patchworks of the East Coast. California is a place of its own, as I’ve come to realize the longer I’ve been away. As we got lower, I tried to pinpoint where we flew over, but the landmarks had escaped my knowledge and I doubt they will ever return. When I landed in San Diego 6 hours later, I let the idea wash over me of how I probably lost the right to call this place my home the first time I found New York to be beautiful. In doing so, I forfeited my claim. 

Hailey and Sabrina came to pick me up from the airport. Sabrina had been abroad for 6 months and I hadn’t seen Hailey since that November over a year and a half ago. When I was first reunited with them, I was startled by the feeling of being greeted by strangers who I once knew in a past life. Though the feeling disappeared quickly, it was unsettling nonetheless. I texted my mom to let her know I had gotten there safely and promised to send photos. She told me to say hi to the girls and sent me pictures of her new boyfriend and the dogs. Sitting in the back of that Subaru that had been through the drive-thrus and breakups and football games right alongside us, everything seemed to fall into place. 

The next day, Hailey and I went to the beach. We shared an American Spirit and buried the butt of it in the sand, the closest funeral we would have for our shared childhoods. When I laid back and let myself rest against the graininess of my favorite beach, I thought to myself how badly I wished I could stay in that moment forever, wanting to hold onto that moment like a hand. It was quiet save for the steady drift of the ocean and the hum of the mosquitoes hovering around my cheekbones. I let my eyelids fall and when they opened, Hailey was no longer beside me. I sat up and watched her in the distance walking along the shore, stopping here and there to search for seashells. Watching her make her way further down the coast, I knew that I would love this girl always. When she rejoined me on dry land, she passed her findings to me. I ran my fingers over the ridges of crab shells and the smooth sides of purple and gray stones. Trophies of a good day.

“I feel like I’m going through a second puberty,” she said to me later that day.

We were in the hot tub near her house, and I wore a swimsuit of hers, blue and white striped. The conversation bounced between her boyfriend, her favorite podcasts, her relationship with her mom. My plans post-graduation, my friend group, my anxieties. I made a silent promise to always find a home in her. We had chili and cornbread with her family for dinner. Afterwards, we sat on stools and listened to her dad’s stories of Chicago and Baltimore. We brushed our teeth and read our books before bed, and she told me how happy she was in her relationship. It is so easy to be with her. Days like this make it easier to withstand the growing pains of this second round of puberty. Nobody tells you this when you’re little, but that monster under your childhood bed? It’s really just your 20s. 

Our birthdays are 9 days apart. Come this summer, we will both turn 21, first me and then her. I’ll call her on the 31st and ask what she did, who she celebrated with, what she wished for, and if she felt any older. I’m sure the answer will be both yes and no. Things are changing so quickly and there is less and less to grasp onto, but I will always manage to grasp onto her, onto this day. It is a comfort to know that at the very least, I can always to cling to her, even from opposite coasts. When school wraps up and summer begins, I’ll write her a letter and send it to Orange County, or that house on Ednaleen Lane. When I move into my new apartment, the first thing I will tape to the wall of my bedroom will be the letter she wrote me on my 18th birthday, a month after my dad died. Words on paper, written by me (21) and her (17). We are growing up, together, across the country. If I were to have a sister, I wonder if this is what it would’ve been like. I surely love her like one. The first love I had to fight for, and the first love I felt was mine to hold, before any boy or girl I’ve shared a bed with. 

A couple days later, Hailey, Sabrina, and I packed up the Subaru and drove up to Orange County to spend the night at Haileys apartment there. We spent the day window shopping and singing to Tears For Fears in the car. We talked about marriage and religion and the best ways to stalk people on Instagram. Her bedroom in her apartment was exactly what I imagined it to look like. Photos covered the walls, corner to corner, and I recognized myself in many of them. Us at the beach, at prom, with old friends we all outgrew. I had seen most of them before, even the ones I wasn’t in. We drank beers and shared snacks from the gas station while trying to convince Sabrina to go on a date with somebody new. We watched a lesbian comedy and when the edibles kicked in, Sabrina laughed at every joke I’m sure she only half understood. And when it was time to sleep, we all piled into Haileys full size bed, side-by-side like an army unit. I was sandwiched in the middle, yet I’ve never had an easier time falling asleep. 

Making a home through people rather than a place is something I’ve learned to do since moving from California. At first, nothing scared me more. It felt disturbingly unstable, to commit yourself in that way to something so fragile, so wavering. There was a period of time when I first moved that I didn’t speak to Hailey for months. The growing pains, they got to us. I remember feeling guilty seeing photos of her on Instagram, feeling small when my mom asked me how she liked her new roommates. I remember feeling scared in the way you would when you lose your house keys. It was, essentially, the same. With time we learned to adapt to the new format of our friendship, but I will never forget the fear I had of losing her. Addresses come and go but the people you tie yourself to have a way of sticking around. I found my people, and with them I’ve found my home. With them, wherever they are, whatever bed we squeeze into, I will always have a home. 

I spent my last night in San Diego with Hailey. We sat on the beach pressed up against each other and watched the sun sink below the water. She recounted moments I had missed, stories of her life in college. I could listen to her talk endlessly and be happy. The way she speaks, it manifests into pure joy. Sitting there with her, I imagined the two of us in 30 years, sharing a blanket and watching the sunset in this very spot. I’d be shocked to witness any waver in the conviction I hold for our friendship. 

My return to New York left me rather apathetic. Mostly, I was excited to be back in my own room, to have a cigarette in my own bed, and cook something in my own kitchen. Halfway through my return flight, we were hit with a bout of turbulence from a storm in the Midwest. I wondered what the weather would be back in New York. I had forgotten to check before boarding and prayed the sweatshirt in my carry-on would keep me warm enough. I passed in and out of consciousness throughout the remainder of the flight. I remember being mesmerized watching the baby blues out the window fade into hues of pink and purple. It would be dark by the time I landed, and then I would still have another couple of hours on the train to suffer through before being home. We passed over a long stretch of clouds, running thickly where they hovered. I wondered where we passed. I had no way of knowing. I wondered what type of people were below, what music brings them to tears, what they might have for dinner. 

The clouds stretch thinner and thinner, and soon enough it was too dark to see them at all. It felt lonely up there, but perhaps I was just homesick. 

Bridge over Troubled Water

I feel more excitement about today than I can remember feeling in a very long time. The idea came quickly and Keith was quicker to agree which is one of the things I love about him. He’s a good friend and I am glad to have a good friend with me for this day. Cold Spring was about the thirteenth result on Google, and the first place I’ve been upstate. We left at the time we planned to leave, 6 a.m, which would’ve surprised me if I was less excited. I’ve been sick for almost a week and half but besides a lingering cough, I feel much better than before. The commute to Grand Central was an easy one, and I’ve said perhaps 4 sentences since waking up this morning. I’m in my head yet entirely conscious. I was nervous we would miss the train but the kind lady let us on just before it departed and I took that as a good omen for the rest of our trip. 

I could write a million love letters to riding a train and I probably already have. So I won’t waste time on it again but I will take the liberty of reiterating my love for it once more, here and now, before I continue. I was hoping for a sunny day, but seeing the misty grays and blues through the window somehow feels even better. I think it’s more in line with what I have been feeling, so it is almost a comfort to me as I attempt to rein in my excitement. I feel good and grounded. I’m drinking a Celsius which I’m not sure will do me any good but I am confident today cannot go badly and my anxiety has no place here. I’ve got another one in my backpack, along with a ziplock bag of rainbow Goldfish, a plastic water bottle, cigarettes, and five peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, which I wrapped the same way my mom used to when I was in elementary school. Safe to say, Keith and I will be indulging in the finest today.

I have the whole row to myself, yet I’m curled up against the wall with my knees up and my feet hanging above the ground. I took my headphones out three stops ago, but I must’ve forgotten that because they’re laying tangled in the seat next to me and probably will stay there until we reach our stop and I put them away once more. I’m thinking I might’ve forgotten something but I am not worried because it could be more fun that way. I haven’t thought about the way I look or how my hair is sitting once since I’ve left the house. 

With a few stops left, I can see the water on Keith’s side of the train and I’m a little bit jealous that I chose this seat. The thing about the water is that it reminds me of home and I never miss it until I do. I hope I can swim today, even if it’s freezing, and I know Keith doesn’t know how to. If Mom were here, she would tell me not to do it, but it’s sort of awesome knowing I can do what I want. Keith will get high and scared, and I will go swimming. I am happy to be considered grown up and still allowed to be stupid. My headphones are plugged in now and I’m listening to Simon & Garfunkel’s rendition of Bridge over Troubled Water. There’s water on my side now too. All is well on the Metro North. 

We got off the train at 8:03. The sun has cleared away some of those morning blues and it feels good to breathe in air outside the city. Some of the trees up here have begun to turn golden, which makes me think I haven’t seen that in Brooklyn, but perhaps I just don’t see trees like these in Brooklyn at all. I am thinking of my mom again, and hoping her backyard is a beautiful gold and she is happy.

Cold Spring is a small town. Porch lined houses with olive green shutters, antique stores, a Catholic Church. The hiking trails were just outside the towns perimeter and we walked along the edge of the wide main road to get there. Maybe three cars passed by the entirety of our walk. Once we got to the park, we headed for the water and then looped our way towards the mountains. 

The earth is louder here and gives way to you. We walked for around three hours, making our way up the hill following the river upstream before turning around and retracing our steps back down. Halfway through, we stopped by a lightning shelter next to the water for lunch. I took my shoes and socks off and waded in the shallow water, which was as much swimming as the environment allowed. It was cold, but not painful, and the force of the stream kept me in touch with my weight on the slippery surface.  I sat on a flat rock and let the water pull past me as I outstretched my hands against its current. I was so happy to be there. 

We walked around 12 miles all around Cold Spring before making our way back into town. The town consisted mainly of a single street lined with antique shops and cafes and bookstores. I couldn’t stop remarking how it felt like we were in a fake town, like a coming of age movie set, or one of those fairytale villages in Disneyland. It reminded me of when I got too high in Boston and convinced myself I was in an uncomfortable alternate version of New York. Keith found our friend Kyle an old Beatles record from Hamburg, a very young John and George smiling on its worn cover. Afterwards, we settled down at a tavern by the train station for lunch. I had French onion soup and two gin and tonics. Before boarding a 4:20 train back, we stopped by the river once more, where I stripped off my outer layers and took a swim while Keith sat and heckled me from the rocks. When I resurfaced and sat to dry, there was a cut on my knee, freshly wet and searingly red. It seemed so inconsequential in the moment, even as the blood mixed with the lake water and trickled down my calf in crimson trails, staining the boulder I occupied.

The train seemed to take its time in arriving, and while I soaked in my last moments before heading home, I kept thinking, “this has been the best day in a very long time.”

Though I ought to have been uncomfortable, with my still damp clothes and aching joints, I found sleep quickly once boarded. As we pulled back into Grand Central, I let myself shift into autopilot and made my way home in a drowsy stupor. All the while, I remained in Cold Spring, where I continue to breathe deeply and find more gratitude and kindness in my approach to the world.

“Growing Up As An Asian American In The United States”

Growing up as an Asian American in the US is a unique experience. We are taught to suffer silently in the face of struggles deemed greater than our own. We are taught that Asian features may only be fetishized and never simply admired as beautiful. We are taught to normalize micro aggressions against us and our families. I remember making my mom cry one night when I came home from school saying I wished I was white. I remember watching Disney Channel and wondering why none of my favorite characters looked like me. I remember being in second grade and already grappling with my self identity as I searched for belonging among my white classmates. I remember looking through Justice catalogs and noticing none of the girls had small eyes like mine. It has long been a part of Asian American culture to allow these slights to go unnoticed. To not bring attention to ourselves. To pass these situations off as normal. To stand in solidarity with other minority communities yet never feeling like we had a space of our own. 

It’s a sad truth to grow up and see that these are issues that are not discussed. It becomes difficult to find your voice when it feels like your whole life has been dedicated to suppressing it. The quiet struggles of the Asian American community have long gone unnoticed, but it doesn’t mean they were invisible. As the spotlight is finally shifting to our community, I hope with it sheds the realization that this is not a new phenomenon. I have grown up in a world where “white is might” and I have done everything in my power to blend into the background of society. Forfeiting my own heritage, mimicking my white counterparts, never feeling proud to be Asian. Believing with all my heart nobody would find me beautiful unless I was white. Feeling determined to disassociate with my Asian roots as a way to fit in. Learning to hide my discomfort in situations of appropriation and objectification that happen right in front of me. 

Seeing the recent rise in violence against Asian  Americans and Asian American women have left me feeling ashamed, hopeless, and terrified. I’ve struggled my whole life with shaping my identity around the white community I’ve grown up in, my white father, my white friends. Hearing and seeing the news has made me feel sick to my stomach with guilt for the ways I’ve silenced not only my own struggles, but the struggles of the Asian American community as a whole. I’ve been complicit in the narrative that these struggles don’t exist. I’ve been a bystander to the injustices me and my peers have faced throughout our lifetime. I’ve been too scared to come forward about my own truths out of fear of being targeted as different or being called invalid in my thoughts. I’ve misinterpreted appropriation as appreciation and allowed it to become acceptable. 

As I hope to see change come, I hope to find that change within myself as well. While I work through the process of my upbringing and the indoctrination of my self preserved biases, I urge my fellow Asian Americans to analyze their own experiences growing up. We’ve all likely been victim to racial slights more often than we’d care to admit and while we hope to see these numbers lower, we must start by acknowledging our own pain. Your frustration and discomfort and grief is valid. Your experiences are valid. Your voice is valid. You yourself are just as valid as the next person. I am still learning to love myself and I hope you are all learning to as well. It is a long processing of unlearning the things we are taught and it will be hard and awkward and confusing and painful. However, it is something we must do in order to craft a new narrative for it means to grow up as an Asian American, not as the silent minority, but as proud citizens of our country and our culture. 

By Lili Mckissen, 03/18/2021