I’m not going to write you a love song

 

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Writing is edited, proof read, spell-checked, and read over and over again. But real life is not. Sara Bareilles is not going to write you a love song. And nor will I. The last year or so has not been a love song. And it’s a bit hard to write about it.

I have suffocated 61 blog post drafts, starving them of the air of publishing that they crave. They weren’t perfect. They didn’t have enough references. They were too personal. They were too ugly. So I’m giving myself an experiment to write for 1 hour and publish whatever I come up with.

I haven’t written in a few months. I used to pride myself on how words could just flow out of my fingers and orchestrate what I felt were linguistic melodies. But I hit a stump. I made a couple more “friends” and “followers” who I didn’t feel comfortable sharing my innermost opinions and thoughts. Whilst writing may seem like an art form, rarely is it describing something perfect. I write to describe the misshapen, the ugly, the unfit, the things you don’t post on Facebook for likes. I only write when the sun is fast asleep under its cover of night, with the only sound being the clank of every keystroke on my laptop.

But what if the things you are feeling are so devastatingly ugly, that it feels only right that no one should see it? To a degree that no human being, nor a God above could knock on your door and read the profane slogan on your cheap t shirt and think, “Oh yes, I still respect her for purchasing that.” In fact, rather than inspire and uplift, it disturbs? When you worry about reactions of family, you worry about friends, past professors, people you’ve dated, bosses and people you’ve connected with on LinkedIn. What do they think of me? Am I marketing myself properly? Am I showing the world that I am a product ready to be purchased, in exchange for love, money, companionship and a career? Am I authentic? Am I too filtered, am I too real, too Mormon or not Mormon enough?  Am I too single or am I too taken?

I started my blog as a method of self-help. When I felt like all the things I had worked for prior to my mission popped like insects under a magnifying glass, I still had writing to save me from feeling like an absolute failure. I had not danced for over a year when the stage used to be my solace. Refused to dine in the kitchen that I had grown up cooking in, refused to take out the weeds of the garden that I had grown up getting dirty in. But I had a laptop with the letters S and H missing and that worked for me.

In my 61 drafts I wrote about my battle with the pill box that couldn’t fit the number of pills I took, about escaping my problems via Boeing 747 and feeling unable to speak my mind to the people I loved. I wrote about how heartbreak hurt more when it was between God and I, not between me and a boyfriend.  I wrote about how I felt jealous, crazy, hurt, lost, lied to, betrayed. I wrote about how NCMOs made me feel like a bag of dehydrated bones – not because I was being used (or rather, not because we were using each other), but because I was heartbroken at what I thought was going to be, but realizing I was looking at Instagram and not the real thing. And that maybe they couldn’t see me either.

But it wasn’t all bad.

I wrote about how love took on itself many different disguises, and was mimicked by many, but I found it and it was just as stunningly beautiful as I had known it to be before. I wrote how God and I are on speaking terms now, and whilst He still speaks to me in a language that is non-audible, I’m beginning to understand sign language.

I wrote about how The Atonement really did heal me every Sabbath Day, without fail, and if nothing else makes sense and giving up coffee in the morning  just cannot be done, then know that at the center of all things is a Christ who suffered your sufferings.

I learned from Paulo Coelho, via my roommate, that if I just spoke my feelings, in conversation, I would be able to get proof that what I was thinking was true. I wrote about how even though gay and transgender people will probably always face a straight and narrow path in the LDS church there are many in the church with hearts that understand, even if that doesn’t change more pressing concerns and anxieties.

I wrote about how if you try to learn Korean from a friend she will end up teaching you more ways to speak than just Korean. And that if you make a goal to talk to a stranger every week, that stranger who you met at a vending machine may just give you and your friends a ride to a party, free of charge and with plenty of entertaining conversation topics.

I wrote about my pilgrimage to Mormon mecca, and how it was not as holy as I had expected, but it was home at first sight and I finally felt like I belonged somewhere, and that I was not strange for believing in a being that was all powerful and all mighty but perhaps could not create a rock that He could not lift.

I wrote about not having the garage that has five mountain bikes, well-used fishing rods and sleds but rather beautiful old photo albums, flat basketballs and well-read encyclopedias.

I wrote and I wrote. But those 61 drafts of real real real life will probably remain unpublished and unread (at least for awhile). Writing is edited, proof read, spell-checked, and read over and over again. But real life is not.

Friendzoning my Asian Heritage Part 3:  Asians…they really do look the same

10900121_10206171513272886_6090044855332663958_oI had walked past the stores many times before. I was fresh off my LDS mission, feeling like an alien in the endless cityscape of Gangnam. Huge buildings blocked out the hazy sky, orange taxis ran red lights and millions of South Koreans were folding away receipts and selfie-stick-ing. What I wore in Korea a year and half earlier was now horribly outdated and needed to be mourned, cremated and scattered in the River Han. Shops were endless and if you wanted to find authentic, true love you would, in the form of deep fried swirly donuts and ttokbukki spicy rice cakes. Love at first sight it was.

Mina and I’s lunch date had turned into a shopping trip, and after an attempt to try a discount outlet store, we headed to the main street where the real shopping could begin. There was no guilt, because this was Korea! Swipe your credit card, breathe in. Grab your purchases, breathe out. Phew.

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“How do we get to those shops up there?” I asked Mina, pointing over to the multi-storey shops with flashing signs. I thought I had visited every store in Gangnam, but had failed to open my eyes just a little bit wider and see that most of the buildings had several levels.

“They aren’t shops, I’m pretty sure most of them are plastic surgery clinics. Do you want to get it Kelly? Maybe for your eyes?”

As a 21 year old this question was getting quite old. But at 10 years old it made me want to projectile vomit at whoever was talking to me. Volunteering to have a middle-aged man in a white coat snip my eye lids and sew them up like it’s Year Seven soft tech?  I can see quite fine, thank you very much.  My eyes do not need any kind of correcting.

However, that didn’t mean I was void of insecurities. And at 4 years old these seemed to bubble to the surface. My peers ensured that I was aware of how different my face was by pulling their eyes, (or for a redundant effect, pulling mine) and blurting out incoherent supposed Chinese.  “I spy with my little eye” had snarky, under-the-breath connotations whenever we played it. But I had looked at myself in a mirror, told myself I was a solid 5 and eventually they got used to seeing a face that didn’t look like theirs.

But it wasn’t just the eyes that were different.

I could see that some people were like Coco Pops, some like the color of my cereal milk Pre-Coco Pops and some like speckled sandpaper. Examining my own body, I looked like my unvarnished wooden fence. A little yellow, a little white, a little dry and flaky. Probably suitable for burning.

But this would not do. No way. I needed to research this more and find out why my looks had so impacted on the quality of my 4 years of life.

My go-to source of all truth and knowledge was my kindergarten teacher. If anyone knew whether chocolate chips or chocolate buttons would taste better in cookies, if there really was a God or whether the universe’s expansion was accelerating… it would be Cris. I studied her face, wondering how in the world did Cris’ nose connect to her eye brows and if this was necessary, why didn’t I have it? No matter how hard I tried to tell lies to all my friends my nose wouldn’t grow and I had to revert back to my honest, God-fearing self.

Eventually my fascination with the differences between my facial features and their facial features became deeply rooted in the ventricles of my heart. It accompanied the thousands of comments I received the next years of growing up about how my body didn’t meet people’s expectations:

 

Age: 4-10 Theme : weight

“You face is too chubby. You look like an onion. You have to eat less if you want to peel those layers off.” (props to whichever Korean person said this to me, it is both rhetorically sound and cutting edge)

Age 12-15 Theme: the woes of puberty

“Those pimples are there because you touch your face. See?” *old woman touches the pimple*

Age 15-16 Theme: weight

“I’m on a plastic cup diet. You should try it. Basically you fill this little cup half with rice, half with something else and that’s what you can eat in one day.”

Age 16-17 Theme: eyes

“If you stretch your left eye with your left hand, and stick your tongue in the side of your right cheek, your eyes will get bigger.”

Age 18 Theme: weight

“I’m sending you a video with a 10 minute daily routine that gets your legs in the ratio of 5:3:2, thigh: calf: ankle. Tiffany from Girls Generation does it.”

It wasn’t too long before I was poking plastic rods into the crevices of my eyes and carefully patting down double-sided strips of tape that increased my eye size by 1 meagre millimeter. Only an all-seeing eye, a fellow Asian eye would notice the tiny sliver of tape holding together two folds of eye lid skin like its life depended on it.

But I got tired of that pretty quick. Purposefully forming an over glorified wrinkle on a face is a lot harder than you think.

And the exercise, all of the space-age routines just weren’t giving me the shape of legs that I was supposed to have by now.

And the weight, it just didn’t seem to budge no matter how hard I restricted my diet and counted my calories.

Maybe, a permanent solution didn’t seem that extreme.

“So what do you think? Are you going to get it?”