Bathroom after gothic story

After I read Edgar Allen Poe’s A Tell-Tale Heart, I found my heart beating faster as I try to work up the courage to go to the bathroom alone. “Mom”, I said shakingly. “Would you like to accompany me to the bathroom?” My mother, who was warm and cozy in her bed, was reluctant to leave her comfortable spot. Thus, I had no choice but to suppress my imaginations of the character in the gothic short story abruptly jumping at me. A few minutes passed, I walked my way to the kitchen to turn on the lights. As I sat on the toilet, I suddenly remember the night in Quang Binh when I was away with my swim team for Nationals. Such horrifying memory inhibits me from being completely sane when I am alone. It was the night before my first day of the competition. At the dead of night, I was awoken by a terrifying scream that shocked me to my core. A shadow quickly flashed through the curtain by the door. I heard a large thump as if someone has fallen down. “Catch that thief!” my manager screamed. My coach quickly chased after the thief as the shadows began to cross over the curtain. I then heard the noise of the gorillas, jumping frantically in their cage. Scared and puzzled, I immediately leaped into my friend’s bed (which was next to mine). When night turned to dawn, my eyes were wide and open, and so was my friend’s. She and I had been lying perfectly still for the past hours. Even though it was a new day, I still could not stop thinking about it. It was too scary for me to grasp, as if the black curtains surrounding my bed to keep the mosquitoes out were not frightening enough.
Can you believe how much I can remember just by sitting on the toilet?

The Vietnamese Boston Winter

There is something about winter that reminds me of Christmas in Vietnam back in 2002. Could it be the crispy air, the frigidness that paralyzes my bare feet, or the tangible dryness of which I dread? No, it is the palpable affection between my mom and I. I experienced a sudden childhood reminiscence as I ran across the kitchen and into my mom’s welcoming arms. It was no different seven years ago when my mom held me closely by her side, with her soft, oversized wool sweater, emitting the most loving warmth to my frozen hands that any seven-year-old could imagine. Still, I remember the smell of J’adore that seemed to alleviate my fears and nightmares when I hug her. It was 2 am on Christmas Day that I was awoken by the crackling sound of present wrappers. I opened my eyes. There my mother was, turning around, and giving me a worried look. I then got off my bed, and walked towards her. She handed me a present. It was a Cinderella coloring book with stickers. As she looked at me when I stared wildly at the precious gift, she told me that it was from Santa Clause. Naïve and oblivious I was, I thanked my mom and went back to sleep. Somehow I always knew that the present was not from Santa Clause. I just never understood the joy of having a gift from the corpulent old man instead of from my own mother.

The Trial

As I stood in my bathroom, brushing my teeth, I had an epiphany of the injustice that seemed to be unnoticed during my childhood years. With all impartiality, I believe that justice is exactly what was lacking in Vietnam. Evidently, as a child, I was being scratched and scared all over my face by a bunch of kindergartners on my first day back from America. Although I have no recollection of it, the situation itself still makes me want to throw a tantrum. I blamed the kindergarten teachers who left my face harmed, and left the other kids free from blame.

I remember a remarkable event that took place during the 9th grade in my class, one that I will forever feel proud of. My class president, a former friend of mine, was ostracized from a popular clique, which was known for its popularity and also brutality. She neglected to give the leader of the clique a ride in her new bicycle, which ultimately resulted her in being constantly tormented by him, along with his many followers. Everyone at the school was afraid to befriend her because that would mean they would be tortured as well. On an ordinary school day, I approached her with great benevolence and care as she was sitting alone under the red flag of the school. Without fear of consequences, I started talking to her, and in short, I became the person for her to rely on. I had fewer possibilities of being abused by the leader because I was his help on math tests, and other tests that required memory skills. I was also perceived as a rich kid, which came in handy for me because of the school's abundance of prejudice. One day, as my friend and I were having a casual conversation, a peculiar freshman approached the girl's back with a bag of guava in his hand, readily poured over her hair. As her head dripped with sugar and guava juice, she immediately burst into tears, and ran straight up to the principal's office. After the break, the whole class reassembled in a classroom, waiting for the teacher to resolve the situation. While waiting for the teacher to come up, the clique starting talking smack about the class president, calling her names like "wussy", and "bitch". She then turned to me and started crying and moaning about her innocence. The group thought she was slandering them so they talked even louder for the whole class to hear. When my teacher finally arrived, she asked for the people who witnessed the plight. Not a single person volunteered. Five seconds passed by, I steadily raised my hand, and stood up. I told her the whole truth, and convinced her that my friend had no fault in the situation. I was the only person who represented her, and probably, the only one whose opinion can influence the teacher's decision. When the teacher believed my story, a girl from the group pathetically shouted out that my friend was talking bad about them before the teacher got to the classroom. I stood still, and confidently defended her on her behalf. My teacher could not have cared less about what the group had to say. She ordered the girl to stop talking and assured the class that she trusts me more. She even added that I am more of a role model than any of the students who have a position in the class. No one dared to say another word.

The trial went for a long class period. For everyone else, it was one of those rare days where we delay the class, and not have to study any Literature. For me, it was a day without the pain of literature, and with the omnipresence of justice. As we marched outside the classroom to form two straight lines, a male student came up to me, telling me only that I was a "hero". My walk home consisted of a large smile on my face, and a satisfaction that justice was served, and I was the bright lawyer. Even though my friendship with the class president was ephemeral, it had the slightest effect on me because nothing else mattered. I only cared about my uncredited help for her.

A pinch of bliss

I just finished an SAT Critical Reading Practice, and scored a 100. Because of the vacancy of anthropoids in my house, I decided to celebrate this alone, and blog about it. I came to realize that my hard work for studying for the SAT's finally paid off. This feeling, known as happiness, plays a role as a fuel for my love for education. I have always pride myself on being accomplished, and intelligent, but as obvious as I elicit my superciliousness, I was never assured that I am truly smart. These little moments when I earn my good grade, I feel like I am slowly approaching the point where I am satisfied with myself for deserving the title of being acute. In the meantime, I will bury myself in New York Times articles, classic novels, and endless lists of pretentious words.

What I miss most about Viet Nam

Despite my being biased against Vietnam, I could not help but feeling nostalgic when I am half way around the world from home. Other than missing my grandparents, sometimes the familiar smell of my mom’s homemade pho triggers my childhood memories of having pho bo in Hanoi every morning. I still eat pho on a regular basis but it is still not the same (no offense to mommy’s cooking). Nowadays I cannot really enjoy being a pedestrian because school is right across the street. But when I was in Vietnam, morning walks are usually halcyon. I was not distracted by the sight of the stark yellow-colored bus being around every five minutes. I miss the smell of the fried banana cakes that was sold by the same women every morning in front of the school. I was always tempted to buy one but I was either not carrying any Vietnam dongs in my pocket or I was hesitant of its hygienic condition. My mom would be furious if she knew I was buying street food. She usually refers them as “trash” because they are sold everywhere, which includes places that has a crowded traffic or next to public restrooms or where people dump garbage bags. Even if I did digest them, it would still be better than eating nem chua ran. Everyday for three years, I have failed to satisfy my need to devour a banana cake.

At noon, when everyone was having their siesta on the squalid classroom table, I was excused to walk home and spend my naps at someplace where I don’t cringe and whine before I lie on my back. I would always walk home on the right side of the street. Was there a purpose to that? Of course. It was not because it was cleaner, nor was it because there were fewer people sitting in their small colorful chair sipping green tea, but because of the banh cuon shop. Sometimes when I was close to the restaurant, I would wait until the lady who was making banh cuon to open the lid. When the steam escapes uncontrollably from the pan, I would nonchalantly walk slowly pass the restaurant and try not to show that I was inhaling as much smell of the cake as I possibly could. It was not that I never get to eat banh cuon. I just never got tired of it.

Fourth time's the charm

After three miserable attempts, I have finally mastered my skills of baking a chewy brownie. It started when my Environmental Club organized an annual event called Enviro Jam to raise funds. A few members decided to have a bake sale, which included brownies, cookies, and other snacks. As I taste my first bite of chewy brownie, I was yet determined to try and bake them myself. For my first attempt, I ended up with a cake-like batch of brownies. The disappointment did not end there. It repeated itself for two more times. I shamefully admit to defeat and asked my fellow friend who baked the chewy brownies. Nothing discouraged me more than the sound of the words, “I made them from a Brownie Mix Box”, traveling through her mouth. So today, I decided to give it another try. When I opened the oven, I thought I have yet failed once more because the surface of the brownie was firm. I let it cool down and returned a few minutes after. Much to my surprise, it was not cake-like. It was finally chewy! I couldn’t be happier. Whoever said third time’s the charm?

Sniff*. Why do I smell smoke? D’oh! The oven is still on.

The Scottish Play

Recently in my English class, I have been given the play “Macbeth” to read. For those of you who have read “Macbeth”, some of you might recall the scene when the murderers that Macbeth sent intruded Lady Macduff’s home. One could not help but notice the hilarious, illogical moment when the murderer stabs Macduff’s son (or as my English teacher addressed him: “The Little Macduffer”). The tragic, yet humorous moment highly amused me as “the little Macduffer” cried, “He (the murderer) has killed me” AFTER being stabbed. I could not help but ponder that Shakespeare might have over highlighted the dramatic effects that lies in the play when he wrote those lines. One would think that Shakespeare underestimated the intelligence of mankind by adding those lines. Imagine being killed and having only a few breaths to say something. One would not waste away that by making superfluous remarks like stating he has been killed. Well… unless he is Grigori Rasputin, the weird Russian mystic who was poisoned, shot four times, badly beaten and still survived.