Blue Bear

When the ‘stork’ delivered me to my mom from the faraway land of Seoul, S. Korea, I came dressed in a pink, white, and black striped sailor style dress. With me, I brought a few coins/currency, a stuffed hedge hog, a shaggy blue teddy bear with a musical box in the bottom playing Rock-A-Bye Baby when wound up, and black button eyes, a basic book overviewing Korea in all its glory, and simple words every toddler learns and the English translation for my family.

I’ve never been sold on stuffed animals. I think the only reason I liked the hedge hog was because I could hold it. The teddy bear, I named Blue Bear, and the gender was male. Perhaps that is why blue was my favorite color for so long. He was the Ken to all my Barbies.

This is a dressed up version…. a visualization

It was not plush, nor movable. It did not have ‘pads’ on the paws, nor accents on the ears, a bow or any frills.The head and face was more like this:

The nose on mine was black. I don’t think it even had a tongue.  There was no belly button. This one looks like the legs might be opposable, which the one I had did not have any moving body parts. In the bottom was a flat metal round piece to wind up the music box which played the tune of Rock-A-Bye Baby lullaby. By the time I entered school, the eyes were loose and falling out of the sockets, the fur was well worn and tattered in the face, the joining parts of the ears, and the bottom. When I was 8, I performed surgery and put the eyes back in, and the bottom to keep the stuffing and the music box in. Blue Bear went through two more operations in later years. If I remember right he ended up going half blind. He was clearly my most cherished, most favorite, most loved childhood toy. There was a hand puppet of a cat with a blanket and then a baby doll which Blue Bear played mom to—like all kids at some point, gender roles and logical gender assignment didn’t apply— and cared for. He was there when I took the doll clothes off the American Girl collectibles—the ones I had were soft bodies with porcelain forearms, hands, feet, and faces on a stand, not the hard plastic they seem to make now—and  my mom wouldn’t let me play with, and then put on the family’s calico cat and forced it to lay down in the wooden doll crib. I didn’t play with the dolls, I just made them naked and put their clothes on Blue Bear, the cats, and my Barbies. Eventually my mom wised up, bought a quilt rack shelf, and placed the dolls high out of reach from me.

I’m not sure of the exact fate of Blue Bear. I had him when we moved to the suburbs, but when my mom and I moved to a college town, he disappeared and was never recovered.

I told him all my secrets, and he was with me to soothe me with his lullaby when I cried myself to sleep for not understanding why someone would abandon and give up their child, how could someone not love me, do they think about me?, would they know who I am if they saw me?, what will I look like as I get older?, Am I have Korean and half white?, Do I have siblings?, Did they keep my brothers and sisters?, How come my biological parents didn’t keep me?, How come they didn’t want me?, Were they important people?, Were they poor people?, Maybe I’m a twin., I wonder what my biological brothers and sisters look like and what are they like?, If they saw me, would they know? If my biological parents saw me, what would they do?, Would they welcome me? Would they pretend I didn’t exist?, Am I like them?

Blue Bear was made in Korea too and traveled with me. He already knew. I firmly believed the Blue Fairy would come and make him REAL one day. Perhaps that is what happened. Blue Bear and I loved the story of The Velveteen Rabbit. We also loved Dr. Seuss and Jane Hissey’s the Little Bear’s Trousers book, as it was about a teddy bear’s adventures with his pants. Blue Bear was there to see all the new toys and clothes I got for Christmas and birthdays. He never worried, because I came back to him, and when we no longer spent our days together, he got a prime spot on the bed for the cats and dogs to nap next to, or a high perch looking all over the room and watch all the activity throughout the day. I liked Pinocchio, but he thought Pinocchio was foolish. He and the hand made sock monkey either my mom or G’ma made for one of my sisters were great friends, though I only played with the sock monkey when I had Raggedy Ann and Andy invited to tea parties with myself and Blue Bear. He nursed me through nearly every illness I had as a kid, and he played a nurse and a doctor for the dolls when they got sick. He was my star pupil when we played school and Teacher. How silly to reminisce over a childhood toy. It’s about the longest monogamous relationship I’ve ever had with anything. HA HA. I’m purely kidding! Had to throw in some lame joke since it’s a much too serious tone.

What spurs all this is, I unpacked my Korean hanbok and hung it for display. I also unpacked my Korea memorabilia from (previously mentioned in addition to a 3 other items I acquired in attempts to learn of) my Korean heritage. In the final box of clothes, I came across a mix of mostly clothes my brother and I each wore or brought over with us from our native countries.

I still desire to pass on these items to any children I may have in the future (biological or adopted, makes no difference), and I still firmly desire to be wed in a ceremonious wedding hanbok. The hanbok I have doesn’t fit anymore. I’m not sure who brought it back for me when I was 10, but it will be passed down. They will be subject to the same humiliation I was dressed in the dress and the cutesy pink sweatshirt with a kitty.

Time is up.

The dream was lovely. Of course it was, I was the leading female. In the dream we were more connected with the timing all wrong, and tensions on both sides were more severe. My mother was meeting you to give you a once over. She became fond of you. The tension between you and I was a final breaking point. I decided time was up. Surprisingly, you proposed. You spent the rest of the time pursuing me and trying to show me you love me.

Swept away by romance. The message still remains: time is up. Let’s see if I can keep up the strength to not look back. I know I can make it through today. Tomorrow’s treasure may lead me to regret today.

Modern Day Nomad

A while back, I cranked out the beginnings of an early draft of a creative writing narrative, inspired by my own personal (or lack thereof) information. Earlier this year, I half-joked and compared myself to a hyphen and a hot potato.

What you may not know is I have a long-held interest in the human psyche and human behaviors. One parent pursued a career in psychology and the other chose sociology. Needless to say, behavioral patterns, analyzing, and interpreting are skills I’ve likely overdeveloped. Best demonstrated on myself. Self-Psycho babble.

The past six weeks have been filled with a mixture of positive and negative stress. October 28th, I moved a couple miles west. Moving is the third most stressful, life-changing event. It is preceded by <b>money</b> and divorce. Yes, money triggered the need to move. Early in October, I returned from a visit to my native, Midwestern state. I’ve played host and hotel to a sibling, and a variety of people I once was good friends with at one point or another.

In the dating scene, October seems to have stalled a bit on that particular forefront. August and September we were off to a great start. I met a wonderful guy, which has opened up an abundance of emotional firsts for me to register and process. Mixed signals are not things I’ve ever liked. The first guy to be significantly younger, at the borderline ideal 5 year range I’ve learned is safe. First guy I’ve let my guard down with from the beginning. First guy I’ve been able to see myself with long term. First guy I want to be serious with on a long term basis. First guy I want to include in all aspects of my life without subjecting him to my standard hurdles… such as dating 1 month before bothering to mention him to anyone, dating 3 months before mentioning him to family, etc. Few have actually gotten an honorable mention to my family, and even fewer have met my family. What it boils down to is, I’ve been doing a majority of the initiating. I hate one-sided relationships of any kind and am typically quick to walk away when I smell one a mile away. I feel like I beg him to spend time with me. Yet the time we do spend together is wonderful. He’s interested, considerate, romantic. Mixed signals. I’m not so sure I have the patience to ride out the bumps. I know I have the time. In the beginning, I thought I had the time and the patience to iron out the wrinkles.

Everything ties in, trust me. Perhaps the sense of restlessness has leaked over or contaminated not only my sense of belonging, but all of my relationships with people, whatever the particulars may be. The majority of my friendships have a shelf life of 2 years. Those that have known me through school or activities don’t know much of me beyond who I was if/when they knew me well for the brief period of close intimacy. Because I cycle out people. I had a different best friend for every grade in school. Beyond that grade, the friendship may have continued, but more than likely waned.

The sibling I was closest to as a child, is the one I am most estranged with now. The sibling I butted heads with, I now have a strong bond with. Yes, relationships shift, morph, and etc as we all mature. Not every friend you make is a friend forever. I don’t deny this. However, once the close intimacy I share with someone disintegrates, I don’t make much attempt to restore it. I now realize this is the reason why I delay physical affections or physical intimacy with those I have dated.

I now realize my subconscious reasons and did so for coping and self-protection. Those whom have been sexual partners, few have known me. I liked it that way. Those whom were selectively and gradually deemed suitable to know me, I was very slow to exhibit physical affection with. When I first became sexually active, this seemed practical. I knew my self-esteem was in a fragile state, and this seemed safe. Then, I dated one particular person. He was my first love, and I clammed up an took a year just to kiss him, with the influence of alcohol. It was after him that I noticed this quirk and have mauled over it for years and tried to speculate with 2-3 people. Now I know. I spent years building up my self-esteem and confidence. I fooled myself into thinking it was solid and secure. Surprise. Not the case.

Questioning the patience with the current beau, and the fact I’ve let all my defenses down, turned into one of ‘those’ type of people, find myself invested emotionally, sexually/physically has thrown me for a loop. It excited, enthralls, animates, refreshes, terrifies. There’s been a show of interested from other males recently. I know I’m not even a fraction as interested in them as they are interested in myself, nor am I interested in them anywhere near what I am with my prime choice. Lack of reciprocation and being pursued from the prime choice does make me wonder if I ought to just ignore the big picture and enjoy the available company.

Having turned into one of ‘those’ people, I want to hang on to what I don’t even have. Somehow, I have a sinking feeling I’m trying to nourish and garden a plucked flower. I can’t bring myself to throw it out just yet. I sampled a taste, and wish to savor the last bits even though I know I should just leave the table. I’ve turned into an all or nothing sort of person. Or maybe I have been one all along. Someone please slap some sense into me.

The point is, I’m seeing a correllation of nomadic patterns. Moving from place to place, jobs, clique-hopping in high school, cycling out friends, and still no serious long term relationship. I don’t even consider committing to a pet because I do move around so frequently.

A long held daydream is to cut all ties, ditch obligations, and just be a free-spirit. See the world, experience all I realistically can. I fantasize as most do, to have the happily married, financially stable income with an idyllic career, house, 2 car garage, kids, suburban life. Now, I wonder, if that would satisfy my restless nature. Up until now, I earnestly believed having it would make me happy and fulfill the search for ‘home.’

I suspect it would not. Of course, this could all be chalked up to insecurities.

You’re a Banana!

In 2008, what was a friend of a friend at the time made a passing remark. “You’re a banana! Like, how on [FOX's animated comedy] ‘Family Guy‘ they call the guy a banana, yellow on the outside and white on the inside.”

At the time this deeply offended me. Since then I’ve thought on it and it seems to suit me more and more. I even make the joke about myself to other people now. The guy I am dating compared it to a Twinkie. I sure do like Twinkies more than I like bananas.

Does this mean assimilation has worked too well? Or perhaps the abandonment and rejection I was confronted with as a child with the mentality of a child feeling alone and lost in trying to understand such grown up concepts decided the only way to boil it down was to reject everything which had rejected me before I even knew what I was. By turning my back on a culture, society, and country who discarded me so easily and readily. Treated like an export, non-refundable merchandise. I wanted so desperately to cling to the heritage, learn, and be what I was supposed to be. Approval and acceptance according to Maslow and his Hierarchy of Needs. The conflict of being submissive, docile, and meek was disagreeable to my strong-will, curious, adventurous nature. I then tried to be like all the other middle class, All-American, children I went to school with. That wasn’t working for me. This is most apparent in the photos showing me in preppy Limited Too clothes, joining band, and attending Awanas every week with my preppy and athletic friends. I gave that up around seventh and eighth grade. Well, honestly, I liked percussion, but gave it up because I knew it would alleviate some financial strain for my parents, plus they had schedules and I wasn’t sure how the logistics would work to make a full commitment to band. Playing at football games was pretty pathetic as far as percussion went. I didn’t have the coordination or the breathing control to take up any of the other instruments.

I finally figured out I was not suited for either ‘team.’ Where did that leave me? Where does it leave me, now? Where does it lead me? Better yet, why do I continue to try to make the team when I know I won’t make the cut?

Life is a journey. One’s identity isn’t carved out of marble. It is ever changing. Water takes on many forms ranging from tears, it is a base for many solubles and solvents, it can be held or crushed as ice, it can move as fog, clouds, or rain with the help of gravity and shift of atmospheric currents. It can rust metal, cleanse most objects. One can add to it, or it can stand alone.

Fire instigates sparks, flames. Fire can move, travel. Yet it cannot be directly held.

The mention of Earthly elements inevitably brings me to the topic of astrology. Both ‘Chinese’ and ‘Western’ flavors. I’m not going to claim to know every specific or applicable subsect or laws of child abandonment, family size, growth, governing patriachial societies, or the pariah treatment of any whom didn’t abide appropriately. Feel free to correct or enlighten me. This is how I interpret the society at the time I was born to and dismissed from. Ironically, the last statement could be precisely my point. One would have a better chance of estimating how many licks it takes to get to the center of a Tootsie poop and winning the Price Is Right [popular game show from the 1970s and 1980s] vs accurately determining the day and year I was born. Because currently there is no full proof way to verify this other than by assessing physical development and the onset of developmental milestones. So while I may truly be a rooster, metal rooster, scorpio rooster according to Chinese astrology.

The Rooster is a flamboyant personality, feisty and obstinate. He is quite the extrovert who loves to strut his stuff and is proud of who he is. Outwardly confident, the Rooster is also a trustworthy, hardworking individual. He’ll tell it like it is with no qualms or reservations.

Years of the Rooster

Rooster Years are tenth in the cycle following the Monkey Years, and recur every twelfth year. The Chinese New Year does not fall on a specific date, so it is essential to check the calendar to find the exact date on which each Rooster Year actually begins.

1909*1921*1933*1945*1957*1969*1981*1993*2005

THE SIGN OF THE ROOSTER

Roosters are very loyal individuals. They do not like dishonesty or mockery of any sort. They are blunt, up front and honest people and expect those around them to be the same. Roosters are happiest when they are surrounded by others, at a party or just a social gathering. They even enjoy the spotlight and will exhibit their charisma and wit in a minute. This star quality can be overbearing, for a Rooster expects you to listen to him while he speaks and can become agitated if you don’t. Roosters do have a tendency to brag about themselves and their achievements and demand an attentive audience when doing so.

ROOSTER FACTS:

People born in the Year of the Rooster share certain characteristics. The Rooster Sign is an abbreviated way of characterizing that individual’s personality. Following are features associated with the Sign of the Rooster.

Tenth in order, Chinese name—JI, sign of honesty

Hour—5pm-6:59pm Month—September

Western Counterpart—Virgo

CHARACTERISTICS

Brave, Romantic, Motivated, Proud, Blunt, Resentful, Boastful

THE METAL ROOSTER 1921 AND 1981

Metal Roosters can come off as arrogant and stuck up at times. They need a cushion for that overextended ego and someone to make sure it stays inflated. They are reasonable people who seem to analyze every decision they make and every situation they find themselves in. They are standoffish at times and can let their aggression get in the way of a blossoming friendship or romance. These Roosters should take a breather from their egos long enough to really enjoy what they have to offer.

SCORPIO ROOSTER

These are the most determined of the Roosters. Once they set a goal, they cannot stop until they achieve it. They are motivated, industrious individuals who work hard to satisfy their employers. They are deeply emotional people, something one wouldn’t know by seeing their surfaces.

I could just as likely be any of the other combinations, Or not be a rooster or scorpio or metal element.
I am simply a by-product. A hot potato. A hyphen. I’ve graduated from hot potato to bananas and Twinkies.

To be continued. . .

The future I struggle for

It’s not nice to admit, sometimes I think about how life would be different if I had been adopted by a more financially stable family. I have never been accused of being greedy, nor materialistic. On the other side, I spent the first 20 years being poor. I will spend my entire life trying to secure the American Dream. Sometimes I feel bitter about not having it. Admitting this is so very nasty of me. It sounds resentful of the family and parents I so dearly cherish. So to try to weakly deny some ill sentiment about the situation would be feeble. The best way to clarify would be to go back simply to a vivid imagination. It’s not an attack on my family nor my parents.  The character, Anne Shirley from Anne of Green Gables is a prime example.

I can’t help thinking of how life would be easier. Have better medical coverage, maybe even a trust. Have a life as a princess. A debutant. I wonder if I shy away from becoming too friendly with more adoptees because it means having to face the facts they have the future I still struggle for. All of a sudden, I’ve come upon an inkling as to how it is speculated how Janis Joplin felt. I watched an A&E Biography series featuring Janis Joplin. Someone claimed her whole premise was to be accepted into mainstream. At the time I didn’t understand because I focused on how she was largely worshipped by the non-mainstream. I get it. She wanted so much to be part of the mainstream, but had been more or less ‘rejected’ and abandoned, she felt there was no place for her. She was just trying to find her place—her home and comfort zone. Ironic how death is an initiation so to speak for any great person to be revered by the mainstream.

Then I feel guilty for having these thoughts; I end up guilt-tripping myself. I know I sound unappreciatve, which is why I keep the topic tucked away. Without a doubt, this is why I trained myself to not be jealous or envious of others.

Because if I want any one thing bad enough, I have to be willing to sacrifice other things. There are some things in life I will never have so, just accept it and move on. Lately, I’ve been feeling shortchanged. I see my school friends going off to exotic places. Sure I was born in an exotic place, but I have virtually no memory of it. Hmmm. Let’s change the subject.

It’s simply, hard not to step back. Being adopted affords me the latitude. Being born into a family automatically gives one an identity. Why do I do this?, compare my own life to others not even in my league. While I’m having the audacity to bring up taboo topics, why not go for the gold?

Additionally, throughout life up to this point, I’ve noticed a higher percent of those with outwardly visible disabilities are Caucasians. The other day I saw a lady using a wheelchair, out with her family. The lady looked dark haired and dark complexed. Mexican or Hispanic build or body type. I’m confused as to which term is preferable. Which, honestly, is the first time I’ve seen someone non-Caucasian with an outwardly visible disability. Yes, I indeed mean outwardly physical. Some mental disabilities are outwardly visible either in physical features or by mannerisms. Where do I have the authority? I don’t need a Ph.D. to make such statements. I used to think the cause was due to the mostly Caucasian populated region the Midwest is known for. However, I no longer live in the Midwest. The population in general and the PWD numbers are higher where I now live.

I wonder what happened to the guy from Life Goes On.

Pick Me, PICK ME

Character Name: Amanda (lovable) Mi-Young (eternally beautiful) Kim (gold) Edwards (rich, blessed)

Perpetual Rounds of What if. . . ?

She never completely unpacked her boxes. Some people noticed her closets were jam-packed full with boxes. Most were empty, but some of them weren’t. Boxes were not only in her closet, but stray boxes had been left in her room, rifled through and then abandoned and shoved up against the wall when she had moved on. Boxes were neatly lined up underneath her bed and underneath her futon for quick access. Boxes she couldn’t or perhaps wouldn’t bring herself to break open and unpack. Unpacking those boxes meant staying. Permanently.

After years of trying to feel at ease and at home at each of the over 20 places she’d lived, she kept hoping to one day find that magical place to permanently call ‘home.’ She finally recognized the symbolism. The parallel correlations. Committing to a place was as easy as surrendering all. She knew rejection before she knew her own name. She learned this again by the time she was 12. The difference being, she decided to stop trying to play by the rules. Rules only got her so far, she was still an imposter. Denial and faking it wasn’t going to make things better. The solution was simple: reject it before being rejected.

It was a simple question. One her parents, nor any of her siblings wholly understood. She barely understood the issue herself.

Why don’t you want to become a citizen?

When she was a young child, she had struggled with abandonment issues. For at least six months she cried herself to sleep on a regular basis. She sobbed into her pillow. It was the perpetual What if… and why me game she inevitably subjected herself to. Her dad had knocked out one of the walls, painted, and adding a set of picture windows to brighten the room during the remodel of the back porch or mud room, into a fifth bedroom to give each of the 3 girls and 1 boy their own rooms. Before her dad remodeled the two-story farm-style house, she had always shared a room with her older sister; sometimes, in other houses all of the girls shared a room. It was the first time she had her own room. It was the only room with a large, picture window, the assortment of 4 of the family’s cats liked to wander in, sit and lay on the open window sill and watch the birds in the weeping willow tree, the 12 x 10’ flowerbed it protected, and the dogs in the backyard.

She didn’t even know it was happening. Her growing pains amounted to more than just outgrown clothes replaced by ‘new’ hand-me-downs from her sisters closets. The story she loved to ask her mom to re-tell had begun to warp. The basic premise of the story itself never changed, but her understanding of it had transformed. Emotionally she desperately tried to go over the facts she had, to decipher the adult world with the linear logic of a child, not only had she been rejected by the ones responsible for her conception and any relatives, she was rejected further by a country she painfully was aware gave her slightly more regard than they gave the stray dog. Even the stray diseased dogs and varmint got to stay in the country they were born in.

Books were the best things available for the acutely shy, underdeveloped, underweight girl. The sun poured in–hours were spent at the library choosing the week’s half dozen books,–sprawled haphazardly in the worn and tattered blue chair with simple, white, droplet-shaped, four-leaf flowers. Even the chair was a cast-off someone had given her mother. It was the perfect size for her to lounge sideways and diagonally with her legs dangling up in the upper right hand crevice. She had adventures with Nancy Drew and the Boxcar series, was popular and turning away bands of beaus in Sweet Valley High series, had a circle of neighborhood girlfriends in the Baby-Sitters Club series. She made it through the reading-age level booklists and recommendations the reading program at the public library halfway through summer vacation. She usually stole the books her older sisters brought home for school, finishing most books in 2-3 days. In school, the standard required reading was just review of books she had read 2-3 years prior. Early on, came the Diary of Anne Frank. Anne Frank told her story, and she knew she would have to tell her story, too. It was never clear why she felt such a strong reaction. Twenty years later she realized, it was because they both were considered cast-aways by the societies they belonged to. At the age of 8 and in the typical, shaky, child-like, dyskinetic lettering, she began the practice of journaling on top of painstakingly writing letters, in her best, slanted print, to her G’ma.

Beyond high school, she lost her ability, her passport, to travel to the wondrous, fantastically rich worlds she loved to escape to in books. It disturbed her, and she realized, it marked an onset of adulthood. She could not block out the mental noise, and she could not return to suspended belief and relief books brought. When she was twenty-eight she noticed she was traveling the same path with cinema.

By the age of twenty-five, she regretted not taking more time to enjoy her childhood. She regretted rushing through childhood. Nearly twenty-eight, she ran into some immigration problems, and her goals in life had to once again be placed on hold. It was then, she knew the issue of identity would continue to resurface for the rest of her life; this was her third major go-around with it. Apparently, closure had an expiration date.

She wondered how this conversation had managed to become so personal. One of her roommates was having her extended family over for a pool party. All she was trying to do was relax, smoke the ultra light, seven-dollar-per-pack, cigarette, and mentally order her stomach to settle down. Now, a tall, slender, medium-dark brown woman in her early 30s whose name she failed to recall and only vaguely remembered meeting at the roommate’s work-picnic, the new girlfriend of the roommate’s cousin was sitting on the other side of the round, green, cast iron and glass patio table drinking her cranberry vodka from a clear, plastic hurricane-shaped glass asking, Why don’t you want to be a citizen?

Simple question. She inhaled, took a drag off her ultra light cigarette, then studied the others and the kids in and around the island shaped swimming pool. She hadn’t planned on having such a serious and involved conversation today. She had been sitting under the covered back patio away from all the activity to observe and appear to be social without having to actually participate and interact with people she wasn’t particularly interested in knowing. Smoking is the best full-proof, all-purpose, means she’s found to achieve this with. She tried to coordinate her jumbled thoughts carefully with her mouth. An awkward, consciously vague answer managed to find its way.

“It’s … hard to explain. It has to do with identity. I-I mean, it wouldn’t have made much difference. I didn’t think it was going to make much difference. I was-I was … Because, you know, I—we, my parents and I—thought because my green card was good for, you know, well forever, that it wouldn’t make much difference. I had been working, paying taxes, filing taxes, and went to school, and have a social security number for years without any problems. So I guess, at the time I didn’t see the point just to go through all the hoops to keep doing what I have been.”

She was relieved when the loud roommate shouted over to the woman, “Why don’t you come get in the pool with us?” The roommate was talking to the slender woman across the table, since the proportionately petite Korean, had previously told the roommate she had woken up sick throughout the night and wanted to take it easy. Then some other people showed up and the kids needed help with sunscreen. The slender woman rose, helped, and asked the kids if they remembered her name. She watched, smiled, listened, and finished the third cigarette in a row.

“It’s been a long time since I last saw you” as if the kids had seen the woman more than the one time at the roommate’s work-picnic, two weeks prior. “Do you remember my name?”

The six-year-old girl with fine blonde hair which looked like a mixture of white and yellow corn, responded with a confident and bold, “Yes.” When the slender woman pressed the girl, the girl stated she didn’t know.

The slender woman didn’t mind, and didn’t miss a beat, gently prompting her with “Kaaa… Katya.” Soon thereafter, the boyfriend approached and the two decided to make a trip to the store. The petite Korean took the opportunity to retreat into her room for the rest of the afternoon.

* * *

Three Names and Never Married

Two days later, Amanda (Lovable)Mi-Young (eternally beautiful) Edwards realized the reason she kept boxes packed was the same reason she was always clever when answering the “Where are you from?” question; funny how the complexities in her life stemmed from such child-like simplicity. Sometimes she could ignore Maslow’s needs, and sometimes she could fend them off, either way, Maslow wore down her defenses.

* * *

Twenty-Five Years

The anniversary was quickly approaching. She wanted to do something special to honor her mother.