Shannon Shouts: Raindrops Don't Kill

Why is it that every time the Provo sky releases a speck of precipitation, the campus is covered in umbrellas? I grew up in Silverdale, Washington: a land right across the water from Seattle, a land that gets an average 54 inches of rain a year as opposed to the 20.13 inches of precipitation that annually falls upon Provo. In Silverdale, you can count on just about everyone to have an umbrella in the trunk of their car, but when the sky starts releasing it’s wet drops of joy, the umbrellas remain safely tucked away in the trunks of every car where they shall remain for the entirety of the year, whether the weather is outrageously wet or not. This is why I try hard to suppress my guffaws of laughter when it’s merely misting and people whip out their umbrellas of assorted sizes and colors, and those that are umbrella less begin sprinting for the nearest building. I watch the show as I soak in the sweet smell of rain and stroll to my next class at a leisurely pace with a smirk adorning my gorgeous face. I find the antics of BYU students outrageously entertaining during wet whether because their attempts to remain dry waste time and generally fail in the end. Umbrellas only protect from rain over head, and if the users somehow manage to remain dry on the way to their destination, they still have a wet bunch of fabric to carry around. Today, I was astounded to see someone carrying an umbrella to shelter her from the snow! I was amazed that someone could be so afraid of precipitation that they would seek protection from snowflakes. Washingtonians have generally forsaken the hassle of umbrellas and all the wet space they take up and the time it takes to find and store them. Umbrellas are handy when sitting in dreary whether, such as when viewing a soccer game on a rainy day, but when rushing to a class, or into a store, umbrellas are a pointless waste of one’s time. BYU students should be smart enough to see the waste that umbrellas are and embrace precipitation for the glorious asset to nature that it is.

Fathers and Daughters

7:22 pm. Angry tears seep through my clenched eyelids, emerging despite my best efforts. I can’t make eye-contact with him, knowing that if I do, I will lose every last ounce of self-control. I hate crying; I can’t stand the vulnerability, the feeling of complete emotional nakedness. He speaks; I ignore him. He doesn’t understand. Yes, I’m only 15, but what’s the big deal? We aren’t going to do anything wrong. Why can’t time just hurry up so I can date whoever I want? Forgetting myself, I look up at Dad, preparing one of my most penetrating glares, planning to frighten him into silence and acquiescence. But as soon as I look up, my eyelids fail me, and tears cascade down my cheeks. Dad looks frustrated, disappointed … then laughs awkwardly. My tears are startled into a momentary halt by his sudden, but brief, outburst; but after a moment, they return, more abundant than ever. How could he laugh at my situation? My legs, until recently petrified in pain, are moving, running. I run, run away from my situation, from my tears, from my father.
* * *
In the second chapter of Luke, the young Jesus Christ goes missing as his family is traveling home from Jerusalem. After three days of frantic searching, Mary and Joseph find him in the temple. In response to their worries, Jesus says, “How is it that ye sought me? Wist ye not that I must be about my Father’s business?” In Greek, the word “wist” means “to know, or see,” and the word for “about” is usually translated as “near”. There is no word for “business”; that was added by translators when the Bible was compiled. Thus, the true meaning of the sentence is, “Know ye not that I must be near my Father?”

* * *
8:33 pm. The sweat stings as it rolls down my sunburned face. It tastes of dirt and defeat. I sit on that cold, heartless bench. Cold for making me be there. Cold, because I know I should be on the field. My heart seems to beat in time with the clock: two minutes, one minute fifty-nine, one minute fifty-eight… How could he take me out now? Five minutes of playing time? Granted, fifty minutes could have passed with me on the field, and it still wouldn’t be enough. But five? The night closes in, and the flood lights click on with their monotone, insensitive humming. One minute seven seconds, six, five… The clock continues on, mocking me with the bright, red seconds flashing past. Thirty-three, thirty-two… This whole season now seems like a waste. I can’t bear to look as the clock clicks down to zero. The whistle sounds. Cheers issue from the stands, but in my ears everything is strangely silent, like someone hit mute on the television remote. My teammates grin and hug each other; parents who probably don’t know who I am congratulate me on my solid offense (I play left defender). One to zero. After years of frustration, we have finally conquered our longstanding rivals, but all I can feel is my own defeat. I feel a hand on my shoulder; I recognize the grip. “Well played.” I know Dad means it. He gets into his car and drives off to yet another late night at work; his sacrifice is lost on me as I dwell on his encouragement and nurse my injured pride.
* * *
Matthew 14 opens with the beheading of John the Baptist, the beloved cousin of the Savior. In verse 13 and 14, Christ hears the news and, surely with a heavy heart, “departs by ship into a desert place” to be alone. But when the people hear of his departure, they follow him, despite his obvious and acute sorrow, bringing their sick and afflicted. When he sees the vast multitude, instead of feeling anger at the disturbance, he is “moved with compassion toward them”. Although he would rather be mourning his cousin’s death, he forgets his suffering and heals their injuries.
* * *
2:06 pm. I get up, brush loose rocks off my knee, and remount my two-wheeled steed as Dad patiently launches into another lecture on 90-degree angles, gravitational force, and other terms that are meaningless to the average four-year-old. But he soon stops, grips my shoulder firmly with his strong, worn hand, preventing all but the strongest wobbles as I pedal slowly down the street. As I get more confident, my feet pump harder, and my dad breaks into a jog, all the while supporting my 35 pounds with seemingly no effort. We are halfway down the street and I know I’m ready. “Let go!” I cry, and he does, yelling some last-minute advice which gets lost in between my nervousness and ecstasy as I fly towards the cul-de-sac. I swerve back and forth madly, trying my best to crush every dry, brittle leaf under my front tire. The autumn wind braces my face, drying my wide-open eyes. Suddenly the cul-de-sac looms ahead. I know I should probably stop; I’ve only ever gone straight. But I keep going, trying to remember how Dad told me to turn… something about leaning. But which way do I lean? My bike is tipping slowly to the left. I drive through some loose gravel and that slow tipping becomes a rapid plunge as the tires slip out from under me. I land in a heap, my dignity lying crushed next to me. The wind, which just a moment ago was electrifying and exhilarating, stings my newly acquired scrapes. My dad finally catches up, extends his hands, lifts me up, and gently places me back on my feet. “Let’s try again,” he says, stepping over my crumpled pride and ignoring my tears of humiliation.
* * *
“Fear thou not; for I am with thee: be not dismayed; for I am thy God: I will strengthen thee… For I the Lord thy God will hold thy right hand, saying unto thee, Fear not; I will help thee.” Isaiah 41:10, 13
* * *
10:07 am. We are running late, as normal. But punctuality isn’t important right now. We stand there, next to the car, our mutual awkwardness multiplied a thousand times, making the short, sweet seconds left together seem longer than the upcoming, long-anticipated, five-hour plane ride. “Do your best,” he says. “Be good.” And with that, he pulls me into one last embrace, as we both stifle tears. We separate all too soon. I walk to the car, leaving the past 18 years of my life behind. We had always clashed. The regulated gears in his mind fit together perfectly, and were oiled and monitored daily. He sees everything in numbers, equations, calculations. He knows how a space shuttle functions, but he knows little of the workings of his teenage girl. But right now that doesn’t matter. I look out the window as my mom drives us away, watching the space separating us grow and grow and grow.
* * *
“For I am persuaded, that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature, shall be able to separate us from the love of God.” Romans 8:38-39
* * *
11:24 am. I’ve been sitting here for what seems like hours, staring at this jumble of numbers and signs, just trying to understand why I need to do this. It’s summer, the time when every normal 5th grader gets a break from school. It’s summer, the time for Slip-n-Slide burns on thighs and everlasting Freeze Pops and sunlight, the most easily transmitted contagion for 11-year-olds. And here I sit, staring out the kitchen window, itching from my summer infection. I really don’t care how Sally and Bill divide their apples, or what Tom’s average grade will be if he flunks his next test. I sneak another glimpse at the clock and groan. 11:28 already. Daylight is sneaking away from me. Hateful thoughts flit through my head: how could my dad be so cruel? Why does he put me through this daily torture? I don’t understand these math problems, and I don’t want to. I know I should press on; if I don’t finish them, another evening argument will surely follow. “Dad doesn’t understand me!” I mutter angrily to myself. “Well you know what? Just because he’s an engineer doesn’t mean I have to know this stuff!” With a decided slam, I shut that workbook, shout, “I’m going outside!” and barrel out the door before my mom can stop me. Escape. My summer infection flare-up is assuaged as I breathe in the pollen, smile, and run with bare feet through Dad’s well-tended flowerbed to the neighbor’s, leaving small, but well-defined, footprints on his pride.
* * *
“My son, despise not the chastening of the Lord; for whom the Lord loveth he correcteth; even as a father the son in whom he delighteth. Happy is the man that findeth wisdom, and the man that getteth understanding.” Proverbs 3:11-13
* * *
8:57 am. I join my fellow seniors as we search the throng of faces, looking for parents in the graduation audience. Mrs. Abel stands up to speak, and everyone falls silent. I turn around, trying to pay attention while still sneaking glances to my left and right. I feel like there is a family of mice nestling in my lower abdomen. My eyes are drawn to the staircase; I turn and see my dad standing at the railing with video camera to his eye. I am but one figure in a sea of orange and black, but he knows exactly where I am. I give him a half-wave and smile. Suddenly I can breathe without making that nervous, shuddering noise.
* * *
In the 18th chapter of Luke, Jesus travels through the city of Jericho. As usual, he is thronged by people longing to see him and be healed. Zacchaeus, a rather short publican, and a sinner in the eyes of the Pharisees, struggles to see through the crowd, so he runs ahead to climb up a tree that he knows the Savior is going to pass. Not only does he have a perfect view, he also receives a manifestation of Christ’s love for him individually. Out of that mass of people, Jesus notices Zacchaeus, calls him by name, telling him, “Make haste, and come down; for today I will abide in thy house.”
* * *
10:59 am. After a four hour climb, we reach the summit, the peak of Y Mountain. Our calves are searing with pain and our lungs are lined with dust, but the view of Provo Valley is worth much more than the pain and the time sacrificed. Everyone gathers to the edge and strains their eyes to locate various landmarks. I join for a moment, but soon wander off, reflecting on the past few weeks. Saying goodbye and diving headfirst into the unknown has caused me to appreciate the comfort of home. I won’t deny it: despite the new friends and fun activities, I miss my family. Now that I am away, I can see how special my family is to me, especially Dad. I think of all our arguments; peering past the tactlessness and awkwardness, I can now see his good intentions, and how he was driven to act by his love for me. Although he is thousands of miles away, I feel nearer to him than I ever have before.
* * *
“Verily, verily, I say unto you, ye are little children, and ye have not as yet understood how great blessings the Father hath in his own hands and prepared for you; and ye cannot bear all things now; nevertheless, be of good cheer, for I will lead you along. The kingdom is yours, and the blessings thereof are yours, and the riches of eternity are yours.” Doctrine and Covenants 78:17-18
* * *
11:01 pm. As I close my Book of Mormon, a picture and a small blue envelope slip out from the index onto the floor. I pick them up off the floor, place the photo aside, and open the letter, which I now recognize as a note my parents sent me while I was at Girls’ Camp. A particular passage from my dad’s letter resonates in my mind: “You have grown up so much and seem in such a hurry to be an independent adult. Treasure these last few years spent as a child at home. They will pass very quickly. Spend time with your mother and me. Talk to us. Learn from us. When you finally leave home, leave home prepared.” I wish now that I had fully understood the wisdom in this advice. Did I value that time enough? Did I learn all that I need to know from my parents? I glance at the picture and take in the scene: my beautiful family looks back at me, the Washington D.C. Temple looming behind— a constant reminder of eternity. I realize that, no, I did not learn all that I need to from my parents, but that’s okay. That is what eternity is for.

Seeking Shade

Home for me is a dump in the middle of the Sonoran desert. Another season of drought and heat advisories is approaching almost without warning. I anticipate more triple digit temperatures and storms of pollution mixed with ultraviolet cancer rays. Some kids associate summer with freedom, fun, and relaxation. I know it as the ubiquitous lava monster determined to suck the life out of everything. I step outside and feel summer’s arms squeeze me until I drip from every pore. I hear death and dryness in the screeching, restless song of cicadas. The only water to be found is streaming off my skin and evaporating into a cloudless sky. There is a distinct flavor to summer. I hate it.

* * *

Church is hell. I don’t want to hear about plans of happiness or other impossible fantasies of hope. I don’t want to sing or serve. I don’t want to exist. The seminary kids all think I’m going inactive. On the rare occasion that they see me, they smile and tell me how much they’ve missed me. Maybe if I feel missed or loved or wanted I’ll make a miraculous return into the fold.

I have a mutual leader who wants me to get my Duty to God award and become an Eagle Scout more than I do. I’ll regret not becoming an Eagle Scout. I really ought to get my Duty to God award. There’s no reason for me not to. He tells me this while I struggle not to spit in his caring, encouraging face. Hey buddy! Before I get all these awards for you I think I might try graduating high school. I hear it’s worth it in the long run.

* * *

Arizona is home to the Gila monster, one of two known species of venomous lizards in the world. Gila monsters are not usually aggressive towards humans, but those who are bitten never forget it. A Gila monster bite usually lasts as long as it takes the victim to pry the beast’s fangs out of his or her flesh. The effects of the excruciating bite are not limited to the pain of fangs piercing skin. The area of the bite may become swollen and in some cases, the victim will begin to feel sick.

* * *

It’s 1 am. I’m lying on my side, feeling the patterns in the wall with my eyes. I want to get out of bed but I don’t. It’s late and everyone is asleep. I have homework to do. Why bother? School tomorrow is becoming more and more optional. How lazy! I’m going to get behind even more. People are starting to figure out something is wrong with me. I won’t talk though. That’s none of their business. I don’t even know what’s wrong with me. My parents say it might be depression. Not the expected, logical kind you get when your puppy gets hit by a pickup or when your dream girl dumps you- the real kind, the unprovoked, cruel kind of depression that comes from within. I rarely get out of bed, I don’t do homework, and I’m not kind to friends and family. I don’t care about anyone or anything, especially not myself. I don’t want to get out of bed but I don’t want to stay here. I don’t want to skip school, but I can’t find the energy to go. I’m sick of feeling alone but I don’t want to see anyone. I’m not going to kill myself, that’s ridiculous, but I don’t want to live anymore. Maybe dying wouldn’t be so bad.

There are two of me: the depressed Clark who can’t see the purpose in continuing, who hates everybody, who hates himself, who hates his parents, who pities himself, who wants to quit. He moans because of the uncontrollable. He hates the way he looks, the things he says, and the way he thinks. He hates people and institutions. He hates work. He hates his home and the desolate, tarantula-ridden desert that he lives in. He can’t remember what it’s like to be happy, to feel “normal”. He hasn’t smiled in eons. But there’s also the real Clark hiding in some dark corner of my soul. He’s the one that remembers goodness, joy, and God. My dad tells me I’m going to a psychiatrist next week. Great. Let’s put a label on me. Not only do I feel worthless, I get to have my parents pay someone to tell me I’m a psychopath.

* * *

Bark scorpions can be found in many places throughout the Sonoran desert. A mother scorpion carries it’s babies on her back until they have matured enough to live independently.

* * *

I’m starting to understand my mother for the first time. I think back to when I am not yet ten years old. My mother is miserable. My father tries to help her find herself, to lift her out of despair. I can tell he wishes he could carry the burden for her. I can’t fully understand what’s wrong. I know my mother is sick but I don’t know how to help. I rock my baby brother in my arms and smell the anguish in Mom’s tears. She doesn’t deserve this. She has given her life to my siblings and me. Her body, her time, her emotions, her passions, her cares, and her whole self have all been selflessly sacrificed to us. She is my best friend and mortal savior. Why does she have to deal with this? I listen to my father give her a Priesthood blessing, wanting to help and trying to sympathize. I can’t.

* * *

My peers scramble to turn in handfuls of college applications, scholarship essays, and polished resumes. I can’t bring myself to show any interest in my future. I write a personal essay in a single night and my mother fills out the rest of my application to the University of Arizona. I can’t wait to waste more of my life in Arizona. I’ll get to keep in touch with the same phony people who I want to leave me alone. Who needs rain or snow or rust-colored leaves falling from wise oak trees when you can accidentally back into a cactus or step on a bush of poison-tipped thorns? If I’m lucky a rattlesnake might sink its fatal fangs into my thigh.

* * *

Gila monster bites should be examined by a doctor immediately. Often pieces of teeth are left in the wound.

* * *

Therapy is fun. My therapist is nice, someone the real Clark wants to like. But that makes everything worse. It’s just him and me. Alone. Am I actually expected to speak above a mumbled whisper? There is no way he can get me to make eye contact for more than two seconds. He wants me to talk about what’s wrong. I don’t know. He wants me to reexperience the worst feelings of my life and evaluate my worthlessness. He gives me “homework” to do. The idea is that I track the causes of my depression. I know I won’t do it. I leave every session feeling worse than before. Therapy is killing me.

My parents say it’s time to experiment with drugs. I’m still a minor so my dad thinks it appropriate that I see a child psychiatrist. I quickly discover that most patients at the Phoenix Children’s hospital aren’t 6’4” and 200 plus pounds. They make up for it by measuring me at 6’1” extending the metal measuring rod further than it’s ever stretched before. They direct all questions towards my father. Apparently I’m too young to be trusted for information about myself. But I don’t want to talk and I don’t want to be spoken to. Still I hold them all in disdain. Once we get into the doctor’s office I teach myself to hate her. She tells me of patients who have made sculptures out of knives and done all sorts of stupid things. She asks me if I’ve heard voices or seen things that aren’t real. The maturing cynic within tempts me to say yes, but I shake my head slowly from side to side. They put me on Prozac. It can’t touch me. I try Lexapro. It makes me sweaty and intensifies my dreams but I continue to try it. “You’ll really regret it if you don’t graduate high school.” Oh really? I thought I had maintained a perfect GPA for my entire life so I could spend my senior year hiding under my covers, rolling my eyes at people, and throwing my life away. I had always heard that your senior year in high school is a prime time to be depressed and feel worthless for no reason at all. But you say I’ll regret it if I don’t graduate? How insightful and encouraging. You really understand me.

* * *

The Sonoran desert’s version of autumn is a short period of time when the few trees that have leaves lose them. Temperatures fall to double digits and going outside becomes bearable. Autumn quickly morphs into a winter that yields no white Christmas and requires no coat. Rattlesnakes become less aggressive and begin a brief period of hibernation.

* * *

I pry myself out of my bedroom and tip toe back into the real world. I can’t do any more than go through the motions. I attend my church meetings, avoiding people and refusing to peer into another set of eyes. I go to most of my classes, talking as little as possible, trying not to acknowledge the presence of another human soul. My friends want to know where I’ve been. “I was sick.” But that doesn’t work for long. “You were gone for a long time. You don’t seem like yourself. What’s wrong with you?” Their loving concern moves me to nausea and indignation. That’s none of their business. They wouldn’t understand anyway. I relish each opportunity to invent a fake malady that I’ve been afflicted with. I tell one friend that I had bird flu. Another gets to hear a fanciful story about how mad cow disease brought me to the brink of death. A girl in my ward discovers that I suffered from a rare hybrid of both diseases. Those who contract avian cow flu develop sharp talons and an udder. How could I have gone to church looking like that? I half-heartedly make it through basketball practice, counting down the minutes until freedom. Once 4:30 comes I can go home to my bedroom and lie dormant once again.

* * *

Newborn javelinas and single file lines of baby quail are signs of the Sonoran spring. Quail carefully follow their parents across the dry landscape and adult javelinas fiercely protect their young. Hummingbirds suck nectar from cactus blossoms and honeybees pollinate citrus flowers. Reptiles come out of hibernating. The desert approaches its full life capacity in preparation for another scorching summer.

* * *

I sit through the graduation ceremony trying to decide whether I want to be there. I listen to my friends’ carefully prepared speeches. This is not how this day was supposed to go. I should be speaking. I should be receiving the highest praise for academic achievement. Instead I’m sitting in the audience with 500 other average students. I was in position to win throughout the entire race but I fell. I stumbled across the finish line bruised and broken but at least I made it. I’m here. I actually look forward to spending time with friends and family before going off to college. I’ve confided in my teachers and my closest friends. My parents monitor my health and happiness. They understand my situation. I find a way to love them for that.

I still have days when I question my ability to face the world and do what is expected of me. These are the days when my bed beckons. However, I now accept these days.

* * *

The Sonoran desert receives much of its rainfall during the summer monsoon season. Two things cause the sweet smell of desert rain: bacteria called actinomycetes, and the unpleasant-tasting coating of the leaves of the creosote bush. It is often said that air pollution is responsible for the spectacular sunrises and sunsets in Arizona. Although the desert heat is brutal and relentless, I take pleasure in finding flowers amongst cactus spines, smelling infrequent rains, and tasting of purple and neon-orange sunrises.

Ebb and Flow

“Shower! Now! This is the fourth time I’m asking!” The word “shower” was shouted more in our family than any other word—more than “bedtime,” “dinner,” or “oh my heck.” My parents went through extreme measures of nagging, begging, and even wrestling with God in mighty prayer for me to shower. I despise showering. I dread the scent of nasty hairballs from unknown sources and sub-zero water stabbing my scalp like icicles after my younger brother uses the last of the hot water. The effort and time it requires to cleanse my body is, definitely, not worth it. As I write this, the last shower I immersed myself in was three days ago, and frankly, no one has noticed my stench yet. Showers are not as necessary as people make them seem. Those European kings and queens centuries ago, who abstained from bathing for years at a time, knew best.

* * *

For the past year, I have written my to-do list on my hand in pen. Usually, I will scribble down the name of a person I need to talk to, a room number I need to find, or a word I need to incorporate into my vocabulary that particular day. My left hand is often covered in the graffiti of my thoughts, and with each shower and hand washing after using the restroom, the words dim and slowly disappear. This can result in catastrophe, as I surely will forget what needs to be performed. To prevent this misfortune, I created and lived by my personal motto: “Washing hands is overrated.” I feel as if a piece of me has been ripped off my hand when I glance down to see my left hand unmarked and washed clean. Once my hand is bare, my soul feels just as bare.

* * *

Nothing tragic has happened in my life—no deaths, no major family problems, and not too much hardship. But wait, I’m overlooking the most dreadful night of my life—senior year prom. Everyone has heard at least one embarrassing story of someone going to prom with her cousin, brother, or even mom. When my date ditched me, I didn’t want to be just another loser who went alone or with a family member—so I brought my beta fish. Sunshine was the perfect date; he was more than I could have ever asked for from a human boy. His favorite dance was the Macarena, but I think his real talent was getting low to Flo Rida. I particularly rejoiced in pretending to reel Sunshine in with a fishing rod; he loved that. But all the fun was short-lived; my date died by the end of the night, and I was the murderer. I poured him into water that was too cold for his little body, and I watched in despair as Sunshine died in seconds. As I watched the toilet water consume and flush Sunshine, I let the frigid water in his bowl spill over my hands—the hands of a murderer—and I wished the water could wash away my guilt.

* * *

Two monstrous moles plague the skin of my left arm. One of my best friends finds immense pleasure in drawing a single curve beneath my two moles to form a smiley face. During high school, I always enjoyed walking around school with my friend’s artwork on display, with my arm as his canvas. When it washed off in the shower, it was no big deal; he would simply draw a new smile the next day. On my last day home, before I left to Utah, he whipped out the Sharpie to draw on my arm—as usual. But when I looked down at the mole-Sharpie face, it had changed. I was startled by a crying frown staring back at me.

* * *

I took a seat on top of the back of my friend’s car, gripping the outside of the car with one hand and some food drive flyers with the other hand. It was only one block—so what’s the worst that could happen? Around a sharp turn, I flew off the car—my Peruvian hat flying with me—and plummeted to the cement, skidding across the gravel. My friends leaped out of the car and sprinted to my aid, with inquiries such as, “Jessie, oh my goodness! Are you alright? May I help nurse you back to health?” I have the best friends—at least, I would say that, if they had actually said that. Instead, the first exclamation I heard was, “Quick! Grab the flyers before they blow away!” There I was, sprawled across the ground and gasping for breath, whimpering like a baby, and my friends were more concerned with collecting the flyers and Peruvian hat. As soon as I arrived home, my mom and dad were at my side, holding me and washing the open wounds of their seventeen-year-old daughter out under the faucet.

* * *

I never knew sadness until I left all the people I love. I missed the tangy smell of Dole pineapples in the lunch my mommy packed for me in high school. I missed belting out Scripture Mastery songs, in deafening tones, with my younger brother in the car ride to seminary. I missed the bullets of sweat on my forehead from late night hot wings with my older brother. My showers were minimal the days after I left home for college; I did not want to erase that crying face on my arm. I did not want to undress to get in the shower, because I deliberately wore clothes that reminded me of home—including the shirt with a picture of Jesus and me as BFFs that my friend made. One day after showering, I was checking myself out in the mirror, as customary for every shower exit, and I realized the face on my arm had washed away. I had no way to remember home anymore.

* * *

Imagine a family who has an annual weeklong summer camping trip together to sit around the campfire, hold each other close, roast marsh mellows and Starbursts, and sing Kumbaya. That’s definitely my cousin’s perfect family—not mine. My family is not one for traditions or any sort of planned activity, but that is not to say that we don’t spend time together. The best memories aren’t always the best planned ones. But in the summers before my brothers and I hit our teen years, we jumped on the trampoline with the water sprinkler underneath—almost religiously. It was our own daily ritually. Sadly, later in life, years went by without the three of us continuing this tradition. My brothers were more into the devil’s game of World of Warcraft—as my parents like to call it. Similarly, I was more interested in being with my friends; brothers weren’t “cool” in junior high. It took a while for my brothers and me to get our priorities straight, but this past summer, screams of wild trampoline-jumping ecstasy were heard throughout the neighborhood once again. And no, these were not the screams of my Kumbaya-singing cousins. The painful sting of my brothers’ belly flops were felt by every last neighbor. As my brothers forced me into the frigid sprinkler water, the sweet lullaby of my yelp even got the birds singing.

* * *

I am from Washington State; yes, I have made the Great Mecca to Forks, Washington—hometown of Twilight. It was less than a week before I left Washington for college, and yes, Forks was everything I dreamed it to be. Of course, my friend and I made a point to check out First Beach at La Push, where Jacob Black had first walked along the shore with Bella Swan, telling her the legend of the vampires or “cold ones.” As I gazed out at the wondrous and vast ocean, it reminded me of one of the last vacations my whole family took together. Our family of five traveled to Laie, Hawaii to visit my grandparents and to bask in the sun on the beach. My brothers and I played soccer along the sandy shore, with my parents sitting happily on a blanket watching us and taking ridiculous amounts of pictures. Looking back, this is one of the most joyful times of life, not just because I was in Hawaii, but because my family was together and happy to be together. It was before my dad had a stroke, before my older brother dropped out of college, and before I had to be miles away from my family. But I wouldn’t change my family and our situation now for the world. I wouldn’t go back to that moment in Hawaii. Whether I like it or not, all these experiences are a part of my soul’s fabric; they define me as the woman I am today. Life comes in waves of opposition, bringing things both to me and away from me. Water can wash things off my skin, but I’m at peace knowing that in the ebb and flow of life, those people and memories will come back to me again.

Sharing Ha

I am tone deaf. This is a problem as I sit surrounded by the voices of adolescent sister angels. I desperately try to blend my off-pitched voice with the harmony of their voices in unison. We, the heavenly daughters of the Olympus Stake, have been chosen to sing truths to the women of the world in the approaching young women’s conference and the idea of singing to these women makes my voice dig new holes into the abyss of my throat. I have heard sounds come from me that would make any small child cry and wonder what world they had been born into. I am completely out of my element and discomfort envelopes me. Then she walks out. Her hair is the color of blazing cinnamon, short, and cut sharply in every direction. Sister Webb is an ironclad woman who demands with her very essence that we rise above the primary choir that we are and learn how to pronounce our sounds like the real choir we will be when she’s done with us. Like a great general instilling spirit in her troops she will teach us the importance of our calling, how our voices will need to reach the souls of each woman who listens to us. Each week we met with her she presented us with a gift that grounded us in the understanding of what our voices in unison will have to communicate with the Souls of the children of God.

. . .

Kane, the God who presides over Hawaiian deities, desired to construct a chief to rule over all other creatures of the earth. He called to his brothers and sisters, gods and goddesses alike, to search the world for the perfect material in which to make this special being. The Gods searched the land and I imagine they pondered, drew up ideas of the perfect being and tingled in aspiration of the new birth.

. . .

We sit in a small humble blue satin shadowed living room that belongs to Karen who is not only my mother’s friend, but my confidante as well. I am sharing time and space with both priestesses of my childhood. This is just one of those unexpected meetings we’ve had this summer, all by chance. Here we talk of men, women, the world, and spiritual matters. Today our attention is not set on fictional men who lay on paper beckoning us to forget our known reality. No, today we whisper truths more sacred than butter and toast. We’ve landed on the topic of salvation and the gift of the atonement. And these pillars of women, with experience and curves to prove it, tell me of how I can be whole again. We touch upon those sacred disappointments in life that are often too harmful to try to remember fully. Like arguments with spouses and trials they wish they could have experienced for their children. How those moments in life where the beautiful could not be appreciated without the horrible pains of mortality. Our heartstrings vibrate to the same melody of the spirit. I already have my own testimony of the atonement; I’ve experienced his mercy and found joy in the healing process. But I can’t help but wonder how their stories of encouragement will guide my through the next phase of my life. I feel each set back they conquered, was a step they took not only for themselves, but also for their posterity, for me. There is nothing more beautiful and pure than atonement.

. . .

They searched every element to find the right material to make the new chief creation from. In the end they choose red mud that passed from his sisters hands to his and moistly fell through the cracks in his hands and fingers. They discovered this rust paste of earth flesh on the foam edged cliffs that extended their grasp to the crisp new horizon of sea.

. . .

I stand lazily applying the charred stick of ebony to the weighted Stonehenge paper in front of me. I’m going through the motions—my arm moves with my eyes but its not connected to the part of me that truly creates. The stick timidly meets the surface and barely skims it; my mark has no feeling as I anticipate standing for the next two and half hours to complete this work. I groan. Kate approaches, my strong fearsome leader of an art teacher who walked into my life with the power of a wave and continues to splash around the ideas and actions of my art. One hard purposeful step at a time she walks my way. There’s disappointment on her face when she sees the lack of charcoal on my paper, there should be great areas of contrast and variations in tone. She chants, “Be Aggressive. B-E aggressive.” It’s our motto for our figure drawing class. She sees my stillborn—breathless drawing and knows she’ll have to teach by example. Hastily she grabs the stick from my hand and attacks the paper, and it doesn’t shy away from her in pain, but embraces the rough action she inflicts upon it. The page is now covered with marks; in only a minute she has done what I have been attempting to do in thirty.

“See Alex?” she says. “Be aggressive. Attack that ‘precious’ piece of daunting paper”. “ Oh,” I say in awe. “I can do that, Kate. I can feel the contours as well—watch.”

Now that I’ve seen what can be done, I’ve caught her virus of rage and I must have my chance to make my mark upon it. I eagerly grasp the charcoal and follow her example. The figure on the page is loose and gestural; my hands feel the blank spaces of the paper with the aggression she has graced me with. I’ve become greedy with possibilities, for metamorphosis into life. She walks back again and this time she’s pleased.

“Look. Do you see, Alex, how your first impression was right? That line is a reflection of the fact that you trusted your instincts.”

I’ve heard it so many times before—that the first gut reaction never fails you. That first line somehow always finds its way onto the page when the meticulous manner of getting everything right has faded and been forgotten. She had helped me construct drawing after drawing and expand my vocabulary of line and confidence.

. . .

Kane constructed and molded, built what would be limbs into proportion and rounded curves until the inanimate man lay flat and untouched by the impression of life. He bent and into his nostrils he sent hopes of love and pains of expectation. This breath formed the first Ha. The Ha traveled through his limp body taking any space it could like a child in a mother’s womb. This first Ha woke the man from his dormant stage and a contraction of life began to flow through the veins of the world simultaneously. The core began to pump and furnish the land with a pulse of fresh elements. The expansion like yeast overcame the body of the first man and slowly he withdrew the pollutants of humanity’s first breath—aloha he uttered.

. . .

Sister web shared an important part of her with us in those two months of practice, for three-hour intervals every Sunday. The sound of her voice flowed through our rib cages leaving drops of true cosmic divinity. She sang to us an ancient song from the Hawaiian Islands and I was completely overwhelmed with how much of herself she gave to us. The aging of the events shared with me the insight that she had no choice but to invoke in us a sense of urgency. And what better way to do this then to give a piece of your soul to a room of young girls? I learned in these intimate settings the power and myth held in the word “aloha” as we prepared to sing to a world of women about our Savior. As she sang to us, she shared with us Ha and expected us to give it back as well. A-L-O-H-A. Uttered from our lips with lack of conviction and courage would eventually take root and expand and our voices would become strong and penetrate with importance as we began to learn of the weight a word takes when uttered into existence. She shared with us the importance of this story because it held meaning for what we needed to convey. She was the choir director for the General Young Women meeting and I, completely tone deaf, had been chosen to take part in grasping a piece of her Ha.
To share Ha is something not of this world it was first given to man by the gods and we must continue to share this Ha that links us as a human family. When you say Aloha you share Ha. You physically give your Ha to another person. This Ha, this little section of your existence, then travels through your parted lips and attaches itself to the essence of another’s being. A connection forms between the two, which is as strong as blood ties between sisters. These women I’ve encountered have taught me by the stories of their lives. The wisdom of their womanhood is given to me by their examples and actions. It’s as if I’m a blow up doll taking shape and expanding the edges of my seams with each exhale of Ha they bestow upon me. These ethereal women brought forth the foundation of my being much like Kane did for the first man. They nursed my infant earth flesh and modeled and shaped my foundation so that I might to begin upon the path of solid ground that leads to joy. I’ve taken from their existence—Karen’s strength, Kate’s aggression for life, Sister Web’s love for people, and my mother’s wisdom. Ha is not easily forgotten when you share in its cycle. Their Ha will forever lead me to do my best and I will continue to share their Ha as well as my own with the women I encounter in my life.

Revolution

Usmev - a smile

My bishop thought the youth of our ward were too comfortable. Bishop Banks was a bald, marathon-running business man, who was known to climb Himalayan Mountains and wear bow ties. This middle-aged enigma systematically tracked and eliminated Comfort Zones, whether they were his or not. Bishop Banks was the last person you’d want to sense your complacency. For the next while, he plotted. He made phone calls. He attained special permissions from Church leadership. He…schemed. That Sunday, Bishop grinned from his seat on the stand. I was terrified.

Bishop’s crusade arrived on two wheels. My father said it was a great idea. At that time, I would have described the idea of a youth group bicycle ride from Bozeman, Montana to Jackson Hole, Wyoming with other words. Oh, and we would do all that in just four days of biking. We swapped my knobby, off-road tires for road slicks and installed new inner tubes. Later, we adjusted the squeaky brakes, lubed the chain, and tightened everything that had threads.

We talked occasionally that Friday afternoon, the conversation dominated by my dad’s admiration of how well the entire thing was planned. Training rides were a priority, with the first happening the next morning. Bishop Banks decided we would not only be riding for ourselves, but for the children receiving care at Primary Childrens’ Hospital in Salt Lake City. Each participant needed to fill a form with at least three local sponsors willing to donate a set amount of money for every mile that rider successfully completed. I actually liked that idea, and soon brokered a deal with the owner of our local sporting goods store, called Fish Tech.

- - -

Nadeje - hope

Heavy air settled over the Missionary Training Center like the drab-brown blankets on each dorm bed. It was supposed to be spring, but I rarely noticed the flowered grounds over my flash cards. In a few short weeks, I would be expected to speak Czech – the language of fairies, gnomes, and dark forest dwarves. That’s what it sounded like to me anyway. I worked on my focus and discipline, trying to survive. It was not going well.

Growing up always knowing I would serve a church mission meant I’d made that decision long before I could count to fifty. As a kid I learned that the missionary lives a different life than the regular church member. I imagined it to be an almost magical existence, where we would travel to enchanted countries and be blessed by the Lord to speak the language perfectly. If I was supposed to be learning Czech at the MTC, something was wrong. The worst part of all was watching as some of my fellow Czech-Missionaries-In-Training grasp the language during lessons that made absolutely no sense to me. Either the system was broken, or I was.

My MTC life happened at the brink, when the memorization of missionary discussions had just been scrapped. That meant our task was to take those old Czech discussion books, translate a small section to English, understand what it was saying, put it in our own words, and then use that dictionary to zap it back into Czech. They called the finished product an outline. My mind constantly whispered that we were repackaging into bulky, awkward containers. I told my mind to be quiet. That exercise, though seemingly inefficient, proved valuable. It made me believe the Gospel more, because I saw God sitting back and letting us try something, knowing that eventually the Elders would create the Discussions version 2.5, aka Preach My Gospel. I noticed the imperfect human-cog of the Church, and it gave me hope.

- - -

Usilovat - to struggle

Chain grease on my right sock marked the official start of Training Day One. Our destination was nestled 13 miles up Big Cottonwood Canyon, which was steep enough to burn the brakes off cars headed back down to the Salt Lake Valley. I locked that burnt smell away in my mind, pushed off the curb, and dove into a frigid morning breeze. I met the other bikers in the parking lot behind our church building. It was too early for sunrise or smiles. Leaders reviewed safety rules and instructions, followed by someone’s mumbled prayer. Within minutes, Big Cottonwood began.

The mind has tricks that keep us from focusing on simple, repeated actions like beating hearts and breathing lungs. They still occur, but we rarely notice. Pedaling legs over powered my mind’s skills and brought all three actions into desperate focus. I was not ready for that ride. Mostly to avoid teasing, I kept going. I noticed other faces go from red to green to white, at least reassuring me I was not alone. 13 miles became 10. We passed the S-turn. 6 more miles faded as Doughnut Falls trailhead rolled by. When scrub oak transformed to aspens, the situation was dire. Broken with four miles left, we increased the frequency of our breaks. An eternity later, we conquered the canyon.

- - -

Cizi - foreign

The language they taught me at the MTC was definitely not Czech. The inhabitants never smiled, and a disturbingly large number of them hobbled about on canes or crutches. Crowds flowed everywhere in Prague, but it seemed the only ones hurrying were the pickpockets. We were taking the customary “New Missionary Prague Walk” to see the central city of the mission. The beautiful architecture was muted by the stench of ancient, shallow sewer lines. At least the cobblestones and Charles Bridge fit well into my image of a magical land.

A scorching day melted into a humid summer night. I found myself staring at the ceiling, watching the paint chips wiggle every time a tram rolled by the mission home. We were stationed in the basement, with the promise of traveling to our assigned cities the next day. I had only been there one day, and already I wanted out of Prague. It was noisy, dirty, and I was sure that paint contained lead. Everything about the place seemed hostile.

The morning brought us cooler air and our new companions. The Mission President and his wife lived on the second floor, where they invited us for breakfast. The chandelier and mahogany table were comforting reminders of the land we had just left. Yogurt and cereal did not seem very Czech, but we didn’t care. My adventure had transformed into a struggle to have any positive thoughts, understand a few words from every conversation, and to keep moving forward. I focused on breathing whenever the world began to cave.

- - -

Uspech - success

Downhill riding is so fundamentally different from climbing that they are nearly separate sports. Weight should be shifted back instead of forward. Brake levers neglected during the ascent become your saviors. All the dangers inherent to cycling are multiplied, and anything less than delicate course changes could become course enders. None of that mattered because I was a teen boy, surrounded by others my age who were definitely thinking the same thing.

- - -

Neznicitelny - indestructible

Paired with a good companion, I was actually starting to like Prague. My MTC friends were now scattered all over the country, most in small villages. I lay there, on my bed, quite awake despite the dark hour. Our apartment was several miles away from Charles Bridge and close to a gigantic park. Everything was different there, even the way the stars shimmered. Breezes transported hints of ancient forest, pastry shop, and smog into my room. Filmy, pink curtains reeked of cigarettes and flapped lazily in the wind.

Nearly everyone there smoked, and many women wore nearly nothing. It was the perfect place for a sinner, and a minefield for a Mormon Missionary. Nobody believed I could speak their language. Each time I’d used my best eight-week Czech, I simply confirmed their suspicions. They couldn’t understand why two American boys would fly to their land, learn their language, enjoy their food, try and teach them something called the Gospel of Jesus Christ. All while dressed like spies.

It had been an excellent day. I gave away two MTC bookstore picture cards at my first real teaching experience. One card showed Jesus healing the sick, and the other was of Him teaching the Sermon on the Mount. It was an incredible discussion. I bore my testimony and handed that mother and daughter duo those cards. My companion explained that I wanted them to keep the cards, using the same words I just had. Their confused expressions relaxed to smiles. We left their house filled with the Spirit, lemon cake, and the joy of successful missionary work.

- - -

Letat - to fly

The world blurred and wind howled. There was no need to pedal, and I loved every second spent passing cars also headed down the canyon. What was I thinking? It was a combination of wondering how cool I must have looked to those girls in that black Chevy Tahoe, and the mad calculations to steer me around Patch of Sand 71 while leaning just enough to make the cliff-edge Turn Number 4 successfully. I was the master. But did I see Rock 28 on the road near the bottom of the canyon?

It’s a strange sensation, being thrown from a bicycle at high speeds. Some claim it’s like flying, but I say it’s more like falling up. My feet lifted off the pedals as I tried to release my death grip on the brake levers. They were non-responsive. Nearly horizontal by that point, I rewound the scene to challenge the ruling on the field. As it stood, I faced two separate penalties - - failing to ride around rocks and unsportsmanlike conduct with the front brake. Locking your front wheel at speed is like forgetting you’re running in the middle of a sprint. Clearly, I deserved the first call. Upon further review, both brakes were fully deployed with both tires skidded and non-rotational Ruling on the field confirmed: 6 yard skid, first down.

- - -

Zklamani - disappointment

We had pieced together the ditched appointments. One time, we heard them laughing on the phone as we tried to reschedule. Trouble was that the daughter was supposed to be away at summer camp, which had been the excuse for two prior cancellations. It had been a game. They only wanted to see who we were and why we were there. We were a couple of American boys, who flew to their country, learned their language, craved Czech food, and taught them the Gospel of Jesus Christ. All they saw were two salesmen with matching suits and bad accents.

I tried to capture all those thoughts in my journal that night. My words were angry and bothered. I spelled out my frustrations and fears. By the time I finished writing, it was apparent that it had cut me deeper than I’d thought. I really believed everything we were teaching. It mattered.

- - -

Pokracovat - to continue

The crash was messy. I’d traded some pieces of shirt, skin, and a good amount of blood for fifty or so embedded fragments of Big Cottonwood Canyon asphalt. After convincing everyone I really was alright, I mounted my bike and finished the ride back home. I was still high from conquering the canyon, which thankfully meant I couldn’t feel much. After scaring my mother, I asked for her help with picking the rocks from the back of my shoulder. All I wanted to know was when the next training ride would be.

- - -

Jezdit na Kole - to ride a bike

It was another rainy day in the Czech Republic. Our appointment had fallen through, so we changed to contacting mode. Most people rushed by, but one or two stopped long enough for us to introduce ourselves and explain what we were doing there. My younger companion was struggling with the language, but he was getting it. As night neared, people slowly sifted out of the town square and left us reviewing grammar charts and window-shopping the main road. We still had two hours before our train back to the main city would arrive.

The bike shop was closed, but we could just make out some of the prices through the clouded window. My companion said he used to ride all the time back home, and that we could get around town more quickly if we each had one. I made a note in my planner to ask the mission president next time I spoke with him. The ache in my shoulder made me smile.

Kaleidoscope

When my grandfather died, I was 5,000 miles away. Literally on the other side of the world. In China. My heart fragments. Some pieces remain where I stand in China, others long to cross the ocean to be where my grandfather has been --- America.

What happens to identity when someone belongs in two places? Does it divide or multiply? Or do I simply cease to be from somewhere. Am I from nowhere? As I wonder I feel that all too familiar feeling, the feeling that has tugged my heart to breaking point, “I don’t belong where I should belong and I want to belong where I don’t belong.”

* * *

As far as the eye can see are little black heads moving up and down, side to side, like a collection of bobble-heads. Hanging from the trees are lanterns and brightly colored fans. I push and shove as politely as I can but with enough force that I don’t simply get swept along with the crowd. Everywhere is red. Red firecrackers, red good luck charms, red cord knots, red paper cuts, red banners, red cheeks and lips. It’s Chinese New Year - the Chinese equivalent of Christmas - and I can feel the excitement crackling on my skin like static electricity. New Year’s Temple Fairs are part of a fourteen year tradition in my family and one of the highlights of the holiday. Never do I feel more like an integral part of China and its culture than I do when I am being crushed by the flood of people all seeking for good fortune and health in the coming year. It’s a feeling of exhilaration you can’t find anywhere else. China’s red is a different kind of red. It stands on its own, it means tradition and luck and peace, it means the ferocity of a will to fight and to survive and to forge the way for a better life. My life.

* * *

The gray cityscape gives way to azure sky and emerald hills as we drive deeper and deeper into the NaXi countryside. We’re eager to escape the monotonous view that so often fills our sight living in one of the most populated cities in China. Seas of people are slowly replaced by seas of corn and wheat, dotted with thatched huts and humble red brick homes.

The road is empty except for our car and a sense of timelessness catches me by surprise. Driving this one-lane winding road I could continue forever without noticing the passage of time. To the left, a patch of color catches my eye. Shoulder-high yellow flowers stretch forth invitingly and we stop the car. I get out and I stand in this pool of bright yellow flowers. I breathe in the color. Oh, please let me stay forever. Don’t make me leave.

* * *

The cobbled paths of the 1,000 year-old stone village are uneven and weathered, but full of character, marked by the cheerful scars of daily use. The sky blends seamlessly with the roofs, the harsh angles dissolving into sheets of gray. Relying on my father’s fluent Mandarin, we’re led by a guide clearly flustered at the odd request to lead a dozen foreigners through the town. To her, it is where she has lived her entire adult life. To us, it is a piece of living history.

Atop the flat tile roof of a “si he yuan,” or courtyard home, I can look out and see the history of this little piece of China reflected in the gray brick buildings. Some are tall and upright, others lean as if bent with age, and some are short and square like the bricks they are made of, but each has a unique personality. As I glance down one of the crooked alleyways, I meet the steely eyes of one of the village’s older residents. Caught off guard, the man scurries like a mouse into an adjoining alleyway, eager to escape my stare. To him I am a foreigner, an unfamiliar face, an impostor. It doesn’t matter how many villages I visit, how many pairs of eyes I meet, how many breaths of Chinese air I breathe, I’m a “wai guo ren.” I’m the foreign one.

* * *

We finally escaped the tourist trap the ancient town of Lijiang has become. Instead of the cameras and the same five trinkets sold by 500 different people, we’re surrounded by children in blue uniforms skipping as they return home from school. The elder generation looks on, their heads topped by worn navy caps. As I look around me I’m overwhelmed by a sense of community. Younger women exchange gossip as they balance babies in blue pants on their hips. Teenagers playfully push one another around, blue backpacks carrying homework that will mostly likely get, done but not without much procrastination. Everyone greets everyone like an old neighbor --- my obviously foreign family is no exception.

Standing to the side is an older woman, astonished by the presence of six people that clearly don’t belong ethnically. She reaches out and with a nod of consent from my father embraces my younger sister. The gentle folds of her aging face crinkle like tissue paper as her mouth stretches into a toothy grin. My sister starts to cry, but all I can think about is what it must feel like. What it must feel like to want to hold someone you’ve never met before tightly in your arms. Hold me too. I belong here. I want to belong here.

* * *

No one is asleep despite the late hour. The city of Zheng Ding is as alive and awake as it was this morning when the street was crowded with vendors of vegetables and fruits. The carts and stalls have been cleared away, leaving the sidewalk exposed and vulnerable. As I make my way down the main street, neon signs shine brightly in every direction. Hair salons, restaurants, night markets, bars, pharmacies --- daily life doesn’t stop when the day ends here.

The city square is bustling with activity, the glow of the neon signs keeping those in the crowd from colliding and stepping on each others’ toes. Drawn to the neon haze and the clang and crash of traditional Chinese music, I find myself hand-in-hand with elderly Chinese women. Their smiles are reflected in my face as we move in time to the music. I don’t know the steps and they don’t know me, but somehow the choreography falls into place. The circle of dancers moves rhythmically around the square, the accompaniment punctuated by friendly laughter. Sometimes the shadows of night cover our faces and at other times they are lit up by the nearby signs. I can see everyone’s expression clearly. Smile: China is watching.

* * *

I lazily walk the path of the ancient walled town. On all four sides rise towering gray walls that seem to swallow up the rust colored houses. The grey of winter not quite yet spring permeates every surface. Large woven baskets laden with cobs of golden corn fill the courtyards. This and the red eaves of the temples provide the only color.

An old man traces Chinese characters in the camel-colored dirt, attempting to communicate with my father. His heavily accented Mandarin has failed him, and the crude characters are his last resort. My mother and I suppress laughter as my father feigns ignorance and smiles politely. The old man’s friends with their identical black padded coats watch on, interested and equally amused at the exchange between their comrade and this “da bi zi,” this “big-nosed foreigner.” Finally the man surrenders his attempts, tips his green Commie hat, and saunters off to provide his friends with a more detailed account of his exploits. This is camaraderie. This is community. This is China.

* * *

Sometimes it feels like I don’t belong anywhere. My hair is not black, my eyes are not dark, and my tongue has trouble twisting to form the sounds of the Chinese language. I’ve never asked someone to a Sadie Hawkins dance or eaten a burger at In-N-Out, and I don’t know any of the songs on the American radio.

The colors of my life in China keep flashing behind my closed eyelids. Like images in a kaleidoscope that shift with every turn of the wrist, the colors I see in China piece together as though they’re completing a portrait of myself. But I don’t understand it. How do the little pieces magically fit together? Why do the mirrors contort the image? Is this really a portrait of myself or simply a fuzzy watercolor of who I wish I was?

I don’t see myself as a constant, complete image. But looking through the kaleidoscope I see shapes --- shapes that cannot be defined and yet are beautiful in their own right, formed by those little fragments of color. Navy caps, me, neon signs. Me, brown dirt. Red lanterns, yellow flowers, me. Me, China. China, me. Shifting, shifting with each gentle turn.