Non-Fiction Writing Gallery

During My Years of Yearning and Never Acting....

Anna Witiuk, mentee
Caron K. Stengel, mentor

During my years of yearning and never acting, of heartbreak when my heart was never taken, and of useless self-criticism, I have learned one thing... actually I haven’t learned much. But one thing that I have discovered is that when there is a perfectly chiseled, rounded and toyt ass staring you in the face, dawdling is worst thing you can do to get you closer to it. You can circle, oogle and re-circle that ass all night, honey, but that ain’t gunna get you anymore in those pants than out of them. I know the feeling. I know the wretched, tearing feeling deep down in your gut, your groin, which wishes for those longer eyeballs from Acme cartoons. I understand why you might sit back all night, biting your nails, wishing for eye contact or a sideways smile. You sit back, looking at that beautiful figure in front of you and think, “There must be a god.” And once you eye contact wish is fulfilled, your attention suddenly averts to “Shit. Downthighs, downthighs. My ass looked better in that mirror at home. Ugh, my face looks horrible in this kind of lighting. Does he think I am too young? Why didn’t I take down my hair before I made eye contact?” I know all this criticism. I’m with you every moment, I move with your every move. I breathe your every shaky breath. I even smell the same pungent perfume you applied just hours before, that somehow becomes too strong for you in that moment. I know every lurching, jolting, cracking feeling that spills from your insecure crevices. My advice, my discovery is this; Fuck it. Fuck it. It isn’t worth it. You are not worth it. When you see yourself in that mirror; that hazy window; that seemingly clear looking glass in your mind, the moment you see yourself as an ugly, worthless, stupid, boring, uninteresting, incompetent young girl (and let me remind you this is the moment this statuesque beauty looks your way) just smile and through gritted teeth whisper, “Fuck it.” That is when with all the insecurities never lifting you can walk up to that ass that chest, that face, and exclaim, “What’s good? My name is Anna, and I like the perfect curve or your… smile.”

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My friends and I had just left a happening event called Liquid Theater, an interactive show that was a little “Hair”, a little EST, a little light show, a little performance art that all culminated in a communal dance. We were roaming through the streets of Manhattan feelin’ groovy and full of neon hope. You and your friends were walking towards us – you were the front man of the band and you had just left a gig. I caught your eye and you caught mine. You slowed down, we slowed down. We just started talking to each other. It was so natural, so effortless. It’s never been that easy, probably never will be again. Lit up by the shiny streets of the city, our hearts were pulsating like the train under us. You were the most beautiful man I had ever seen, your camel cashmere coat, so long, so soft; your brown eyes and dimples and jokes so liquid, so full of theater. You were tall and funny; and you smelled so good. You made me feel like a natural woman; my insecurities mysteriously vanished when you looked at me. We talked, we kissed, you imitated Marlon Brando in “The Godfather”. My friends talked to your friends, we took photos in the booth, we kissed some more - easy, innocent, sweet, organic kisses. The photo strip dropped onto the platform while we all waited to part ways and go home. You offered to go and get it, I said oh no, you can’t, you mustn’t. You called me a week later, I went to see you at The Improv. I saw you there 2 more times, and then my friend Donna called me one night and said, Turn on the Tonight Show. He’s on with Johnny Carson! I never heard from you again, but I watched your meteoric rise in “Chico and the Man,” and when I learned of your suicide at 21, I was devastated. During my years of yearning and never acting, I thought of you often, Freddie…

Homeland by Xiao Hong Zhang, mentee
A Table of My Own by Chatherine Shu, mentor

Homeland

I stood there staring at the entrance of an old office building that belonged to the state. I quietly sneaked through the dark entrance until I reached an end. I was out in daylight again as the bright sun shone in my face. The white clouds waltzed pass me through the blue sky. I strained my neck from admiring the work of art of the sky. In front of me, rusted gates stretched endlessly both ways. The salty smell of the sea surrounded me. I stood near the edge of the gates and the dirty green sea below it. The waves of the sea made musical notes each time it embraced the rocks with full force. On the other side of the water, black puffs of smoke came out of long wide chimneys. The houses appeared small like little toys. I turned away from the gates and walked toward the center space of the office building’s yard. The space was wide and I could feel myself twirling in that spot. I ran toward a small pond that was filled with tiny gold fish. They could have been easily stolen but no one did. Next to the pond was a stone chess table with two chairs beside it. There were bushes close to the tall shady tree to the left of the chess table. The ground beneath the tree was soil, wet, and soggy. I bent down next to the bushes and gently pushed the branches aside. I was able to squeeze through to get to the other side. There I saw flowers the shade of red lipsticks were hiding themselves between the leaves. I was filled with joy and hastily picked them off the bushes. I plucked a stem off a flower and sucked on its nectar. It was sweeter than sugar, and the flower reminded me of blooming seasons even though it was autumn. I could hear the sea waves slamming against the rock and the splash of water with my eyes closed and ears focused. Little crabs crawled in from an opening in the wall below the metal bars of the gates. They came in from the gap to hide from the waves. Each one moved in the same repetitive motion, crawling sideways.

The day being in the government office building zoomed pass by me. Then it was September 29, 1996, the day I discovered when I would leave China. After a few minutes walk I arrived at my home. The tall red door had red papers on both sides with Chinese words that I could not read since they were written in script and I was in kindergarten. I pushed the door with my petite hands. The living room was dark, the dark seemed to surround everything in the room, wrapping them up in shadows. The room was overcrowded, not by humans but by basic everyday things.

There were huge gray bags with ridges on its surface that gave me the impression that the fabric was rough. Most things in the room were packaged in bags, big or small, they were all wrapped in red cloths with black markings. I ran up the cold stone floors when I heard my mother speaking to my grandmother. Their voices trailed from one room to the other on the second floor. I followed them and quickly found my mother and grandmother in my room, searching through the drawers and desks. I went up to my mother. “What were you doing?” I quietly asked. She looked annoyed and turned away from me, and continued to search and argue with my grandmother.

Somehow I had the feeling I was going to leave this home and be taken to another place. To where? I believed to America. A place that everyone dreams is filled with gold and riches that would filled our pockets. “You are lucky, you know.” That is what I am constantly reminded of by my father, even now. I am lucky…in what sense am I lucky? Am I lucky compared to poor kids that live far away from where I can not see them? Sometimes I don’t consider myself lucky but there is not anyone else any better. I didn’t think of that then, but now I do because I grew up. I am not a child anymore. I remember being in long lines and in a big tall building that was really bright because of the surrounding lights. The next few moments, I was on the plane and being pushed around by tall adults. Then I heard the whirling sound of a motor and we took flight. I stared out to the window as my view of the land where I was born became smaller and smaller each time I stared outside. As a kid, I was full of excitement, like every other kid when they’re going on an adventure. But I didn’t expect life to be much harder than it was easier. I’ve always wondered, if I had the choice to choose to come to America, would I have come? It has never been an easy choice either way. There’s always fault in everything we do, especially in choices we make.

A Table of My Own

When I was growing up, I often longed to disappear, though I could be boisterous when I needed to be. In fact, within my family I was famous for my loud voice and teeth-clenching, red-faced stubbornness in the face of disputes on topics ranging from what sweater I should wear to school to animal rights. But outside the little circle that the four of us – my father, mother, brother and I – created, I was quiet and withdrawn. I don’t know when the separation between my public self and my private self started, but if I had to pick an age, I’d say it was when I was eight years old.

That summer my mother sent my brother and me to a day camp. While my brother wandered off to play on his clunky gray Nintendo Gameboy with his friends, I took a copy of the Babysitter’s Club and walked by myself to a giant gym set that was erected on top of a tanbark pit. The structure was multi-level, and equipped with multiple slides, swings made of ropes and ladders, and a large net of strong, sturdy rubber-coated chains to climb upon. I ignored all those and slipped underneath one of the platforms, where the tanbark was moist and cool in the shadow, and read my little paperback novel. The other children usually ignored me, which made me feel happy rather than neglected. One day, however, a little boy, perhaps two years younger than me, stuck his head through the rusty iron bars that supported the platform, and lisped “kissth me, beautiful.” I looked up from my book, and punched him in the gut. “Ow!” he squealed, and ran away.

Soon enough, my longing to hide myself away extended to my home. My parents, architects who own a custom home design business, had given me my own room with a large picture window that faced the street when they were planning our house. It was a very room, with tall, white walls that were constantly awash with sunlight, but I didn’t like it that my family knew where to find me. My mother stuck her head through my door regularly to see what I was up to--and to make sure that I had not stained the carpet and subjected the white walls to my artistic experiments. As both my parents reminded me, our house was an investment, a huge slice of our family’s financial well-being and needed to be kept clean and pristine.

I was without a hidey-hole until one evening, when an errant red bouncing ball led me underneath our dining room table, which my father had used as a drafting table for his blueprints until my parents moved their entire office into a spare bedroom. I looked up, and saw that the underside of the table had two support beams that made perfect shelves. The contents of my desk drawers soon began to migrate to those little shelves – marbles, a miniature dictionary, a set of beanbags I had won in a drawing at Chinese school, a Hello Kitty handkerchief and a little Tupperware container of dry rice grains. I liked to pretend that I was on a journey, and the space underneath the table was a small tent or a cave that I was resting in as I ventured towards my destination, which always remained unnamed in my imagination.

Though our dining room table was in the middle of our house, I never felt exposed there, not even when my mother peered underneath and, amused, asked me if I was comfortable. I assured her I was. I was safe and in my small corner of the world I was able to take a break from the confusion I felt as I grew up and found that I could no longer take my place in the world for granted and that from now on my self-knowledge would depend, to a large extent, on what other people told me about myself. At school, I was the stereotypical bookworm with pink, horn-rimmed glasses who’d rather read then play tetherball, and then when I got home I had to readjust to being cast in the role of the obstinate loudmouth. But hiding underneath the gym set or the dining room table, with my own little roof over my head, I found myself at home in the world, even if for a few minutes.