Spring 2020
“I found a picture of this woman on a scrap from an old National Geographic. I don’t know anything about her for sure other than that she was from Peru (based on the caption) and that she had a baby, who I decided not to paint because I was so captivated by the lady’s smile. I wanted the focus to be on her individual happiness.” Mai Kim Nguyen is a multi-media artist from Cambridge, MA.
Another’s Smile (May Kim Nguyen)
Michael A. Rosegrant (any pronouns said with respect) is a storyteller whose work centers identity, family, and history as a way to combat oppression. They wrote this piece upon reconciling their gender with a buried history revealed to them by J. Neil C. Garcia’s article, “Male Homosexuality in the Philippines: a short story.”
growing up,
when people said:
“michael, you are too pretty to be a boy”
i laughed and replied, “okay”
(i didn’t know what that meant)
i thought “why did they say that?”
instead of “wow...they noticed something”
before spain colonized the philippines, one of our words made for third-gender people was the name
bayoguin
derived from a species of bamboo called
bayog
which grows like this
)
(bent)
bayog
bamboo
blooms
beautifully
bent but
unbroken
from the
underbrush,
it breaks
boundaries
with its birth
for no reason
besides the fact it was
born to do
just that.
bayog is just as strong as all other bamboo
but bayog goes by a different name
because bayog was born different,
born bent,
born curved,
born special,
born beautiful in their own way.
they transcend gender “bamboo”.
growing up,
when people say:
“michael, you are too pretty to be a boy.”
i smile and reply, “i know.”
Photo by Pablo Azurduy on Unsplash
Mai Kim Nguyen is a multi-media artist from Cambridge, MA. “Tom” is excerpted from a collection of personal essays, entitled What Makes a World.
After watching The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, I started to imagine my siblings and me as the ultimate first-generation American superhero dream team. While I’d always admired my siblings as the youngest of four, I began to see each of us as kings and queens like those in Narnia. All of us are unique; we each contribute a distinct persona to the family.
Rather than archetypes, we’re all protagonists and have special skills. Hang — the fiery warrior for social rights and our philosophical leader. Sam — the tech wizard and comedian. Tom — the unpredictable joker card and unconventional genius. And me — the artistic brain and ace.
In the Chronicles of Narnia, Edmund is the odd-one-out of the four Pevensie siblings. From the very beginning, he strikes you as the worst kind of pre-teen brat. He excels in being consistently annoying. He constantly bosses his endearing little sister Lucy around. He even betrays his siblings to the evil White Witch! (Granted, he was under the influence of the enchanted Turkish Delight. But still.) Edmund is the character you want to pin all of your frustrations on. Until — reminded of his love for his family, he breaks free of the White Witch’s spell and emerges from his journey victorious, a symbol of redemption and inherent goodness.
Tom is the “Edmund” in my family. We’re only one year apart, and our lives have been closely intertwined since birth, literally. We all know my sister was a natural-birth. Sam was a C-Section; the traumatic scar below my mom’s belly is proof of that. But when it came to me and Tom, the answer to “Where did I come from?” was just a bunch of giggles and “the toilet”.
Tom and I don’t have much in common, but we did both grow up thinking we were found in the toilet like a bunch of doo-doo. Thanks a lot, Mom.
I’m not exactly sure if that made us feel closer to each other, but we shared some tangible things too. Each summer, my mom distributed SummerBridge Math workbooks to Sam, Tom and me, and had us erase whoever wrote the answers last year, her savvy version of recycling. I always inherited Tom’s from the year before and was tasked with erasing his quasi-chicken scratches. From an early age, I learned to recognize Tom’s handwriting. I can barely remember what my own handwriting looked like, but I do recall Tom’s gnome-like scrawl.
When we were toddlers, we would play “Cat and Owner”. Basically, I would crawl around and meow like a cat while Tom humored me, walking alongside me and pointing out imaginary stuffed animals on the “store” shelves. In particular, Mai Cat preferred flying pigs and small penguins. To this day, I have an ardent love for my still-growing stuffed animal collection.
Eventually, we began to find Cat and Owner too childish and finding ways to play together was increasingly difficult. From stuffed animals we all moved on, to video games.
Tom found multiplayer too stressful. He couldn’t handle the demands of other people in a time-crunch and their never-ending nuances in communicating, not in video games and not in real life either. So he shut them out.
Over time, this tendency to turn away from each other when our speaking and thinking didn’t match created Tom’s own world. Insulated in an opaque bubble, Tom’s space was complete with humor and references and essential questions that none of us could access. It was a mental battle, whether we would try to see through Tom’s lens or what seemed like the lens everyone else was looking through.
Conversations with Tom when he was in high school were like trying the last string on a fraught rope. He would berate me for not turning off the basement light, not washing the dishes, not closing the drafty doors, forgetting my key, forgetting my T-Pass, coming home late (he would usually go straight home to play video games) — the list goes on. Always, being in the same room put both of us in a bad mood.
Me: Hey Tom! Did you just get home too?
Tom: Yeah!
Me: Ok... hey, can you wash the dishes?
Tom: No.
Me: What?!? Go wash the dishes right now or I’m telling Mom! You’re so lazy!
Another example:
Tom: Kimmai, where did you go?
Me: Oh, I was getting some extra clothes.
Tom: Did you turn off the lights in the basement?
Me: No, I forgot.
Tom: What?!? You need to remember to turn off the lights in the basement, god you’re so stupid!!
Any situation would just about end like this. I couldn’t stand the pings and dings of his video games, and he couldn’t stand the sound of my flute intruding on his sleep schedule. My life and what I considered valuable could never align perfectly with his, not even for a moment, and that made us angry all the time.
When Tom’s interest in video games became a borderline-addiction, I found myself writing letters to him and drawing sketches for him. One drawing I made in my precious sketchbook, complete with a rainbow of markers and pens, dates back to 6th grade. Among the doodles was one titled “Fun Things To Do Besides Video Games” along with a neat bulleted list underneath. I was so desperate to reach out to him, but I never found the courage to send them along. This was probably for the better, because I had zero tact in middle school and we still hadn’t found any form of communication that worked for us.
Even now, of all of my siblings, I feel most afraid to show him his personal essay. We never bring these feelings of sibling love out candidly, together. Writing about someone I see every day feels like a breach of privacy.
Eventually, the one year difference became a true hindrance to our relationship, since our trajectory in school was closely connected. Tom’s love for the individual world of video games and aversion to outside pressure affected his schoolwork. On the other hand, I benefited from time limits and pre-planning. Tom would ignore me in the hallway, even when I said hi. Eventually, I just stopped saying hi.
It didn’t help that we shared some of our classes. Despite general school policies that try to separate siblings in classes, we took AP US History together. During parent conference week, my teacher came up to me and asked that I remind my parents to come during Tom’s conference slot. Oh, and they don’t need to come to mine; I’m all set.
I also remember staying behind to finish up my final essay reflection while our teacher was telling Tom to delete his computer shortcuts and use the school library computers. Listening in on their conversation, I learned that he hadn’t even started his essay. I left as soon as I could.
I felt so small, so useless. What kind of sister was I to know so much about Tom’s struggles and not yet know how to lend a helping hand? Would I just make things worse?
Whenever I talked about Tom to my classmates in passing, there was always a mixture of disbelief and surprise. My entire body would become tense, anticipating the inevitable response:
“Wait — Tom? Thomas? Thomas is your brother?”
“Yes. He is.”
Sometimes, I’d feel a secret joy that they didn’t associate Tom with me, because he was “weird”. Even though I defended Tom at all costs against others, I also knew that I didn’t want to be like him.
Through our time apart, when he went to college and I was still in high school, we both privately came to the conclusion that we’d never connect as best friends. Tom and I are much more like Tom and Jerry. Our humor doesn’t match, and neither do our personalities, and our fights never, ever end. But we’re still brother and sister.
He took a break from college in his second semester, and when I found out he was coming home for an extended amount of time, I was sorely disappointed. No more calm dinners, just me and my parents. No more quiet evenings of flute music and the TV on low. Tom! He’s so annoying.
Thankfully, we both mellowed out in the year apart. These days, whenever we sit in the same place, often because we’re snacking, our silence is comfortable. If we’re not silent, we’re offering food, usually fruit, to each other. Have you tried those bananas? They’re already ripe. Dad bought some grapes on sale yesterday, you should try some! Somehow, offering each other fresh, ripe fruit has become a sign of caring and love between me and Tom. It works for us.
Soon after he came home, I took a serious mental note: even if Tom is the annoying, even infuriating Edmund of our family, he is still the most kind-hearted out of us all.
I constantly fall asleep unknowingly leaving the dishes unwashed. Tom steps up and washes the dishes. He also helps cook dinner, which used to be my job, until I got too tired with music and school life.
When I stay out late, I don’t bother to text my parents, because they’re mostly related to music events. My parents don’t want to hear about my music events. They’re too “stressful.” But I can always count on a text from Tom:
Where are you Kimmai
Even if his texts easily come across as stone-cold serious, I don’t take it too seriously. I know that even if I come home extra late and Tom is scowling at me, he’s still there to open the door. To know that someone cares about where I am, even if it is in Tom’s signature, blunt style, makes me smile.
Ironically, unlike the rest of us Nguyen siblings, Tom rejects most typical classics of our childhood era, like Harry Potter and Narnia. His taste has changed, just as we all have. Tom feels embarrassed and tries to distance himself from them as much as possible, but I continue to keep these sentimental fictional worlds close to my heart.
Since I can’t just throw out the words “Edmund” and “Hufflepuff” and expect him to catch on, I privately flesh out my feelings and thoughts through moments and memories, letting them layer over each other. Maybe then, I’ll find a form of words that can speak between us. In the meantime, I am content.
These days, I still forget my key. But now, Tom is at home to open the door for me, consistently, every single day. He accepts it, and this means the world to me. I’m tired and he’s home. When I stand on the doorstep, weary and wanting to throw my shoes in the trash, I see Tom’s face racing towards the door. I feel at home even before I step inside.
Cover photo by Chris Bair on Unsplash
Emily: "Having moved away from southern California for the first time, this piece was drawn in Cambridge, MA during a nostalgic time of my life. It's a reflection of what it is to feel at home, and what it means to be away from it."
Comfort Food (Emily Hong)
Jenny: While reflecting on my last few days of summer before leaving for college, I remembered seeing this anxious, sorrowful look on my mother's face. I realized that while we anticipated the future, we were both trying to hold on to something, wondering whether breakfasts and lychees and our relationship would ever be the same.
i awaken to the promise of eggs
that burst open and bleed joy
into the pores
of toast, thick and inviting,
spilling
over the edges like a sunrise.
my mother dries her hands on a yellow towel
and brings out a basket of lychee,
pushing a thumbnail into rough, leathery skin,
and moon meets mesa
as she peels back
from the flesh a membrane
pink and thin
as an eyelid from sleep.
she tells me i need to be careful out there,
a morning routine,
rattles off things i need to look out for
and i know every word
before she says it but i listen
as i fill my mouth with the taste of home
because every ten a.m. breakfast is a reminder
that our lychees are numbered,
that yolk leaks out of egg white
too fast to hold onto,
that no smudge of daylight
peeks over the crust of horizon
without intending to stay,
and no sunrise
is accidental.
- j.h.
Cover photo by Neha Deshmukh on Unsplash
There is Life in All Things (Kelsey Chen)
