Last year, I interviewed my parents as part of some grandiose memoir-like writing project idea that hasn’t come close to materializing (yet)-- although this bi-annual Newsletter could be considered the abbreviated, artistic version. I wanted to examine the effects of my family’s 15± moves (depending on how/who you count) and dad’s deployments as my sister and I came of age– including the aftermath of my decision to move another seven or so times since doing life solo.
I’m curious how all the changes affected my dad, mom, and sister individually. It seems we all have vastly different perspectives on our family history– Devon is eternally blasé, Toni a little bitter, Jim stoic, and I, as the chronic overthinker of the family, am forever equivocal. One thing we all seem to agree on (as per my interviews) about our pasts is that we all view our collective lives in similar, distinct stages, centered around our moves. Our ages were not only marked by years or school grades but by succinctly different cities, houses, and friends. I am no Swiftie, but like music albums, each move has nicely enabled me to organize my life into tangible “Eras.”
Curiosity and a love of learning have always been core values of mine—no surprise given their origins. As the first grandchild of a retired school teacher, my mom had to pack an extra suitcase every summer for the new set of books, educational posters, and games that Grandma Penny would send back with us from rural Michigan. Penny nurtured my love of reading with classics like Where the Red Fern Grows, elevated my drawing skills (YouTube the ‘Y’ and ‘V’ tree method), taught Devon and me how to read a cookbook (turning fresh fruit from the garden into homemade strawberry shortcakes), and had me memorize every U.S. president and state capital by the age of seven (#neverforget Harrisburg, PA, and Grover Cleveland).
In second grade, we lived in Charlottesville, Virginia, while my dad was doing a one-year stint earning his Master of Law at UvA (JAG School for those familiar with the 90s TV show). At my underfunded public school, Ms. Pruitt’s attention was torn between trying to get some kids to stop beating the shit out of each other and ensuring that the children with disabilities were getting some sort of semi-suitable education. Ergo, three other “gifted” students and I (i.e., likely just the kids from semi-stable homes) were often relegated to spending most of our time on a rug at the back of the classroom, tending to ourselves. We were given lists upon lists of “harder” spelling words (E-N-C-Y-L-O-P-E-D-I-A would get me to the finals of my 4th-grade spelling bee) and got a head start on long division.
The primary activity of the back-of-the-class gang, though, was recreational writing. We worked tirelessly to ensure we were ready to release our periodicals to each other during recess every Friday. Mine was titled “Goldie’s Adventures” and chronicled a talking golden retriever’s mishaps and triumphs at superhero school, exploring space, or finding a boyfriend (a la Magic Tree House). The “Era 1” sticker design is a bit more sophisticated than my rudimentary 8-year-old doodles and features Snowflake, my beloved childhood Build-a-Bear Scottie, instead of Goldie.
My voracity for finding ways to express myself has only since grown stronger. Last year, I threw an unreasonable amount of PTO and savings at a women’s writing retreat in Switzerland (worth it). I’ve spent weekends at Storytelling Schools and after-work hours at artists’ studios, experimenting with different art forms and scribbling in grungy Amsterdam pubs with alcoholic writing groups.
Although I someday hope to sound as eloquent as my favorite writers, John Steinbeck (14-old-me forced to read Of Mice and Men in American Lit would never) and John Irving (his vivid Northeastern US imagery is nostalgia for days and cutting feminism before its time), my creative pursuits will remain purely personal. However, I am quite proud that I’ve managed to trick a few more people into joining my new back-of-the-class reading circle rug.
I was in 6th grade when I got HOOKED on Gwen Stefani’s album “The Sweet Escape.” I set ‘Wind It Up’ as my MySpace profile song and begged my parents (to no avail) for tickets to her upcoming concert in Phoenix. I’m not sure if the “no” was due to the 3-hour drive from our little adobe desert home on the U.S.-Meixco border in Ft. Huachuca, AZ or that they weren’t too fond of the artist who taught me the line “this SHIT is b-a-n-a-n-a-s.”
Armed with my first laptop– my recently departed grandfather’s hand-me-down ASUS– and the early aughts internet, I found other ways to connect with the pop star, namely spending all of my allowance on the pop star’s horridly 2006 branded tank top (à la Ed Hardy) and a bottle of her Harajuku Lovers perfume, of which this sticker is my representation of. Both were remnants of her 2004 Love Angel Music Baby album that brought us “Hollaback Girl,” but more importantly, to me, the song “Harajuku Girls.”
Middle school was a very “Harajuku” time for me. I was the only white girl in my otherwise first-generation Asian friend group and was subsequently heavily influenced by Kawaii culture– we played Korean online role-playing video games together nonstop and attempted to emanate Hello Kitty in dress and spirit.