On 2 Years.

When I first started this blog, it was an attempt to leave my Xanga. Dun-hate. Yeah, yeah, I was still religiously blogging on Xanga up until last year...chut-up! Xanga, if you don't know, is an online community of bloggers. And because it was a community of bloggers, it was difficult to leave because unlike many other writers who may claim to write for themselves, I liked feedback. So the sense of "community" I received on Xanga truly motivated me to keep pumping out pointless posts.

I also write because I'm much better at expressing my mind through written form. When I verbally articulate what I want to share, my voice escalates and I start speaking really fast and loud and nothing makes sense. Then I mix up words and sound like a fob because my brain moves faster than my tongue. I write because I want to share my words with people. I'd like to think that my somewhat unimportant words might be able to entertain or better yet--reach one person who may then be able to pass on the good vibes and that person will continue to pay it forward and so forth.

I believe the human race yearns for a sense of connection--community, if you will. We might not always enjoy doing things communally, but I'd like to think that most of us enjoy the company of other people. I'm not an exception. I enjoy sharing in hopes that maybe you'd also be able to relate. In hopes that you'll be able to give me insight. It's a give-take relationship. I also enjoy not using a semi-anonymous blog (Okay, I lied. This blog is still pretty semi-anonymous in the sense that I don't use my name.) But still, I think it sort of allows me to be vulnerable since I'm finally able to share my life and experiences and work art pieces of me with people who know and have met me.

I write because it gives me a sense of purpose. Purpose for what? I'm not exactly quite sure but it's there and it motivates me. I've never been really exceptionally good at anything else, except for maybe showing up on time for brunch. Of course, I can't say I write well either, but I do know it's something I have not lost interest and passion for.

So while this blog is fairly new, I'm excited for its future. I'm also very grateful for the small readership, some who have made themselves known, some who I know personally, some who have been reading me since my Xanga days, and all the rest who lurk. Thank you for finding me mildly interesting to keep coming back.

On Tradition. And Mother-Daughter Relationships.

While other kids were staking out stores and malls during Black Friday with their families, my mother would sit my sister and me down to wrap our small bodies with the traditional Hmong clothes she had spent the entire year preparing. She told us the same story, year after year, to garner guilt but also to tell us how fortunate we were to have in our possession, our own outfits. I also think she shared it to tell us how important it would be to us once we became women and no longer had her in our lives.

My mother died when I was a baby so I never knew her. But I still miss her everyday. My father remarried soon after and had a new family. The second wife was good to me but she never loved me like her own. Every New Year I would watch other girls, who had mothers, dress up and partake in traditional courting. It made me so sad because I wanted nice clothes too. But more importantly, I wanted a mother who would stand behind me and fix my skirt and blouse, or my xauv and my headdress. I didn't have a mother to prepare anything for me.

Then she'd take her knuckles and smack me on the head because I always started whining and crying, halfway through her story, about how I was tired or how she was wrapping the skirt and sashes too tightly. I remember crying so hard one time that I couldn't breathe anymore because she had squeezed me into my dress so tightly. Those knuckle-smacks weren't a joke. I was such a brat.

I Facetimed my mom the other night and she told me that if our xauv were ever misplaced, lost, or stolen, she would just give up life and cry. I swear to baby jesus those were her exact words.

My mother's the furthest thing from being materialistic. She's always told me, "Once I'm gone, I want you to have more than the memories of the few years I had with you." She has worked her entire life to be able to provide for her children, specifically her daughters so we would have a piece of her hard work once we started our own families or once she was no longer around. It's not just any piece of gold or silver; it's an heirloom.

And I think ultimately, she doesn't want us to feel the way she felt as a mother-less child.

Then I thought of all the times she was able to dress us in our Hmong garb. It's probably been less than 20 times. It wasn't until I left home that I realized the importance of my roots and how it was important to my parents, especially my mother. This made me really sad and I may or may not have ugly-girl cried in my room.

A few years ago, before a trip home for Thanksgiving, I asked her to prepare an outfit for me. She asked me which one I wanted to wear and if I wanted to dress up for all the days of the New Year. She sounded so excited. And quite honestly, I think that Thanksgiving weekend was probably one of the best memories I'll ever have with my mother.

I used to hope that I'd never grow up to be like my mother but as I'm getting older, she's the kind of woman and mother I hope to become. Except my children are probably going to be ten times as obnoxious as me. Lawwd, teach me patience.


A traditional xauv. It looks heavier than you think it does. I remember getting bruises on the back of my neck from wearing mine.
source: prettygeeky.com

On the Importance of Thumbs. And Dancing.

You never realize what you have until it's gone. And when it's gone, you whine and beg for it to come back because you're nothing without it.

* * *
A few months ago at a birthday-slash-goodbye party, my boyfran, defeated, sat by my roommate and told her of his troubles.

"She doesn't like the way I dance," he confided in her.
"No, I don't think it's that," was her response.
"What is it then??"
"It's...it's because you can't dance with her. You're just a backup dancer when you dance with her."

I can only imagine his facial expression:
Why? Because he thinks he's pretty much the bomb too. And truthfully...he's not too bad, so I understand why he was offended when he found out he had to take a back seat to me.

In my mind, I'm the best dancer on the dance floor. I'm all that and a bag of chips. Expectation:
But in actuality, I've actually never watched myself dance. So for all I know, this may be the reality:
Which isn't a bad thing, considering I'm probably having a muuuuuch better time than most people who have been waiting to catch the bartender's attention for their first drink of the night or those standing on the wall looking all creepstar.

Knowing this, he's been dancing on his own or at a safe distance away from me. Some may think this looks awkward, but it really works for us. It's called compromise, people! And we sort of do it pretty well. Most of the time, anyway.

* * *
This past weekend, the boyfran and I went to join the St. Pattie's Day festivities in Hoboken with his friends, which I'd like to say--was a lot of fun. Near the end of the night, we were tearing it up. It was literally us against the world, like this:
But then, he must have started missing me or something because homeboy decided he wanted to get real close to me. As he was doing that, he somehow bumped me to the ground. It all happened so suddenly. All I know is that I tried to break my fall by using my b-girl moves like I did during Halloween of 2011.
Pfft. It didn't work. Obviously. I'm delusional. What happened instead is this:

He says he hurt me because we were "wraastling" because his parents asked specifically if that was the way I had been hurt. LAWL.

* * *
Tasks that were like second nature such as opening doors, texting, pulling plugs, and using eating utensils has become difficult to do. And my left hand is useless because I treat it like a princess. Please heal soon, right-thumb. I need you. I'm nothing without you. :(