I used to think that the work we did throughout our lives somehow mattered. That hard work brought high reward. Maybe that was how it was 30 years ago. Or maybe it was just a misperception. I wanted to believe that I would one day look back on the hard decade behind me and appreciate all the hard work I put in. All the struggles and the tears and the sheer pain of it all. That here I am, at the top of this mountain, and now I can see everything, and the answers would become obvious.
I have always been the sort of person to accept the world as it comes to me. I’ve never gone out and sought it for myself. But right now, I am being given a choice. Tomorrow, I must choose a path. And neither path is easy. If I choose to sign this paper I’ve been given, I am relinquishing all rights I have to defend myself, I am relinquishing the freedom I have as an adult, and I am relinquishing my own sense of self worth. And if I don’t sign it, I am likely going to lose my license. Because the world is black and white. There is no place here for my creativity. I made a mistake, and I’m going to pay for it. And when I lose my license because I cared, and I was strong, and I fought for myself, possibly for the first time ever, my heart will break. Break with a pain I’ve never known, because I’ve only just now found a place I fully belong.
So don’t be surprised when the day comes I don’t show up. Know that it’s not because I was bad at my job, or that I hurt anyone, or that I caused real damage. Know that it’s because I wouldn’t allow them to choose the life I was to live. Know that I’ve reached the top and I can see everything. Deep in my heart I know exactly who the fuck I am, and I am going to live the life I choose.
Who knew just an average Wednesday in the Psych unit could be so exciting. Visits from Homeland Security, lost passports, elopements, trips to the Airport while on the clock, missing tickets, abandonment! …and we still managed to fit two assisted showers in!
The stories I could tell…
..He insisted that we call him, “Robin Hood,” and each day he would zip his green sweatshirt up and pull his hood over his slightly mouse-like ears. And during lunch recess, he would dash through the small patch of trees just beyond the swing set, his younger brother quick upon his heels, “Little John,” he’d call him, as he proffered a yellow plastic drum stick in place of a giant (possibly dangerous) bludgeon. The small, trigger activated Nerf bow he took as his own weapon. And the two of them would pounce upon the group of unsuspecting 5th graders, over by the basketball courts, filching their rubber balls and plastic jump ropes, and dashing back into the thicket to return the loot back to his fellow 2nd graders hiding under the jungle gym on the far side of the playground. “All in a day’s work,” he’d say, after returning a blond pigtailed doll to the small girl with a face full of freckles and a slight lisp. He was a modern day playground hero. And when the 5th graders stole my soccer ball from me on one unusually overcast day, he called out, “Don’t worry M’lady! I’ll have that back in a jiffy!” as he dove down the slide, landing easily on both feet, and off he went, prancing into the trees leaving me standing alone. And all the rest of the 2nd graders slowly emerged from the jungle gym to watch as he pounced on the small group of soccer players. “He’th tho Bwaaaaaaave!” the small girl lisped from next to me. We all watched from behind the marry-go-round as the bright squishy nerf dart bounced off the left shoulder of that one, particularly-mean-looking-5th-grader known for stealing the 2nd grader’s milk money, and the occasional hanging by the elastic of one’s boxer shorts, for those he was particularly fond of. The attack was a mistake, the soccer players had surrounded Robin. There was nowhere for him to run. Little John attempted to cover my eyes, saying, “don’ wook,” but couldn’t reach my eyes with his fingers. Instead he shielded my lips from the gasp that tried to free itself. Realizing he was cornered, Robin stood boldly to face his fate with a brave face. He’d be hung by his shorts for sure! “Com’on guys!” a fellow 2nd grader named Will yelled, brandishing his fist and running to the basketball courts, Little John hot on his heels, wielding his yellow drum stick. It would be a most gruesome battle to save Robin (and my soccer ball). I watched from afar as the two parties were coming to a head, when a distant chime caused everyone to stop in their tracks. And had that one particularly-mean-looking-5th-grader not reluctantly dropped Robin, things might have turned out differently. Robin Hood might not have been there the very next recess to rescue our rubber balls and plastic jump ropes..
I want to write to my birth mother to tell her the sort of woman I’ve become and how hard I’ve worked for it. I am already older that she was when she last saw me. I want her to tell me about what she has done with her life since then. I want to know if she also had a backwards life. If she ever managed to righten herself out. I want to know if she had the same heart as me. Having left her home in her mid twenties, a simple high school graduate, to earn money for them. Having met my father at the bar where she began working, more than ten years her senior, and the owner of the bar. Did she believe she was in love with this smart, older, business man when she accidentally got pregnant? Did her heart break when she discovered after a year of being together that he was married? Did she try to hang onto him before he left her alone in her 8th month of pregnancy? Did her heart break when she had to return home to her family with no other options? Did her heart break again, when after some months of hanging onto me, she realized she couldn’t keep me? Did her heart break as she eventually said goodbye to the baby she’d given a name to? Joo Yun Huh. Joo Yun, meaning something along the lines of Fat Pearl. (I will assume it is a term of endearment amongst Koreans of the deep south.) Family name Huh, pronounced Hoo. Who, how fitting. Who is my family? Who am I? Am I like her, with all my quirks and terrible man hunting skills? Do I look like her, with my dark eyes and fat nose? Does she have funny ears like I do? Does she have odd, bony fingers like I do? Is she beautiful and fearless like I am? Is she stubborn like I am? Does she have the same heart as me?
The lesson has been learned World. The one time I unthinkingly decide to wear this shirt to work (at the local Psych unit) we happen to have admitted a woman. Very little was reported to us about her, or why she was there, except that… a Cat was involved..
Stick to the wordless shirts..
Im honestly terrified of the day I accidentally wear this shirt to work..