I’ve tried writing a few different versions of this post, but each time it snowballed quickly into something heavy and unwieldy. First, there was an idea about writing pegged as “niche,” anchored around a book that presumes a very narrow audience (specifically, sansei, or third-generation Japanese Americans, in Gardena).
I told my mom about that idea and she listened patiently, her mouth twisting more and more until she said, “What’s the point going to be?” I thought I’d write about that, about my relationship with my mom, how she pushes me as a writer through an unpredictable combination of praise and criticism.
Both ideas, as I started drafting them, dropped quickly into a pit of my deepest insecurities and private family dynamics. Both also kept leading back to an experience I had earlier this year around race and belonging—the kind of experience that makes you wonder if you’re crazy, if you’re imagining things, if all the pain you feel comes straight from your own projection. One day I want to share many of these stories, but I want to do it right, with precision rather than diffuse feeling.
Now, it’s the day before the election, and I don’t want to drop another heavy thing onto anyone. Instead, I thought I’d share some small, beautiful things—not because they make everything better, not because I think we should “stick to knitting” and avoid heavy thinking, but because I assume you already read the news and you’re already working within yourself to figure out how to be a person you can live with, a person who in some way contributes to a vision of the world you can live with. I want to give you something like a hug.
I’ve been making lists like these since middle school, when I started a notebook of things I love (that’s the puppy cover at the top of this post). It started really generally (Seattle, strawberries, sandwiches, flute, sleeping, rain), and then over time became more specific (getting mail from old friends, when people remember some little hint you dropped a long time ago, the little ships on the Puget Sound harbor at sunset when the sky is purple—it’s possible I just saw that one on a postcard).
Reading it is like looking into a time capsule, of not just dated objects (my cotton candy-scented glitter, puka shell necklaces) but also a kind of naive glittery-keychain-phrase optimism (knowing that there is the possibility of tomorrow) and the awkward combination of childishness and aspiration toward adulthood (my baby blanket; walking upstairs with M after third-period French, wearing his jacket). A lot of it makes me cringe! But reading it, I do remember how I felt when I found all these things beautiful. When I’m feeling especially depressed, I remember only the cringey parts of my old writing and my past self. When I read this list, or an old journal entry, I remember the constant part of me that is just happy to be alive.
My last entry in this notebook is from 2013. The more recent ones are not necessarily less cringey than the early ones. Here are some from 2005-2013:
Taking a dive, even if only a small one, even if it leads to nothing
EVERYONE WHO LOVES ME
Friendships that seemed to sprout overnight from friendly acquaintances
Roommate moments, especially hanging out the window and talking about love
The foam party
Everything about college!
Sand in all my jeans crevices!
The smell of S’s house
Those moments when I get to feel cool for living in LA and being 24
Watching friends’ lives develop
In the spirit of that notebook, here are some current things I love:
Persimmon season
Going to visit my brother at the cafe where he works, seeing him in his fancy denim apron
Walking around the park with my parents, getting excited together about spotting groundhogs and baby lizards
On a day of feeling listless, a burst of energy just before sunset
The work of Chanel Miller
Reading books that let me see inside another mixed-race person’s head (recently: Caucasia by Danzy Senna, A Student of History by Nina Revoyr)
Mundane, joyful visions of Houston and Osaka through Bryan Washington’s eyes in his novel, Memorial
Toni Morrison’s prose
Writing advice from a class with Tanaïs: reading is really important, but sometimes you have to pause and learn to fall in love with your own voice
Creating rituals with friends for getting through the pandemic (timed work sessions, writing groups…)
At home, soft clothes only
If you make a list of your own, I’d love to hear about some of your small, beautiful things. Wishing you a soft place to land, and energy for all the things you want to do.