hey friends!

welcome to another sporadic note from ivan where I drop random things I've written. here's a short piece from a final for an english class that I've thoroughly enjoyed. in light of mother's day, cheers to the dysfunctional families that don't always work out

God

In the beginning, you said there was only us. Do you remember teaching me that Ma?

I had come out bawling a bundle too heavy. You looked into my deep set eyes, filled with dark chocolate and tears, and laughed, probably in relief that it was over. It had taken far too long, longer than your other kids anyways. I got stuck with the name Ivan. Aiwen–a love for literature.

You sent me to Chinese school, to learn our culture, so that I could speak to you in our mother tongue. I struggled, the unfamiliar tones jumbled in my throat, the dots in the characters piercing my tongue. My last name was the same Zhao as Zhao Yun, the fearsome soldier from Three Kingdoms. He would’ve been crushed that we shared the same last name, me, full of fat, toppling over glass bottles and crying often. My room reeked of tears.

Your last name, Wang, king, a notion descended from the gods, where they bestowed the Mandate of Heaven. You traveled often, leaving me trapped in my own bubble. Isaac bragged about the things his mother did, bringing him toys and snacks, where I could only nod, praying you would come back today. There were nights I cursed you, wishing that the mandate would be passed to your children, so that I could become king and govern myself. Or become ungovernable.

Do you remember that night in the car? I had been quiet in the back, my head on the side of the window. The orange glow from the streetlights painting faces in reds and golds. You told me that it was no wonder why no girls were into me, that I was annoying, and that if I learned to shut up I would be more likable. It was raining then, the droplets snaking down the side of the window.

You taught me to be resilient,

to love myself first,

to be equal parts bitter equal parts sweet.

in other small notes, ezra klein and ruth ozeki have an interview which is kind of an overlap of everything I'm excited about. i'm also really enjoying this poem from jane wong, a seattle based poet and artist who writes a lot about food. i'm currently thinking about our relationship with food, and what it means to move past a "cut fruit" narrative in asian diasporic lives.

if you made it this far, I'm appreciative of you and putting up with my mess for the past couple of months.

cheers,

zhaovan