Phase 1: Original
Petrichor
I am the firstborn child of immigrants. My parents immigrated from China and Malaysia when they were young, and stepping foot into an entirely different country was far beyond jarring. They were not born English-speaking, and lost most of their childhood to change and unpredictability when they began attending primarily English-speaking schools. They either had to adapt and understand a language wholly unlike their own, or never adapt at all. My father, stubborn as he was, refused to learn a language that felt so unnatural to him. My mother, on the other hand, saw this opportunity as a new beginning, and in that, witnessed the challenges of America firsthand.
When I was born, my mother wanted me to learn English, and only English. How else would I be able to communicate? How else would I be able to make friends in school? How else would I be able to get a job? My father wanted me to learn how to speak Cantonese, if only just a little. His side of the family didn’t know how to speak English, and barely understood it. It would be beyond unfair to not allow me to learn how to speak Cantonese and inadvertently separate me from the rest of my immediate family. She countered; ‘How could a child live in America without knowing English?’
My parents saw in me opportunities they never had. They raised me with the hopes that I would thrive and succeed in America where they could not, telling me what I would do and what I wouldn’t. I never had a choice in many things growing up- it was either do this or do none. Take ballet, play the violin, take swimming classes– all these after school activities I took were things I was required, not offered, to do. If I showed an interest in anything but, I had to be perfect at it. They had sacrificed so much to come to a new world for a new start, and if I didn’t do something worthwhile, then everything was for naught.
But alas, I had begun to develop what was called an ‘identity’.
Writing was the only activity I found myself truly enjoying, even when I was required to do so. My parents, placated by the fact that I was getting good grades in English, allowed me to continue. I filled up composition notebook after composition notebook with story ideas I had, then made endless Google Documents from them. Writing fantasy is second nature to me. It’s as easy as breathing. I have written countless stories where the hero wins, the villain prevails, where the sun shines bright and darkness swallows the world whole. I loved to indulge in a little world of my own, changing and shaping it to my interests that have changed over time. But while writing fantasy may be second nature to me, it’s so much harder to pick up a memory of my own and dust it off for all to see.
Petrichor is the smell of rain, when humidity hangs thick in the air. Petrichor is when a cool gust sweeps across the street, accompanied by the scent of earth and dampness. Sunlight just barely peeks over the rooftops of the apartments nearby, piercing through the clouds that churn grey with the warning of a thunderstorm. Everything feels misty, including my brain.
In a room with its walls painted pink, there is a table cluttered with pencils and books. The misty gold hues from the setting sun meets the cold glare of my Chromebook screen. An incomplete document waits with bated breath as I type two words, delete one, and immediately delete the other. A crinkled up sheet of paper rests on a teetering pile of books with clear, simple instructions– one thousand and seven hundred words, minimum. Full beginning, middle, end, set in an otherworldly…world. Easy enough. I had no qualms with this. I had the barebones and wiring of it down. I knew with certainty what I wanted to write about. All I had to do was patch it together.
But what joy! What luck! I had just incurred the worst bout of writer’s block yet!
I’m only thirteen, but my bones feel stale and dry as I get up from my chair. My slippers thud quietly against the floorboards as I make my way over to the room adjacent to mine, paper in tow. The door is wide open, and from within I can hear the keyboard click and clack. On the bookcases are the achievements of my younger brothers, their smiling faces in photo frames, their trophies and medals coated with dust. My own trophies are unsurprisingly absent. My mother has her back towards me, and is working at her desk, which is pristine and neatly organized. In comparison, her bed is cluttered with papers and bins that are labeled according to the grades she taught.
I watch for a moment, and only for a moment, as my mother glances over a paper, flips it over, and types something down at her laptop. Tentatively, I tap a knuckle at the door. Clack.
“I’m busy,” she says without looking up. “The door was closed.”
“It wasn’t.”
The keyboard goes silent.
I hesitate, fiddling with the edge of my paper. “What do you do if you don’t know what to write?”
She says something in Cantonese, quick and snappy and fast, and I don’t catch it fast enough. I manage to say at least half a word before I falter, puzzled by what she was asking me. The swivel chair creaks as mother turns around and frowns at me, the crinkles of crow’s feet forming at the corners of her eyes. “Why did you choose this class if you knew it was going to be so hard for you?” she repeats with a hint of irritation, as she sets her reading glasses atop her head. “Don’t you like writing? Why are you complaining about it now? Isn’t it supposed to be easy for you?”
In this household, there’s no room for mistakes and confusion. It’s something I’ve lived by, but never understood. I leap to defend myself from the barrage of questions. “I like writing a lot, but sometimes it’s hard.” Crinkle, goes the paper in my hands. “Sometimes it’s hard to put stuff together. And- and I didn’t choose this class. You wanted me to take the test for it.”
“Aiya,” she sighs, putting her glasses back on again. ‘Conversation over’, it signals. “Don’t argue.”
“But-“
“You’re not even good at writing,” my mother states, with a tone of finality. “You’re supposed to be good at it if you passed that test. If you have questions about it, then you’re not good at it. Okay?”
‘That’s dumb,’ I want to say, but ‘dumb’ isn’t a word that I’m allowed to say. I gnaw on my cheek.
Taking my silence as her winning this conversation, she says;
“I don’t know why you’d do something you’re not good at.”
Click, clack, goes the door, as it shuts behind me.
Petrichor is the smell of rain, when the house is quiet and the kids are asleep. Petrichor is the walk through the quiet living room and the thump of slippers against floorboards. Petrichor is the creak of a swivel chair, and the click of a keyboard as the screen flares to life again with a bright glow.
I don’t know how long I sit at my desk for, but it’s long enough for the words on the page to start blurring. Hoping for salvation, I dig through the boxes underneath my bed to find the stories I’ve written– they’re amateurish, old, imperfect– and I grimace at them and at the grammar mistakes and the everything mistakes. But strangely enough I felt proud. I had come so far. I’d be lying if I said this was the moment everything in life clicked for me, but something in me slotted into place. ‘How unfair,’ I thought, ‘that a language I’ve always been made to learn was making me feel proud in this miniscule moment of time.’
I had until 9 A.M. to finish my assignment. It’s already 8 P.M.
I set my hands atop the keys of my Chromebook and begin to write.
I start writing and writing, and sometimes it’s meaningful, and other times it’s just nonsense words. But eventually, it begins to move forward. I place down the ropes of my story, and mold together yellow clay and mud around it. I breathe life into the hero, the warrior, the villain, the world, type and delete chunks of paragraphs and start looking through my old notebooks from elementary school. I fill in holes and smooth down lumps, and petrichor fills my lungs.
Petrichor is the smell of rain, when it is warm, when it is good. Petrichor is the feeling of the smooth keycaps under your fingers, the tap-tap-tapping of raindrops against the metal awning. Petrichor is when the night shifts into hazy morning blues, and it starts peeking through the blinds to say hello. Petrichor is fiddling with the printer until it turns on and prints out the document wrong three times, and is the scent that fills your lungs as you race to the school bus with warm paper in your hands.
At 9 A.M., I place my printed, somewhat crinkled assignment on the steadily growing pile at the front of the room. It’s fourteen and a half pages long, and my name is scribbled in the corner of the title page. It’s small and in deep blue ink, like it is now. I take my seat as I always do, and life blurs on.
I wasn’t good at a lot of things, and I’m still not. I’m getting better at speaking Cantonese, but strangers are constantly confused by my phrasing. I can barely remember ballet, and if I tried to swim now, I’m most certain I would end up in the emergency room. It’s still difficult to put things down into words, but it doesn’t mean I’m bad at writing. My mother adamantly believed that if you weren’t good at things, you shouldn’t be able to do it at all. It was just a waste of time and effort.
I look at my classmates who I am so often compared to and see them with their immigrant parents, their perfect grades, the expectations that weigh heavy on their shoulders, and I can’t help but feel that we’re all too similar. There’s the unspoken rule to get the highest grades in every class, participate in all the extracurriculars, be smart and good and obedient and quiet. I look at my friends and when I see them get scolded by their parents, quietly, in the back of the auditorium for not getting an award, a feeling stirs in my stomach and settles like a rock. Familiarity.
I am eternally grateful for everything my parents have done for me. I could never pretend to understand the struggles of an immigrant, let alone ever forget all the sacrifices they gave to live a better life. But in some selfish sense, I felt robbed. I felt robbed that I was forced to be this picturesque child for so many years of my life. I couldn’t tell my elders how much I loved them before it was far too late– they would just cock their heads to the side and laugh, lightly, without understanding. I’ve lost so many years and memories to this barrier that defined me ever since I was a thought.
I wonder how much individuality is stripped away when you move to a new country, determined to dedicate your life to this distant world. How much of yourself do you have to change to ensure your family lives happily and content? How much of your family do you have to change? How much pressure do you have to put on a child’s shoulders to ensure that they’ll bring success and honor to your family? I wonder how many children will have to bear this burden now, learn a language unlike their own, become a person unlike themself, for all the sacrifices their parents gave before them.
This language that has been predetermined for me to learn has let me do the things that I love deeply. I share jokes with my friends, tell them how much I care, and write my silly little stories and make mistakes. It helps me live life and spend time with my elders before I don’t get the chance to anymore.
So despite everything, I will imagine an imperfect world where it always smells like petrichor.
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