This series is titled "Dear Keren" not because it's written only for Keren, but because Keren was friendship personified to me. I've learnt much not simply from her life, but the time that has passed since her death. This is dedicated to all the "Kerens" whose paths I've been privileged to cross over the last seven years here in Anderson, Indiana. Call it my chapter closing series, if you would like. We'll probably have a different perspective on some of these events that we were both at, but these are some of mine. These may not always be in chronological order, but I'll try to write in a way so that you know where things fit on a time-line.
Dear Keren,
The date was August 22, 2004. I remembered sitting across from you in that Admissions office that... morning? Or was it afternoon, I don't remember. Only two days before (or three, depending on which side of the world we're talking about) I had packed up my two suitcases of stuff and made the reluctant move halfway across the world.
I'll confess I'm still not sure of what the notion of romantic love looks like. But at eighteen years of age, I thought I was in love, and moving halfway across the world from this "love of my life" at the time felt like I was being asked to give up half of my heart. Ok, so maybe I was over-dramatic. But I was also eighteen.
I remembered crying most of the plane-ride over. In fact, I think I might have even scared away the guy who was sitting beside me because he asked for a change in his assigned seat. Ok, so maybe that might not have been completely true, but that was my perception at the time because I was miserable. Did you feel that way too? Or was it that you've already made a big change similar to this previously (well, you might have made that move with your parents, but still... It was a big change, and it counts) so this plane-ride over to this "glamorous" United States wasn't as much of a life-changing experience for you?
"Glamorous." Ha. That word makes me laugh because I'm reminded of that conversation we had on the way to Ivanhoe's that one time. I had just gotten off the phone with my dad and I was frustrated with the way my parents didn't seem to understand what it meant to live here. I was about to graduate from college, and my dad had just told me to not be too picky about what jobs to apply for here in the US. I don't remember his exact words, but he insinuated something along the lines of... we're Asian, don't expect to be treated too well.
Could I blame my dad for thinking that way? I guess not. After all, media hasn't done the US justice at all. But that was the beginning of the shift in my cultural identity. Little did I realise... I wasn't JUST Asian anymore. I was slowly becoming what we now joke about as "the banana" - yellow on the outside, white on the inside - an identity that would become increasingly frustrating.
Anyway, back to the plane ride. In the long twenty hours or however long the first segment of my flight was on that plane, I forgot how many times I cried till I dozed off then woke up and cried some more. In between, I remembered secretly thinking, maybe when I get off the plane, it wouldn't be that scary LAX (Funny isn't it? We've started calling airports by their airport code like we're BFF rather than "the airport in Los Angeles." Funny what seven years can do to you.) where I would proceed to sit for eight hours before my next flights to MSP then to IND. Maybe, just maybe on the off-chance, it would be the same people that I just said goodbye to at SIN that would greet me at LAX. And then I would laugh at myself for being ridiculous.
At one point during that weekend, I remembered my mum telling me that the couple that would soon become my "Anderson grandparents" would be around when I got there, and that if I wanted to, I should go over and visit them. I remembered them living on the street close to the cemetary, but I didn't even remember where the cemetary was. So I walked around for a bit before I finally found their house on Maplewood. Hoping to find a friendly face where I would be "mothered" for a bit to ease my homesickness, I rang the doorbell several times. The face that greeted me at the door was... friendly, but not what I expected.
He was an Indian dude. I remembered asking myself, umm... Could this be their son here to visit? Or who was he? He proceeds to introduce himself, but as distraught as I already was at the time, I couldn't remember his name. He was going to be a student at the Seminary and was living with them for a few days until he got settled in.
As it turns out, he would very quickly become one of the persons I had great respect for. Between our food-fights in the dishroom of the Marketplace where we worked our first year in Anderson and other interactions, I found out his name was Caldwell Manners.
Well, that's all for now. A storm has been brewing for a while outside, and it's time to go home. More papers to write tomorrow. Also, I miss you. One of these days when I'm done with school, let's continue the conversation we never had the chance to have that day in August a few years ago, k?
Hugs,
Me.
Dear Keren,
The date was August 22, 2004. I remembered sitting across from you in that Admissions office that... morning? Or was it afternoon, I don't remember. Only two days before (or three, depending on which side of the world we're talking about) I had packed up my two suitcases of stuff and made the reluctant move halfway across the world.
I'll confess I'm still not sure of what the notion of romantic love looks like. But at eighteen years of age, I thought I was in love, and moving halfway across the world from this "love of my life" at the time felt like I was being asked to give up half of my heart. Ok, so maybe I was over-dramatic. But I was also eighteen.
I remembered crying most of the plane-ride over. In fact, I think I might have even scared away the guy who was sitting beside me because he asked for a change in his assigned seat. Ok, so maybe that might not have been completely true, but that was my perception at the time because I was miserable. Did you feel that way too? Or was it that you've already made a big change similar to this previously (well, you might have made that move with your parents, but still... It was a big change, and it counts) so this plane-ride over to this "glamorous" United States wasn't as much of a life-changing experience for you?
"Glamorous." Ha. That word makes me laugh because I'm reminded of that conversation we had on the way to Ivanhoe's that one time. I had just gotten off the phone with my dad and I was frustrated with the way my parents didn't seem to understand what it meant to live here. I was about to graduate from college, and my dad had just told me to not be too picky about what jobs to apply for here in the US. I don't remember his exact words, but he insinuated something along the lines of... we're Asian, don't expect to be treated too well.
Could I blame my dad for thinking that way? I guess not. After all, media hasn't done the US justice at all. But that was the beginning of the shift in my cultural identity. Little did I realise... I wasn't JUST Asian anymore. I was slowly becoming what we now joke about as "the banana" - yellow on the outside, white on the inside - an identity that would become increasingly frustrating.
Anyway, back to the plane ride. In the long twenty hours or however long the first segment of my flight was on that plane, I forgot how many times I cried till I dozed off then woke up and cried some more. In between, I remembered secretly thinking, maybe when I get off the plane, it wouldn't be that scary LAX (Funny isn't it? We've started calling airports by their airport code like we're BFF rather than "the airport in Los Angeles." Funny what seven years can do to you.) where I would proceed to sit for eight hours before my next flights to MSP then to IND. Maybe, just maybe on the off-chance, it would be the same people that I just said goodbye to at SIN that would greet me at LAX. And then I would laugh at myself for being ridiculous.
At one point during that weekend, I remembered my mum telling me that the couple that would soon become my "Anderson grandparents" would be around when I got there, and that if I wanted to, I should go over and visit them. I remembered them living on the street close to the cemetary, but I didn't even remember where the cemetary was. So I walked around for a bit before I finally found their house on Maplewood. Hoping to find a friendly face where I would be "mothered" for a bit to ease my homesickness, I rang the doorbell several times. The face that greeted me at the door was... friendly, but not what I expected.
He was an Indian dude. I remembered asking myself, umm... Could this be their son here to visit? Or who was he? He proceeds to introduce himself, but as distraught as I already was at the time, I couldn't remember his name. He was going to be a student at the Seminary and was living with them for a few days until he got settled in.
As it turns out, he would very quickly become one of the persons I had great respect for. Between our food-fights in the dishroom of the Marketplace where we worked our first year in Anderson and other interactions, I found out his name was Caldwell Manners.
Well, that's all for now. A storm has been brewing for a while outside, and it's time to go home. More papers to write tomorrow. Also, I miss you. One of these days when I'm done with school, let's continue the conversation we never had the chance to have that day in August a few years ago, k?
Hugs,
Me.
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