Killing Samuel and Moving On

Letter Five

Dear Bronte,

The entire junior year we tried.
My God, did we try.

Try not to see the elephant
in the room.
Try not to see the growing
rift between us two.
Try not to cringe whenever
the words of makeup or pretty dresses touched our ears.

I really tried, Bronte.
For you, I really did.
I packed up all my old Barbie's
and my lunchbox that once
led me to Phoebe.
I stuffed them in the attic and didn't
touch or look at them for years.
I never wore makeup again or
let my fingers graze over the soft fabric of woman whenever my mom dragged me along for shopping.

I flirted with girls.
Led a few on too.
Even though nothing but their
long hair interested me.

I did it all.
I did it all for you.
You have to know that.
I did everything within me
to hang on to this shred of normalcy you gave me.

Stella slumbered for an entire year
with no signs of ever waking.

That all changed when you finally convinced me to go
to church with you.
Finally convinced me to sit in one of those wooden pews.

My mother is a Buddhist and my father a Taoist.
Two things they brought with them
when they left China.
You remember the story,
don't you Bronte?

The one where my mother was knocked up by an American on vacation before he ran away.
The shame and dishonor
she brought to our family when
she conceived me...
Lucky for us, her best friend was there to save the day.
They ran away from her dishonor to a place where they could raise me.

That's what I grew up with.
Words of simplicity and kindness.
Burning incense and the Nei Jing Tu.

So imagine my surprise when I heard
words of hate laced through written scripture. Preaching at the front while others nodded along.

This peek into your world was more than enough for me.

At the end of eleventh grade I realized, I couldn't be with you as long as you continued to hate what was the real me.

Bronte, you were:
b) the one who failed me.

In the sweetest,
most ignorant way,
you failed me.

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