*names have been altered
The room Dad’s secretary booked for me is big for one person. Two queen sized beds, a television, my own bathroom and a wall-to-ceiling window. I have everything I need: my clothes, my phone, my laptop, my nook. Crowne Plaza Hotel even boasts a pool on the floor above me. I imagine myself continuing my summer swimming workouts and smile, satisfied with what the building can provide me.
I call home to say I arrived safely; Dad answers. “Go outside and eat at one of the local restaurants,” he tells me, “and bring a good book if you want.” He knows Hong Kong because he lived here for a while, even met Mom here. He’s an explorer, a go-getter. He wants me to be too.
I tell him I’ll think about it, but really, I don’t hesitate as I plop onto my feather bed, turn on the television and dial room service for dinner.
Lights dot the view outside my window. Hong Kong is just like Singapore, a city with an active nightlife, a city that invites crowds to go and get whatever they want. It is a city that rejects the girl who decides to play it safe and stay huddled within the comforts of a hotel room, rejects the girl who has an easier time imagining than living. And I can imagine. I can see myself out there, on the streets, meeting people, practicing Mandarin, taking in the sights of the city I was born in.
Crowne Plaza Hotel has a mall connected to it with shops, restaurants and access to the MTR, Hong Kong’s massive train system. I know because I researched it before coming here. This MTR can get me anywhere in the city, but I refuse to act on any of that information, instead inching deeper beneath the covers of my blanket as I turn the volume on the television up. This is what I do. I plan and I research and I imagine.
I researched teenage pregnancies when I decided I wanted to write a novel about a pregnant teenager. I looked up facts and statistics, learned more about pregnancies than I really needed to know at the time. I could have talked to various family members who had gone through pregnancies themselves. Maybe I could have contacted an actual pregnant teenager. But I stuck to online facts and statistics because that meant I didn’t have to put myself out there and risk… whatever there was to risk. I didn’t have to give people the chance to ask, Why do you want to know about this? Are you pregnant? Are you having sex?
I wrote the book, but I’ve always wondered what it would have been like if I had more insight, if instead of facts and statistics I had a true story to refer to.
My fear of questions and judgment keeps me from a lot of things.
The night before starting sixth grade, I looked at these cute, round business cards my friend had gotten me for my birthday. It had my name and phone number on it in curvy letters. I imagined myself making friends at my new school and becoming like the popular girls I always saw on television. I was pretty, I was interesting, and no one knew me. That’s what Dad told me anyway. And once I made a friend, I could just give them a business card. Everyone would be dying to get a business card from me, because that meant they were special. And if people felt special being my friend, that meant I was special. The new kid had nothing to lose.
But before I left for school the next day, I put the cute business cards back into my desk drawer and made my way to school, deciding to scope out the social situation first. And with that attitude, I flew under the radar. I was observing today. Tomorrow, I would be a student. Tomorrow, I could bring out the business cards.
Those business cards never left my desk. They sat gathering dust in the hopes that they would get distributed to special sixth graders before the year ended. They watched as day by day, I shattered their--and my--hopes and dreams of being special like that new popular girl in the storybook I just read. And then in seventh grade, a girl from my old school moved to my new school. She was a go-getter. She said hi to me when she saw me, probably surprised she recognized someone. A few days later, I saw her giving out cute little business cards of her own to some other seventh graders, who looked delighted to get them.
I disliked her from then on, even though she was always nice to me. Even though I would have liked to get one of her business cards too.
A hotel server knocks on my door, and I rush to get it, stomach grumbling. The server rolls a table into the room as I hold the door open for him. “Thank you, sir-- I mean, ma’am,” he says, bowing his head in embarrassment. I imagine the countless number of businessmen he serves everyday, amused by his mistake and the reddening of his cheeks. I laugh it off without much of a comment and thank him for the food. I think about what I could have said after he leaves. Maybe a facetious Don’t worry, I get that all the time would have made him laugh. Or I could have taken the fake-angry route with Do I look like a man to you? At the very least, I could have made an impression.
But today, much like my first day of sixth grade, is a scoping day, an observe-the-situation day. I let myself off the hook for missing an opportunity to interact and enjoy my food instead. Tomorrow, my friend Rachel and I will meet up, and she’ll show me the best sights of Hong Kong, take me to the best restaurants and introduce me to her friends. I’ll get what I want out of this trip--to see a friend and revisit the place that holds so many of my parents’ first memories together.
In my head, I try to blame Rachel for not having met up with me the day I arrived, but it is just an excuse.
Deep down I know my dad was right to tell me to get out of the room and experience something for myself, even if it consisted of reading a book at a restaurant. At least then I could have said I went outside my comfort zone and explored. I remain static when I coop up in a room by myself, living life through a movie or a book.
But if I leave the room, people will see. That has always been my excuse. People will see me and wonder who I am and where I come from. And from there, they will judge me with those unforgiving eyes, making assumptions that aren’t true.
Outside, I am exposed. I need to stay hidden. I live to stay hidden.
Once, Mom and Dad took my brother and me cycling in Australia. My bike still had training wheels. It was light pink--my favorite color--and had a little flowery-patterned basket for whatever items I wanted to bring with me. I was five-years-old. Mom and Dad told Alex to stay by my side, but he rushed ahead to keep up with them anyway, until all three of them were dots on the horizon. Mom told me I should stay where I was if I got lost. So I did. I didn’t cry. I wasn’t scared. In fact, as I took in the white flowers in the bushes and the trees surrounding me, I found that I liked being alone, with only nature to answer to. I liked the solitude and the way the trees seemed to lean in towards me, shielding me from the outside world. Because of the leaves, the sun cast shadows all around me. I felt like an adventurer. I imagined the spotted golden reflection of the sun on the ground as a trail left by fairies. They were curious about me, a little human girl on her own. They wanted to help me. No, they wanted to show me their world. When Mom and Dad eventually found me, they must have been surprised to see me unharmed and content.
Solitude does that to me. As I finish my food in that hotel room in Hong Kong, the lights outside the window remind me of that moment, so long ago. I am filled with wonder at the unknown and regret at being too scared to uncover those mysteries. The world is meant to be explored, as I read somewhere once before. And I want to explore it. So badly.
The room Dad’s secretary booked for me is big for one person. Two queen sized beds, a television, my own bathroom and a wall-to-ceiling window. I have everything I need: my clothes, my phone, my laptop, my nook. Crowne Plaza Hotel even boasts a pool on the floor above me. I imagine myself continuing my summer swimming workouts and smile, satisfied with what the building can provide me.
I call home to say I arrived safely; Dad answers. “Go outside and eat at one of the local restaurants,” he tells me, “and bring a good book if you want.” He knows Hong Kong because he lived here for a while, even met Mom here. He’s an explorer, a go-getter. He wants me to be too.
I tell him I’ll think about it, but really, I don’t hesitate as I plop onto my feather bed, turn on the television and dial room service for dinner.
Lights dot the view outside my window. Hong Kong is just like Singapore, a city with an active nightlife, a city that invites crowds to go and get whatever they want. It is a city that rejects the girl who decides to play it safe and stay huddled within the comforts of a hotel room, rejects the girl who has an easier time imagining than living. And I can imagine. I can see myself out there, on the streets, meeting people, practicing Mandarin, taking in the sights of the city I was born in.
Crowne Plaza Hotel has a mall connected to it with shops, restaurants and access to the MTR, Hong Kong’s massive train system. I know because I researched it before coming here. This MTR can get me anywhere in the city, but I refuse to act on any of that information, instead inching deeper beneath the covers of my blanket as I turn the volume on the television up. This is what I do. I plan and I research and I imagine.
I researched teenage pregnancies when I decided I wanted to write a novel about a pregnant teenager. I looked up facts and statistics, learned more about pregnancies than I really needed to know at the time. I could have talked to various family members who had gone through pregnancies themselves. Maybe I could have contacted an actual pregnant teenager. But I stuck to online facts and statistics because that meant I didn’t have to put myself out there and risk… whatever there was to risk. I didn’t have to give people the chance to ask, Why do you want to know about this? Are you pregnant? Are you having sex?
I wrote the book, but I’ve always wondered what it would have been like if I had more insight, if instead of facts and statistics I had a true story to refer to.
My fear of questions and judgment keeps me from a lot of things.
The night before starting sixth grade, I looked at these cute, round business cards my friend had gotten me for my birthday. It had my name and phone number on it in curvy letters. I imagined myself making friends at my new school and becoming like the popular girls I always saw on television. I was pretty, I was interesting, and no one knew me. That’s what Dad told me anyway. And once I made a friend, I could just give them a business card. Everyone would be dying to get a business card from me, because that meant they were special. And if people felt special being my friend, that meant I was special. The new kid had nothing to lose.
But before I left for school the next day, I put the cute business cards back into my desk drawer and made my way to school, deciding to scope out the social situation first. And with that attitude, I flew under the radar. I was observing today. Tomorrow, I would be a student. Tomorrow, I could bring out the business cards.
Those business cards never left my desk. They sat gathering dust in the hopes that they would get distributed to special sixth graders before the year ended. They watched as day by day, I shattered their--and my--hopes and dreams of being special like that new popular girl in the storybook I just read. And then in seventh grade, a girl from my old school moved to my new school. She was a go-getter. She said hi to me when she saw me, probably surprised she recognized someone. A few days later, I saw her giving out cute little business cards of her own to some other seventh graders, who looked delighted to get them.
I disliked her from then on, even though she was always nice to me. Even though I would have liked to get one of her business cards too.
A hotel server knocks on my door, and I rush to get it, stomach grumbling. The server rolls a table into the room as I hold the door open for him. “Thank you, sir-- I mean, ma’am,” he says, bowing his head in embarrassment. I imagine the countless number of businessmen he serves everyday, amused by his mistake and the reddening of his cheeks. I laugh it off without much of a comment and thank him for the food. I think about what I could have said after he leaves. Maybe a facetious Don’t worry, I get that all the time would have made him laugh. Or I could have taken the fake-angry route with Do I look like a man to you? At the very least, I could have made an impression.
But today, much like my first day of sixth grade, is a scoping day, an observe-the-situation day. I let myself off the hook for missing an opportunity to interact and enjoy my food instead. Tomorrow, my friend Rachel and I will meet up, and she’ll show me the best sights of Hong Kong, take me to the best restaurants and introduce me to her friends. I’ll get what I want out of this trip--to see a friend and revisit the place that holds so many of my parents’ first memories together.
In my head, I try to blame Rachel for not having met up with me the day I arrived, but it is just an excuse.
Deep down I know my dad was right to tell me to get out of the room and experience something for myself, even if it consisted of reading a book at a restaurant. At least then I could have said I went outside my comfort zone and explored. I remain static when I coop up in a room by myself, living life through a movie or a book.
But if I leave the room, people will see. That has always been my excuse. People will see me and wonder who I am and where I come from. And from there, they will judge me with those unforgiving eyes, making assumptions that aren’t true.
Outside, I am exposed. I need to stay hidden. I live to stay hidden.
Once, Mom and Dad took my brother and me cycling in Australia. My bike still had training wheels. It was light pink--my favorite color--and had a little flowery-patterned basket for whatever items I wanted to bring with me. I was five-years-old. Mom and Dad told Alex to stay by my side, but he rushed ahead to keep up with them anyway, until all three of them were dots on the horizon. Mom told me I should stay where I was if I got lost. So I did. I didn’t cry. I wasn’t scared. In fact, as I took in the white flowers in the bushes and the trees surrounding me, I found that I liked being alone, with only nature to answer to. I liked the solitude and the way the trees seemed to lean in towards me, shielding me from the outside world. Because of the leaves, the sun cast shadows all around me. I felt like an adventurer. I imagined the spotted golden reflection of the sun on the ground as a trail left by fairies. They were curious about me, a little human girl on her own. They wanted to help me. No, they wanted to show me their world. When Mom and Dad eventually found me, they must have been surprised to see me unharmed and content.
Solitude does that to me. As I finish my food in that hotel room in Hong Kong, the lights outside the window remind me of that moment, so long ago. I am filled with wonder at the unknown and regret at being too scared to uncover those mysteries. The world is meant to be explored, as I read somewhere once before. And I want to explore it. So badly.