building home (pt 2)

a dominant question in my writing now -- and really, for the last few years --- is that of identity: who am i now, who was i then, who/what am i becoming, and what is the relationship between these three selves?

it's funny to think of what i do now, shucking and jiving for the amusement and yes, education, of these young vietnamese adults, especially when i consider the kid i used to be. i have a handful of photos from my last visit to the states that i brought back with me to vietnam, most of them photos of me as a skinny, gawky pre-pubescent girl, all knobby knees, sharp elbows, pale skin and big brown eyes.

really, i could say those painfully sharp elbows were the most expressive thing about me in those photos, because in every photo i am wearing the most absolutely vacant expression that a little girl could muster. one particularly funny one is where my brother and i are standing in front of a theme park. behind me, a giant t-rex is bursting out of the bushes, the infamous Jurassic Park jeep right underneath it's feet. While it's massive rubber head and plastic teeth loom right over my ball cap, I couldn't look more bored and resentful of the fact that this moment is being recorded for posterity.

in other pictures, my expression is slightly softer, my lips parted as if i was caught just as i was about to say something -- to ask a question maybe -- or maybe i had just finished telling a story or a joke. sadly, none of that is true; my teeth are just too big for my mouth.

i didn't learn to smile for the camera until after middle school, when i started to awkwardly come into myself. i guess this is true for all kids, but it was especially true for me, the kind of girl who lived so inwardly -- and who derived such pleasure from it.

that girl could never have predicted that i would be a cheerleader, an active member of student government in college, a performance poet (albeit not a very good one) or an english teacher at a prominent university. that girl could never fathom the kind of men i would love and who would love me, though she certainly would have been quite thrilled, closet romantic that she was.

i can say that i'm thrilled to discover that that girl is still very much alive inside of me. she's the part of me that still registers shock that anyone could desire my company. she's the part of me that writes dutifully in books, be they novels, poetry, memoirs, essays, or short stories. they are still her textbooks. she's the one who stays in on saturday nights to write in a notebook and stare at the ceiling, mulling over dreams and childish ambitions and love.

i love this part of me dearly; she may even be my favorite part. maybe this is why those who knew me back when i was that girl hold a particularly special place in my heart: my friend peter, for instance, who can recall in vivid detail some of my stranger and socially awkward exploits. maybe this is part of the definition of what "home" is...the people, the places that recall, with pleasure and without pretense, who you were when home was all you had.