notes from the field
was possessed by the idea of roasting a pig on july 4th. upon flying back to chicago on the 3rd, stopped by a butcher on the way down from o’hare and picked up a 60 lb pig (rooted out & co-signed by 1 w.h. esq, lugged up the stairs by runi & gale).
the windows of my house are all open.
because maria, our house cleaner of 15 years, is over.
and my mother read that ventilation helps prevent the spread of covid.
meanwhile, everything is orange.
cars and people roaming the streets as if it were normal.
i am not there, i can only remember beijing
sun glowing dimly through smoke laced fog
trees and buildings melting into urban haze
smog filled lungs like a stone in the chest
the martian skies keep spreading.
trees from all over the world can flourish in california due to its temperate climate. sometimes trees do a little too well out there. like the eucalyptus tree, which evolved to withstand australian wildfires by producing seeds that resprout after fire. they were brought to california during the gold rush, and tend to squeeze out the natural habitat by taking up all the water and the sunlight. people began calling them an “invasive species.”
other times, long lost trees are able to return. like during the second world war, when a deciduous redwood whose fossils were found in california was rediscovered alive in hubei, china and brought back. it’s called a “dawn redwood.” unlike its evergreen brethren, its leaves turn red and dry in the fall, shaking on their brittle stems in the breeze. every winter the trees drop their needles and regrow them in the spring.
california redwoods are some of the tallest and oldest living things on earth. they can grow up to 400 feet across the span of 2,000 years. when my grandfather died in singapore, my father was already working in california. his company donated a california redwood in my grandfather’s name, but my dad doesn’t know where they planted it.
silverbell trees are native to southeast China and northeast America. they have alternate, simple ovate leaves with pendulous flower clusters that are white or pale pink, which open in late spring. when i was born two years later, my parents planted one and named it after me.
i haven’t learned the names of the trees in the front yard of the house i grew up in. i suppose i won’t unless my parents move. around the time i cancelled my flight home for spring break, my mom sent me a picture of our front yard, luminescent with spring.
back to eavesdropping.
i am always trying to catch people going at it. doin’ the thang. just to know the precise type of joy i am surrounded by, and feeling. rarely am i successful, though. if my neighbors are getting busy, they’re being quiet about it. all this listening has made me aware, however, of how many small sounds of pleasure we make over the course of an ordinary day.
my library account says i have 112 books checked out. i guess that sounds about right. i went through them today, reorganizing them for my new bookshelf. i’ve had many of them for the better part of my time here. i’ve barely looked at most of them. i’ve only ever torn through their pages in an urgent search for something else.
tomorrow, the library will close, and we will be stuck with each other for as long as this lasts.
there is a woman who laughs all day
in one of the apartments above me
each time a sound of surprised joy
that cascades like a soprano swinging
there is a young child announcing something
and then the sound of little footsteps
i sit in the apartment beneath them
waiting to hear what’s next
家,
like 妈,
to which you can only ever 回
even if you have never
been there
before
home,
like rome,
a place you can go
you may have never been there
but you’ll find it
someday
according to the news, it has never been this cold in november. the grass is as astonished as the rest of us, green and gleaming beneath a coat of ice. the trees are full of brittle leaves that never reddened before browning, still stubbornly clinging to their branches. some bushes are still sporting thick and sultry leaves, flattened against each other by the unmelting snow. it is too, too cold. and still so early. they are not dying fast enough.
in comparison to other places i’ve lived, one of the most noticeable differences in being in public spaces in chicago is the fact that sometimes i’m the only asian in sight. this has resulted in a whole variety of new experiences. like being randomly asked by an scholarly Black 爷爷 on the subway to read a meticulously drawn chinese character, or being snagged by a white guy at a bar because his friend recently went to japan for a business trip. i’d probably have a different response to these interactions if i had grown up exposed to more blatant racism, or if i were less inherently amused by random interactions with strangers. but as someone who has almost never been the only asian in a room, and who so happens to be able to read chinese & answer superficial questions about japanese history, i usually find it an entertaining way to meet people.
i could refuse to entertain this pair of Black men joining me on this park bench to enjoy the view of the lake in the summer, glimmering all the way to its meeting with the sky.
“i hope i don’t offend,” the younger one says, his maleness and self-perceived americanness and my young womanness and perceived foreignness cobbled together into a platform of parity upon which to meet. to bolster the curiosity that might otherwise falter under their insecurity about educational background or social status.
and so i amiably sing him a song of my people. i become who he wants me to be so i can tell him what i want him to know. in this way i leave myself to meet them where they are, much as they have left their selves to meet me, a smart young chinese lady who sure would be in trouble if he were a few decades younger, he assures me.
this is not an ocean
washing onto the concrete beach
though the winds blow with the texture
of air above the sea
no, this is not an ocean, i decide
almost on the daily
sniffing at the vacant smell of freshwater
ever unsatisfied
but i try to appreciate this neighborly lake
so different from the ocean that raised me,
where hidden by mountains and haunted by fog
water only ever glimmers, just out of sight
hog maw 