These Asian Eyes

(TW: Contains discussions about eating disorders & self-harm.)

Sun.

Each day is never the same,

but the sun always rises

and the sun always sets.

Why do we rely on

something so fleeting

for light 

and 

for life?

But what if

the sun decided not to shine?

But what if

the sun got sucked away?

But what if 

the sun disappeared?

But what if

the sun suddenly died?

What then?

I think about this

on the drive to school.

Thinking, like I always do.

Thinking, unlike everyone else.

Senior year,

and everybody already thinks

they’re free.

Each of them believing 

that they are the sun

in the solar system.

None of them

are as important as they think.

The universe 

can get on without them,

can get on without me.

People.

School is full of people,

all fighting 

to be on top.

Everyone is striving

to be the prettiest,

to be the most popular.

The kings and queens

are the athletes,

the volleyball girls

and football boys.

My mom once told me

to find my people.

But she must not 

understand

the way high school works.

If only it was that easy

to feel like you belong.

People don’t notice me

when I walk

through the doors,

down the halls,

into my classroom,

or as I sit down.

I pull a book

out of my backpack,

not to read

but to cover my face

and hide these Asian eyes.

I’m the only Chinese girl 

in my grade,

and sometimes I think

people forget

I’m American, too.

Grades.

I check my grades 

for the fifth time today,

hoping that

nothing has changed

and I still have

straight-As.

Because when you have

these Asian eyes,

you’re supposed to be

smart and

you’re supposed to have

all of the answers.

You’re supposed to get

perfect grades and

you’re supposed to

go to an Ivy League college.

Grades define who I am.

I don’t hold myself 

to high standards,

I hold myself to

a place of perfection

I’ll never be able

to meet.

In high school,

people want to

laugh and

live and

learn to love.

But I’m only here

to get good

grades

and go to

college.

Lunch.

Soon enough,

Lunch rolls around.

I’m not hungry,

or, at least,

that’s the lie 

I feed myself.

I don’t pack a lunch 

to school,

so I have an 

excuse not to eat.

But I’ve come to realize

that eating is a lot more 

than just food.

It’s social & emotional, too.

So when I come to the table

with an empty plate

and no lunch

people start to ask for

answers I can’t give.

I don’t know why

I like the feeling of hunger

stirring in my belly

or feeling proud

of how long I’ve

been without food.

That’s why I’m here, hidden,

in a bathroom stall,

huddled on the toilet seat

when I should be 

eating lunch.

I have my phone in my lap

and my earbuds in my ears,

listening to music and

shutting out the world.

Jeep Wrangler.

After school,

I hurry out of the building,

unwilling to be there

for a second more than 

I have to.

My Jeep Wrangler waits

for me in the parking lot,

big and bold and

a splash of bright orange

next to a

dull gray Toyota Camry.

The Wrangler is the 

opposite of me.

Large and loud,

it wants to be seen.

The Jeep was a gift

for my sixteenth birthday.

My mom took a picture

to document

that I’ve grown another year,

that I’ve reached another milestone.

I smiled from the front seat

with my hands on

the steering wheel,

pretending to drive,

even though now I actually could.

At first,

driving the Wrangler 

scared me,

but now it comes naturally,

just as Dad 

said it would.

Running.

If you have 

these Asian eyes,

you’re not supposed

to be athletic,

to be powerful,

to be strong.

But I’m not

the perfect Asian.

I would rather

go for a run than

study for hours.

I would rather

eat mac and cheese than

have Chinese food.

I go for a run 

almost everyday.

I guess I could have joined 

the cross-country team.

But I like to run 

alone,

all by myself,

in the woods where

nobody will watch me,

nobody will catch me,

and nobody can stop me.

When I run, 

I’m a force that

no one can control

and my sweat

mixed with

my tears.

Apples.

After my run,

and I'm

in the kitchen,

slicing an apple

for snack

with a

knife.

I could slice 

the blade

across my wrist.

I could

make myself bleed

very, very

carefully.

I could 

make my skin

a canvas

and paint it

with blood.

I drop 

the knife

and it

clatters onto

the counter.

Where did these

thoughts 

come from?

How do I 

stop them?

I don’t want

to hurt myself

but there is

something in me

that does.

Bandaids. 

In kindergarten,

I was

obsessed 

with 

bandaids.

I used them

like stickers

and 

we got them

every time

we went to 

Meijer. 

I’d point out

the ones with

princesses 

and 

unicorns. 

The bandaid I use 

today 

is 

sad

and

plain. 

It matches 

the color

of my skin

and does 

its job.

It hides

the shallow cuts

I made

on my 

wrist,

the places

I’ve made myself

bleed.

Feelings.

I don’t know

how to explain

what it feels like

to have

these Asian eyes

to someone

who has

always known

who they

are.

It feels like

you’re not

enough

the way you are.

It feels like

you’re the 

only one

who is like you.

It feels like

you are all

alone

even in a crowd.

What I’ve learned

is that people hate

anything 

that’s different. 

Diversity

is not a word

in their

vocabulary.

Parties.

I didn’t think

that high school

could be worse

than middle school.

I thought that

maybe people 

change 

and 

grow up.

I didn’t realize

that maturity comes 

only with 

experience. 

Now I know

that seniors are

scientists 

in disguise

who like to 

experiment 

with 

drinking

drugs

&

sex

and who 

like to learn

from getting

wasted.

There is an

unspoken rule

in high school

that you have to get

drunk 

at least 

once 

senior year.

Because here,

the word “cool”

is synonymous with

doing stupid things.

I’ve only 

been to 

one party,

where

everyone

who was

anyone 

was 

there.

That was

freshman year,

when we all

wanted to be

rebellious

&

free.

That night,

I had a lot of

firsts. 

I tasted

hard liquor

and 

I played

with fire.

I met

a boy in darkness

and 

our mouths

and 

our bodies

moved together.

I regret

a lot

that can’t be

undone. 

I woke up

hungover 

and

I smelled like

cigarette smoke.

There were

leaves 

caught in my

hair

and the scent of

weed 

clung to my

clothes. 

I had

hickeys 

on my 

neck

and 

shadows 

under my

eyes.

My parents

could only guess

where I’d been

and

what I’d done.

They ordered me

to take a shower

as if that would 

cleanse me

of all the

mistakes I made 

last night.

Saints.

On Sunday mornings,

we always go to

church and 

I always feel like

I don’t belong

here with

all these 

faithful

righteous 

praying 

saints who don’t

sin 

and who don’t

swear.

I am the

only one 

with

these Asian eyes

in my entire

congregation.

Sitting in the pew

being the only one

who looks like

me

isn’t as easy 

as you think.

When I was little,

I didn’t notice

the color of our skin,

but now 

it’s hard to 

forget about 

unlearn all of  

the things 

I’ve seen

and

the things 

I’ve heard.

And these saints

always tell me

that 

they’re praying

for 

me,

that

they’re hoping

I will

follow

God.

And it seems like

they somehow 

know all of

the bad things

I’ve done.

But these saints

have never seen me

cry,

not even a single

tear.

Because they are not

the only ones

who can pretend

to be good

on Sundays.

Sunday lunch.

I sit at

the table

with my napkin

folded in my lap

like Grandma

taught me to.

I sit next

to my little cousin

who has no mind

for manners.

I sit and

I wait 

for Sunday lunch

to finally

start.

Grandma

used to be a

good cook,

but now there’s

something off.

I don’t know what

it is,

but I can

taste it on my

tongue. 

I might hate Sundays,

but I hate 

Sunday lunches even more.

My grandpa

says stuff he shouldn’t

and 

my grandpa

expects me to

agree.

Politics.

I don’t like to         

put a label on my

life 

because politics

don’t control

me. 

I am

open-minded

and 

I am

open-hearted.

And I

don’t agree with

most things the

people around me

have to say.

I am

different, 

but I

hide it 

well 

and 

keep my

opinions 

to 

myself.

Honestly

I wish 

everyone else

would do the

same.

Boys.

I have a bad habit

of liking 

boys who 

will never love me back,

boys who

will always break my heart.

No one finds

these Asian eyes

beautiful

because Mulan

will never be prettier

than Cinderella.

Besides,

I’m not even

a Disney

Princess

and 

I never will be.

Once

I thought 

I loved a boy

and 

I was

this close

to telling him

the truth.

Turns out,

he called me

U

G

L

Y

behind 

my back

before I even

got a 

chance 

to say

I LOVE YOU 

and 

I JUST WANT YOU TO LOVE ME, TOO. 

I never

told him I knew,

I never 

said what I felt

inside,

I never

let anyone know

that 

my heart was

B R E A K I N G.

I pretended it

didn’t bother me.

I pretended I

was alright.

I pretended to

be okay.

I pretended it

wasn’t because of

these Asian eyes.