Eggs

Catherine Yan '24

At six, if you asked me what superpower I wanted, I would answer without a second thought: Invisibility, of course.

The possibility of taking a gaseous, inconspicuous form made desires such as tasting the acidic hawthorn berry under the layer of crisp golden candy on the bends of Beijing hútóngs, staying awake past my bedtime to watch Nǎi Nai record our daily adventures in her newspaperbound diary or sneaking myself onto a flight to Hong Kong to see Mā give birth to my sister possible – My wish became reality.

A few words of wisdom to my younger self: Part of your dream came true. You are both invisible and hypervisible. In the United States, you’re a hardboiled egg

A small, yellowy yolk engulfed in the overwhelming white...

I built up a layer of membrane, a tan, brittle, protective shell from all the times Mā told you “Never go out alone”, all the times Bà told you “Do not take the subway”. When my parents hang up the phone; they don’t say “I love you” or “Enjoy your day”. Rather, they tell you “Be careful” and “Stay safe” because they see blood on the walls:

They still hear about the largest lynching in American history, where 19 Chinese bodies lay mangled in the streets of Los Angeles.

They know about the only act in American history discriminating against nationality, the one that purged the United States, land of the free, home of the brave, free of the alien yellow boys with slanty eyes and braided hair, the same ones that labored under the scalding California sun to build their railroads.

They read news about the most recent Asian woman shoved into the unforgiving lines of the subway tracks, her last glance on Earth is that of a deer in the headlights, before the subway car travelling at 50 miles per hour batters her, pummeling the air out of her lungs – under the Earth’s surface, under the eyelines of pedestrians. Her body lies there, bent at awkward angles –maimed, battered, broken.

Another corpse. Gone... as swiftly as a chef cracks an egg into a sizzling pan.

She is not the only one. The Singaporean man punched and kicked, shouted at for causing the coronavirus; the Burmese American family with two young children, stabbed and wounded in Texas; The 19-year-old standing on the ledge of the southbound Route 33 overpass outside Stroudsburg, Pennsylvania, holding his hands up in surrender, showing the guns pointed at him that he changed his mind; The six women shot to death at their jobs in Atlanta. Recently, three female employees get shot at the Texas K Town. The shells splinter, the yolks spill out.

Slowly, events on the news become normal. Our forgetfulness becomes benightedness. I notice that my feet are bloody as I walk across the jagged topsoil, staining the scattered shell surface crimson – the American ground that was built upon layers and layers of eggshell debris, shattered to dust over the ages, swept under the rug, the same earth that others walk across without a second thought.

I pick up the blemished pieces and search for meaning, to prove my parents wrong, to find hope for what is to come, but the pile of eggshells at my feet grows monstrously tall, eventually smothering my body, cutting into my soul

Now, at sixteen, 173 feet under the New York City Street, the yellow-green light illuminates my every step against the aged, off-white wall tiles, washing me out under the concrete gray ceiling. My eyes dart left-to-right and then to the cellphone clenched in my fist as the six long minutes trickle by. My eyes hesitate to meet the ominous depths of the tracks below.

I remind myself that the New York subway track is not a burial ground. I stay as far away as I can from the yellow line meant to keep me safe. The steel wheels grind against the tracks. I feel the train’s hot breath on my heels. The L train opens its teeth, and I slide right in – hoping to join the crowd, indiscernible, invisible.

Anti-Asian hate crimes have risen 150% since 2020, and I do not want to be another statistic. Remember, final word of advice: keep your head down, take care of yourself, because broken eggs get tossed away. After all, after using up a dozen eggs– America buys another batch.

Catherine Yan '23 Digital Art