An Ode to Dreamers

When I was in elementary school, my friend Rebecca and I were convinced we had superpowers. We would run around on our school’s playground, creating stories of how we would use our magic abilities, mostly to get out of the mile run in our PE class. Every recess, we would immerse ourselves in a world created by us, exchanging inside jokes about our soon-to-be queenship. Two eight year old, suburban kids were going to take over the world.

Sometimes, I still think about those days, junk food infested and hopelessly optimistic. I think about the mismatched outfits that my grandmother picked out for me and my obsession with spicy ramen. I think about my unwavering belief in a hope for better days. Looking back, it’s laughing about crazy schemes with one of my closest friends that taught me what it means to dream.

While I no longer aspire to world domination, I have found solace and wonder in real-life magic: storytelling. I used to fantasize about what type of ruler I would be and now, I write poems about the end of the honeymoon phase. Now, I am actualizing my passion into more than just a childhood dream.

The first time I was published, I was fifteen. It was a magazine’s first and only issue, probably read by a dozen people. The day it was released, I texted the link to all of my friends, made myself a smoothie bowl, and read the issue over and over again with an uncontrollable, giddy smile plastered on my face. I danced in my room and wrote more poetry and realized that writing was not something I could ever give up. The excitement of releasing my words to an audience has not faded. I am in a blossoming relationship with words, and we have no intention of ending our bond anytime soon.

Maybe I am as ridiculous as my younger self, but there is a part of me that tells me with every piece I write, with every story I encounter, that I must chase the impossible.”

I’ve been told that my ambition of being a writer is as absurd as having superpowers. I know just how scary “I want to be a writer” sounds to immigrant Chinese parents. Maybe I am as ridiculous as my younger self, but there is a part of me that tells me with every piece I write, with every story I encounter, that I must chase the impossible. My grandma who used to scoff at creative careers now understands that there is a drive in me that cannot be quieted. I have been telling stories for over a decade, once in the form of conversations with Rebecca, now through words.

My life has become a yin and yang of desire; when I’m writing, I wish I was experiencing more of life, going on late night adventures with my friends, laying on rooftops to stargaze. Yet when I’m putting myself out there - performing spoken word, falling in love - I wish I was in my bedroom, writing the moments down as they come. Writing is what has made my life so vibrant, so full, so electric. To calm one of my greatest joys because it’s against what is expected of me is not how I will live my life. It wasn’t how I lived my life back then, and it isn’t how I will live my life now.

When I was eight years old, I never once doubted that my superpowers were fictional. I am now at the beginning of adulthood, I have doubted the viability of storytelling as a career endless times, but I am still here, sharing my narrative. I am hoping for better days and chasing the impossible.

This is only the beginning.

photography by DARRELL JACKSON@djacks.jpgfeaturing ALAYSIA @aye.alaysiawritten by EMILY PITCHER @xmilyp