FROM THE PERSPECTIVE OF A GIRL’S BATHROOM MIRROR

By Mina Okamoto

It is too often that I am greeted with frowns while idle hands run over imperfections. I see fingers caressing the baby fat of healthily plump cheeks, desiring that they were replaced by chiseled cheekbones, with sunken eyes to emphasize their emaciation. Spindly, slender fingers pinch the tiny rolls of fat that nobody else can see around their owners’ midsection, wishing them away. Sometimes I wonder if what they see is distorted, for I see no fat where mounds of it heap onto stomachs in the perspective of the viewer. Though I know it is not in physical reality where the fat lives, but merely in the sickened, augmented imagination. I’ve seen too many lovingly packaged homemade lunches thrown into the trash secretively, while wild eyes flash around the room, hoping that nobody sees. I’ve heard the gurgling gags as lunches careen into the white ceramic toilet bowls, while brains calculate the calories they lose in every ounce.

I feel the soft powder of makeup slathered onto faces as it drifts, carried by shallow breaths onto me. Serums, pencils, powders, and lotions are rubbed onto faces in vain hopes to hide blemishes and add the darkened shadows to sculpt the protruding cheekbones so coveted and celebrated by society. Pink powder is dusted onto cheeks to mimic the delicate feminine blush of modest pride that people so value for its docility and passivity. Red paste is run over lips to give a seductively flirty cherry colored sheen.

I see glistening tears leave trails of sparkling silver as they roll down off of chins and splash into tiny diamond puddles on the cold floor. Cool, pure water droplets splatter against me and trickle down, leaving tear stains like the ones that palms rubbing at swollen, red faces try to wash away with the baptismal water. It is too often that I see shaking hands and hear the gasping breath of somebody drowning on dry land, throats constricting, coated with the thickness of fear.

The tears are a relief from social pressure, for their reflections that they can never seem to make quite perfect. Though they do not say it aloud, I can see it in their desperate eyes, “not pretty enough,” “not perfect,” “not good enough,” the deadly spiral staircase that their minds descend.

It is too often that I see searching eyes, hoping their reflections become the plastic barbie doll that society says it must be.

A Home Split

By Micaela Rodriguez Steube

You don’t know you’re beautiful! Oh Oh! That’s what makes you beauti—. My iPod went silent. I kicked my feet down. Slowly, the world flipped around. The rug was no longer on the ceiling, the lights no longer on the floor. My dad stood by the glass side table. His finger hovered above the ‘play’ button.

“Chicas, vengan. Vamos a tener una reunión familiar,” he called through the apartment. Girls, come. We’re having a family meeting. My sisters raced to the living room. Carolina, the oldest of the three of us, was eleven years old; she ran in, followed by Flo, at six years old, the baby of the house. Carolina’s sequined skirt shone in the light coming from the picture living room window. Little stars danced on the floor around her wherever she went. Behind her, Flo glided in on her RipStik. Through her eyes shone that little glimmer only six-yearolds have. That little glimmer says, “I have not seen harm in the world. My biggest worry is which animal I’m choosing for my next Build-ABear.” Her back foot wiggled back and forth, back and forth, just the way I taught her, propelling her forward through the hallway and into the big open room. She stopped by falling onto the couch. They were giggling. Flo had just come up with one of her famous quotes. “I have a talent of being creepy with my voice,” she told Carolina. They must have been playing with Flo’s stuffed animals. She always gave them their own voices.

“Vamos chicas, siéntense aca,” He told us. Come on girls, sit here. I sat down between them. Carolina to my left, Flo to the right. My parents sat on the ottoman, facing us. I could still see the indentation of my feet on the couch where I had been practicing falling from a handstand into a bridge—that is, training for my Olympic debut. I settled into the couch and brought my feet up. I’ve never been the kind to sit normally.

I guess I had known something was up. Nobody’s ever just stopped my music like that. Yeah, it led people yelling over it and me not hearing them screaming to me from across the apartment. But honestly, we were all used to that. After all, yelling is a given in a Latin household. My parents immigrated to the US from Argentina in 2000, and though my sisters and I never lived there, they ingrained that culture through making our home like Little Buenos Aires. We ate empanadas, and Spanish was our first language. Colorful language and louder voices were a given here. It didn’t necessarily mean anger––to us it meant more emotion. We yelled and shouted and screamed at each other, but nobody ever stopped me in my tracks mid handstand. I hadn’t thought much of it though. I was nine years old; it’s not like I expected to understand everything.

“Mami y Papi se van a separar, pero eso no significa que las vamos a querer menos,” he said. Mommy and Daddy are separating, but that doesn’t mean we’re going to love you any less.

I looked left and right. Flo’s face showed acceptance. There was no inkling of worry or sadness. I’m not so sure she knew what it meant. I mean, a six year old in my mind could barely understand how to put together Lego sets, let alone that our parents were separating. She looked serious, but only because that’s how she imagined she should feel according to how others felt. Her eyes didn’t understand. The glimmer that had shone through them on the Ripstik hadn’t left. There was no inner tragedy to mourn. She nodded in the minimal understanding she could reach.

“Papi se va a mudar a un departamentito cerca de acá por unas semanas,” my mom added. Daddy is going to move to a small apartment close by for some weeks.

Flo’s eyes changed. She was curious about this new apartment. Could she buy more Legos and keep them there? Would there be room to Ripstik?

I noticed my parents’ gazes shift towards Carolina. My eyes followed. Drops of water ran down her cheeks. They looked like professional skiers winding down a steep run with ease. Back and forth they curved all the way down, only to be caught by a rosy-bordered chasm right above her chin. Why was she crying? I wanted to comfort her, give her a hug. I wanted to explain to her that he would be coming back after a few short weeks.

He was going to move back in. My parents told us he would be moving to a different apartment for a few weeks. He was coming back. However, I took Carolina’s word for it. Apparently, there was something to be upset about. Maybe she was worried about missing him during that time. There was a sense of dejection in the air.

I tried to follow in Carolina’s footsteps. My tear ducts were like an old tube of toothpaste. I twisted the tube back and forth, pinched the end of it and slid my fingers towards the opening, did anything I could to get the last drop. I contorted my face every which way trying to produce some form of water or sign of upsetness. I wanted to be the mature older sister to Flo, the one who understood why we were all upset and crying. My eyes started watering just a little. It was better than nothing.

My parents went to hug Carolina. They told her everything would be all right. They told her that nothing would change in their relationship with her. Why didn’t she understand? He was going to come back.

I was stuck in the middle. Obviously, there was going to be a big change. Change can be upsetting for everyone. I was sad to leave the Rainforest Cafe when we moved to Hong Kong, but I adjusted. I was sad to leave my old gym in San Mateo when we moved as well, but I adjusted. That’s what my parents had always taught me. Yet, why were they not adjusting to this? And this was even temporary! It wasn’t like my parents would get divorced. My mom promised me that years ago. She promised me they would never get divorced.

I remember reading about that word in our house on Sun Blossom Lane in Redwood Shores. That’s where we lived ever since I was born. It’s a little community in northern California near Palo Alto. We had moved to Hong Kong three years ago, in 2009. Oh how I missed that house with my pink room and my bed pushed right up against the corner, how I missed the yellow room next door where Carolina slept, and she, Flo, and I would take turns jumping off her bed onto her trundle. Our staircase was carpeted. It went three steps up only to turn ninety degrees and follow our pale yellow plaster wall up to the second floor. The railing was clean white wood. Right on that third step was a square-shaped space of carpet. It was the perfect size for reading.

On that square of carpet, I first read about the word ‘divorce.’ To me, it was just letters. I was ready to move on with my book without understanding the word. If I inquired about every single word, how was I supposed to get through a page? But, as I was about to go on,

I saw my mom walking past through the living room. She was on her way to the coat closet or the garage to do mom things I would understand less than my new vocabulary word. Just as she walked by, I called her over.

“Mommy? What does divorce mean?”

“A divorce is what happens when two people who are married decide to not be married anymore because they’re not in love.” She answered directly and completely. My parents were never ones to hide things from us. They knew we’d always find out one way or another. I have been finding out my birthday presents every year since I turned six years old.

“Are you and Daddy gonna get divorced?”

“No, Mitu, I love Daddy very much,” she responded. There it was. There was the promise. It wasn’t a divorce. They promised me there wouldn’t be a divorce. I was sticking to that. Obviously, my mom remembered the promise, too. Yet, she, Daddy, and Carolina were still crying. I didn’t get it.

Nevertheless, they were upset. I tried to be upset with them. I went through all the motions of being upset: the sad face, the teary eyes, the looking down at the ground in despair. I guess the actions made me feel a little sad. I still didn’t get what all the fuss was about. He was going to come back. It was a promise.

Flo asked if she could get back on her Ripstik. She didn’t have much trouble comprehending and moving on from the situation. To her, the Build-A-Bear animal was still the biggest issue. There was no worry about my dad not coming back. Maybe she didn’t understand he would be leaving in the first place. Maybe she didn’t understand what “separation” was. Maybe she hadn’t been paying attention during the conversation at all. After all, her stuffed animals were waiting for her to come back and give them more voices. Regardless, whatever she thought just happened didn’t faze her. She was back on her board and heading to her room. Her back leg swiveled back and forth just the way I taught her.

My mom and dad released Carolina from their huddle of tears. I sat back on the sofa, my legs up. I kind of wanted to get back to gymnastics and One Direction. I knew if I voiced that there would be trouble, so I, as my mom taught me, “picked my battles,” and sat still for a couple more minutes.

That fall, I started fourth grade with Mr. Lincoln and Ms. Deb at Hong Kong Academy. I was excited to have Mr. Lincoln. He was from Massachusetts. He was the only teacher I knew at my school without an English or Australian accent. Being one of two American kids in my class, it made me excited to hear something familiar.

“Okay class, for our first day, we want to get to know you,” Mr. Lincoln announced at the front of the classroom. “Ms. Deb and I want to know about what you all did this summer. Let’s all take some time to write about our favorite summer memories.”

I immediately knew what I would write about: that very day my music was paused mid-handstand. I thought I had been beginning to understand it a little more. My dad would be living outside our apartment from now on. His apartment was in the residential complex of a hotel. It still all seemed temporary, but at least it registered that he had his own apartment. That made a little sense at least. I wrote about having two households. I remembered going to my sister’s room months before all of it to escape my parents setting up the DVD player in the living room. Our old one had just given out, and going on without Barbie movies was not an option, so they had to get a new one, fast. It had been fine at first. They both knelt by the TV: one read the manual, the other had their hands on the new device. But soon, that strategy wasn’t working. I hadn’t thought much of the yells at first (Latin household, remember), but when I listened closer it made me nervous. I had been doing homework at the kitchen counter but listened into the living room when I heard it start. This wasn’t just yelling: it was a fight, and a real one. It wasn’t a silly argument. I didn’t understand how to react, so I acted like I never saw anything. I gathered my pencils and put them in my Converse-shaped pencil case and held it and my notebook tightly against my chest as I walked past them to Carolina’s room. I never told them about it. I didn’t mention it in that first writing assignment. I just drew on the memory of the imperfect household. I suppose it made me feel better. It meant I wouldn’t have to hear any more DVD players be set up. It made me believe that two happy houses were better than a miserable one. That’s what I wrote. Two happy houses are better than a miserable one. I recounted the conversation that day. Yet, I still didn’t fully understand it. It was never sad for me to begin with. It was making others sad, I understood that, but I never felt it myself. At least Mr. Lincoln enjoyed my story.

Fast forward again to December of that year. We were in Argentina for winter break. My family had been invited to a friend’s house for the afternoon, and since my parents were now traveling in separate cars, my dad volunteered to pick up some wine as a thank you gift. I always loved to give him company, so I rode along. Though I was bored out of my mind at the bodega, I was happy to keep him company. We got back in the car and went to our friend’s house. When we pulled up, I realized this wasn’t just a two-family get together, and there were many more cars than expected. We had to park across the street. My dad pulled into a spot next to a giant tree. Its roots had grown so large that it had begun to lift the ground around it. The soft hum of the engine gave out to silence. I unbuckled my seatbelt and turned to open the door, but my dad’s voice sounded to my left.

“Un segundo Mitu, quiero hablarte de algo.” One second Mitu, I want to talk to you about something.

“Estuve saliendo con algunas mujeres. Recién rompí con una chica espanola. Salimos por tres meses, pero no me gusto tanto.” My dad had been dating other women. He had been dating other women for all these months. He hadn’t told any of us. He had just broken up with a woman from Spain that he had been seeing for three months. After accompanying him everywhere he went for ten years, he didn’t tell me he was dating other women.

It all hit me.

He wasn’t coming back. My promise was broken. I felt the sadness. My home was split.