Standing Tall
I stand tall, looking at the entire 71% of the world under my sewed sneakers. My right hand sweating cold while my lefthand pulled out a flaccid, ugly-looking orange from my grandfather’s washed-out jean jacket and poked a hole in the orange, opening the air sac created by the oversized peels: those pumpkin-looking oranges were the best, with more juice and are easily peeled intact, warning me not to judge based on looks. As I tenderly rip a slice off, the white entanglement fails to let go. I guess that’s how they value brotherhoods. A peel was blown off, drifting down the staircase. Stepping down from the cruise, a salty, ocean breeze decided that fresh cut smell of orange peel was its new clothes.
It took less than a split second for the salty breeze to change into a fresh orange smell; if I were the breeze, I would be stuck between a simple change like that. In fact, I was stuck for 16 years.
Between the mom-wing versus dad-wing political debate, each year was my brother Jialun, the true leader of the He family, the one who, like Hegel said, transcends the dichotomy of thesis and antithesis, of spending Chinese New Year in south and north. These types of debates silenced my voice for a rough 16 years. It is also Jialun’s toughness that made me feel complete and free of care for life when listening to Bad, bad leroy brown on cassette, a song that reminds me a lot of him; it is also my folk’s very conflicting but in some uniquely angled and sensible standpoints that make me enjoy jumping around between absolute standpoints on any subject.
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But now, as I for the first time fall into the hiatus between mom-wing and dad-wing, I begin to devise my absolute answer to debates, starting with the smallest, most undebatable things like what type of oranges are the best and how a 60 years old jacket can still fit me and why the smell of freshly cut orange is so much better than salty ocean breeze. Since no one argued with me, these were no longer opinions, they were universal facts, in my universe at least.
Being personal was never harder. To make people truly care and not judge was an awfully selfish deed, but when Mom and Dad tried to pull me under his/her wings, it was necessary. The days when I hop between the two end zones, the enduring moments off the ground as I swiftly switched my beliefs transfuse into a state of holding firm answers, a no longer in-between left, and right party that belonged to me and other flaccid orange lovers. It was a safety zone that didn’t require cassettes or comic books.
My belief grew stronger, and grew on me: I couldn’t abandon them. But even having these cornerstones of belief, the young, indecisive me recurs. My friends say that I don’t step out of my comfort zone. That’s right. Instead of leaving my safety zone into a land anew, the young me expanded my comfort zone to make any changes tolerable as I held on to my sanctuary. Now, I need my beliefs to be heard.
As I held onto my suitcase, in which old jeans buried alive my new orange color suit I bought for no practical reason, I was off for my first belief-sharing expeditions. It began a mere three hours ago when I decided to pack, plan, and leave to see my brother.
