Hey Grandpa,

It’s cold in Rochester today. It snowed a bit last night. I love when there’s a layer of pure snow in the morning - something about it gives me hope for the day to come.

I’m missing you today. Do you remember when you took Vincent and me to Tiananmen Square to fly kites? We were yelling and laughing so loudly that everyone turned to watch us. There was even somebody who took his camera out and started taking pictures of us. I remember thinking at the time that no picture could ever capture what I felt during that moment.

All I have of you are these brief, fleeting memories: sitting on your lap, playing Gameboy Pokemon in Japanese while you faithfully translated every scrolling line of text; sitting by the piano after dinner while you played and sang at the top of your lungs; waking up to see you outside raking leaves, always in the same gray hat; wrestling you to the ground during snowball fights.

I remember the last time we saw each other. We were leaving your apartment in Beijing to go to the airport. The taxi had come to pick us up, and you and Grandma were crying. I guess you both knew this might be the last time we would see each other. I was too young to know or think about anything like that - I only remember being excited to finally be going home to America. I wonder what I would have done if I had known at the time. I guess it would have been harder to watch and wave at you guys as we drove away.

Mommy tells me about you all the time. She always says I remind her so much of you. I’m an English major, you know. She says you would be so proud of that, since you were a literature professor. She tells me stories about your students running up to you in the streets to pay their respects; about how at your funeral, hundreds upon hundreds of your former students came from all around the world to say goodbye.

Sometimes, I want so badly to see you one more time and just talk to you. I’m not a man yet, but I’m trying. I hope I’m becoming someone you can be proud of - someone you want to brag about to all your friends while exchanging stories about grandchildren. I wonder if you know that I’m thinking about being a teacher too. Or that every time I see a professor jump up and down in class, or break out in song, or cajole students into hysterical laughter, I think of you.

I’m just writing this letter to let you know that I’m doing fine. Jiujiu, Jiuma, and Satsuki visited America this year for the first time in a couple of years. Jiujiu told me he was so surprised by how much I was like you. He and Mom both say I’m always happy, whatever that means. I guess you were too. I think about you a lot - I think we would have made a hell of a team. I hope everything is going great for you too. All of us miss you and Grandma a lot. Someday, we’ll be together again. Until then, I’ll hold these brief, fleeting memories close to my heart, always trying to make you proud.

Love,

Jason

The Police Chief

The shuttle comes every fifteen minutes,
But it came early today.
The driver picked up a carefully wrapped red box
And walked down the aisle of his bus
With a smile, extended hand and heavy accent –
“Does anybody want some chocolate?”

I took one just to be polite.
I’m not normally in the mood for chocolate,
But it was delicious.
He said he got them from a tiny European Bazaar
Just off Mt. Hope.
He gave me turn-by-turn directions,
“Just in case you ever want to go,” he said.

I felt an irrational desire to shake his hand.
He traced alphabet letters with a pointed finger,
Spelling his name out for me with careful enunciation.
“S – A – E – D,” as he gripped my hand,
“Pronounced Say-ed.”

Hours later, when I got back on the shuttle,
He was still driving – I guess his shift hadn’t ended yet.
He was early again.
I noticed the corner of the same, red box poking
Out of his miniature personal trash bin.
I asked if he had given out all his chocolate.
He laughed and said yes,
Then started to tell me about his hometown.

I couldn’t really figure out everything he was saying.
He had an accent – maybe Polish, or Ukrainian;
Something Eastern European, if I had to guess.
He told me that in his hometown, everybody knew everybody.
(“Not like here,” he said, “where neighbors are strangers.”)
Adults used to carry chocolates in coat pockets,
Pressing them into palms of their favorite kids
As they passed each other in the streets.
He told me how back home, he was a police chief.

We talked the whole way back –
There were long periods of time where I would smile and nod,
even though I couldn’t completely decipher his awkward cadence.
But this wasn’t the I don’t really care what you’re saying,
I’ll just nod and smile type nodding.
I heard him and understood him without words,
Nodded because he was genuine –
Because I meant it too.

He eventually shrugged and said with a sad smile,
“Times are always changing.
Times change so fast.”
But for a moment, he was police chief again
In the streets of Lublin,
Or maybe Odessa,
Fumbling chocolates out of his pockets,
Just like old times.

THE WATERMELON TREE

The hot summer sun
Shines through window panes.
I sit; Watermelon juice
Dribbles down my chin.
"Be careful
Not to swallow any seeds,"
Mommy warns, "For a tree
Will grow in your belly
And sprout from your head."
My heart sank; Already, I knew
Some beady black seeds
Lay deep in my tummy.
For a week, I wore a baseball cap tight
Over my head,
Determined not to die.

THE RHINO'S BALLET

We see frightened ladybugs,
Fallen trees, and trampled flowers
And think, What a tragedy!
But the rhinoceros asks,
With a tear in his giant eye,
Is it so wrong for me to dance?

Masterpiece

Jason! Look at my song!
My younger brother
Waves a scribbled sheet.
I frown, gnash my teeth,
And clench my fists.
You drew on my paper!
His smile wavers. I grab
Vincent’s masterpiece, tear
It into tiny pieces. Scraps
Flutter to the ground.
Eyes welling, he confides,
It was a song about us.
I crash to shaky earth,
Fumble on hands and knees
To piece together his song.

We Are All Blocks of Clay

What originally started off as a last-minute reflective essay for our Lang final turned out to be something realer than I could have imagined. With the year coming to a close, I thought I'd share it with you guys. Enjoy :) 

It’s funny to look back at how cool I thought I was as an eighth-grader. Many of you probably share this feeling with me, the feeling of invincibility as royalty in the hierarchy of middle school. When I first came to Saratoga High School, I, like everybody else, was slapped with a big wet trout of reality. We suddenly descended from kings and queens to court jesters, chants of “Go home, Freshmen!” echoing in our heads. 

Coming from Kennedy Middle School, I was extra new. I was lost, and quiet (well, as quiet as I’ve ever been), consumed by self-consciousness and insecurity. Even still this year, one of my truest, closest friends asked me where I had gone to school freshmen year. Indeed, I did breeze through freshmen year rather inconspicuously, going with the flow, careful not to disturb it. To fit in, even I, a habitual slacker, engaged in the popular trend of “studying,” an activity previously unexplored in my life. 

 Fast-forward four years, and a previously unwelcoming campus now holds memories dear to my heart. Sure, the campus color coordination remains bleak, and comparisons to Alcatraz are as true as ever, but along the way, something has changed. Maybe it was joining the cult that is Saratoga Band, or Wacky Hat Wednesdays, or the sudden school-wide epiphany about my stunning good looks. In hindsight though, while all of these did play a role of some sort, it’s the people along the way that have truly changed me these four years. After all, as most of you probably know, I haven’t been the best student these couple of years. Poetry homework was put off for games of intense pick-up basketball; studying for finals was put off for furious Blockles matches, finger cramps instead of brain cramps. I don’t remember stoichiometry, and thanks to Alan Menezes, I never needed to know the date of the Boston Tea Party. Even the chain rule, the most basic rule of Calculus, is now fuzzy in my mind. 

However, it would be the furthest thing from the truth to say I didn’t learn in high school. It is truly amazing to recount how much simply hanging out with friends, playing the infamous Puerto Rico after school, going on early morning runs, and late-night sleepovers can teach you about others, the world, and most of all, yourself. Among other things, I’ve learned that for all our ambitious plans, it’s often the small unplanned events and details that prove most precious; that doing the right thing doesn’t always feel good; that the 911 challenge is never to be attempted; that horrible things happen when I pick up a trumpet. 

Everybody has his or her own metaphor about life, whether it’s comparing life to a tree or a box of chocolates. To me, we’re all blocks of clay in the big game of life. Blocks of clay, in that every person we meet makes an impression on us, leaves his or her own thumbprint, however small. Every once in a while, we’re lucky enough to be blessed by someone whose hands are strong enough to really mold us into something, a definite shape towards the eventual sculpture of ourselves, the person we want to be, the morals and ideals we choose to represent. The longer we stay exposed to air, the longer we go through life, the firmer we become, harder to shape and mold. As we get ready to move on to college, scattering across the nation like sparks from a firecracker, there is a fear and apprehension in all of us. We will experience life with brand new people never previously met, with few familiar shoulders to lean on, ties to Saratoga not always as close as we want them to be. But think, we are simply moving on to the next batch of friends, teachers, and sculptors. For after all these years, we’ve started to slowly admire the sculptures we’ve created around us, our molding of our peers, and their molding of us. For now, there’s nothing more to do but to move on to new thumbprints. And if we’re lucky, maybe, just maybe, we’ll stumble into the hands of somebody who will knead and push us that much closer to the sculpture we’ll eventually turn out to be.

An Ode to World of Warcraft

Slip on your sweatpants and grind with me,

Linked accounts, yeah! 3x EXP

We'll fuck this shit up PvE,

Run away before I Holy Bolt thee!

Destroying monsters with my Rustic Staff,

Feeling so good, I can't help but /laugh,

I haven't been outside in a week and a half,

But I'm in a virtual forest, killing giraffes.

Blazing trails on my epic mount,

A recent duel explains my dropping blood count.

All of this, for just a minimal amount,

Twenty dollars a month from my college savings account.

Insomnia, yeah, that’s my guild,

Just ask us how many monsters we’ve killed.

Don’t mess with us – we’re all quite skilled,

Stop calling me on weekends (my schedule’s filled)!

They say this game sucks your life away,

But they’re all haters; they’ve never played.

Leveling is more important than getting laid.

/4 LF 2 more RFK!!!

So thanks but no thanks, I’d like to continue,

I’ll lock myself in - level 80, pursue.

By the way Mom, I need some Top Ramen to chew,

For I have much Peacebloom gathering to do.

So come along kids, let’s do this quest!

Onyxia’s Lair is just to the west.

Make sure to go to the inn and get some rest,

This raid will be a worthy test.

So before you dismiss our hobby as lame,

Run to the store, and pick up the game.

You’ll soon realize the power of the mage’s flame,

Just go ahead and play – no need to be ashamed.