It was a cold winter day. There was no snow in Austin, but in my head, ice flakes were flurrying down and all around. The skin between my index finger and thumb had gone dry, causing cracks in my skin. Dried blood. Shivering, I waited. I looked between my feet and waited. I looked at the neat, beautiful houses in rows and waited. At the cars going by. And waited.
My mom sat beside me as we both squinted into the distance, eyes searching for the signature university colors of dark orange and white. Upon seeing my chattering teeth, Mama took off her woolen jacket and wrapped it around me. I stayed quiet.
Ten minutes felt like an hour. But at last the campus bus came, and we shuffled into the warmth.
I want to go home. But at this point, I don’t even know where home is.
Whether it’s Colorado Apartments, where I grew up or
Santa Barbara right here, in Indonesia, the place that I was born and the place I belong. But I’m not even sure I really belong. People sure don’t treat me like I belong. And now I’m crying and it’s stupid, I know. But I don’t know. I’ve never belonged anywhere really, have I? All my life I’ve moved from here to there and I feel like I don’t have any roots. Or at least, I do have roots, but I’ll never get to experience the growing roots. All I can do is wait for some years and then see what the seeds I’d grown up with have grown into. Of course, I’m using a lot of metaphors here…
And yet, in the end, the kids of 7B would still erupt into a frantic craze of yelling and play. I wonder if we would ever learn to be quiet and disciplined and motivated. The way the teachers want it. Sometimes when it rains, the classroom would turn dark. Combined with the sound of the powerful torrents outside and the howling wind rattling at the windows, the room became something like a clown’s version of a haunted house. The chatter was like that of monkeys rampaging through forest canopies. A parade of shouting and chaos. It was a jungle. Meanwhile, the teacher sat at the front of the class, waiting patiently for the class to quiet down, fanning herself to keep cool in this wretchedly hot room.
The reason I write is to become something more than myself. I write to release the things that would otherwise build up inside me. I write so I don’t feel alone. When I write, it’s like something escapes from inside my soul. Something small. Something probably insignificant. But something all the same.
On Monday my dad took me to a book bazaar in ICE BSD. When I stepped in the room, it felt like some type of heaven. All those piles of books stretching on and on. Definitely the best day of the week!
Time moves slowly, but passes quickly.
-Alice Walker, The Color Purple
This journal is so big. How am I supposed to write secrets in something so big and hard to hide?