Riverside

I am in my mother’s arms. I am in my mother’s arms and she is running. I am in my mother’s arms and she is running, beneath pillars of stone, arcing over us like the ribs of some great beast. I am in my mother’s arms and we are running for a door, a rectangle of light in the gloom, a door that seems further and further away the longer we run, and I can feel a twisting, turning hand in my stomach and I don’t think I can make it.

She whispers as she runs. She tells me it will be OK. She tells me to hold on. She tells me we are almost there. I don’t think I will make it, but she tells me we are close and she would not lie. And so I hold on.

We burst through the door and into blinding sunlight. My mother holds me close to the ground, and I know we have made it, I know it’s ok. I know I have not let her down. I know it’s ok. I throw up on the grey stone steps. She whispers to me, my mother. She whispers that she is proud of me, that I did good, that I made it. She whispers that it will be all right, that I will be alright. She whispers these things and I know them to be true. She would not lie. And in that moment I am prouder of myself than I have ever been since and likely ever will be. And I know that I will always remember it. And I always do.

This is my earliest and most vivid memory: Running through the massive (in my child’s eyes) halls of Riverside Church, sick as a dog and ready to vomit my guts out, but holding it in until we reach the door. At least I think it is a memory; god knows how skewed and warped it has become after years of re-remembering. But my mom doesn’t remember it, so who else could have told me?

In retrospect I can imagine the relief my mom felt. She was spared the awkward and all around unpleasant experience of holding a puke spewing child like an unruly fire hose while running through the halls of a church. In the world of parenting, getting me out of there in time must have been akin to the feeling of shooting a winner three pointer in a championship game. She certainly deserved to be MVP for that performance, and if we’re to see that analogy through to its bitter end, I guess I could be credited with the assist.

I went to school at Riverside Church in Manhattan for pre-k and kindergarten, twice for the latter. I don’t remember much of it, but my mom tells me that she kept me back for a year because my maturity level was a bit low for a first grader. I don’t really know what that means, and for the sake of my ego I’ve never really asked, suffice it to say, I got to spend another year doing whatever it is kindergarteners do. Eating chalk and the like, I would imagine.

Adjacent to Riverside Park, the school was my first after arriving to the city with my mother after my parent’s divorce. I don’t remember much of anything from that period of my life, except for my gastric adventure on the steps of the place, but I do remember little trips we would take into the park. Like Central Park, at its best Riverside Park was like a refuge from the city, and to a child like me, it was another world. I would spend my time there with the other kids pulling up grass until we found the kind that smelled like onions. I’d like to think I never tried eating those wild chives, but I was known to have maturity issues.

Times like those spent in nature, and other times, both earlier and later, contributed to a rift in my mind that I still cannot reconcile. Not that I desire to. I know my history from the telling of others. I know where I lived and with who. And I know that I lived in Harlem at the time, while my mother managed her late father’s liquor store.

But even now, in my mind I was a child in fields and by rivers. I was a child under trees and stars and sky. I played in the ruins of ancient civilizations, in places lost to time. And the friends I made were ghosts of the world I knew; phantoms of other realms. I know the hows and whys of it all now. How those memories were the machinations of a child’s eye and a child’s mind imposed on my present self.

But I prefer to think that I was a child between worlds. That the world I knew then exists somewhere still, even now. That in some unknown place, some unknown time, a million miles from here and a million years from now, the child I was still plays in sunset fields and dappled rivers; still wanders the halls of ancient castles and climbs on pillars of time-washed stone.

And in that somewhere, I hope he always will.

beginning's ending

I was a Chinese Linguist in the United States Air Force. The past tense indicator “was” is a recent development, by the way. I never defined myself by that title, however. I never WAS a Chinese linguist in the strictest sense of the word. I was more like a person who occasionally performed the duties of a Chinese linguist for the military. Our career field was unique in that I don’t think there were many of us who defined themselves by their position. Perhaps it was the banal nature of our daily tasks or simply the lassitude that comes naturally towards any monotonous task, but unlike many others in the armed forces, there was very little job related self-identification. We were the Chair Force and took no offense at that observation. According to the unwritten speech mask used by almost every 0-3+ officer intent on pumping out a shotgun round of esprit de corps into our apathetic faces, Air Force Chinese linguists were the elite, the intelligentsia, and the sedentary jet-set of the military. “Top One Percent” was another catch phrase I often heard bandied about; too important to go to war, too valuable to attrite. I used to joke that we were the top one percent of the bottom one percent of society. I stopped using that particular joke however, not because it was too harsh a critique of the military, but because it was far too forgiving of society.

Anyway, while I may never have identified as an airman or a linguist, it was certainly a suitably impressive and wonderfully convenient explanation when inevitably asked “what do you do?” Linguist was my usual reply. The definition of linguist in the Air Force however doesn’t really jibe with that in the civilian world. A civilian classification as a linguist implies some sort of scholarship; it describes one who not only learns languages, but studies them. We in the Air Force simply learn and apply. Any further study of phonemic or morphemic idiosyncrasies is purely a personal pursuit. So my generic answer may have been a bit misleading in some cases, since I would often leave off the Air Force part unless pressed. I was never, and still am not, in any way ashamed of my military service. I am not a proponent of The War or of any war. I am neither a blind patriot nor a 9/11 avenger. What I am is an opportunist, and what I saw in the military was a chance to finish my college degree, to learn a language, and to save enough money so that after my six years were up I’d have enough of a cash buffer to keep my head above water until I figured out what to do next. The Air Force gave me all that and more. The “more” including the chance to live in California for two years and Hawaii for three, and the chance to meet some of the best friends I have ever had. So no, I’m not ashamed of my time in the military, but I never was one to advertise my erstwhile affiliation. There are many stereotypes of people in the military; occasionally, and even often, they are true, as some stereotypes are wont to be. For better or for worse, I fit none of them, and so I usually opted to omit the military part for expediency’s sake. On the other hand, I would get a brief burst of vindicated pride whenever I was told “You’re so unlike all the other military people I’ve ever met.” Perhaps it’s a part of the human condition to depend so strongly on the approval of others. That’s probably why we rail so hard against it. One of the hazards of being an overly sentient social animal, I suppose. In any case, the best I can probably do is to make the group whose approval I’d like as small as possible, and in that I think I’ve achieved a moderate degree of success.

So now after 6 years I am truly neither linguist nor airman. So the question lingers: “what do you do?”
“I’m starting a business with a fellow former linguist.”
“I’m moving to China.”
“I’m a writer.”
“I’m a turgid couch cushion turgidity tester.”

“I’m a nomad.”

What do I say now? For the first time in years that particular truth is completely up to me with no mindlessly convenient answer. I am free to be whoever I want…just as soon as I figure out who that is.

In the meantime, just don’t ask me what I do for money.