Countdown. Twelve years turned to nine, violence hushed in dripping red wine. My father packed his bags without so much as a goodbye. My mother made the rounds, smiling for customers and chatting in her best waitress voice. No one would have realized that two minutes ago, she was screaming at me in the back parking lot. Her voice now gentle, once an arrow, pierced my brain in beration. Now, a moment caught waiting. I still remember the ecstasy of realizing that my countdown’s double digits had changed into single. The eternal clock ticked in my mind, each day another reason for my hopeful escape. “University,” I whispered to myself. It seemed such a magical word.
My greatest superpower back then was crawling to the eye of every storm. In the midst of shouting matches, overturned tables, wrath and resentment a tangible blade in domestic air, I could always fold and twist and stuff myself within books and worksheets. I come from a culture where pain and learning go hand in hand: ivory keys bore the swish! thwack! of a ruler smacking my fingers at every wrong note. Yet through the focused flow and cold, immovable logic of math, I found my stoic resolve. On weekends, I lay slumped in library chairs and on the backs of dragons, inspecting goblins and elves as they negotiate compromises between kingdoms. In places of learning, unlike anywhere else, I could find solace from the reasonless rage of my family.
I found out alone. We didn’t talk about things, my mom and I; simply kept quiet until we snapped: volatile chemicals in an alchemist’s experiment. In all that time, nine years somehow transformed into one. My mom refused to help in the college application process. She’d never been to college, so how could she help?—her weaponized incompetence, forcing my hand for her labor like always. As I finished the FAFSA, I flipped through her tax documents. I saw it in the folder: a call to court from years ago. A divorce, like old tea brewed and forgotten in stained cups left on nightstands; a divorce like me. So my father hadn’t simply left for a work trip and disappeared. Ask no questions and tell no tales, my whole life lived in secrets. All my repressed memories climbed and tangled, creeping with thorns and tentacles, groping at my conscience in unsuspecting moments. I cried at the smell of cigarette smoke on old jackets, at the sight of small children on playgrounds and fathers with their kids at grocery stores. College, I vowed, would be the place where I started life over again. It’s my turn to disappear.
I stumbled through the maze, through the dark forest path; I tripped down the staircase of unknowns. “Fiat lux” goes the University of California motto, and like warm candle flame, UC Irvine welcomed me into open wings. Illumination makes a home at UCI. As I unraveled the mysteries of the universe inside classrooms, I also shined the light on my own history. Each behavior and emotion, my terror and tension, I slid under the microscope beam alongside crystalline solids from chemistry classes. I recognized where I went wrong and how I could change; I saw my own fight to survive; and finally, I could acknowledge that I’d done my best during a terrible time. In all this brightness, I could see that pain is not the same as love. Within the secure lighthouse beacon that was college, I could finally let the distance, like an ocean, wash me away. The life I once lived disappeared behind the horizon.
College is a strangely intersectional world, where familiar classrooms blend into strange faces and my same old favorite pencil scribbles newly absurd equations. A seemingly inexhaustible supply of resources, projects, and entertainment intersperses a similarly inexhaustible load of homework, classes, and notes. I run on a trail forged by fee waivers and grants, conveniently excusing myself from costly club socials and frequenting resource centers. Yet, in the currency of a vividly complex lifestyle, I can consider myself wealthy. In my first year of college, I’ve conducted an improv fencing scene, welded steel into bridge stringers, and danced the night away at Greek life formals. My learning surpasses known boundaries, through classroom walls and into house parties. Like a sponge, I soak it all in. I internalize every breath of fresh air, every moment of green grass and yellow flowers and blue skies. I want to possess everything I deserve, and more.
My life is not perfect, but it is complete, authentic, and mine. My mom would be horrified if she saw my grades, and I let her calls ring until they go to voicemail. I delete her messages without playing them. I got a stick n poke tattoo by someone I’ve never met before at their apartment, gentle hands and a sharp needle redrawing my scars into leaping cats. I broke my walls and built a new community of peers, friends, and advisors: people I could trust to discuss generational trauma, internship applications, or how senile, old, and arthritic we’re all getting with equal ease and openness.
And I got a boyfriend.
If college is about learning, then welcome to class: my first relationship. In the beginning, every second rested on a frayed wire’s edge: heart pounding, breathing fast. Sparks feel dangerous. The engineer in me wondered, “Aren’t people supposed to run from risks of circuit shorts?” I never know whether to pull him close or push him away. I text him every day. It is exhausting and exhilarating, how we strive to communicate past the misunderstandings and emotional turmoil; how we acknowledge our problems and continue past them. When we started dating, we both knew a relationship would be difficult between such different people. In our shared breaths, profound respect and adoration war with jealousy and misunderstanding. I fight with myself to see him on days when I want to hide. He pushes at my values and beliefs, remolding what I thought to be immalleable. He questions my deepest motives for choices I make on instinct, undoes me and transforms me. He holds me when I cry and tells me it’s okay not to know the answers. He calls me a million different things: estrella, partner, beautiful. Amor, mine, pretty. Good.
My boyfriend stops to give directions to strangers on the street. He bought his friend donuts because she got good grades in a difficult class. He made sure that a certain freshman he now dates wouldn’t get lost, finding them every time they lost their way. I fell in love with his kindness, his care; with his ability to stay true to himself no matter who he was around. I fell in love with a good person, and after everything I’ve been through, college has taught me to strive to be a good person too. No learning takes place without the sharing of knowledge; no project or event can occur without a team’s labor of love; no relationship can thrive without leniency, empathy, and forgiveness.
As my first chapter at UCI begins its end, I bask in spring sunbeams and let the gold pour through me, making me kintsugi. Every end is a beginning, and the time keeps flowing. I am already excited to come home next autumn.
Corbin Li talks about their piece.