Josh Gibson Media – “I think the hardest part is not the memories themselves, but it’s searching for the box of memories and realising how far under the bed it is hidden, and how far away that world has become. But Sometimes it’s important to remember, even if it hurts. It’s learning to let go, whilst not forgetting. Its learning that there was a time for that, and there is now a time for this. Holding on to the memories of a place once called home, and knowing things have changed since. And when no one else can understand, because no one else has seen. Its remembering that God understands, God has seen, he was there. He’s collected those memories, the good ones and the tough. And that…that’s more than ok, that is enough.”
Josh Gibson is a London-based content creator with an eye for detail and a passion to create. Check him out at his website –https://joshgibsonmedia.com/
I’ve been sleeping on an airplane pillow all this while drowned in a white pillowcase folded over and set at the top of my mat and the impermanency has etched itself over top of every memory I have here I always knew I wasn’t meant to stay
But somehow that airplane pillow folded over and over itself until it was small enough to fit in my pocket, to go back the same way it arrived; and all my hopes got tiny too, squished and soft and transportable like maybe that could make up for the rest
But it didn’t and I left everything hopes and pillows and all the rest small behind me
You had spent your entire life in one home:
your mom’s run-down condo in sleepy Antrim, New Hampshire where you
grew up eating inauthentic General Tso’s chicken at Ginger House and
picking up sesame bagels with cream cheese at Audrey’s
on Wednesdays,
knowing
everything
about your town,
your home, which step
in your staircase creaked,
the exact shape of the burn
mark on the left side of your fridge.
The mahogany closet in your basement where you used to curl up at age
4 to play hide-and-seek with your three sisters, the bookshelf you broke
then repaired at age 10, the army green quilt you received from your
grandma at age 13 that covers the twinbed in your room, in your home, in
your town.
By the time I met you I had lived in over 25 places in
Korea England
Tanzania
South Africa
Kenya
Lithuania
Chile U.S.A.
Some homes, some houses,
never
knowing
the houses
I lived
I was packing unpacking,
readjusting new places.
thrill of leaving Cockroach House,
bittersweet goodbye Mango Tree House,
Jacaranda House, the comings goings
formings memories, never feeling
rootedness.
And maybe that’s why we had to end our relationship:
I was a home to you, but you were just a house to me.
By Melanie Han, an avid traveler and a poet who was born in Korea, grew up in East Africa, and is currently pursuing an MFA in Creative Writing in Boston. She has won awards from Boston in 100 Words and Lyric, and her poetry has appeared in several magazines and online publications, such as Fathom, Ruminate, and Among Worlds. During her free time, she can be found eating different ethnic foods or visiting new countries.
I came home from school one day and you were gone. Mom said it was because you missed Grandpa and you missed Korea and you didn’t wait for me because you were bad at saying goodbyes, but I knew better. You left because you were fed up with me, fed up with trying to teach Korean to a granddaughter who kept refusing. So you went back to your homeland, a land I didn’t feel was my home, with nothing but 6,381 miles, 12 hours on the plane, and hurt between us.
“My Dear Yeast, You know I grow up in Korea while Japan abuse forbid speak our language as child force learn Japanese language of oppress and change my name to other country. Yoshiko, they call me. Many word gone when release from Japan. Japan burn thousand and thousand book force study Japan forbid our language prison for people who wrote our words. Release from Japan regain our language miracle. I proud of my people my movement regain history country culture. Yeast, grow up in foregin country no use our language. And what do you know about war for our country? Last wish for Yeast. Learn language. Love, Halmoni”
By Melanie Han, an avid traveler and a poet who was born in Korea, grew up in East Africa, and is currently pursuing an MFA in Creative Writing in Boston. She has won awards from Boston in 100 Words and Lyric, and her poetry has appeared in several magazines and online publications, such as Fathom, Ruminate, and Among Worlds. During her free time, she can be found eating different ethnic foods or visiting new countries.
Hustle and bustle of lunchtime at Myeongdong Market. Fried chicken feet splayed out and curled at the ends, rows of hanging chilis in different shades of summer sunset, dried whole squids piled flat on top of one another, every tentacle preserved and intact. My eyes come to rest on a little pyramid of kimbap.
The predictable pattern of roll, slice, stack. Roll, slice, stack. The kimbap lady is about my mom’s age, same short, dark hair turning silver, apron wrapped around her once-slim waist, and suddenly, I’m staring at my mom standing at the kitchen counter of the house that we lived in when I was eight and insecure.
4 AM she packs my lunch for a school picnic. I get up not too long after, unable to contain my excitement. Will they be impressed? Maybe even a little jealous of my mom’s Korean cooking? Probably both.
But when lunchtime finally rolled around and the kimbap container was opened, all I heard were the quiet “Eww”s as I felt the slight shift of people moving away from me. My shaking hands found themselves tossing the kimbap into the open and hungry mouth of the trash can.
Their perfectly triangled white sandwiches, perfect pale skin, perfect light eyes (they looked easy enough to gouge out). Sunshine rested in their golden hair while night and fury nested in mine. Did I want to die or be white?
At home, that afternoon, I shut myself in the bathroom scrubbing my skin raw and crying my eyes dry until exhaustion called my name. The front door clicked and I threw angry words at my mom. She never made kimbap again. And I avoided Korean food.
But, I find myself in a trance, walking over to the lady and handing her a 1,000 won bill, receiving a roll of kimbap in return. My tongue is momentarily stunned as it remembers long forgotten flavors. All I taste is salt as I pull out my phone and dial for my mom.
By Melanie Han, an avid traveler and a poet who was born in Korea, grew up in East Africa, and is currently pursuing an MFA in Creative Writing in Boston. She has won awards from Boston in 100 Words and Lyric, and her poetry has appeared in several magazines and online publications, such as Fathom, Ruminate, and Among Worlds. During her free time, she can be found eating different ethnic foods or visiting new countries.
Nose pressed up against the window, I wait for pitter-patters to turn to pelting poundings as hundreds of flying ants rise upward, dizzying my eyes and swarming my head.
So predictable: Tanzanian rainy seasons.
“Dad! Come on!” and he brings them as always: bright yellow boots and clashing pink raincoat with words on them I can’t yet read, words that Mom says I’ll learn in school next year.
Tupperware in hand, I rush out, dancing to a chorus of wings: a flapping frenzy. Within minutes, I have plenty of the squirming creatures, my prized possessions, enough to make Mom proud.
Back at home, the three of us busy ourselves. Dad hangs up my dripping raincoat while I tug away at endless wings while Mom heats up the stove and readies
a drizzle of oil, a handful of flying ants, a pinch of salt; sizzling in the pan, they fry quickly. Then, around the table, Mom, Dad, and I sit, munching and crunching our seasonal snack.
So predictable: Tanzanian rainy seasons.
And even though I lived through many of them, I can no longer recall whether the flying ants tasted more like bacon bits or burnt popcorn. So I wait, nose pressed up against the window.
By Melanie Han, an avid traveler and a poet who was born in Korea, grew up in East Africa, and is currently pursuing an MFA in Creative Writing in Boston. She has won awards from Boston in 100 Words and Lyric, and her poetry has appeared in several magazines and online publications, such as Fathom, Ruminate, and Among Worlds. During her free time, she can be found eating different ethnic foods or visiting new countries.
“The first year I came to this country, I swallowed down everything I had ever known and it slid down my throat into the darkness of secrets, or maybe just things nobody wanted to know. Either way I was empty, ready for the sunshine and breeze of this new world to wrap me up in a whirlwind strong enough to block out the rest. I should’ve known better, but somehow I still thought it would be that easy, that I would just keep my old secrets and build a new framework of identity and slide myself into it without losing too much. The first year I came to this country, I forgot everything I had ever learned and discovered a darkness of secrets inside of me big enough to block out the rest, but I lost too much.
In the end I found the pieces I needed, I dredged up my past and did not let it be forgotten. Instead I merged the old and the new together, weaving the different threads into a tangled mess of knots behind the scenes that nobody wanted to know about. I managed the chaos as carefully as walking on a black-night path except this time there was nobody to tell me how to do it with confidence and everybody was there to see when I tripped over the stump and landed in the thorns. Still, I wrapped my cloth around me like a bright mask or a new skin and when my new friends poked holes in it they discovered the whirling dances of a different country underneath, so they named me after my mix of colours and I blurred them all into something resembling stability. In the end I always knew that every story I told had holes and half-truths, but when I put them together they stacked into the pieces I needed to keep going so I held my chin high and taught myself confidence.
Sometimes, still, strangers ask questions. They see me and notice the blurred edges of my names, they catch glimpses of the holes in my skin and they wonder if I am really who they think I am. Mostly I reach into my jar of stories and I swirl the choices around and pick a truth to give them, something to cover up the things they don’t really want to know about. But sometimes I toss my head and laugh, unfurl the bright colours into a banner that declares – I am /never/ who you think I am – because I am not even who I think I am and I’m certainly not who I say I am and who am I anyway? Sometimes I spin in a dance they’ve never seen before and I tell them this too is me, sometimes I write them a poem full of foreign languages and can’t be bothered to interpret it. Sometimes, I am too much for them and I do not care because these are the pieces I need to make sure I don’t lose too much and the confusion of one stranger is a small price to pay for the gift of being complicated and confident.
You can’t catch me, I say, whirling away in a blur of secrets and stories colourful enough to block out the rest.
This year I met a stranger who tried. A stranger who chased after my trail of contradictions and picked up every half-truth I dropped along the way, came up to me with arms full of gathered pieces and told me – look I’ve found such a beautiful mess – as if the tangled knots of my underneath could ever be called beautiful. Messy, yes. I know my stories are messy, I know when my colours are spinning around me sometimes they stain the ground rainbow and I don’t know how to clean it up. But I held up the secrets I had hidden away in the darkness and discovered a mosaic of stained mess that even this country has chosen to name as art, and I wondered why it took a stranger to see that this too could be beautiful. Either way, I guess I was ready for the things nobody wanted to know to become the things I could choose to say, and I added them into my jar of stories imbued with every shred of confidence I have taught myself. After all, who else could show me how to wrap myself up in the sunshine and breeze of a new world without losing the pieces of my history that I needed, how to laugh at the edge of the night-dark and stand up to try again over and over until the blur of my stories swirled with confident colours? There was nobody there but me and the watching world.
So I built my secrets into a mosaic, turned the tapestry of my stories upside down and inside out to show the chaos, stacked my names into the holes of my half-truths and called it brave. Beautiful. A new kind of confident, a bold dance in the middle of the street with eyes flashing and feet stomping and hands clapping rhythms they learned somewhere far away and long ago, somewhere I cannot return but will not forget.
I’m not a line, I say these days. I’m a circle, looping back into myself like a repeating eight of infinity, an endless beautiful mess.”
This is how it starts A little girl, too young to understand, Told she is leaving behind an apartment For an adventure, and she is glad. Too glad to ask questions.
This is the middle, the Whole entire story really Dust and heat and foreign languages, Friends who look different and The little girl learns so many things But it all comes down to this Nothing ever stays the same, nothing Ever lasts forever.
This is how it ends A little girl, too old to forget Is told she is leaving behind her world For a new one and she is shattered. Too shattered to protest.
I guess this is the real Ending though When the little girl walks Onto the plane and flies away Back to the world of Apartments and becomes Someone new, someone different, Someone called Me.
If This Love Is Supposed To Be Permanent (I Don’t Know How) Elizabeth Hemp
No one ever taught me how to stay And you’re getting too close If this love Is supposed to be permanent I don’t know how to do that And I must confess You’re scaring me This close is too close because What if you leave now And my world is shattered As I have always known it will one day be? Too much power, too much trust, too much Potential for hurt and no one Has ever accused me of being an optimist
I don’t know how to stay This point is farther than I’ve ever gone before And I don’t know what comes next Except leaving Leaving has always been the abrupt cut off For all of my history And I have always hated it but if I’m honest I don’t know how else to do it This is the point in the story Where the ending is supposed to go And it’s aching nervously In my bones I don’t like not knowing what comes next
So there’s no reason to leave Except every reason in the world We’re too close, I’m too scared, You can’t understand this fear in my heart Compelling me to leave you behind Before it’s too late and I am the one being left Again, like always… Besides that, no one ever taught me How to stay And all I know is goodbye
Safety is in goodbye Safety is in goodbye Safety is maybe not worth it – Do I dare to try And stay?
The purity of the air after rainfall – The sacred smell of sandalwood Wafting down from the hilltop shrines Reminds me of something. My deadweight soul, flapping with airline tags, Lies gasping, dusted with the residue of long years Lettered ‘Fragile’ and ‘This Way Up’ Entreating those that handle it to be careful: To see it safely on its way to wherever it’s going. Coat-hangers strewn on the unmade bed, The unwashed floor, the weary bags, The cluttered tabletops Which will perhaps retain traces of my having been here When I am gone: A few fingerprints maybe, Scattered fibres from my clothes Or crumbs of what I’ve eaten. Otherwise I’ll be on my way Like the breath in my lungs And the black blood rushing from my hidden heart And the voice of Winter groaning in the pipes And the hissing gas of the stove And all the unsaid words and murdered thoughts Bleeding in the sink of my mind Incognito down the street, keys clinking in my pocket With the tumbling leaves and the frantic ghost of the city To a new address. And maybe I’ll see you again, But we both know it won’t be the same. I’ll twiddle my new keys and feel my chains As though I’m my own jailer. Because I don’t recognise myself anymore.
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