By Jane Yang
Winter 2018 Kaplan Award Winner
“Ok, they are really afraid of humans, and they will go crazy when they see you guys. So maybe just wait for me outside, and I’ll bring them out?” Helen’s hand is on the door handle, and she looks afraid, as if once she opens the door, a swarm of bees would charge out at us.
Patrick and I look at each other, then back at Helen.
“Yea, that’s fine,” I respond as I nod my head.
Patrick shrugs, not seeming to mind either.
“Ok, let’s do this.” Helen slowly opens the door and calls out softly, “Ly-chee, Vi-nnyy, it’s me.”
***
As Helen enters the condo, Patrick and I hear the sounds of tiny low-rumbling thunder, followed by a squeaking whimper, coming from inside, and Helen hastily saying, “It’s ok, Lychee, it’s ok. It’s just me. And I brought some friends. They’re outside. You’re safe.”
The door shuts.
Patrick and I look at each other again, this time with our eyebrows raised. In my head, I imagine all the possible scenarios of meeting Lychee and Vinny. Most of the episodes involve me and Patrick getting chased away and attacked by Lychee and Vinny, and Helen running behind us yelling, “Don’t worry! They probably won’t actually bite. But just keep running!”
***
The condo is brick-built and a classy shade of grey, like the color of a silver iPhone. It has a modern edgy look with its rectangular structure and white-framed windows. And no, this place does not belong to Helen. She wishes. This is actually Clive’s condo. Clive is Helen’s colleague at Amazon. He and his wife are on vacation for a few days, and he decided to ask Helen to dog-sit their two Chihuahuas, Lychee and Vinny. Clive also told Helen she can “make herself at home” and invite friends over to hang out. So, here we are, on a Thursday afternoon, making ourselves at home in Clive’s lovely place in Fremont.
Well, not just yet.
First, we have to take Lychee and Vinny out for a walk. And according to Helen, that will be a challenge. Apparently, Clive volunteered at an animal shelter and adopted Lychee and Vinny a few months ago. That said, the two have gone through some issues of abandonment and even abuse.
***
After 10 to 15 minutes of waiting outside, Helen opens the door and says, “I didn’t realize this was going to take this long. Why don’t you guys come on in and wait inside?”
Patrick and I walk in. Suddenly, a light grey furball bolts out from the room on the right side of the hallway, growling and yapping, and scurries upstairs. Patrick and I stand still.
“That was Vinny, he runs upstairs when he gets really scared.” Helen sighs and drops her head.
She is sitting cross-legged on the floor by the front door while facing the doorway into the office on the right side of the hallway. She leans forward with her arms extended all the way out. Her smile reveals frustration.
Patrick leans against the cream-colored wall, and I tuck my black swing dress under my thighs as I kneel down next to Helen.
“This is their room,” Helen says, “They feel safe when they are in it.”
I lean forward and try to see where Lychee is. I hear that sound of tiny low-rumbling thunder again.
Then I see her.
***
There she is: so afraid, so helpless, so broken.
***
Lychee is curled up in the corner of the room under the work desk. I can only see the shape of her, a dark figure. She is shaking violently. She continues to growl. Her overwhelmingly large set of dark marble eyes meet mine; she starts to yap and whimper. She doesn’t look away, as if trying to tell me that she knows that I will beat her, throw her into the streets, leaving her to starve and fend for herself.
I wish she could understand that I won’t do any of those things — I just want to cuddle her in my arms, tickle her under her chin, and play with her. I just want to love her.
Yet, now she is completely backed up against the wall.
This is definitely going to take a while.
***
After half an hour of kneeling on the floor and “communicating” with Lychee, we finally convince her that we’re not going to hurt her, that Patrick and I are Helen’s friends.
Once we have earned her trust, we get Vinny’s attention too. With multiple doggie treats, we are finally able to put them on their leashes and take them out for a walk.
***
As soon as Patrick and I thought the difficult part was over, we realize that walking the pair is another challenge. Anything in sight that shows movement is an enemy to Lychee and Vinny. And you know what dogs do when they think you’re the enemy. All you have to know is we passed a lot of people and other dogs during the walk.
***
When we get back, Lychee and Vinny rush back to their little safe room, while the three of us head up to the rooftop. Helen brings Clive’s portable speakers and plays a jazz channel from the Pandora app on her phone. She’s slowly enjoying a glass of Grand Marnier (orange-flavored cognac); Patrick’s sipping on his hot mango green tea, and I have a tiny glass of white wine in my hand.
We sit next to the edge of the rooftop and wait for the sunset. An hour goes by. It is filled with discussions about music, poetry, films and traveling.
Helen says if she can’t be a musician, she’ll be a freelance lyricist. “It’s something where if it doesn’t work out, it’s still ok. You can keep writing.”
Patrick tells us that he recently found an appreciation for poetry. He stumbled upon Vassar Miller’s If I Had Wheels or Love in the library the other day, read one or two of the poems, and checked out the book.
Together, we admire the infinite gradient: a soft azul that blends into a greyish blue that melts into a warm tint — it reminds you of a cut open grapefruit, from the orange skin to the inner shade of ruby red. Just by looking at it you taste a citrusy flavor in your mouth. While Mt. Rainier is part of this powerful yet subdued backdrop, the rest of the city looks as if it were photoshopped into the view.
***
“What was the worst that you’ve experienced in your life?” Patrick is asking the question.
We’ve just got into the topic of societal issues, specifically sexual harassment and violence.
A silence falls, though the jazz music continues playing in the background. Right away, certain moments from the past violently flood my mind.
***
Age 10.
“That’s really good.” He says as he places his hand on my left leg.
I don’t think much of it and keep playing. But now my breaths get shakey. The notes come out choppy and unsteady. I’ve practiced this piece at least 10 times already, and I was doing well until he — my flute tutor — put his giant hand on my left bare thigh (I was in shorts).
He is a big tall man with a big plump belly. He has shoulder length hair, but barely any hair left; the top of his head is shiny. He wears frameless glasses that sit on his big round nose.
“Keep going! Very good,” he says as a Santa-Claus-like-smile stretches across his face. He was now patting — more like petting — my leg.
My notes trail off and I put my flute down. He moves his hand off of my leg.
“I need to go to the bathroom.” I get up, place my flute on my chair, and saunter out of the room.
My heart repeatedly hurls against my chest; I don’t understand what I’m feeling in the moment.
I make a phone call, “Mom, can you come get me? I want to end class early today.”
She asks me what’s wrong, and I just say, “I want to quit flute.”
She says ok, and says she’ll be here soon.
We hang up, and I turn to face the classroom door. I see the figure of my flute tutor through the slightly frosted door window. He’s sitting still, waiting for me to go back in soon. I feel heated tears fighting to crawl out from my bottom eye line, and I look up, trying to blink them back into my eyes. As I open the door, I feel the inside of my ribcage burn.
***
Age 14.
I feel his hand sneak up into my shirt, his fingers waltz along my spine up to where my brassier is and his attempt to undo it. Defeated by shock and violated by discomfort, I sit still, dumbfounded. Then, I immediately lean forward, turn my head, and say: “What are you doing?!”
Niel’s arm is still extended towards me. He seems to be half serious and half joking, “haha, come on.”
My heart falls to the bottom of my stomach, and I remain speechless.
I never would have expected Niel to do such a thing — especially to me. We had been best friends for almost three years, and I have had a crush on him for two. While Niel chased after other girls, I remained supportive. It was the kind of best-friendship in which one liked the other, but was afraid to confess their feelings to the other, fearing the confession would cost the friendship. It was the type of best-friendship in which we could chat for hours about anything, and Niel would always find ways to make me laugh.
But right now and right here, I suddenly did not recognize this best-friendship; I suddenly could not recognize Niel as the person who I knew so well.
I turn back to the TV. A few minutes pass, and Niel makes his second attempt, this time with both of his hands. His determination disgusts me.
“Niel, stop it!” I turn to say as I move away from him again.
He tries to keep a poker face, but laughs, “haha, ok ok, just relax. Come on, it’s fine.”
And as soon as I turn away from him, I feel him lift up my shirt from the back.
I finally snap. And as I did, I felt something snap inside of me as well.
“I SAID STOP…It isn’t funny. I’m serious! Stop.”
“Hahaha, ok, ok, come on, it’ll be fun.” He laughs again and winks at me.
I stand up and move to the corner of the room, where my back is against the wall. We sit in silence as we watch TV. I feel nausea settling in. Everything on the screen is blurred, and the sounds coming from the TV are inaudible — I hear my inside screaming in agony, in anger; I feel my inside screaming for help.
***
Age 19.
His name is John. I met him through mutual friends.
There was nothing at first. But it was not long after that we started texting each other for hours each day; he asked me out to coffee; he took me to prom; and eventually, a little after a month of dating, he became my first boyfriend.
But half a year into the relationship, I grew more and more afraid of John as I learned of his explosive temper. When things didn’t go his way — when I didn’t go his way, he would force me into his ways. He had made me his world, and he wanted to control his world.
Eventually, it was as if my heart, relying on its own defense mechanism, had developed a callused exterior. I grew numb to John’s verbal cuts and stabs. Then at some point, he started using physical violence.
A year and a half passed. And finally, one day, I felt my inside collapse. I just couldn’t do it anymore. I finally realized and admitted to myself that I could not be John’s world — that no human being was meant to be someone else’s world.
As expected, John was the most violent I had ever seen during the break up. My “I don’t think we can go on anymore” was like a spell that unleashed the inner demon in him. He yelled at me for three hours, using words as his main weapon. He smashed things to the ground, and at one point, grabbed me by my left wrist and hurled me against the wall. His last physical attempt to force me to not “break us and what we had” was hitting me with his iPhone.
I’ll never forget thinking that I was going to die there, that John was going to kill me. In my heart, I just kept pleading for God to come save me.
***
The story of Niel and me is the specific memory I share with Patrick and Helen. Though not exactly the worst, physically…it felt like the worst. It was the confusion, the feeling of being betrayed and sexualized that made it the worst. It was the disbelief that rushed into my heart: how could my friend — my best friend — do this to me? That made it the worst. It was the disturbance: how my discomfort and frustration could amuse someone. Niel’s persistence disgusted me. My vulnerability — that fueled his pleasure — disgusted me.
***
The jazz music comes back gradually. I don’t turn to look at Patrick or Helen; instead, I stare into my now empty glass. A little part of me thinks I’ve said too much. But a bigger part of me feels grateful that I could share the deepest and darkest pieces of my life with the two of them. What a leap.
Our friendship mainly started because of our shared interest in music. In fact, we’ve been making music together: Helen is a gifted lyricist and a rapper with the most unique voice; Patrick is a talented and self-taught music producer. And they both think I can sing. So there you go.
Now, the friendship has taken a leap across the canyon.
***
Helen and Patrick are speechless, not knowing what or how to say what they’re thinking. I get it, who would know what to say to that?
Perhaps, in the moment, they are angry as well.
***
“It’s ok,” I tell them.
I tell them it’s a challenge you fight over and over again within yourself ––– then eventually, you start fighting yourself. That afterwards, it’s not about the person or people who hurt you anymore, what they did, why they did it, how they did it. But you start to wonder what you didn’t do to defend yourself, why you didn’t do it, how you could have done it. You start to blame yourself.
Then, it really becomes a war with your own emotions, especially anger and fear. The anger burns out eventually like a match that had been lit, and what’s left is a dark stain of sadness and shame. You’re just vulnerable and wilted.
***
As those (countless) experiences built up in my life, the resulting pain and anger inside did as well. Every time I received a UW alert regarding sexual assault, I would curse the aggressor(s) involved, in my head, but would then beg for forgiveness from the Lord after, feeling guilty and ashamed for judging others. Every time I saw a random couple walking on the street, I would automatically see images of the boyfriend verbally and/or physically abusing the girlfriend. Every time I saw a mother holding the hand of her little girl, I would tear up as I think your little girl is going to get hurt at some point, it is inevitable.
Every time I looked in the mirror, I felt disgusted; I felt disgusting. I was angry that parts of my body had been “borrowed” and used by other men; parts of my body didn’t feel like mine. And so, I didn’t want to be around myself; I didn’t want to be around people who cared for me; I didn’t want to be around people in general.
I was afraid of my male friends. Even the ones I considered close.
After all, my flute tutor was supposed to be someone I can look up to and learn from, and he decided my innocence at that age was an opportunity for his “pleasure.” Niel was my best friend in middle school, and he kept attempting to undo my brassiere even as I kept saying, “no, please stop, it’s not funny.” John was the guy who said he wanted to marry me, and his response to my “I don’t think this relationship is working” included yelling “you f*cking heartless c*nt,” and giving me a two-quarters-sized bruise on my right arm and a slightly twisted left wrist.
***
In my college years, as I started understanding and analyzing those countless moments in my life, I felt myself fill up with pain and be consumed by hatred.
***
“People are so messed up.” Patrick says in disbelief.
“Yea, they really are,” Helen nods.
“Yea, well, we all are though, in our own ways,” I look up and remind myself that this world is broken, that people are broken.
***
Surely there is not a righteous man on earth who does good and never sins. (ESV, Eccl. 7:20)
***
“I mean, I think there is purpose and reason in going through ––– well, overcoming these experiences and the pain.” I say.
Patrick and Helen look at me. It’s not a sympathetic look. It’s the look of a supportive friend who’s at your marathon, sees the too-tired-and-almost-falling-over you near the finish line, and cheers you on enthusiastically, believing that you can win.
“Well, they cultivate compassion, they make me more vulnerable, and as a result, more empathetic. Not that I didn’t have empathy before these things ––– but now I can relate to more people, those who have experienced the same or similar form of pain. And now, I know what to say to someone when they share their story and their scars. I know how to love people better. And when I understood this, I learned to let go of the hatred, any bitterness, and eventually, the pain.”
***
Lord my God, I called to you for help, and you healed me. (ESV, Psalm 30:2)
***
“Truly, even in moments that it doesn’t seem like it, it doesn’t feel like it, forgiveness is still the answer, and it will always be the answer. What good is there to be consumed in hate? It’ll just end up hurting me and others.”
***
But I say to you who hear, Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you, pray for those who abuse you. (ESV, Luke 6:27-28)
***
Though they aren’t saying anything, from their eyes and their smiles, I can see that Patrick and Helen are proud of me.
***
The sun casually disengages from our conversation and sinks into a deep slumber in the soft bed of clouds, disappearing from the horizon. The cold air pricks the skin on my bare legs. We decide to head indoors, back to the second floor.
***
As Patrick, Helen and I talk some more, Lychee sits by my feet. I try not to look at her at first, worried that if I do, she’ll feel alarmed. When I was sure that she was here to stay from the corner of my eye, I slowly turn to look at her. I call her name softly, and she looks right at me. I finally get a good look at the little fighter: she is a medium-sized mixed Chihuahua with a shiny black fur coat. The black fur shapes out her face and outlines around her eyes and runs straight from the forehead to her nose. Her face is a coffee-with-cream color, and the clear line created by the black and the coffee-with-cream-colored fur resembles constantly furrowing eyebrows that give her a worried disposition. She lies there, with her long forelegs in front of her, her velvety triangular ears pointed up ––– trying to be fully aware of all the surrounding sounds.
Yet, it is as if she is thinking: hey, maybe I can be here, with these people, and it’s ok. Maybe I am safe here. Maybe, not everyone is going to hurt me as I’ve been hurt before.
***
And so, there she is: so afraid, so helpless, so broken.
Yet, so beautiful, so brave, so beloved.