My Valentine

It was a typical plot line about not accepting your past in the last episode of Ugly Betty. As I am quick to judge the writers for bringing the cliché feel-good message up, I went to bed wondering if I had the same issues as Betty (yes, TV shows provoke deep thinking for me). Then, last night, I went to bed remembering my self-perception. I pulled out a bunch of old photos that I saved during the big cleaning—filled up a 20-yard dumpster of old un-donate-able things—I did about a week ago.

I smiled to myself seeing the pictures of when I first immigrated to America: bowl cut, hand-me-downs, dorky smile, over-enthusiastic about the simpler things in life. There were also a few pictures of when I got really chubby, really fast over my second summer back in Vietnam.

Most people that know me have probably heard way too often of the stories of you childhood in Vietnam but probably never heard about what it was like when I moved here. It is the typical story of an ethnic immigrant boy trying to adjust to a white-dominated Missouri county. Sometimes I was out-casted, my accent was constantly ridiculed and my obsession with my cousin’s big coats did not help me fit in with the other more-athletic boys. I remember how obsessed I was with my sister since I never really found a friendship that lasted during my tween years. Perhaps these stories do not make a fun and laughable evening and I wonder if I am embarrassed of the me that weren’t so sociable/flirty. But I do want to start telling them.

Growing u, even as a sorta grown-up, I have always been extremely critical of myself. But when I was looking at all the photos, I would give up a good meal or two to go be back in time for a day. Since this Valentines Steve is in Manila, I am going to spend all the love I would have given him on myself, with more old albums I have not yet looked at. Wine, chocolates and all.