dear, whoever reads this anymore

I have found myself in a predicament, yet again, as always, in writing and updating this blog. Part of me continuously wants to strive and become a better writer, but I’m not necessarily sure if I have it in me. Maybe being a student with my head barely keeping above water does not help, but I can’t find the time to post. Lately, my mind has been filled with so many things. I can’t help but feel like I’m doing enough, yet I feel like I’m too much. I can’t get my mind off of the work I need to do. I can’t help but feel guilty over things that I have no control over what so ever. I’m lost, but I also have my life planned out for the next three years, which is a lot more than the average college senior, but I still feel so, so lost. I’m not even sure how to fully express myself anymore. Everything is the luck of the draw and like… I feel like I can only push my luck so far. In regards to grad school, this is all I ever here. It doesn’t matter if you’re a particularly good or bad writer or student, it all comes down to luck.


I’m overwhelmed by the number of views my previous post got. I’m not sure what people’s general thoughts are, but it’s wild that people from across the world have read it. From China to Mexico, to Australia and Spain. I’m happy though. Yes, my mom does know that I posted the letter online. Yes, she was a little mad, but in the end, I think she’s fine.

In other news, I’ve missed my past two posts for the #under500 project, and I realized that this particular project might not be conducive to myself as a writer. I want to continue writing on topics that I care about, and I would rather spend my time creating that content than scramble for something I’m uninspired to write. I want to keep up the momentum, but I don’t know how to. I may consider creating a facebook page, but maybe not. If you’re a fellow blogger or writer and have any advice, please send me some!

A Letter to my mom

I spent a long time thinking about this topic, how to approach it, and how to write about it. I worried about whether or not I would offend people, or if what I am saying makes sense. In the end, the only relationship and experience I can write about is between my mother and I. I hope that this letter can help people, particularly white Americans with children of color, understand more about how one transnational, transracial, Chinese American adoptee feels about the state of our nation.


Dear Mom,

We just finished our conversation about Charlottesville, and it was a lot. Speaking about race with you can be exhausting and even a waste of time. It can be frustrating, especially when you tell me that I shouldn’t get mad. But, how can I not? How can I not be angry and hurt and betrayed when there are white supremacists that walk through the streets telling me that my life does not matter. How can I not fear for my life when there are men and women who say that I do not belong in their America when I did not come here by choice? How do I say that another white person is who brought me to their America? You brought me here.

You tell me it’s better to pick and choose my battles, and that people will not listen to me when I am angry. This is probably true. As a woman, as an Asian American woman, my voice will often go unheard more often than yours. This is why I need you to speak up for me. I need you to take up some of the battles for me. And sometimes, you have. When I was younger, you told me a story about how when you went to church with me when I was a baby; a pastor had said the word “Gook.” You told me how that shook you to your core. You said that in church, it was one of the only spaces you felt you could let your guard down. You told me that space was violated. A few weeks later, you interrupted a church meeting, with all white men, and said that you had gotten a pastor a present. That present was a dictionary, and you told him that he should learn better words and that he should be ashamed.

When I brought this up, you looked ssurprizedthat I remembered. I also remembered how a few months ago, you told your older friends that they shouldn’t say Indians, but rather Native Americans. It is moments like these, that means the most to me. It is moments like these, which are what make me proud most proud of you. However, there are also moments when I am ashamed. You will make comments, intentionally or not, that are often racist.

One thing that has affected me my entire life has been your comments about the color of my skin. You would joke and say, “you look like you have been working in the rice paddy fields all day.” You would tell me that you ruined my skin and that I used to be a cream color. When I came home for the first time after my semester in the North East, you had commented how light I had gotten. You expressed happiness, but I thought that I looked sick. I didn’t believe that I radiated the way I did when I was out in the sun.

Having you, a white American whose ancestry reaches back to the American Revolution, as my mom has taught me a lot of things, and I know that I have shown you a lot of things. You now listen to what I have to say and take into consideration about the world around us. You use the correct pronouns for my friends, and you catch yourself when you’re about to say something homophobic. I don’t expect you to march in the streets. But I do expect you to talk to your friends. I expect you not only stand up for me; I expect you to stand up to any form of bigotry. I love you, and you are my hero in so many ways. Probably in more ways than I have ever articulated to you, but this does not mean I cannot be critical of you as you are critical of me. You are my mom, and you will always be my mom. Do better. Be better.


Your radical little girl


TL;DR: Welcome! This blog is not solely fiction driven! Expect posts Monday, Wednesday, and Fridays for #under500 project, and then sporadic postings of more of the fiction I write, but also more literary and non-literary content alike!

Recently, I have gained a lot more views and followers in the past week, so I figured I would give you all a more formal introduction of myself! My name is Camille, and I am a senior in college. I created this blog mainly because I wanted to document my experience conducting independent research in S. Korea. Unfortunately, I was not particularly fruitful endeavor, but I would like to think that I spent my time enjoying and exploring more for myself rather than recording for other people. And fundamentally, I believe that this is what the purpose of this blog will be. A few posts ago, I wrote about how terrified I am of putting myself out there in the world. I’m afraid that the things I write about may offend someone, or that it may come across the wrong way, or that maybe someone will just think my writing is absolute trash– which if we’re honest, probably can be at times. Nevertheless, I feel like this is a moment in my life where I am exercising what many would call “self-love” and not care about what other people think.

Generally, it is really nice to know that I have a small readership and that some of you actually like my writings. But I want to give a fair warning, I don’t want to make this into a niche blog. I’ve been reading up on the internet how to make a blog successful: make sure that you write on a particular topic, so you become an expert on that topic. But, this blog is truly going to be a reflection of my life, and that means that I’m not great at one thing, but I am fairly mediocre at a wide range of stuff, so that’s good enough, right?

I will be starting college (Uni for those of you outside of the U.S College system) back up again in a few weeks and posting daily is completely unrealistic for me. Especially for my #under500 challenge. So, I’ve created a schedule of Monday, Wednesday, and Friday postings for the #under500 challenge and post sporadically on other topics. I care about a lot of issues (activism, social justice, Asian American related topics, adoptee related topics, representation, you get the gist) and I hope to write more on them either in fiction or non-fiction prose. There are a few projects that I have in mind, that I would like to undertake, so be on the look out for those. In the mean time, if you made it this far into the post, thanks for following me on a 2 AM ramble, and I appreciate you.



like daddy like son

Cont. of “The One”

Sometimes Harold likes to take a walk around the block. He notices that Mrs. Lee’s garden is in full bloom and that baby birds are learning to fledge. He sees Mr. Wilson’s dogs lay in the sun. Sandy isn’t outside, but that’s okay. She’s probably out with her mama grocery shopping. Maybe when they get back, Harold can go over for some ice cream. Ms. Armstrong was always so kind and always smelled nice. Harold wished that he had a mom like that.

When Harold asked his daddy how he was born, his daddy always tells him he was born out of pure love. When Harold asks where his mama is, his daddy always lowers himself to eye level and places his right pointer finger on Harold’s chest and say that she’s right there in his heart. There are pictures of her and his father around the house. They’re happy and smiling. Harold thinks that his daddy should smile like that more often, but he doesn’t know how.

Harold notices that his father looks at Sandy’s mama in a funny way. Frank crinkles his nose and always comments that the Lord don’t make them the same no more. Harold asks his daddy what he means by that, and his father looks down filled with sad eyes.

“Well, your mama was an angle. Complete angel. That lady over there is no good. No husband and no one to take care of her and that girl over there. It’s a wonder how she’s able to afford that house over there. She’s probably a slut.”

Harold doesn’t know what a slut is, but he knows that it’s not good. Suddenly, he doesn’t like the way that Ms. Armstrong smells. She’s always wearing those low cut dresses and wearing too much makeup. Harold hopes that Sandy doesn’t grow up to be like her mom, but maybe it’s too late.

“Your Mama is a slut!”


Sandy slapped Harold across the face and ran into her house. They haven’t spoken in a few days, but Harold knows she’ll come around. Every time they get in a fight, all he has to do is keep following her around until she gives in. He pushes her to the ground because that’s how boys are told to let girls know they like them. Maybe he’ll just go over and pretend to like Ms. Armstrong to save Sandy. After all, if there’s no man in the house, Harold thinks, who’s going to keep Sandy in line?


Watching the yellow train pass by just as soon as she made it to the platform, Sarah shrugged in defeat. Puffing a little air out of her mouth to blow a lock of hair off of her face she was reminded of her motto: never run for any man or any form of public transportation. And 96% of the time, she followed that rule. Gazing around at the crowded platform, she let herself be absorbed into the horde of commuters. After a few bumps, she found herself against a cool concrete wall that came up right below her chest. It served to protect anyone who might fall between the divide of the platform and rest of the terminal. Turning her body away from the crowd, she let her arms dangle off of the ledge of the concrete wall and rested her chin upon it. The objects were the usual things that you would see abandoned and pushed off to the side: a plastic water bottle, a crushed paper cup, an empty chip bag, a blue ribbon, a condom? Sarah looked closer and examined the long translucent tubular shape. How did a condom outside of its wrapper end up here? Sarah thought for a moment, knowing that she had a decent chunk of time to waste until the next yellow train arrived (approximately 12 minutes), and began to think about how wrapper-less condom could have ended up there.

Sally’s body was damp with perspiration due to the unseasonably warm weather. The hem of her ocean blue checkered uniform clung to the back of her thighs. However, despite this, her hair was pulled up neatly in a high pony tail, and a navy blue ribbon tied into a bow held it up. Not a single strand was out of place. She cradled her astronomy notebook in the nook of her left arm and prepared her subway ticket to tap into the terminal. “HEY SALLY!” she could hear Johnny yell, 20 feet away. She rolled her eyes and breathed in deeply in preparation for whatever Johnny had in store for her today. She paused right before the gate and watched him push his way through the crowd to get to her. If she was damp, Johnny was outright soaked. His tie was loose, and there were large wet patches all over his white button down shirt, no longer crisp from the beginning of the day. 10 feet before he reached her, Sally turned to continue her way through the gate and waited for him to rummage through his messenger bag to get his ticket out.


“Hey, how’s it going, Sally O’Malley?” Johnny asked, winded.

“You know I hate it when you say, O’Malley. It’s not even my last name.” Sally retorted.

“Yeah, but you know it rhymes. Hey, guess what I found last night in my dad’s dresser?” he asked reaching into his bag before she could guess.

Between his pointer and middle finger, was a shiny wrapper with serrated edges. “Durex” was written all over the package and a prominent circle protruded out.

“You did not steal a condom from your father!” exclaimed Sally.

“I did” he smiled mischievously. “Don’t you want to see it?”

Johnny took the wrapper between his teeth and tugged on it until it tore. Clear liquid oozed out as he took out the ring from the pouch.

“It’s not as long as I was expecting it to be…” he said as he examined the ring.

“You’re supposed to stretch it out” Sally replied with her face scrunched up.

Together they pulled the condom apart, Johnny holding onto the stiffer ring structure and Sally pulling the tip out. They take a moment and look at the stretched condom.

“The Yellow Train is approaching the platform. Please step back and let passengers exit the doors before you enter the train.”

“Oh shoot!” Sally yelled, “That’s my train!” in a hurry, she tugged the condom from Johnny’s hand by accident and ran to the platform. Realizing she was running with a moist condom through the station, she flung it into the air hoping it wouldn’t hit anyone in the face. Her hair began to loosen from the tight pony tail, and with one last stride, she was able to jump onto the train before the doors closed, but not without losing her long navy blue ribbon that now lay limply on the floor outside of the train. A man in a black suit stepped on it while he was shouting loudly into his phone.


When Sarah was satisfied with her story, she looked up only to see a little girl staring at her from the window of a yellow train departing from the platform.

The One

Frank met Linda on a warm summer day at the local pool. Well, met isn’t the correct word. He saw her. He saw her from behind the wheel of his 1976 Jeep Cherokee. Her hair was longer then, legs leaner, soft porcelain skin. She had a youthful glow. Linda stood atop of a lifeguard stand, pointing at a bratty boy with sandy hair and bright blue swim trunks. It was then he knew—he had found the one.

It took several weeks of talking to himself in the mirror before he could introduce himself. He would stand there, shoulders back, and run his hand through his thinning hair line. There was nothing particularly handsome, but there wasn’t anything particularly damaging. Frank knew that he was an average man, but average was good. Average meant that he could just blend in. Frank enjoyed being able to blend it

Linda was the opposite. She was the life of the party, and although she didn’t have a very pretty face, all of the boys would crowd around her. Linda was eighteen and fresh out of high school. She hadn’t noticed Frank at first. He was just another older man who would come and lay out in the sun and doze off. Then, one day when she was switching out with Franny, Frank approached her. It was strange at first, but she took a liking to him. His eyes were soft and kind, and his voice was never raised. He was safe.

The two went to drive-in movies, shared milkshakes, swam in the shallow waters off the Florida Keys. They talked about the birds and the way the clouds moved across the sky. They talked about sea shells and the salt that collected on the back of leaves on white mangroves. They talked about how she felt stifled by her family and how she was never going to turn out like her mom.

Lately, Linda has been looking rather dull. Her hair has been shaved off, and her skin looks sickly. Scabs encrust her wrists and ankles. They fall off prematurely, and blood drips down onto the floor. Has it been several weeks, or months, or years? She’s not sure anymore. Her body aches, and she’s not sure if the last period she missed was because of the physical stress or if she’s pregnant again. She prays that she’s not—she doesn’t even know what happened to her last.

Frank is happy. He has a wife and a child, and there’s nothing more in the world he can ask for. Work has been steady, and although Linda gets on his case now and then, nothing can come between the love they have for one another. Afterall, he always knew she was the one.



You don’t love him

You don’t love him. At least, this is what you tell yourself as you drift off to sleep after a thirty minute fuck. If you loved him, you would have cum. If you loved him, you would let him fuck you with the lights on. You don’t, so you don’t. After nine years, fifty-six countries, and two affairs, it’s a wonder why he hasn’t left, but he hasn’t. Instead, your head is resting on his chest on a bed in a hut on an island off the coast of Malaysia. He won’t leave you because you hold a promise of a future, a family, a foundation for a fantasy—not that he has said any of this to you.

The preen-up will be over in another year or so, and that’s when you plan to pack your bags and never look back. But why leave? You don’t have anywhere in particular to go, and you don’t have any family or friends to see. Do you return to a city in a country you’re familiar with and know the streets by heart? Or try to establish roots somewhere else? You don’t have any remarkable skills, but blond hair and blue eyes will get you almost anywhere nowadays. Besides, with a cool two-hundred and fifty-six million dollars, you could go anywhere in the third world. Maybe take on a lover, or two, or four. Why not? You’ve wasted most of your youth fucking a man that thought your clit had too many turns like a rubrics cube and when you found someone who could handle it just right, you suddenly moved. You’re not sure if he ever found out, but you’re also not particularly interested in asking. Some things are better left unsaid.

How would he take it? Did he think that after ten years you’d change your mind and fall in love and say yes to numerous children he asked for? Four girls and three boys? Or maybe it was four boys and three girls? It’s been a while since he’s brought it up. He knows better than to ask anymore. Would they look more like you or him? Not that the children would be attractive, your genes could only cover up so much.

Time passes, and your mind starts to quiet itself, and you can hear the waves lap at the sand and the wind caress the leaves of trees. Maybe you won’t leave him. It hasn’t been a particularly hard or long life. And who knows, maybe you do love him after all.

I worry a lot

I worry about a lot of things, but mostly I worry about making my opinions public to the world. There is a part of me that comes up with so many stories I want to write and the opinions I have about certain things, but there is a deeply rooted concern about publishing those ideas online. On the one hand, I desperately want to talk to people about these topics and ideas, but on the other, I also don’t want to be crushed by public scrutiny. I know, I’m not perfect. No one is. Everyone is problematic, and as long as I grow and learn from mistakes and acknowledge them, it doesn’t seem like enough. I’m a huge advocate for learning about new things through dialogue and conversations, yet I’m really terrified of putting mine out into the universe. It’s easier to do it in person, but everything always seems so one-sided on the internet. There are obviously going to be trolls, assholes, and everything else. On a rational level, it’s easy to know that it doesn’t matter what strangers say to you, but it never truly changes how I feel. I just hope that one day, I’ll become think-skinned enough follow-through.

It’s been a hot minute.

It’s been close to a month since I’ve posted, but I promise I’ll be back! Maybe. Readjusting back to American life was odd and I miss S. Korea like crazy. I miss the convenience of public transport, convenience stores, endless skin care stores, street food, blending in, friends, trying new things. I forgot to post about a lot of my experiences, like eating live octopus and going to language exchange meetups. But, I think that’s okay. I’m realizing that I don’t need to document everything I do on social media to know that I’ve done those things.