Forever Twelve by Alina Q

I am twelve, and the ivory keys of our grand piano do not stir. Days of practicing my triplets and arpeggios expire as my idyllic childhood rots away before my own eyes. I am twelve when I first recognize the talk of a career in computer science or mathematics or engineering that erupts over dishes of scallion pancakes and egg tofu.

But I am only twelve, and I do not understand.

I am thirteen and the pressure of my parents and their parents before them weigh down on me like dumbbells as I lean over my desk, sprawling and poring over the pages. I recite the equations to myself like a war song.

I am bright, and I know it as well as my classmates at school; but I am not bright enough for the prying eyes of the aunties that come over and wonder offhandedly about my whereabouts. I am thirteen and I try to force myself to care.

I am thirteen when I pick up the blade in the mirror of my bathroom. I stare at my reflection and I do not recognize the person staring back with wide and unblinking almond eyes. I stand on the cold tile floor as I watch blood bloom into little crimson beads along my skin, the serrated blade dragging across flesh in one swift motion. I know my mother and father would never understand, even if I summoned the smothered embers of courage remaining within me. This I can control, I assure myself. At least this. I pray fervently to whatever God is in the heavens that as I stare at my bedroom ceiling into the late hours of night.

I am thirteen and yet I still do not understand.

I am fourteen and I curse myself for not being able to be as hardworking as I wished I could be, or as my mother wished I could be. I am fourteen and still the expectations weigh impossibly heavy upon my shoulders, my own towering ambitions adding to my load. This and this and this. I keep up, but just barely so, trembling under my burden. My mother watches me with critical eyes, her voice filled with venom as she speaks sharply in a concoction of both Chinese and English. I am fourteen and I know am not the person she wishes I was and neither God nor I can help it.

I am fourteen and I am exasperated.

I am fifteen and I meet people just like me. They share my skin along with their stories and struggles and worries. We are fifteen as we speak in low, hushed tones of the future ahead of ourselves and our eyes meet in unsaid acknowledgement. We are fifteen and we confide in each other for everything, for we know that together we will always understand. I am fifteen and I find that I am not as alone as I think.

I am fifteen and there is hope.

I am fifteen and I understand.