Allow Me To Reintroduce Myself

November 3rd 2013

 I had nothing to do with it.

 Which was almost the best part.

 Back in 2010 I invested in a creative writing class at my designated university. Just for shits. And just for giggles. And in this class the teacher assigned us a project.

To write a 1 page autobiography of ourselves.

And that was it.

 What did I write?



Queens, New York.

 A man meets a woman. The man is a fresh arrival from Poland. The woman originating from Korea.

 Fast Forward. >> Play.

 Queens, New York.

 A new baby is born. Let’s name her Samantha. No, Bianca. No, Danielle. Wait… Olive. Olive Danielle. Yeah, that’s it. Good choice. 2 years pass and the man grows tired of the city life. He pleads with his wife and 2 year old baby to consider a small town life. A very, small town life. The woman is hesitant to leave the city of dreams, but surrenders in the name of love. So the Polish man, Korean woman, and half Polish, half Korean baby made their way to Lafayette Louisiana.

 Fast Forward. >> Play.

 A year and a half later, another baby is born. Father and daughter sit impatiently in the waiting room of the Lafayette General Hospital. Olive kiCKing her seat in excitement, barely able to remain still. The door quietly

op     ens

And the nurse says “You can come in now.”

Father looks at his daughter. >>                 << Daughter looks at her father.

They smile, he nods his head. Olive bolts for the door and swings it open with tremendous force. The baby is crying, a lot. Olive cautiously approaches the crib, places her small hands on the rim, peeks over at the distressed baby and says “Shut up you’re very annoying.” Kicked the crib, hard, and proceeded to crawl into bed with the new mother of 2 for an episode of the Flintstones.  “What do you want to name your new sister?” the man and woman ask their 3 ½ year old first born, currently in a ball next to her Mother. “Silvia.” She says.

 She was named Silvia.

 Fast Forward. Play >>

 The man is gone. He went back to Poland, “found a better job there. And I’m sorry.” he says. The woman, 6 year old Olive, and 3 ½ year old Silvia,


In Lafayette Louisiana. One day, the woman picked up her daughter from the bus stop, and with a soft tone said “Your father and I aren’t going to be together anymore.” “It’s about time,” her young daughter calmly replied. That night the woman locked the bathroom door, with her 6 year old daughter inside. She is crying, a lot. “This is not what I wanted” she yelled, sobbing through her tears, embracing her daughter. “I just don’t know who else to talk to…”

That 6 year old girl grew up very fast.

The next morning the woman said to her daughters, “I always believed that everyone should learn an instrument and a sport.” Let the endless piano lessons and gymnastics classes, begin.

 Fast Forward. >> Play.

Olive is the Level 4 Gymnastics State Champion of Louisiana.

 Fast Forward. Play >>

 “I found a great job in Ohio, and I think I’m going to take it.” The woman says to her daughters. Goodbye Lafayette Louisiana. Good friends. Good food. Absent father. Toledo Ohio. The Suburbs. Eh. Olive is now 12, Silvia now 8 ½. New school, sucked. New gymnastics gym, sucked. New piano teacher, the worst. The adjustment was unexpectedly tough. Turns out, 6th graders in Ohio aren’t looking to make new friends.

 The man phones his family periodically. Maybe because he misses them. Maybe because of guilt. Silvia loves her father just the same. Olive does not. She is short and cold with his phone calls, it hurts her to be that way, but his rejection doesn’t give her a choice. “I’m coming to see you this Christmas,” he said excitedly “I can’t wait to see you, I love you and miss you so much. Olive, please write me a letter” he begs her.  “Please.” He wrote frequent letters, followed by no responses.  Olive caved. A few days later, after her sister’s 9th birthday, she pulled out a pen and paper and wrote a casual letter to her father. Partly to grant his wish, but mostly to make amends with the person she loved more than she could admit. “Love your daughter, Olive.”


She walked downstairs, the letter folded in her small hands and approached her mother. “Can you send this letter to daddy please?” she requested. Her mother turned from the dishes, her eyes exhausted with sadness and said to her daughter, “Olive, your father died today.”

 Bad timing.

The ages of 12-17 were a blur to her. Piano. School. Gymnastics. Repeat. Piano. School. Gymnastics. Repeat.  Piano. School. Gymnastics. Repeat. She was going through the motions, but finding little joy in them.  The gymnastics glory and superficial friends felt mediocre at best. “I think you should quit gymnastics” her mother told her one day. “Spend your last year of high school making real friends. Join the high school gymnastics team if you want, but this is not the kind of life that is making you happy, Olive.” So she obeyed her mother. And she was happy she did. She did have more time for friends, and even boys. She finally experienced her first real heart break at the age of 18, her first acts of spontaneity that didn’t have to revolve around such a structured schedule, she finally found an outlet of happiness. She was always a happy person, but

Her happiness hadn’t been renewed, since the 6th grade.

 Fast Forward. >> Play.

College. Oh, what a life. Freedom, independence, and plenty of room for mistakes.  New friends, better friends, than ever before. Parties, temptations, decision making, battle of the freshman 15. She joined the club gymnastics team, indulged herself in a sorority and committed herself to an on campus magazine. She met a boy. A better one. A much better one. Studying abroad, traveling Europe, climbing mountains, tasting Italian pizza, finding fantastic friends.

 At this rate, happiness was inevitable.

 II Pause II 

Oxford, Ohio. Graduation day. New York City. She’s born again. Half of it is her original being, and the other half is a fresh arrival of change. Work. Work. Depression. Work. Tortilla chips. Work. Work. New friends. Work. Break up. Work. New apartment. Work. Follow your dreams, Olive. Work. No. Work. Just do it. Work. Maybe. Start a blog. No. Work. You won’t regret it.