Carissa's Corner

"It is a classical collage, a song of multiplicity, an epic poem that doesn't seek to erase the fault lines and fissures that become a part of our identities in the process of learning to be human while we may be lost at sea..." (Van Der Vliet Oloomi). I chose the aforementioned line from Van Der Vliet Oloomi's writing because I have always felt like hiding the person I used to be. This may sound silly because I am young, only a mere 22 years spent on Earth, but if you think about it, that's two decades, and that feels like a really long time. When I first came to Sacred Heart, I saw it as an opportunity to be the person I wanted to be, rather than the person everyone thought I was at home. I wanted to find my own identity.  The easiest example I can think of is my mother always telling me I am "so sensitive." Mothers are always right, and if my mother tells me I'm sensitive, this must be true. I adopt a sensitive personality when I am home because t...

I grew up in a household where we fashioned our own mouse traps that wouldn't kill the poor little things. I am home this weekend and they've done it again. Two mice captured trying to survive the cold winter in our basement. An old fish tank made into a home, old hay as a blanket. Just until the winter ends. 

I know I'm getting older because I like the taste of wine now. It doesn't taste as bitter as it used to; actually, it tastes pretty sweet. Maybe all things bitter taste sweet the older you get. 

Food is a love language.  Some people like holding hands, others like gifts; but many people will fall head over heels for a steak so rare the insides bleed onto the plate, married with a side of steamed asparagus and a pillow of mashed potatoes. Oh, and the glass of wine ... can't forget the wine. Lola and Poppy are fluent in the language of food (honestly, what grandparents are not?) . When my sisters and I were young, my parents left for work early in the mornings and didn't come home until dinnertime. Lola was known for her Filipino pancit dinners, but the most famous item on the breakfast menu was Poppy's pancakes. Every time I eat them, I am transported to their kitchen. Sitting in a hard wooden chair, I watch Poppy cook with Lola acting as his patient sous-chef. I hear the flump of the pancake mix settling into the bowl. The smack of an egg against the counter. The yolk floats on the powder like a pool toy. A cascade of milk and oil take over, swallowing the content...

I was driving back to my dorm last night around 11:30pm and I turned on the radio. The station was doing a segment called "I'm Sorry." People would send in recordings apologizing for something and the station would select a few to play on the radio. The last person said, "I'm sorry Cole. I should have told you I loved you before you left for work 30 years ago. And my answer is yes, I will marry you. I still love you." 

          The first chapter of  Tell It Slant  by Miller and Paola is all about our unique memories and experiences. As the opening quote by N. Scott Momaday highlights, our memories make us who we are. The book engaged me as a writer and achieved its goal in helping me "uneart" my own forgotten memories. Most of the sections ended with prompts where I would jot down my immediate responses. For example, the "Taste" section is not only relevant to this week's mini essay, but also evoked some strong memories that I had forgotten about. The prompt reads as follows: "What are the tastes that carry the most emotion for you? The tastes that, even in memory, make you stop a moment and run your tongue over your lips and swallow hard?"            When we first received the food prompt last week, I thought I was going to write about my study abroad trip to Italy. I attended a personal cooking class with Professor Hulm...

          My lungs feel like the lemons my sisters and I used to squeeze to make lemonade. We would squish and squash them as hard as we could, swirling the juice with water and sugar. I have no doubt the lemonade actually tasted terrible, just as my lungs feel terrible right now. Looking back, I see Anthony making his way up the trail. The mountain is as steep as a ladder. "We're almost at the top," I call down to him. Our eyes connect and he nods, smiling, but too breathless to answer.            I am used to this climb. I tackled it many times with my childhood friends. We used to have so much energy, practically racing each other to the top. Now, I take the time to appreciate the scenery. The sounds of birds serenading one another. The feeling of sweat dripping down my back. The taste of humid, fresh air. The sun peeking through the branches and the leaves of the trees, as if it is spying on us. My childhood friends...

My lungs feel as if they're lemons being squeezed. Breathe, breathe, breathe. The hill is steep, but we are almost at the top. My hand wraps around a thin tree and I propel myself forward. I can feel the pebbles of the path getting stuck into the bottom of my sneakers. Sweat is dripping down my back from the heat and extensive climb. I look up and see the setting sun peeking through the branches and leaves of the forest.  As I get to the top of the hill, the landscape clears. I search for the one clearing that I know like the back of my hand and find the ginormous boulder wedged into the side of the mountain. I step onto it and sit. The Delaware River stretches out in front of me like a snake. The sun reflects onto the water like an oil painting. Red, orange, yellow, blue, blending to create a scene that feels unreal to me. To me, home is not the little ranch house on Brook Road. Home is right here. 

          The three readings resonated with me in different ways. I felt disconnected from Hemon's piece, "Reasons I Do Not Wish to Leave Chicago: An Incomplete, Random List." Perhaps this is because the title rings true -- it  is  incomplete and random. Although there is beauty in unpredictability, I personally resonate with pieces that flow and connect. "The Snow Line" by Kailyn McCord and "Writing Home" by Camille Dungy sparking something in my heart, like a match to a gas stove. Stories like these, stories that make you feel, are magic.            McCord applies less imagery compared to Dungy but utilizes other literary devices. For example, McCord writes, "She tells me about how it was her mother who first showed her the woods, how they hiked together, how there has not been so much hiking this year, how that is hard." The use of anaphora and asyndeton result in feelings of nostalgia and vulnerability. The r...