Hear/Say

I never really thought that moving to Seattle would change much– I mean, I knew it would, but to think that my entire perspective on so many levels would engage with the exciting new place I have moved to… it wasn’t really in my mind. I was more thinking about how dumb it was going to be to make entirely new friends. In retrospect, of course it’s a strange freedom to “become a new person” or revert to who you actually are without the intense scrutinizing of people who think they can read your mind. It wasn’t so exciting for me; instead, I spent three weeks at the ESL table because that was where I could sit unnoticed. Where I could fit in; but not really, because most of the girls who sat there were Japanese anyway.

Angst aside, to think of the place I *used* to live– well, it’s mind-blowing to ponder an alternate future if I had stayed. The western suburbs of the “Greater Chicago Area”: where the farmland stretches on, the corn is ten cents, and the only thing greater than finally getting a car so you could actually do something outside of the house is… well, God. If you think of the ultimate boredom of “white/American” normality, Wheaton/Glen Ellyn is it.

And I didn’t live there all my life; before that, I lived in Springfield, Illinois. You’d think, being the hometown of Abraham Lincoln, and the capital of the great state of Illinois would be more than it is. It’s not. I remember the tiny apartment in my very early years… it’s like a dream… the ugly carpet, the bunk beds, the small backyard. The fact that I would always shut my eyes and wish my mom would turn left, towards the supermarket and the mall, so I wouldn’t die of boredom at home… and I faintly remember the phase I went through where I celebrated the word “bastard” and sang it all over town (my parents had no idea what it meant). I remember Rachael, my doll that closed her eyes when you lay her down, and how infuriating she used to be because she was so blonde, blue-eyed, and helpless. Whatever, she was my best friend.

I’m getting carried away, though: the one legacy in Springfield in which I revel in is Mr. Eggroll.

via flickr plasticfootball

Mr. Eggroll is the Chinese take-out restaurant my dad and my uncle opened– they designed the building (my uncle’s an architect), built the building themselves, and ran the place. I remember the yellow booths, and my dad teetering on the tallest ladder while he painted a giant mural of– well, the female Buddha.

They used to sell fried pineapples. Those were my fave. And the dessert was jello that looked like the Italian flag, with red, white, and green layers. The sign “Mr. Eggroll” that decorates the top tier of the building is mirrored. Funnily enough, I don’t remember eating anything other than the fried pineapples and the jello because my mom never worked. The building is still there, and the inhabitants consider it slightly historical because of it’s unusual and iconic design (I coincidentally ran into people who grew up there at a hostel in New York City who told me this). Now, my dad is in Taipei, Taiwan, and he has quite the noodle shop. We ate there all summer; there are tons of noodle dishes– lo mein, chow mein, noodle soup, different kinds of noodle soup, different kinds of noodles… and fried rice, congee, as well as other regular side dishes.

Even at a meager 22, Illinois feels like another lifetime. Having snow in November feels like another lifetime. White Christmases, and the flat land under the huge flat sky… I’ll probably visit soon. Tina’s starting her M.B.A at UC there. I wish I could have a reason to visit Springfield again, but that past will probably stay behind me.

Graceee