May 23, 1989 was a Tuesday.
Ten minutes after eight in the morning, I was born, and confirmed alive, healthy, and female. In Asian culture, having a boy was found to bring good luck, and I’m sure my parents would have wanted me to become a boy. It was an assumption that wasn’t too hard to realize, as my Father preferred to dress me up as a boy back then: boy’s shoes, jumpers, and short haircuts.
In hindsight, maybe my Father had no preference of what he would want his third child’s gender to be. Maybe those were the only clothes that he could afford, or perhaps those were the only hand-me-downs he could find that would fit me, and maybe the only hair cut he could do was short. I wouldn’t know; I’ve never thought of asking Dad.
I remember my Aunt who took care of me before I even started school. I remember being taken to summer school for days– a place where I learned to draw shapes and tell colors.
I remember my cousin, and at the image and thought of him, a burst of anger came alive inside my chest and in my mind. I remember how he lured me into his bedroom, and how he would stealthily slip his hand from behind me and into my clothes.
The mere memory of it makes me want to throw up.
Now I don’t feel like writing anything anymore.
It’s amazing how the mind is powerless to forget a memory that has been causing the heart so much pain for more than two decades.