Thursdays with Jen: A not-so-happy Lunar New Year
A reflection on the tragic Lunar New Year mass shooting in Monterey Park, California.
Dear reader,
Today’s newsletter was supposed to be a continued reflection on my writing journey. I previewed in the last newsletter that I would elaborate further on the idea of changing my definitions of short-term and long-term success.
That issue of the newsletter is forthcoming, I promise. That said, those Thursday ramblings would have felt superficial relative to the heaviness of this Lunar New Year. The Year of the Rabbit/Cat, which is supposed to be a slower, more peaceful year, began with several senseless mass shootings – first in Monterey Park, then in Half Moon Bay, and then not far from me in Oakland. There are more lucid and eloquent writers than I who know how to write with care and insight in moments of crisis. I am not sure that I am capable of contributing any comfort amid this series of tragedies, just rumination from my grieving process.
I used to think that one of most uncomfortable trends after a mass shooting (aside, of course, from the mass shooting itself and the stasis, apathy, and inaction that transpires thereafter) is the “it could have been me” reflection. I could have been at the festival, I missed the event by a few days, I was a few degrees separated from the victim. Long ago, it used to feel so egocentric, self-serving, cloying. I didn’t know better. Mass shootings felt so theoretical and my analysis aligned accordingly.
Now, I understand. Although no one I know was physically harmed this weekend, with the frequency of these shootings the question I have asked myself has evolved. It is no longer “could it have been me?” but rather “when will it be me”? Perhaps the aforementioned wondering is irrational, especially considering the privileges I hold. However, that irrational question dominated my Tuesday, post-Lunar New Year commute. On the train, I looked around vigilantly at fellow passengers who were quietly going to work and asked myself whether I was safe.
I don’t like distrusting strangers and I hated where my mind was going. In these moments of public fear, I have developed 2 habits. First, I scan for emergency exits in the instance I have to use them. Then, my mind goes into writing mode.
This train ride was no different. I positioned myself at a strategic distance that is both far enough and close enough to the doors. Then, I pulled out my phone to write something really messy, half-baked, and provoked by the fact that one of the women who died had the exact same name and was the same age as my own mother:
The barrel of a gun compels movement.
First, from war where men wielded guns to fight, supposedly, for their country.
You dash, flee, leave for another home.
Second, from a dance hall, many decades and miles later.
You dance in motions that mask the past with momentary joy.
Then, it hits, a bullet you once escaped, but could not outrun.
Like you, it traveled through distance.
The most bewildering part of the week was feeling some happiness. On Monday, I heard that one of my writing pieces was awarded a prize. Through the literary publication, I was afforded my first ever interview about writing. I was excited to be asked about my writing approaches. It was strange to feel a jolt of elation while knowing that there was a lot of sadness in my community. I even feel weird referring to the interview and the prize in the middle of this heavy newsletter.
The ”winning” piece, Escape, was written during a difficult moment in my life that transpired many years ago. As I re-read the piece, I was reminded why I sit at my computer shuffling words on a Word document for hours and why I developed a writing habit that I activate alongside basic emergency preparedness. This work has always been a space where I can set aside present day worries and time travel, going back to the past or forward in my imagination. It’s been a practice where I can process pain at my own pace or concoct a better future. It’s an experience where I can blend, meld, and transform the mess of my feelings into something more controlled, more composed. In writing, I feel like I can bend chaos and mold it a structure of my liking, which is soothing when the rest of the world appears uncontrollable.
Inevitably, the “when will it be me?” question will evolve to “what will I do?” I know that writing and this newsletter is not enough. It can’t be enough. It absolutely won't be enough. For now, this is where I am and how I am mourning.
And with all of this mind, thank you for reading. It means a lot to me, especially right now. Please stay safe.
In community,
JTVN