by Hope Nation- YA Authors Share Personal Moments of Inspiration (retail) (epub)
Keep reading stories. Keep writing stories. Keep sharing stories. I will forever be at your side.
DAVID LEVITHAN LIBBA BRAY ANGIE THOMAS ALLY CONDIE MARIE LU JEFF ZENTNER NICOLA YOON KATE HART GAYLE FORMAN CHRISTINA DIAZ GONZALEZ ATIA ABAWI ALEX LONDON HOWARD BRYANT ALLY CARTER ROMINA GARBER RENÉE AHDIEH AISHA SAEED JENNY TORRES SANCHEZ NIC STONE JULIE MURPHY I. W. GREGORIO JAMES DASHNER JASON REYNOLDS BRENDAN KIELY
NICOLA YOON
Love
MY HUSBAND SAYS THIS OF the moment he realized he wanted to marry me. First, he thought, I want to marry this girl. And then he thought: Oh shit.
The moment he had his Oh shit epiphany, I was alone in the shower, singing loudly and tragically off-key. It’s a sad fact that though I love to sing, I’m not at all good at it. I’m reasonably sure I was singing “Cool Rider” from Grease 2 (the far superior Grease movie). Something about my terrible singing sent love bubbles dancing from his eyes.
Why the Oh shit? Because my husband is Korean American and I am not. Not only am I not Korean American, I am Jamaican American, which is to say that I’m black. He thought Oh shit because in that moment he could foresee the trouble that loving and marrying me would cause in his family.
I was pretty naïve back then. We were both twenty-eight years old and in graduate school studying creative writing. It truly didn’t occur to me that anyone would object to us being together. My parents didn’t. It didn’t even occur to me that they might.
A year after that singing-in-the-shower moment, my husband-to-be proposed. By that time we’d been through a lot with his family. When he first told them that we were dating, they threatened to disown him. It scared him so much that we broke up for twelve hours. Back then my husband was the kind of wonderful son who called his mother once a week. After we started dating, those phone calls dried up. Why? Because every phone call became a lecture on why we shouldn’t be dating. And what were the stated reasons? You have nothing in common. Korean culture and black culture don’t mix. She will disgrace our family. What will happen to your children? Black people are . . . less.
After we got engaged, his parents did disown him. This really happened. It broke his heart and it broke mine. I’m certain it broke his mother’s as well. I don’t think she wanted to do it, but she somehow felt she had to. I imagine that she thought the loss of his family would persuade him to do what she saw as the right thing.
And then came his brother’s wedding. As his fiancée I was, of course, invited. Also, his brother and his wife had been nothing but supportive from the very beginning. They insisted that I attend. But I knew if I attended, his parents would not. I made the choice to stay away because I didn’t want to ruin the day for my future brother- and sister-in-law. I still believe I did the right thing. But I am conspicuously missing from those family photos. My husband and I still notice my absence.
Aside from his parents, there are some other challenges to being an interracial couple. These days he and I still get a lot of curious glances. When I put a jar of kimchi into my grocery cart at our favorite Korean grocery store, Korean people stare. When he picks up a can of ackee at the Jamaican store, Jamaican people stare. We get the occasional snide remark from both sides. When we have oysters at our favorite date-night spot, white people stare. One of our white friends jokingly says that this is because my husband and I are two different kinds of nonwhite.
Two years after we married, we moved to Los Angeles. With her son so close to home again, his mother made contact. It would take another year before I was invited to her house, and then only if his father was not there. It would be another eight years before I was invited with his father present.
At various times over the years, my husband has considered breaking all contact with his parents. I’m the one who has persuaded him not to. I thought we could find a place—a narrow island of understanding—where his parents wouldn’t have to lose a son and a son wouldn’t have to lose his parents. Luckily, we did find that island. Of course, our relationship with his parents is not what it could be. There’s a part of my heart and a part of his that is guarded against them. But, having said that, our relationship with them is good. I say this without hesitation or reservation. As complicated as it is, I love his parents. I’m sure they love me. I’m sure they love our daughter.
Are my family and I the exception to their black people are less rule? Definitely.
Are they still racist? Again, definitely.
Still, though, something inside of them has shifted. Maybe it’s just exposure—years of interaction because of birthdays and school functions and Chuseok dinners. Maybe it’s witnessing just how much their son loves me. Maybe it’s witnessing how much I love him. They are more open to the world than they were before I came into their lives.
And that counts for something.
That counts as hope.
One day, a few years after my husband and I were married, my mother asked me if all this drama and heartache was worth it. She was justifiably angry at my mother- and father-in-law.
Was it worth it? she asked me.
Of course it was.
It was then, and it is now. I would do it again a thousand times over. Because here’s the thing: I am completely in love with my husband. I think he’s the best thing ever—the bee’s knees, the cat’s meow, the milk and the crème. He’s my best friend. He’s my creative partner. He’s a wonderful father. Together we made a kind, happy, beautiful little girl destined to make the world laugh. I won the love lottery when I met him. I wouldn’t give him up for something as fundamentally stupid, devoid of hope, and morally corrupt as racism. I wouldn’t give him up for anything.
DAVID LEVITHAN LIBBA BRAY ANGIE THOMAS ALLY CONDIE MARIE LU JEFF ZENTNER NICOLA YOON KATE HART GAYLE FORMAN CHRISTINA DIAZ GONZALEZ ATIA ABAWI ALEX LONDON HOWARD BRYANT ALLY CARTER ROMINA GARBER RENÉE AHDIEH AISHA SAEED JENNY TORRES SANCHEZ NIC STONE JULIE MURPHY I. W. GREGORIO JAMES DASHNER JASON REYNOLDS BRENDAN KIELY
KATE HART
Wings and Teeth
IT’S A WEEK BEFORE MY deadline. I’ve had months to write this essay.
I’m still staring at a blank page.
My task is to write something about hope, something inspiring and honest. But the problem is that I have a combative relationship with the concept. Optimism, faith, whatever you want to call it—hope as an abstract idea has always just felt flimsy. I associate it with Hallmark cards and motivational speakers, with Facebook click-bait and vague platitudes like “Everything happens for a reason” or “When a door closes, a window opens.” According to Emily Dickinson, it’s “the thing with feathers,” flitting about and singing.
But trying to take on the world’s challenges with nothing but well-meaning sentiments feels like wearing flip-flops to a bar fight or trying to get comfortable in a hammock tied between two drinking straws. Don’t get me wrong—I’ve always felt the draw of giving your worries over to an outside force. But I’m also an agnostic whose brain demands logic and refuses to put its eggs in unseen baskets. I often feel like two people: the idealist who wants to look on the bright side, and the pragmatist who sits on her shoulder reminding everyone that reality is a construct and we’ll all die in the end.
My shoulder cynic. She’s fun at parties.
* * *
• • •
I decide to take a walk to clear my head. My husband and my dog come along, as well as, unfortunately, my shoulder cynic. “You know,” she says as I get ready, “for someone who claims not to believe in the unseen, it’s pretty weird that you always put your right shoe on first.”
I blush. She’s right—it’s a completely illogical habit, but for some reason, at some point in childhood, I decided that putting my left shoe on first would bring death and destruction to all I love. Because . . . logic. “It’s not like it hurts anyone,” I tell her. “I don’t force anyone else to put their shoes on the same way.”
Shoulder Cynic snorts. “I’m just saying, superstitions make even less sense than religion, yet you put your hopes in them.”
“Not hopes,” I argue. “Just comfort. I know full well that it’s dumb.”
“If you say so,” she says, and we head outside.
* * *
• • •
The sun is setting as we start the one-mile trek around our neighborhood. Lightning bugs blink in the dusk, much more attractive than their bloodsucking mosquito relatives. I slap at the latter as I tell my husband, “Maybe you should write this essay.”
“Me?” he says.
“You’re the one who gave the inspirational graduation speech.” With a purple mortarboard atop his long hair, my then-boyfriend encouraged our classmates to stay idealistic and never give in to the creeping pessimism of adulthood. The hair has been cut since, but his optimism remains intact. “I was already cynical when you gave it,” I say. “I just admired your approach.”
“That’s why we’re a good team,” he replies. “We balance each other out.”
“I’m not sure ‘marry someone who counteracts your natural Eeyore tendencies’ is a great thesis.”
A rabbit runs across the road in front of us, and we both say “Bunny!” Bunny sightings are considered good luck in our household—a less morbid version of the traditional rabbit’s foot. Rabbit roadkill, on the other hand, ruins my entire day. In my heart, I know seeing bunnies in springtime, whether dead or alive, is a statistical likelihood, not an indication of the universe’s favor. But spotting them in the yard still feels encouraging.
“You know what we call that, right?” whispers Shoulder Cynic.
“No,” I whisper back. “Hope requires conviction. I just like bunnies.”
* * *
• • •
Throughout college, when I had trouble with a paper, I’d find a quote to use as a backbone, adding arguments along its sides like ribs. Finding an epigraph to help with this essay makes sense. “Maybe I can use the Dickinson line?” I say. “‘Hope is the thing with feathers . . .’”
“‘That perches in the soul,’” my Shoulder Cynic goes on. Unlike the shoulder devils of cartoons, she’s neither red nor has a pointy tail. But she does have horns sprouting through her spiky hair. “‘And sings the tune,’” she says, “and blah blah blah, something about keeping you warm.”
“Ugh. I thought I was on to something.”
“That’s what we call ‘false hopes.’”
I pause. “False hopes might be a plan, actually.” She watches as I start fact checking what I think I know about Doomtree, a “great band you don’t know (but should)” according to Time magazine. The group is a seven-member collective that makes albums together but also functions as a label, merchandiser, and even publisher, and several of their early releases were called “False Hopes.”
Though I’m fairly sure that I know the origins of that title, I decide to tweet at member Dessa, who’s one of my particular favorites.
@kate_hart: I’m writing an essay about hope for an anthology & wanted to reference DTR’s “False Hopes”—could swear I saw an (1/2)
@kate_hart: (2/2) interview where you explained the title was bc all art is a false hope? But maybe hallucinated it. Can you point me in the right direction?
@dessadarling: Not me I’m afraid. That series existed before I joined the crew—@CECILOTTER13’s idea, I think.
“Even your False Hopes were false hopes,” Shoulder Cynic says.
“You’re a riot.” I add Cecil Otter to the search, which just reveals that False Hopes was the name of his pre-Doomtree band—a group that, in his words, “didn’t do anything.” The new crew considered using the same name, then kicked around other ideas, including Seven Bums, Seven Trees, Doom Bums . . . and Doom Hope. “Doom Hope,” I repeat.
“Well,” says Shoulder Cynic, “that’s cheery.”
“I’ll admit I expected a better story.”
She snickers, pointing at the screen. Dessa goes on to tell the interviewer that if the naming story is a disappointment, fans should know that the band started finding so many dead birds outside their shared house that they put a dead-bird drawing on their merchandise.
“I guess False Hopes are things with feathers too,” Shoulder Cynic says.
“Hilarious.” I click through a few items in their store and pause on the familiar “wings and teeth” logo. “Maybe I can use this.”
“Don’t count on it.”
The logo doubles as a hand sign that fans throw at shows, so the crew has been asked about it in multiple interviews. In one, Cecil claims that dental records are used to identify the dead, and the logo was “sort of a morbid idea. The idea that we are supposed to make something lasting.”
“That’s pretty good, right?” I say. “Art is made in hopes of being remembered.”
“Or . . .” Shoulder Cynic points to another interview and reads out loud. “Paper Tiger said ‘it’s supposed to look gnarly and get your attention.’”
That’s not very inspirational. Nor is Dessa’s follow-up, reminiscing that a former band member drew the logo after a little too much Budweiser and a joke about a tooth with wings.
“Well, it’s not a total loss,” I say. “Maybe the lesson is that you never know where important things will come from. Sometimes accidents turn out happy. Sometimes your dumb name and drunk joke logo still manage to inspire other artists for a decade.”
“Or sometimes you just have a crappy essay.”
“Sometimes,” I admit.
* * *
• • •
The next morning, I find my sons eating breakfast in the kitchen. “I need your help,” I tell them. “What gives you hope for the future?”
“Bakeries,” my nine-year-old replies without pause.
“The development of hyperloops,” says my eleven-year-old.
I’m in serious trouble.
* * *
• • •
The idea of accidental inspiration sticks with me, though. It turns out that lots of things were discovered or created by chance. Penicillin, for example, was discovered when a scientist left his dirty petri dishes in the sink. The mold that grew on them ate the germs he’d been working with, and voila: measles, mumps, polio, and lots of other diseases became almost extinct. A petri dish mistake also brought us the color mauve, inadvertently resulting in the world’s first synthetic dye. Saccharin was discovered because a scientist forgot to wash his hands and noticed dinner was unusually sweet. Nitrous oxide was being used as a party drug in the 1800s until the inventor’s friend injured himself without pain and they realized anesthesia could be a big thing.
Both chewing gum and Silly Putty were supposed to be a replacement for rubber. Velcro was inspired by burrs sticking to a dog after a hike. Play-Doh was originally created to clean wallpaper in coal-heated houses. Safety glass, Popsicles, Post-it Notes, the Slinky, Super Glue, cornflakes, and Vaseline were all happy accidents that turned into useful products.
Of course, there’s an argument to be made that none of those discoveries were entirely accidental—they were a matter of someone paying attention with an open mind and seeing new possibilities. Maybe that’s how we’ll get the hyperloops my oldest wants.
“Your essay, on the other hand,” Shoulder Cynic pipes up. Somehow she’s managed to get headphones over her horns, but she takes them off just to argue with me.
“I have another idea,” I assure her. “I’m going to crib from Badass Ladies.” One of my favorite side projects is an interview series called Badass Ladies You Should Know.
“Which no one reads!” she crows.
I ignore her. The website has a hashtag for badass ladies in history, and it should be easy to find examples. Three hours later, I have a long list of historical trailblazers: “Stagecoach Mary” Fields, the first female African Ameri
can mail carrier in the United States; Noor Inayat Khan, a secret agent during World War II; Bertha Parker Pallan, the first female Native American archaeologist; Madam C. J. Walker, black cosmetics maker and the first self-made millionaire in the United States; pioneering trans activist Marsha “Pay It No Mind” Johnson; Chickasaw dancer Te Ata; early Appalachian Trail hiker Emma Gatewood; architect Zaha Hadid; inventor of rock-and-roll Sister Rosetta Tharpe—all these amazing women . . .
“That we’ve never heard of, just like Doomtree.” The problem is that Shoulder Cynic has the same history degree I do. “Women are always written out of history and they always will be.”
“Then how did we hear about these?” I demand.
“Some records are bound to survive. But think of all the ones that didn’t.”
Disheartened, I turn back to my screen. History is written by the victors is hardly a new concept, and I have to admit that even these women’s stories are cobbled together largely from records curated by men. Still . . . “It doesn’t have to be so all-or-nothing,” I tell her. “You can find encouragement in the progress that’s been made without ignoring that there’s more work to be done.”
“Yeah, well.” Shoulder Cynic points to another tab that’s open on my laptop. “It’s a hell of a lot of work.”
“I’m not getting distracted by Twitter right now.” But I still click the tab. Unsurprisingly, the news is full of terrible stories: corruption and war, violence against people of color, regulations on whom we can love. A major review outlet is panning a colleague’s book for not portraying assault victims in a way they deem acceptable. A formerly beloved celebrity who admitted to rape has escaped justice. A huge storm is building in the gulf, yet another child has fallen victim to an unsecured gun, and a Facebook acquaintance has cancer and can’t afford treatment while another is trying to sell me overpriced leggings.
