Freshman Year, by Helen Chen
At the turn of May, Home is a subway ride between rooms completely my own, stories I don’t tell anyone back home, that pass around
the dinner table. Don’t be a guest grandma says, shaking the pan. I canceled plans with myself, take a nap to eat fried eggs, lettuce split
itself between teeth cracks still warm. My grandma calls me her 心肝, dear as in I am close to her
heart. You’re changed, that’s what grandpa keeps telling me. Why are you crying?
In high school I joined debate which made me argumentative but hardly
articulate. First year of college, I liked a girl and almost kissed her who
liked someone else. I just wanted to be loved, have this fear where
I’m a movie and God watches me get angry. While
my grandpa recovered in the hospital I cancel
my Boston trip cried I was afraid of becoming
the filial girl, wanted none of that shit. There
are two boys who made me feel
unwanted. My best friend hardly
calls. Walking Manhattan
chewing grapes on sun-speckled
chairs. Train stations above
ground. I live close to my favorite
pizza place It is June and I am still
trying to be brave
~~~
Helen (she/her/她) is a Chinese-American writer based in NYC. Her work is featured or forthcoming in 45th Parallel, Beaver Magazine, JMWW, and others. She is a pop music enthusiast and proprietor of a blue bucket hat.
the museum of americana: A LITERARY REVIEW 