Danielle Bae

CW: Mentions of blood, bodily harm, and mild slurs.

Imagine a warbler,

flitting between thick forest canopies. It ruffles its bright feathers, teetering to the side as gusts of hot wind sway the branches. The bird, still young and unaware of the laws of the forest, naively hops its way through the leaves until it loses its footing and falls straight into a hunter’s trap.

Now imagine a proud, innocent girl. Her black hair is pulled back into a mid-ponytail, her skin is a beautiful tan, and sketched upon her face is always the look of pure curiosity. She is whimsical, she is confident—she is everything. In her mother’s eyes, she is a child full of ambition, in her father’s eyes, she is creative. Her world is bridged around white-picket fences, grounded with freshly trimmed lawns and the soft buzzing of bees. Her eyes are bright, reflecting both the sun and the moon, and she laughs as the pebbles below begin tickling her feet.

This all changes when she moves to a different state.

She becomes isolated, resented, and outlandishly rebuked for things she cannot control. Insecurity piles one after the other, and the girl feels lost, with no place to call home. Her eyes begin to dim; the light fades, her curiosity is put on hold. Her job isn’t to explore anymore, but to endure. It is now her top priority to guard her thoughts, stay hidden, and protect her delicate body from the violent gnashing of teeth. It is evident that she does not do her job well.

It was the summer of sixth grade. The air was riddled with translucent waves and the whirring of mosquitoes. Green lawns were dried to a yellow crisp, and animals settled in the shade, chasing the shadows to cool their pelts. I was on my way back home from school, listening to music as the bus rattled down the road. I felt someone stare at me intensely. Looking up, I saw a boy about a year older than me, glaring into my dark set of eyes as he slicked his hair down with the beaded sweat on his forehead. His expression soured as I stared back, his lips curling into a nasty snarl.

At first, his hatred for me was subtle––a few sharp glares here and there, a frown or two. Then his hatred grew; day by day, his temper worsened. And one day, he decided to open his mouth.

“Get away from me, you Dirty Asian.”

I stepped back, blinking. I had never talked with this boy in my life; we were merely strangers in two different worlds—blurred-out faces with little to no significance. I stood there in silence, my heart melting into a mirage of blue. I felt my joints giving out as I fell into the depths of a hole; the earth swallowed me into its core, forcing its weight down onto my stomach and drowning me into the blackest depths of my soul.

I could not speak, let alone open my mouth. And as I stood there, waiting for someone to tell me that this was all a dream, nobody bothered speaking up. Everyone sat silently, watching the scenes unfold calmly. There were no signs of shock in their gaze, no signs of empathy; their cold stares reaped a dreadful sense of enlightenment within me. I realized that no one, not even those who I considered my closest friends, really cared.

I tried blocking out the boy’s mockeries, but to no avail. The insults were continuous, and layered themselves into the crevice of my brain. They piled on top of my shoulders, dragging me towards a state of mental deprivation.

After a few weeks, the boy’s words, deeply engraved into my charred soul, became real. I truly believed that I was dirty. Every day, in the mirror, I would look at my reflection and imagine myself skinning off any parts that were too yellow, too tan. When I got myself into the shower, I would scrub myself hard and clean, until my skin turned bright red and started bleeding. Every day, I would do this, convinced that somehow, someway, if I scrubbed myself consistently, I would become paler in complexion and be left alone. This cycle, which had serious consequences on my mental health, would go on for several weeks. Oftentimes, I would cry myself to sleep and wallow in distorted memories, thinking back to times when I had no experience with the real world, no sample of life’s unforgiving turbulence.

For days, I spent my time in the dark, hidden from this cruel world, shielding myself from any more internal wounds. I built layers into my brain, wrapping curtains around my eyes and shoving tissues down my ear. All was quiet, all was dark, all was still.

One day, my mother broke through the dark fabric of my mind, allowing a rivulet of light to flow back into my life. She had contacted the school along with the bus driver, asking that I be separated from the boy through any means necessary.

That was the start of my redemption, my new beginning.

My heart thawed, sunlight filtered its way through my life, and a sprout emerged from my dry garden. Hope sprung to life, and my smile turned from plastered to genuine.

Life started anew.

And lo and behold, I became whole again.

Imagine the same warbler,

struggling to free itself from the hunter’s grasp. It pecks at the strings, squawking in protest, until it finally gives up and loosens its wings. It prepares itself for a gunshot, a fall to the ground, a flame to devour its beaded orbs. Instead, thousands of birds rise up from the sky, spiraling around to nip at the net, until finally, it breaks loose, and the warbler rises in all its golden-feathered glory into the sky, waving its thanks, as it soars into sun-lit promises of eternity.