The Other Me

Sitting by my side on the riverbank, she whispers softly the magical spells of Arabian nights. The lyrical notes of her captivating voice along with the dancing river weaves me into a world and I begin to forget. I am Jamaican. I am Chinese. And yet, with her soft musical laughter, these “social labels” (as we call them) lose all the meanings of nationality or culture. Declaring these stories to be all hers, she selfishly robs me of my potentiality of cleverness, humor, and sympathy. And so not a word falls from her lips as she amusingly conducts the stumbling orchestra of my life. The same song that she refuses to play along in, and in refusing to become my fellow flutist she uses her own imaginary instruments to prove her existence. And as nighttime falls, she waltzes across the fields that lead back home. Dancing, swirling, skipping even, she runs away from me; I who shyly follows, afraid of the past and imaginary choreographies that create a gray reality. And yet at the threshold of the Victorian house, she stops and becomes as quiet as I. As we help mother with the evening meal she sits down, not knowing what to do or to say, for there is no place for her in this vital family society. Yet as we eat, the lovely scents bombarded her from all sides, just as her music encircled me, and she breathes again, knowing that this part of me she has to embrace. Again she dances and sings but only words fall from her lips that are ignored. Again I follow calmly, now envious of her internal beauty. And yet, even is pointless as that internal beauty is hindered by my calm, sensible, and just as selfish nature. It is I who stops her from really dancing, from really singing, from cooking all with the intention that she be the best in the world. And yet, the world she does not care for. That is why she runs away into a corner of thoughts and only an empty plate along with an empty staff lies before us.