CJ: Inside Edition

  At nine years old I was given a label that was entirely unfamiliar to me: the new kid. Having attended the same school since daycare and living in the same neighborhood since birth, I was accustomed to being a perfect piece in the puzzle of my communities. But for the first time, I was an anomaly among an already perfected design. Nevertheless, my time at the dance studio became the highlight of my days.  Starting an activity at nine years old may not seem too unusual for most people, but many dancers begin their careers at a very young age. While my peers were stretching and training at the ages of two and three, I was in my living room putting on poorly choreographed shows for my mom. When I finally took my first real dance lesson, I towered above the younger girls in the beginners ballet class. After joining the competitive dance company, I struggled to assimilate with the tight knit community. But while I was unused to some aspects of the social structure of the stud...

          I shoved the car door closed with a grunt, shouldering my three bags awkwardly across my back. It was 10:15 pm, and my body ached as I waddled to the front door of my house. Homework: webassign, blog post, history prework. Great. Already half asleep, I stepped into the foyer, and was immediately greeted by the sounds of cacophonous thrums echoing throughout the living room. I approached the couch with my hands outstretched and grabbed the entity sprawled across it.   “Dad, you’re snoring again.” If I could get rid of something from my life, it would be my dad’s incessant snoring. Most weeknights, after a long day of school and dance rehearsals, I return home exhausted and dreading the night of homework to come. My night does not improve when I realize that my dad has fallen asleep in the living room, which connects every corner of the house. Frustration rises in me, and I wake him up.  Though uncontrollable by mere will, this conditi...

      *Note: I need to expand my ending and find more perspectives, so any advice on this is welcome!      I have always loved food. Some of the happiest pictures of me as a child are those where I am covered in food. The rest of my family shares the same sentiment, so when my dad was diagnosed with a kidney disease, I challenged myself to take on a new role.  Growing up with my mother’s cooking, my family was never short on delicious meals. My mom was always testing new recipes and perfecting old ones, so the kitchen was often filled with the aroma of Korean spices or baked goods. Later, as my brother and I became busy with our various sports and other extracurriculars, meals became our family’s main interaction. Eventually, I became fascinated with the cooking aspects of our meals. My mom would assign me the easiest jobs of stirring pots and occasionally, cutting vegetables. I felt a sense of control in the kitchen, and I longed to have the same...

In primary school, I received the best gift I could have asked for: my very own box of band aids . They were mustard yellow and decorated with the face of a Korean cartoon character, but I didn’t care what they looked like. I was ready to officially step into my role as the family doctor. That year, I grew into my self-appointed duties. I practiced perfect band aid ap plication until I could administer them smoothly and without bumps in the adhesive. Eventually I upgraded from the box of band aids stored in my Poochie & Co. dog purse, to a full first aid kit. It consisted of the essentials: band aids, Neosporin, hand sanitizer, icy hot and more, all of which were collected from the depths of our medicine cabinet one weekend night, while my parents were busy watching television. I proudly displayed my collection of equipment anytime the members of my family got remotely injured (usually it was my mom getting cut while cooking), and my parents began to call on me whenever they requir...

                    When I think of my family, I think of our home. Our single-story house has borne witness to much of our development, through laughter and tears, and so our most valuable possession is our residence. I have memorized every aspect inside the walls, from the patterns in the popcorn ceiling that my eyes traced every night as I fell asleep, to the creaking of the pantry door. But much time has passed, and I find myself wondering if our aspirations have outgrown the suburban street my brother and I grew up on. I have returned to this suburban abode almost every day of my life. In other words, I’ve lived here for seventeen (almost eighteen) years. My parents bought the house while expecting my older brother, with the intent to move somewhere bigger as the family grew. Evidently, they stayed for longer than anticipated when I was born. They nevertheless cherished the house’s cozy ambience to raise their children, fu...

During my early developmental years, I received a strange green letter in the mail. It was adorned with a postal stamp of the American flag and an address. I carefully unfolded the letter, not knowing what to expect.  Dear Chloe, I received your letter. . . Sincerely, Mr. and Mrs. Clause I was elated, of course. My brother, who had revoked his belief in Santa Clause, scrambled to write a letter himself. To be honest, I don’t remember exactly what I was thinking. I can’t even remember the days where I believed in those things. But I do know that my brother and I were determined to catch Santa Clause that Christmas. On the night of Christmas eve, I set out the leftover biscuits someone had gifted us, and retreated to my brother's room (I shared a bunk bed with him). We were already in our matching holiday pajamas, and we had set our light-up Christmas cups on the bed stand. Later however, when our parents came to say goodnight, my brother was already falling asleep. Soon after, I dri...