CJ: Inside Edition

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...