Playing Hopscotch With My Footsteps

Artwork created by Shana Wu

By Mild Pichitpongchai

It was a crisp morning day. I admired the clear sky that greets me, its summer warmth kissing my cheeks. I saw a plane, no more than a small dot, leaving a faint trial in the sky. My pace gained momentum as I try to catch up to it. 

Three years ago, the air was different. It was raining, marking the start of monsoon season. The airport was a ghost town, the epicenter of disease and fear. At the stroke of midnight, the jet engines roared to life as I sat in my seat, the only one occupied in the cabin. I hovered between the shades of grey, the shifting of timelines in my life. The security of western education and the uncertain future. A chance to start a fresh identity that is also plagued by the stereotypes of ignorant people. My emotional pendulum swinging back and forth between excitement and dread. 

Remember that you are not one of them, and they will always treat you differently because of that.” My mom’s voice echoed ominously in my head.

Fortunately, the solitude that filled the air with its white noise eventually lulled me to sleep as the plane carried me nine thousand miles across the world to a small island called Manhattan.

The walking signal flashes and I cross the road around the corner on East Houston Street. I have lost track of the plane for a while now, but I still wonder where it came from, or if it went off to some other place. I keep walking until I stop to cross the road in front of a churro shop, which I remember used to be an ice cream shop. Across the road, the Gatsby Hotel has painted over its old mural of a man with ski goggles, now replaced by a portrait of Michelle Yeoh from Everything Everywhere All at Once. 

Things in NYC appear so futile – the buildings may be centuries old but the storefronts constantly shed their skin. If I return years later to walk its streets again, the same buildings will very much still be there, but something will be different about it. Its inhabitants shift in and out, shops change their appearances, and walls get painted over. If I chip off a part of the wall, the layers of paint would reveal a history that was concealed, like the rings of a tree stump. If I return years later to walk its streets again, what is left will only be a vague resemblance of something I have known well. 

I stood outside the airport, overwhelmed by the chaos of my surroundings. The pitter-patter of the rain, the traffic controller cursing at the cars blocking the road, and the distant honking that sustained amidst the texture of sounds in a vulgar manner. I had never encountered such an outward display of frustration, and it intimidated me. I had solidified my impressions of New York when the airport employee answered my question simply by pointing without even making eye contact. I had interpreted their aloof attitude as a personal jab at my race. 

Am I just an Asian infested with disease now? I’ve had two vaccine shots for fuck’s sake. 

I was aware that New Yorkers had a reputation for being mean, but knowing was different from experiencing. Though I spoke good English, I still can’t seem to understand them. Maybe my mom was right after all. Maybe her tendencies to sensationalize had landed in the right place.

It was dangerous to have expectations for a place that was constantly evolving, growing, and polarizing. For the first time in my life I was a minority, and thus, a carrier of stereotypes. When the immigration officer stamped my passport, it granted me a promise at the expense of my identity. I became a simplified image of myself. I wasn’t known by my name anymore, I was a color, and if I am lucky, maybe a specific shade of a color. But at least I am now standing in line for a promise, one that so many people had come before me and left empty handed.

I got in the cab and sighed, my jaws clenched. I tilted my head over as the city skyline glossed over my droopy eyelids. 

I turn towards 4th Street and walk westward, passing a psychic shop where a ginger cat curiously watches me, the psychic cajoling me inside as my fortune awaits. 

I came to study overseas for an opportunity to secure a comfortable life. Now when I am nearing the end of college, the immediate future suddenly appears uncertain. Even a second into the future seems so close, yet never reachable. Hope is like light, you can travel near the speed of light but you’ll never be able to catch up to it. Until now, I feared the uncertainty of the future, and I was clinging onto my hopes and dreams so tight to the point of suffocating it. I realized I was chasing after a feeling that I couldn’t hold onto. 

As I approach my destination, the speckles of violet become more visible. I can feel my heart beating faster as I quicken my pace to join the mass of violet gowns under the arch of Washington Square Park. I spot my friends in the crowd and smile, waving as we crash into a tight embrace, our warm tears merge into a puddle. I’ve decided to celebrate the present, for now.

I got off the cab on Broadway and meandered around the labyrinth of buildings, looking for the right one. Jetlagged and confused, I wandered into the park where the sound of people cheering pulled me out of my exhaustion. A group of graduates, donned in their violet gowns circled around the fountain, a flock of balloons following their stride in the air. 

Wasn’t graduation two months ago? Why are they still hanging around? I rolled my eyes.

I eventually found the building I was looking for, and obtained my ID. On it printed my name, one that was wholly mine. I slipped it in my wallet and headed out. In the vast expanse of the clear sky, I spotted a plane – it left a faint trail from where it had been before. 

Mild is a senior studying Psychology with a minor in CAMS and Linguistics. She can often be seen staring blankly at the ceiling on the 2nd floor of Bobst and skipping around the bad luck spots in WSP.