Critical Studio Stories:
Story #1
When I was around the ages of three or four, I was obsessed with the idea of going to school. I had not even started preschool, but I would parade around my house with my Sesame Street backpack and read picture-books to my best friend, Elmo. My days consisted of slurping a can of chicken noodle soup for lunch and watching PBS Kids on the T.V. While these shows were fun, my young mind craved a more intellectually stimulating environment. There was a Variety School down the street from my home. This school wasn’t your typical public school by any means. It was an institution for children with ADD, ADHD, autism, and various learning disabilities. However, in my little kid brain, I knew that this was a “school” so I needed to go there by any means necessary. My chance finally came on a Sunday afternoon, when my entire extended family came over to watch the Superbowl. While my parents, cousins, and relatives huddled around our T.V., I snuck out the front door with my backpack and headed for school. Since I had neglected to tell my parents about my quest for knowledge, everyone was freaked out when they realized that toddler me was nowhere to be found. Chaos ensued as my family scoured the house for every toddler-sized nook-and-cranny they could find in hopes that I was playing a twisted game of hide-and-seek. It was my mom who finally found me, after paroling up and down the block in his car. Needless to say, I was pretty pissed because I wanted to go to my non-existent classes and take home my non-existent homework. Fortunately, two valuable lessons were learned that day. One, my parents needed to lock their front door. And two, it was probably time for their child to go to preschool.
Story #2
This is the story of my senior prom. I picked my date up from his house and we drove to a park before the dance started to take pictures with my friends. Our theme was black and gold, but it was more like black and yellow because we agreed that gold-painted roses would make tacky boutonnieres and corsages. There was a picnic going on in the park, with large aluminum trays of full of food, lawn chairs, and frisbee-throwing. I remember the wet, dewy grass clung to the bottoms of my heels and my floor-length gown. When my friends finally arrived, we all ended up taking photos in front of this water fountain in the park. I saw these photos several days later and the water spouting from the fountain reminded me of snow. The prom itself was fine; typical buffet-style food, fairy lights inside mason jars, a dance floor. However, my date and I decided to ditch the rest of prom and walk through the streets of Waikiki. I remember bits and pieces of the night, like walking along the side of the dimly lit Ala Wai canal. We navigated through groups of tourists and torch-lit paths leading to luxury stores we couldn’t possibly afford in a million years. Apparently, strangers on the street kept complimenting me in my dress, but I was oblivious to them. My favorite part of the night was walking into the lobby of a hotel with a massive aquarium. Since we never got to slow-dance to the last song during prom, we improvised by driving to this empty neighborhood not far from Waikiki and danced in the middle of the street. I ended up ripping my dress but it was totally worth the experience.
Story #3
I was about eight or nine years old. My family and I were going on a flight later that night, so we decided to bring our own food to the airport because the airplane food wasn’t the best. My mom took me to Shirokiya, which was a Japanese food in court in Ala Moana Shopping Center. We bought bentos with thick pieces of salmon and butterfish, rice balls filled with pickled plums and seaweed, and fried shrimp tempura and karaage chicken. The food was packed into neat little plastic containers and wrapped with rubber bands for extra protection. Instead of taking our usual route on the freeway, my mom decided to drive through Waikiki and around Diamond Head, which is a dormant volcano not far from my home at the time. On the drive home, we passed by a lookout facing the ocean. I remember how the sun glistened off the water and how I could see faint figures of surfers paddling out back to shore. The smell of saltwater lingered in the car, blending with the aroma of freshly-made Japanese food. As we flew over O’ahu later that night, I vaguely remember pointing out the part of the island my mom and I had driven past earlier that day. From above, I could see the clusters of tiny bright lights that was Honolulu, and many more lights scattered among the valleys. The Carpenter’s rendition of “Honolulu City Lights” ran through my mind, reminding of how lucky I was to live in Hawai’i. This was one of the few times I was able to appreciate living in the islands prior to my move to NYC. While a part of my eight-year old self was sad about leaving home, I didn’t feel too sad because I always knew I’d come back eventually.