For the last couple weeks, I’ve stayed up past midnight, often in the room that’s farthest away from the kids. This is the same room where I teach online classes at night and (try to) write during the day. Jin and I like to call this room “the study.” This is the room with all of our books. My viola, which I’ve had since I was 12, rests in the corner. I put up a poster of a Yayoi Kusama print in honor of my mother, who loved her art. On my desk, there’s a fancy candle I bought using a portion of my literary grant from the Tennessee Arts Commission, though I told them I’d use the money for research and childcare. I like that it’s a small, tangible object, solely for me. As a pandemic parent, that feeling alone, of just wanting to hold something for myself, feels decadent, but true.
During my four years of college, I wrote most of my assignments after midnight, camped out at Butler Library, the one building that was open to students 24/7. Before heading in, Jin and I would grab sandwiches at Hamilton Deli, dubbed “Ham Del,” where he’d order the Grilled Chicken Combo #5 and I would either get the Lewinsky (a chicken cutlet sub) or the Manhattan Project (burger with feta). After saying good night, I’d swipe into the library, buy an energy drink from one of the vending machines, and head up to the 4th floor to a cozy room that was always filled with students, no matter the time. There was tacit comradery in that room. We’d watch each other’s belongings whenever someone left for a bathroom or smoke break. The sound of everyone clacking their keys nudged me to do the same.
After a few hours, though, I’d always hit a wall. The perfect essay I’d envisioned in my head wasn’t coming together at all on the Word document in front of me. Sleep deprived, the words would float off the page. Everything looked like nonsense.
It was usually around 3 a.m. when I would contact my mother via gChat. It would be the afternoon for her in Tokyo, and I’d take my laptop out of the study room to the cold hallway where I would video-chat with her, revealing my puffy, disheveled face in stark contrast to hers, with perfect make-up and carefully ironed hair. The hallway smelled of old books and bleach. The conversation would usually go like this:
“I can’t do this.”
“But you always say that, and it always comes together at the end.”
“But this time I really can’t do it. I’ll fail.”
“It’s okay if you fail.”
“No, it’s not okay. How can you say that?”
She’d have a smile as I’d say this, which sometimes annoyed me. My mother had always had this attitude about grades and jobs ever since I was a child. It’s okay if you fail. I had friends whose parents would limit their allowance or punish them in other ways if they didn’t turn in perfect grades. Now, as a parent myself, I honestly don’t know if either method makes a difference. I feel like my friends and I came out of college with similar GPAs anyway. But I think it was my mother’s quiet support that made me look at her more like a friend than a parent, even years later.
What would end up happening was that I would sit there crying while she watched me quietly through the screen, with the occasional “There, there” coming through the laptop speakers. After a while, I would end the conversation, sheepishly telling her that I’ll go back in and try again. She’d nod, and say “See you tomorrow.” I’d slog and suffer through my paragraphs while the other students wearily left the room one by one, leaving me alone with a few others who had fallen asleep with their heads on the table. I’d print out the finished product, still unsure of its finality, and emerge out of the building, utterly blinded by the sunlight and ready to sleep in my dorm for the rest of the day, before repeating the same routine again that night.
It’s been well over a decade since then, and I’ve gradually learned how to start projects earlier to allow for more time. I tell my own writing students to trust the process. Start with short exercises before threading them together. Embrace radical revision.
And yet here I am again, back to the laptop after midnight, struggling and crying over the words that won’t come together, without my friend to tell me it’s okay to fail. I guess I haven’t learned my lesson quite yet. But blowing out the candle, I think, maybe I’ve grown. Just a little.
Bravo! Good one.....and Sakanaction. Good suggestion.