A Letter To You

You are Alice.

Not Lidell, the child who wandered

Through the fantastical, nonsensical world

Of smoking caterpillars, tea-drinking hares, and murderous queens.

(You certainly daydream of power and unbirthdays and rolling heads

Whenever you want to leave reality for just a little while longer.

You never foresaw the long-reaching consequences, but perhaps it was best that way.)

Not Hamilton, the pioneer of industrial toxicology,

Who went on to become the first female faculty member at Harvard,

Breaking gender barriers and improving nationwide safety standards.

(You resented those who were superhumanly intelligent,

For maybe if you were the same, you would not be such a disappointment to your parents.)

Not Marble, the tennis champion

Who overcame rape, tuberculosis, pleurisy, and the death of her husband

And became a spy in Switzerland for her beloved country.

(You are uncoordinated and clumsy in more ways than one: physically, verbally, emotionally, mentally.

According to theory, you are stunted and you agree.)

You are Alice Zhu and you are certainly not a lot of things.

Instead, you spend seconds, minutes, hours, days, years,

Worrying and wondering about the day

When you will finally be legendary enough

To finally stand among the other Alices.

(You are afraid of the future, of your inevitable return to the supernovae you once were.

Will you be remembered when you die? Fondly? Bitterly?

You don’t know and you are afraid.)

For every day you spend at home, you curse the ancient standards of beauty

The ideal Asian daughter: pale, petite, passive, pristine, polite, patient,

Pretty,

Perfect.

It is just one of many things you are not.

(You look at the girl in the mirror as you hide your skin with makeup

She stares back with her muddy brown eyes, her wide shoulders, her large forehead.

You shut the bathroom door and attempt to dissociate.)

When you were in middle school, you were young, impressionable.

Your friends’ smiles never reached their eyes and you began to wonder.

The pressure to succeed pressed down upon your back with the weight of the world.

Was something wrong with you?

No. Maybe.

(You listened to the voice that grew louder and louder and the thoughts that grew darker and darker.

“…yes.”)

The climax happened in eighth grade.

Your parents were desperate; you weren’t normal.

What kind of child found all fruit repulsive?

They locked you in a room and force fed you watermelon as you cried and screamed,

Begging to them to leave you alone, please, please, please.

(You, to this day, cannot stand the sight of fruit.

They never fixed you, because “yes,” you are broken beyond repair.

Hours later, when they pretended everything was fine, you exploded.)

When you were left alone to pick up your smoldering ashes,

Your thoughts began to wander as you wiped at your stinging eyes.

Next to your shaking form was a laptop, an unwritten essay,

And something inside you awoke.

(You were amazed how a simple story written by your unsteady hand

Of the Queen of Hearts towering over your parents’ rolling heads

Was helping you smile again.

When your pencil halted, you did not berate yourself for not immediately knowing the next word.

Rather, you imagined, and waited excitedly as you discovered your new voice.

For the first time in a long while, your mind was singing.)

High school came upon you like the Cheshire Cat’s grin in the Duchess’s kitchen.

Talks of college and majors and careers were forcing you

Back into your fears of death and life without purpose.

When your father suggested medicine, you reluctantly submitted yourself to the coming future.

(You were not ready, not with your notebooks filled with stories

Of young reapers with eyes of blue lightning and child soldiers with haunted swords,

But when your sister had shin splits; your mother, a heart attack,

You awoke to reality and found yourself fretting over everyone’s health

Even those you resented for their success and especially those who were left behind by the competition.

Your visiting elementary school teacher called you a mother and you agreed.)

Spoiled, your family called you. A brat. A child.

A pampered princess, who had the luxury to turn her nose to most foods

And spend hundreds of dollars on video games to escape and inspire your frivolous dreams.

In the car, you stared at the rolling countryside and fell silent.

(You were considering the validity of their words for the rest of the drive.

Just the week before, you had pouted and refused to speak to your friends

When they trounced you in a video game you had spent hours practicing in.

In the privacy of your own mind, you admitted that, to an extent, you family was right.

But, you realized, because you had recognized your faults and was willing to improve,

It was proof you had matured, and you were okay.)

You are Alice.

Not Lidell, the child who wandered.

(You escaped into Wonderland, but when it was time,

You returned to reality with enough inspiration and energy to fight off a million packs of card soldiers.)

Not Hamilton, the pioneer of industrial toxicology.

 (You will never go to Harvard, but it is fine, because you have learned

That your failings, your successes do not define you.)

Not Marble, the tennis champion.

(You are, by “normal” standards, developmentally stunted, but it is all right,

Because you have grown and you are still growing.)

You are Alice Zhu and you are not a lot of things.

But you are still learning.

Because you made it through your hardships so far.

Because you can overcome, will overcome any future obstacle.

Because death is not so scary anymore.

Because you are strong.

“No,” says the voice.

“Be confident. Be yourself.”

You are flawless.

(And so you shall always be)

With all my love,

Alice Zhu