My family came to the United States in 1975 as refugees. We became citizens in 1983. As I was told, I used to cry A LOT. It drove my parents and siblings crazy! No one knew, including myself, why I cried so much. To this day, it is still a mystery. I remember my father recorded me crying. I would listened to the tape quietly and then picked up where it left off. My mother, in her effort, brought me a doll bank. She looked just like me, with a coconut haircut and a tear forever painted on her face. For awhile, she went everywhere and cried with me. Their effort went up in smoke, until...
One day, a pair of kid’s scissors in the Chinatown’s five and dime store caught my eyes and smile. Along with a tube of glue and construction papers, I traded in crying for creating.