This piece was written by a student at Lowell HS and he gave me permission to share it with all of you. Enjoy.
Justin Chan
Façade of Iridescence
San Francisco; two words, four syllables, one city, one life, my life. At day, at Mount Davidson, the zenith; I open my eyes. Below, lies the city hidden in omnipresent fog; caffeine, sex, nature, wind, traffic. Above, rests a reflection, a memory of colors. San Francisco is an illuminated dahlia, a kaleidoscope of my experience, a multi-colored mirror to my being; the home of my home.
Sunset District, my place of green. Serve, smash, volley. Courts, crumbled by use, balls shaved from friction, racquets scratched from experience. Games, sets, matches. From dawn till dusk – my winter days, my summer nights, are filled with green. New friends, new rivals, new enemies – a never-ending passion to give love. Two years of ambition and I’m still yearning for the greener grass on the other side, the side beyond my reach – a line of lines I must step across. What am I? I’m confused, but Sunset is my place of green; my place as a tennis player, where I am unique, where I am like no other. I can twirl. I can spin. I can fly. I can put my heart into every last shot; and still, I will be what I aspire; to be me.
The Haight, my place of red. Three, two, one, bang! There, four hundred meters of the gritty-asphalt hippodrome – an oval arena where every second counts, where the victor stands above others. My first love began here. Faster and faster, all out, from the sweet age of five to sixteen. Scraped knees, broken ligaments, poetry slamming, music making, ecstasy taking void – what time is it? I’ve forgotten much, but not the Haight, not my place of red, not my place as a runner, where I drip every last ounce of sweat, where I think of my friends who will me through and are by my side spiritually. I can run. I can jump. I can cry and drain every last drop of my essence to finish. And I will finish; I will not give up.
Richmond District, my place of silver. Ready? Fleche, sidestep, parry, extend, lunge – Bout. Three minutes of touching, flicking, and penalties. Bruises, bloodshed and scars. Sweat, stains, trapped-heat, all shared with team-mates past and present. This is a place I could never live in. The money I have is a few cents and dollars in my back-pant pocket and no where near enough to suffice for the fancy houses. Why can’t I? It pains me, but not in Richmond, not in my place of silver, not my place as a fencer where I leave my reality outside of my mask, where I have to concentrate on every movement. I can advance. I can retreat. I can scream in disappointment, but even then, I will shake the hand of my new obstacle.
Downtown, my place of black. Civic Center, Powell, Montgomery, Embarcadero. It is a hole of judgment, a six-floor-high plant of tangibles, a theatre of sneaking arts, and a market of edibles. Silly-go-round, I spin twice, losing my companions in the midst of the unknown – I lose myself as I always do in the array of people. Chinatown, Japantown – they’re all the same – Where am I? I’m lost, Downtown is my place of black, my place as a teenager, where I can explore, ant-like to the skyscrapers towering above, where I am just one of the lost voices in the many that envelop the land. I can hide. I can yell. I can drown in the pool of people, though I will adapt; I will live on.
Ingleside, my place of blue. Incomplete with rocks, signs, and men in orange suits. There are old parks, new parks, tediousness that only cause more troublesome complications for both me and those who do the job. Open, close, detour – stop; let it be simple and clean. Why pre-grown clichés? Just cut holes in our pocket; we’ll be fine. Why do things break? I’m troubled; Ingleside is my place of blue, my place as a child, where I can wander, where I have nothing to worry about – because this is my home. I can eat. I can sleep. I can lie, but I will tell the truth.
At night, every night, I contemplate my existence, gazing at the light-pollution color sky asking for an answer to my life’s purpose. There are superfluous lights and colors, but my eyes perceive and discern only those within arms length and my memories of who I am, what I am, and why I am what I am when I am. What I see, is the ever-verisimilar, what I remember, is the façade of iridescence…
Justin Chan