Dear Brother: a Sister's Guide to Putting the Fun in Funeral

 Plan your own funeral according to the 5'Ws. What's the mood? What's the music playlist? Who will recite the eulogy? Buried or burned? Kept in an urn or scattered? Where?
Balloons? Pizza? Include a few excerpts of the eulogy. (Note: if this is going to be morbid and depressing, best to chose a different topic).

 Dear Brother.

By the time you read this I will be dead. This is how I think it's gonna happen; I'll be dead, and you'll be very much alive, and as one of the living, you will have the privilege to take care of my funeral. I know telling you would ruin the joke but this is an SNL reference. If you did not get the reference, which you probably won't, please do not plan my funeral yourself, but please follow my manual that I kindly wrote down for you in this letter;you're not qualified to plan my funeral. Mess up, and I'll show you myself how it was done in Paranormal Activity.

 I've been waiting for this event my whole life, so my expectations are very high. You'll probably remember how I used to repeatedly tell mother how I refuse to die unless my death involves two Ferrari explosions and an epic car chase, or how I've planned my funeral around the age girls are expected to start planning their dream wedding. My funeral is to be ultimate party celebrating my exit from life. I do understand, as death often accompanies many farewells that take place too soon, that funerals are supposed to be gloomy and sad. But I don't want that. The goal, is to celebrate my departure from this world, not to make people cry. We often say that the way we treat death show how we treat life. For me, life altogether was one giant roller coaster full of ups and downs: the experience may not have been altogether always enjoyable, and at times even terrifying, but generally it was something to be excited about. As you know, all rollercoaster rides must come to an end, no matter what. The whole ride not may have been entirely fantastic, but as you get off, you know you'll remember it for a long time. That's what life is to me, and that's what I hope the others will understand from attending my funeral. Put the fun in funeral, bring on the glitters and the tacky, yet unbelievably addicting 80s remixes. Throw me the best farewell party that you can think of.

 I want my funeral to be held for three days. The first day is supposed to go as what most people expect when they come at a funeral. This is for the people who were on somewhat awkward terms with me, walking the line between an acquaintance and a stranger; think of my middle school teachers and cousins that we only see on Chuseok.  As we do not want to frighten those people away and end up losing out on condolence money, we'll do with the usual black suits and white flowers. Don't put much effort into it, because it's just a cover up. 

 The second day is when all the magic happens. I want my funeral to be one giant mess of neon lights and Vaporwave interiors. I never thought I'd obsess over an Internet meme so much, I came to adore the pastel tones and the strange mismatching images from the 80s. My obsession towards the past, the past that's set so long ago that I had no chance to experience that began with 70s Rock and Roll seems to have found peace with Vaporwave. The strange tingles that I get, that nostalgia is something that I wish to revel in before I find myself in the inevitable endless void that is death. Lay my coffin in front of a screen. Please project music videos that has been rendered by InitialTalk on Youtube. Please be sure to play Dua Lipa's. The fuzzy images, the tacky neon tights and the glitters of the 80s has been my guilty pleasure throughout my life-might as well as revel in it shamelessly as I'm dead.

 About the coffin, I've heard there are some people in Africa who carve coffins not based on conventions but on what the dead loved the most. which means that my coffin will be in the shape of a salmon sushi. But remember, I do not wish to be buried. I've always hated the dark; remember how I used to sleep with the lights on because I was afraid of the dark? Instead, I wish to literally go out with a bang. There is a company that mixes ash with chemicals to create fireworks. They tend to close quite frequently because of all the regulations, so I understand if the fireworks are delayed.

 I would appreciate it the most if people came to my funeral dressed in costumes. Of course, kick them out if they came with Sugar Skulls painted on their face or came dressed as Native Americans or anything that is racist or misogynist. I don't want my party to be trashed by people I spent my whole life avoiding like a plague. Just let the guests know that the more glitter, the better. That will be the dress code for the day.

 As the guests arrive, they will be led to the dance floor. As they eventually settle down, please bring in my coffin while playing "The Seventh Sense" by NCT127. I don't even know whose in NCT127, but I've always been fond of that line "It's a long ass ride". Just think of those tacky underground clubs that I showed you, the ones that only plays weird K-pop songs and about 80 percent of the people there are Queer. After the guests had their portion of Hawaiian Pizza(no matter what people say, even Gordon Ramsay, Hawaiian Pizzas are the best.) and got drunk enough to properly settle, down remember me by showing projecting photos of me on the screen. Please as you do, use my selfies only, not the ugly family photos that we were forced to take as children. All my photo selections should shout YOU ALL SHOULD HAVE DATED ME at their face. After that, get on with the eulogies please. I want the first one to be done by my friend Song. I'm sure her eulogy will be very thoughtful and probably the sanest thing you'll heat that day. After that, the eulogies will be impromptu. Of course the guests could prepare beforehand, but genius often comes at those sparks of inspirational moments. Notify the guests that there will be a brief eulogy contest. Whoever gives the most emotionally scarring eulogy will get my coffin, and whoever gives the most entertaining eulogy, as voted by other funeral attendees will get three percent of the condolence money. Any genre is acceptable, but K-pop erotica is highly encouraged. After that, as I am a shameless cinefile, the guests will be forced to watch "Velvet Goldmine", "HAUSU", and various movies. Just go on my IMDB list and pick out the ones I've given 8 to 9 ratings. Let them have their fun, and kick them out if they try to stay past 2 in the morning. You'll need a good night's sleep for the last day.

 For the last day, it will be just you and me, and maybe other family members who actually loved me more than I thought. I know it's pretty useless as by the time I will be rendered to a decaying corpse incapable of feeling any sensations, but please read me books. Books I've enjoyed in my life such as Clockwork Orange, would be great. Again, check my bookshelf for that. If you're too tired, just use the audiobooks. That last day will be quieter and calmer. It'll be wrap up time, real cozy and comfortable. So again, bring a good book, kittens, and good music. Say whatever you want to tell me, get it all out of your system because this is really good bye. It can even be on how I did not repay you that 50 dollars I borrowed under the pretense of buying mom's birthday gift.

 You might think I'm just being silly, but I really do mean it. This sort of funeral might sound strange and impossible, but I've been waiting for this moment, literally, all my life. Because often, how we treat death shows how we treat the lives we lead as human beings. The end is just as important as the beginning and the middle is. This funeral is my last moment to show who I really am to the people I love. I don't want people to mope around at my funeral. Of course it would be sad to let me go and whatnot, but it's not like their gonna live forever. Sooner or later we're gonna all end up dead. It's just that I'll be there sooner than some. So moping around is greatly discouraged at my funeral. Have fun, enjoy whatever you can. I may be dead now, but I will make you feel alive as if you've never lived before this funeral. Don't stifle your emotions either, but don't be swallowed up by grief either. Life is too short for that.


Love, Seoyoon



P.S I attached a playlist of what to play on the second day so you won't need to spend extra money on the DJ.

P.P.S I want one person to attend my funeral as the grim reaper and not say anything, but just stand there.



Playlist

For the memes:

Lady Gaga - The Cure [Initial Talk NRS 80s Remix] @initialtalk

Dua Lipa- New Rules Initial Talk NRS 80s Remix] @initialtalk

Demi Lovato- Cool for the Summer [Initial Talk NRS 80s Remix] @initialtalk

Rihanna- This is What you came for [Initial Talk NRS 80s Remix] @initialtalk

TANUKI - BABYBABYの夢

MACINTOSH PLUS - リサフランク420 / 現代のコンピュー

Anri - Remember Summer Days (マクロスMACROSS 82-99 Bootleg)

 You may include other priceless classics such as Take on me, Video Killed the Radio Star and so on. I don't care if it's tacky. I live for their tackiness. 

For myself:

All of David Bowie's album STATION

David Bowie-My Death

David Bowie-Starman

David Bowie-Life on Mars 

The Rolling Stones- Beast of Burden

The Chainsmokers-Closer

Nine Inch Nails-Closer 

David Bowie-Boys keep Swinging

David Bowie-Oh you Pretty Things

David Bowie-Rock 'n' Roll Suicide

and my spotify playlist of Oasis 

P.P.P.S Last but not least, please don't forget to play Stairway to Heaven as the guests are leaving.

 What if you could make money by writing gay fanfiction? What if you could get paid at least forty dollars for writing a fictional piece on how Dr. Watson and Detective Holmes were in love all along?

 The more accurate name for gay fanfiction, is BL, also known as Boys Love. Originating from Japan, the subculture genre focuses on portraying homoerotic relationships between two men, whether they be fictional characters, or actual figures in reality.

“What if I were to tell you, that nothing can be labeled love, if it isn’t you and me?”

 Cheesy? Yes. Cliché? Probably. But did I get paid just to write that sentence? Definitely yes. I know the ins and outs of the BL subculture, because I take part in it. I ask myself questions based on the requests of the readers who pay me 3000 won for 1000 words. What if Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy were in an intense love-hate relationship all along? What if the subtext created and fueled by the MCU fandom on the relationship between Captain America and Iron man aren’t entirely bogus? Based on these questions raised by the clients, I produce works of fanfiction whether it be “angst” or “fluff”

However, one major problem exists in the BL subculture, no matter how much I enjoy my participation in the genre. In BL, female characters exist as plot devices that either assist or interfere with the male protagonists’ relationship. Their portrayal is flat to say the least, and they are at most of the times blatantly excluded from the narrative. Moreover, despite the male protagonists being the center of the narrative, they are mostly presented as rigid stereotypes that exists to fulfill the desire of the readers. The actual hardships that the queer community faces, such as lynching or outings, are exploited to heighten the dramatic value of the story line.

 Then why on earth, would I, who attends the Seoul Pride Fair annually, constantly checks for the un-PCness within me, keep up with BL? The answer is simple: the BL subculture too, is changing, inside and out.

 I remember receiving a mail from one of my readers on a fanfiction I uploaded. The fanfiction was requested by a fan of BTS, a Korean boy band with members whose names I unfortunately do not remember. Though anonymous, the reader told me how it felt as if he was relaying his first crush that made him realize his sexuality. That was when the thought hit me, that the BL subculture was no longer an area of objectification, designated for heterosexual women. The genre is now opened up to the queer community, to those who feel they lack the qualification to tackle the area of Queer Literature, but nevertheless wishes to participate.

BL has become a site for exploration and participation to the queer community: the fact that fanfiction borrows the voices of fictional, celebrated figures makes it easier for the queer consumers to share their thoughts and experience. As Paul Margs stated, as a queer, you read into texts. You hope that something is gay, rather it be a couple on aTV show, or a character in a video game, as you hope someone is. You search for signs and signals, read into things, often too much, in hopes of constructing your own narrative, one that is blatantly, and undeniably queer. And so, you take something you love and you read gay romance and subtext into it.  It serves as a reflection into their desires and identification with themselves, as they delve into, and eventually find themselves within their interpretation.

 So there it is. Sometimes,"bromances' and girl crushes aren't enough. One simply has to read some more into it, and eventually, rewrite it. Whether it be through the voice of Captain Kirk, or Doctor Watson, or even myself.

meta fiction: Ghostwriter

Search: Ghostwriter for love letters project
Tags: #ghostwriting #love #letters #project #pay

I'm looking for help in writing a long and detailed love letter to be mailed to my too-be-fiance... This is an urgent project that I need to have started ASAP. Serious inquiries only. Thank you.

Keyword: ghostwriting love pay project 



-


 Remember him, as I do. Mother whispers to me. She lights the candles and brushes up the dried flowers. The petals crack around the edge and fall to the floor with dust. Ten years, ten years since father passed away. Mother prepares breakfast, leftovers from yesterday with orange juice, and I rearrange the table. Her eyesight is failing her. I wipe the bits and pieces of food scraps off the plate. Time waits for no one, she tells me. 

 She hopes I will be able to remember father the way she does. I wouldn't know of course, if he was gentle, stern, or sweet. I wouldn't know if he was tall, stout, or willowy. All I know is that I don't know him that well; I've never met him. All she tells me about father is of roses. Roses so white they made the first born snow look bleak in contrast, so soft and sweet to the touch as layers of sugar. They're beautiful, but they never last. She always ends her rambling with a wistful note. 


-


 I didn't have the courage to outright ask you, and I've never had a way with words as you do. This is my favor to you. If you do remember me and our beautiful days together, please wait for me with a bouquet full of white roses.

-J-

-

A letter.

 All that remains of father is a letter. I've never heard mother say his name; he's always J or 'him', nothing more or less. I shuffle through the letters, all pressed neatly in a box. Some letters have wrinkles, as my mother's eyes do. Creases left by time that can never be erased. They crinkle under my palm, papery and light.

 The very last letter on top of all others is my favorite. It hasn't paled like others; I can still smell the perfume off the paper- something mint, I think. When I unfold the neatly folded letter, dried flowers fall out of it as if April was just yesterday. Petals gray from time, but they're still flowers. I gather them around the inside of my palm. 

 This letter, the very last one delivered from my father to my mother, is a delicate piece. Just a few nights before their marriage father sent this letter, past the bright city lights to the little hillside mother used to live. I take my phone out and take a picture. Romantic to the bone, there were some great lines to reuse. 

This December, do you remember? 

 A sentence catches my eye, and look up. My eyes are fixed on the window pane. This December. Winter is here, but the cold never seeps inside; with the fire always crackling and the hearth warm, the cold has no place here. 

 Snow, white and fluffy, is piling up outside flake by flake. Like a snap of a finger, that sight alone brings me back to reality. Memories forged through the letter fades to the back of my mind. It's an ordinary Saturday morning.; no time to waste. 

 11:30. Numbers burn inside my eyes. I hastily stand up and leave for the car. My pocket buzzes and I know it's my phone- my work. The letter remains open on the floor. The petals inside my palm fall out and scatter to the wooden floor. A beautiful mess of brown and gray.  

I open the door. Snowflakes, falling like Cherry Blossoms. I don't bother to pick up the phone; it's him; I don't need to look to know. The engine revs up to life, and I'm off. The house disappears behind me. My client is waiting for me.

-

She leaves the house, her footsteps slightly jerky- she takes just after her father. His name, that three steps down the tongue, never fades. She smiles meekly upon entering the room. She bends down and gingerly picks up the letter. The f is slightly slanted, and the o  is never a complete circle. She’d read the letter so many times, held it close to her heart, she knew the handwriting by heart.

That's how she knew on the day of the wedding, her groom-to-be wrote a stiff f, with a perfect o. 

Lies. Later she found out how he never was a good writer. Never read Shakespeare, never the one for romantic stunts either: he simply did not care. A man of action, not words. Not of sweet utterance, but swift action. Help me write, he said. Pay you back, he added. With a small photo of her and a pen in hand, yes, he said. He, who shall remain in the back of her mind, never prominent, but always there.

 She fell in love with the man behind the letter and married the man whose name was written on the cover. So naturally, on the day to sign their names to seal the marriage, by law and by vow, she knew.

She just knew.

No wonder she doesn’t speak his name, ever.

-

Google search: Ghostwriter

Did you mean: Ghostrider

Wikipedia: 

A ghostwriter is a person who is hired to author books, manuscripts, screenplays, speeches, articles, songs, blog posts, stories, reports,  or other texts that are officially credited to another person. 

-

 He's already there, his face the color of raw meat. I bet my face looks the same-the cold was more brutal than I imagined. He stands up, and inches forward, his footsteps ever so careful. Over the weeks, he's definitely grown. Starting from the top of his head, my eyes travel down to the tip of his toes. It's a long way, longer than I remember. Pieces of him here and there stands out, and draws my eyes-eyes that I thought were long dead and dull. My eyes trail him: 

                 Ruffled red hair

                   

                  Black Scarf Ar

                      ound his

                   neck 

sleeves            A Beige Sweater                    so long they 

cover                                                half of his hands 

           

                jet black pants

                  tight 

                         fitting 

                    as

                       ever

             Brown         Boots

 With a cough he brings my eyes back up to his. He sits in front of me, his face expectant. How much have you written, he asks. Not much. My answer is brief. Show me, he opens up his palm. I hand it to him. 

Dear Carol

This is Jake. Jake from Deep Cove, that little town with Cherry blossoms and apple trees if you remember. That town where nothing happens, and nothing really changes. I know that you might not remember me. After all, I'm Jake, that little boy with red-brown hair from that rickety old mansion up the mountains. But if I were to tell you one thing about me, something to renew the colors in your memory, we had fond memories here and there.  I still remember the dazzling city lights, cars whooshing by, and girls and boys in absolutely stunning dresses and suits walking hand in had. And that sound of trumpets rising to a crescendo, and the beats of the drums marching with elegance and gravity as the lights went down- these things I will never forget. I swear with all my heart, that I have never forgotten that day. I dare did not. That day seemed to have taken complete hold of me with all its sheer brilliance and beauty. Even now, as I'm writing this to you on my way to the city I can see the glittering lights.

Love, Jake

 Sorry dad. A blatant rip off of his letter to mother. I keep my eyes down and play with my fingers. Jake, ever so simple and happy, smiles. He takes the letter with me and leaves. He pats me on back when he does. keep up the good work. I'll pay you back soon, he says. I simply nod. 

-

 Another week passes by. Jake pays me back, and I buy mother a new sundress. She seems happier even though we're right in the middle of a harsh winter. 

 Another moment, and it strikes me that she doesn't know that I exist at all. To her I'm Jake. That thought strikes me and I stay all night shifting restlessly in bed. 

All the while, another letter is due. 

-

Hey T

When will the letter be complete? 

She's texting me constantly asking me when there'll be more.

-J-

2016-12-19-AM10:30

I delete the text.

-

 I brush up the letter, proofread it, and hand it over to Jake. He smiles and pats me on the back again. 

To me, it's just another brilliant rip-off from dad's love letters, but Jake seems to be more than happy. I lean back and take a sip, all the while listening to Jake ramble on about how she seems to have fallen for him completely. She's fallen for me, not you. I'm almost about to correct him, bite him back as hard as I can, but nothing comes out. I simply nod, smile, and take a sip. That last sip leaves a bitter taste. 

 I'm on the train to go to you. I couldn't help myself. I just had to write this letter to 

you. Out of the window, I see these beautiful butterflies we used to catch up the hills. 

 I smell the breezes that we used to smell lying in the grasses, eating cherries. I can see 

the memories and the promises we swore to keep. This December, do you remember?

He reads the letter again. 

When do you think I should visit her? 

Why would you have to?

It says in the letter right here that I'm going to...

 For childhood sweethearts and soon to be lovers, Jake is clueless to Carol. For a moment, I wonder if he even knows her name Carol, of how she hates it when people pronounce the 'a' too harshly. Carol, her name is. That delicate roll my tongue makes when her name presses upon my lips. I sit there explaining how Carol, being who she is, would come to him instead. 

 How do you know her so well, he exclaims. I know that's not a question because his eyes light up into a leafy green when he does so. How sweet, he grins and nods at me. She’s going to love this. 

 If you really love her, you shouldn’t, I bite of the sentence and stand up. Bright lights, big city. How she would feel when the lights were as artificial as they could be. This December, do you remember. The sentence catches up to me. The layers that lie between her and I, seems to multiply. 

 Jake, the supposed writer knows that she's around twenty two. She's quite tall, but not petite. She's blond, but not that blond. She has two cats, Jay and Mimi. She loves summer and wishes there was no winter in this world even at the sake of sacrificing Christmas. She has two siblings, both boys. They have dimples on the tip of their nose, just like she does. 

And she too, can't take her mind off of me. You. That you in the letter. Me. 

-

I'm wondering if you remember that promise and if you'd like to have a day with me like old times. My life doesn't have any sparkles you breathed into my life. I can't inhale it anymore, no more than the lingering that you left inside me. I question every day: why is my life no longer sweet and cheerless without you? Perhaps the town life is too static and unchanging for me. Perhaps I'm too old to wait for inspiration and dreams. Perhaps, I miss you too much than I can bear.

 I didn't have the courage to outright ask you, and I've never had a way with words as you do. This is my favor to you. If you do remember me and our beautiful days together, please wait for me with a bouquet full of white roses.

-J-

-

The letter was sent, and she was to meet with him. Two lovers set apart by time. This December, we’d build a camp fire by the frozen lake. This December, I’d treat you to the best day of your life. This December, I’d greet you with a bouquet of White Roses. Isn’t it winter, might one ask. But baby this is LA, and the sun never really goes down.

Yes, she said. Why of course.

She was, after all, quite fond of all love's folly. 

-

For her, the man behind the letter never came. The man with the name instead came, and that December, no one really remembered.

-

I sit at my desk. The light outside is dim. The fireplace is lit, and snow is falling. Mother is sleeping. All is quiet. I step outside and tiptoe to her room. I open the box and pick up the letter again.

  No wonder mother fell for you hard, so hard that she married you right off. She cried her eyes out when she sealed off the marriage when you signed your name next to hers. That perfect o, that swift f and that handwriting that was so much lighter than that of your letter.

Were you nervous? Was your love for her so overwhelming? Is that why your handwriting was so different?

-

search: Ghostwriter

page 1/2

Sometimes the ghostwriter is acknowledged by the author or publisher for his or her writing services, euphemistically called a "researcher" or "research assistant", but often the ghostwriter is not credited.

-

 My phone buzzes. I don’t have to check to know who it is. Jake, what is it. I know my tone is biting but I couldn't care less. All of this, is going to be over soon. Jake and Carol as newlyweds, together forever, and me with the letters. 

 How much is the letter complete? he asks again. I snap back, telling him to wait. The call ends and I hastily add the last paragraph. She would surely enjoy this piece, and I know my work is done. Finally. 

-

She told me that she loves me, Jake’s voice rushes in over the phone.

My heart thuds at that- crashes downwards. She loves me. I almost blurt out.

Be good to her, alright? I tell him. On the other sid, he scoffs, and breaks into a fit of laughter. You've never even met her. What are you, like, in love with her? As usual, laughing at his own joke. 

 I cast my eyes downwards, on the table. The letter begins. This is Jake. Love, Jake. The letter ends. My work is done. Right, have a nice day with her Jake, I swallow my words. This letter that has been going between the both of us, with me behind the letter, and you clueless, has been nice. I think I might even miss it. He again asks me how much the letter is completed. Yes, is my answer. Five seconds of silence and he bursts out laughing. We promise to meet each other at the cafe. You hand me the letter, I pay you, Deal? he tells me for the twentieth time. Yes, is my answer again. 

I turn the radio on.  The Doors are playing. Hello, I love you.

You've never even met her. What are you, like, in love with her?

Hello, I love you 

can I jump in your game

I turn the radio off.

-

Hey T

CHANGE OF PLANS

She's coming sooner than expected

Do you remember what flower I'm supposed to give her 

TEXT ME BACK ASAP

-J-

2016-12-27 AM10:30

-

I shuffle through the letters I've written. Should I be glad I've kept a copy of all my letters, I do not know. After reviewing letter to letter, I realize I never got any replies. Something so obvious can hit you so hard. I sit still, breathing in the hazy afternoon sunlight. 

I never got a letter back from Carol. It's all Jake to Carol. 

I go back to my desk and open up the letter, the very last letter to seal the deal, as Jake often says.

Love, 

Jake.

 This is how the letter ends, how it is supposed to end.  

Love. 

I erase Jake. 

I leave the letter there. 

-

White roses. Roses so white they made the first born snow look bleak in contrast, so soft and sweet to the touch as layers of sugar. They're beautiful, but they never last. I sound wistful. I know the answer so well, yet something inside me twists. 

-

Red Roses

Obviously

-T-

2016-12-28 AM 10:30

-

And here they say that a person consists of desires,

and as is his desire, so is his will;

and as is his will, so is his deed;

and whatever deed he does, that he will reap.

— Brihadaranyaka Upanishad, 7th Century BCE

-

 What happens next is something so obvious.  The ending to their December: they fell apart. Winter was here to stay.  Red to White. Carol caught up easily; she didn't know exactly what, how and why, but she just knew. 

The letter sits on my desk, useless now. The lover birds has flown apart.  I too, sit there, useless now.

-

Love,

-

 I pick up the letter. Throw it away, I tell myself. I iron them neatly with my palm and sit down, I never can seem to agree with myself. 

-

 Love. 

-

I stop there again. The name lingers on the tip of my fingers, and for a moment I’m tempted to write my name there instead.

And I've never been good at overcoming temptation.

Like a tide, desire washes over me, and I scribble to replace his with mine.

 I write. The L thick and strong, the T soft and swift.

I add an extra paper. A little explanation for you. Yes, you. 

My hands are moving even before I can think

I don't change the words, because I know, that she'll know the moment she receives the letter. 

I've never met you and you don;t know that I exist

But we know each other inside out

You know that I cannot stand the sound of trumpets

You know that my favorite late night tea is a spoonful of honey dipped and nicely mixed with hot milk

You know that my favorite day is Wednesday, because it's just right in the middle of the weekdays

You know what my favorite song is 

You know me

You grew up in the suburbs

Your favorite time of the day is morning, but you never really tell anyone 

Your favorite drink is raw strawberry mixed with fresh milk

I know you

The letter begins. Dear Carol.

The letter ends.  Love, Therese Belivet.

-

Love,

Therese Belivet.

I sent the letter.

This is how it ends.

Writing challenge: Write an admiring letter to someone asking for something

Dear Carol

 This is Therese. Therese from Deep Cove, that little town with Cherry blossoms and apple trees if you remember. That town where nothing happens, and nothing really changes. I hear you were faring quite well in the city, almost too well- your maman was worried that you might never come back. I know that you might not remember me. After all, I'm Therese, that little girl with red-brown hair from that rickety old mansion up the mountains. But if I were to tell you one thing about me, something to renew the colors in your memory, we had fond memories here and there. You helped me find maman's wedding ring that summer night, remember? You sneaked me, Jack and Casey out to the city once, to watch that motion picture in town. I still remember the dazzling city lights, cars whooshing by, and girls and boys in absolutely stunning dresses and suits walking hand in had. And that sound of trumpets rising to a crescendo, and the beats of the drums marching with elegance and gravity as the lights went down- these things I will never forget. I swear with all my heart, that I have never forgotten that day. I dare did not. That day seemed to have taken complete hold of me with all its sheer brilliance and beauty. Even now, as I'm writing this to you on my way to the city I can see the glittering lights.

I'm on the train to get to the city. I couldn't help myself. I just had to write this letter to you. Out of the window, I see these beautiful butterflies we used to catch up the hills. I smell the breezes that we used to smell lying in the grasses, eating cherries. I can see the memories and the promises we swore to keep. This December, do you remember?

 I'm wondering if you remember that promise and if you'd like to have a day with me like old times. My life doesn' have any sparkles you breathed into my life. I can't inhale it anymore, no more than the lingering that you left inside me. I question every day: why is my life no longer sweet and cheerless without you? Perhaps the town life is too static and unchanging for me. Perhaps I'm too old to wait for inspiration and dreams. Perhaps, I miss you too much than I can bear.

 I thought you were gone that day when you left to the city. You always told me your dream is to live out your fantasy in the city. Bright lights, big city. You would become prettier; you would get rid of that static boredom stuck in you like a sword from your chest. I cried for weeks when you were gone. Just gone, as soon as the train took off. When words and gossips came to town that you were alive and indeed doing very well out there, I couldn't help it. I'm on the train now, going to you. Please do excuse this long letter. I didn't have the courage to outright ask you, and I've never had a way with words as you do. This is my favor to you. If you do remember me and our beautiful days together, please wait for me with a bouquet full of white roses.

Love, Therese Belivet

 Mashed potatoes that could pass for soup, pork cut into cubes that were often stale and hard, and sagged broccolis dipped in a mysterious sauce. These menus are from my middle school years. When the food was good, which usually is never the case, we'd have a half of a banana or a yellowed apple for dessert. If we were really lucky then we'd get a yogurt-the sort mass produced in factories. 

 Now, Chinese sweet chili shrimp, strawberries in heaps, apples, cream puffs, ice chocolate donuts filled with whipping cream, smoked duck with sugared radish, rice cake rolled in bacon, chicken soup with white rice, are regular menus of my meal. These were just today's menus and the list isn't complete yet; I just wrote down what I could remember. Oh, and did I also mention that there's always at least one type of salad with one or two dressings and fruit. Also, these menus are all plated in buckets as buffets. Students can make requests to the kitchen for menus they'd like to have, from gorgonzola pizza with honey to macaron. Of course, one of the frequent complaints from the students is that there just isn't enough meat on the menu. Which is ironic, considering how KMLA's nutrient table tends to favor meat quite a lot: students who go to KMLA eats three times more amount of meat than regular high school students, one of KMLS's dietitians once famously answered. 

 Even after school's over, the dining hall is always facilitated food to satisfy the students. Three types of cereals from fruit loops to regular corn cereals, sliced bread, both white and wheat, jams of all sorts, from Nutella to apple, and the famous KMLA HonJeongg breads are always there whether it be a weekend night or a busy Wednesday night. The freshly baked Honjeongg bread, changes every day from apple pie with crusts and chocolate macaroon.

To most KMLA students, the extravagant and highly nutritious menu is not strange at all. However, to the students who go to public schools, this meal is one of the factors that makes KMLA different and more attractive than other schools. For years, a famous internet post calling KMLA a "school for nobilities", showing the "class"(which, in the Korean web, became a slang that often means how one thing stands out from another) of KMLA has been going around. The post features various shots of Korean, Chinese, Japanese and even Italian cusine neatly plated in plastic dishes. The comments on these post, ranges from a man in his thirties making fun of the "nobilities" to a high school student who compares the meal in the picture to "my school's crap". 

 The KMLA students' response? "That's not our school's meal! That's YongIn Foreign Language High School's!" A fellow 11th grader who will remain anonymous as K, cried out in outrage. According to K, KMLA may have been famous for heavy and extravagant meals in the beginning. However, after KMLA lost financial support from Pasteur Milk, KMLA's meals are modest compared to YongIn. Moreover, it's unfair why KMLA is the main target of the press and the internet users when the majority of private/foreign language schools' meals are like KMLA's these days. 

 This moment, is when we go back to Malcolm Gladwell's podcast Revisionist HIstory's episode: Food Fight. Two colleges with almost the same prestige, Vassar and Boudin exist. However, one school's meal consists of soggy pizzas and soups with questionable ingredients. The other school has a full course buffet with all sorts of exquisite cuisine from all around the world. The reason behind this difference comes from the school's decision to spend more or less money on financial aids to students. Vassar lacks that "wow" quality in their food because they've decided recruiting and aiding students who have the potential but lack the opportunity to achieve success due to financial limits is more important than good meals; Boudin, on the other hand, chose not to. 

 Gladwell calls out schools like Boudin, who does not invest more on financially aiding these students, students like Carlos who has the potential and the capability to achieve academic success. When the systematic error and unjust in society is evident, Boudin's decision cannot be seen just as an attempt to provide the students with a better meal. Rather, their decision can also bee seen as an act that neglects the systematic injustice the talented but poor students must face every day. Their decision holds a burden that needs to be weighed and criticized, because, as educators, they are giving up a chance to provide proper education to a student that desperately needs it. 

 Now, back to Korea. High schools in Korea can be divided into two: the private/foreign language/international schools, and schools that are not; public high schools. There's no way denying that those who attend these prestigious schools tend to be from families that are wealthier than the majority of the students who attend public high schools. Also, there's no denying that the tuition for these schools are extremely high-higher than medical schools in Korea. However, even if we try to look past these flaws, what truly is problematic is how these affluent schools do not give out financial aids. 

 KMLA for one thing, used to choose one or two students a year and paid their tuition for a year. However, that doesn't exist now these days. Instead, they give out 100 dollars to students who manage to remain in the 7% range in their classes. Those 100 dollars, when compared to KMLA's tuition that exceeds 20 million, aren't much help to a poor but student who wishes to attend KMLA.

 I remember back from my middle school days, a friend of mine who resembled me in a lot ways. Grade-wise, she and I were always competing for the 1st place; she was interested in art just as I was, and sometimes I would be shocked at the materials she produced. Despite never getting the education in arts, she seemed to have that spark, that natural sense of colors and shapes. She played the piano quite well too, and she enjoyed both math and literature. To me, even to this day, she sounds like the perfect, desirable KMLA student, However, she goes to Jecheon girls' high school while I go to KMLA. She was just good as, or even better than I was. The defining factor that made our paths diverge, is the fact that my father is a doctor while her father is a preacher of a small town church: I had the financial support from my family, while she didn't. Even to this day, when I'm learning something new, and different from the Korean education curriculum such as arts and Physical Education that the majority of Korean students caught up in the pressure to exhaust themselves over the Korean SATs would only dream about learning, I think of her. I think of what she might have been able to achieve, explore, and learn. Sometimes, I even feel as if I've taken away her spot unfairly, that it's her who truly deserves to attend KMLA, with all her talent and academic vigor. 

 Maybe it's time we, as KMLA students, think about where our tuition goes. Maybe, we're taking away another students opportunity to be educated over our everyday meal. Maybe it's time that we lessen the weight on our plates, and share our portion with someone else- with students like Carlos who have the talent, but simply lack the opportunity.