So, the other day, as I read through some parts of my blog, I realized one story could be altered and written as an intro to my creative writing project. The story flowed well, but the ending puzzled a lot of people. I, the writer, don't even know if it's good or bad. So here's the ending:

At some point during June’s drive, she decided to stop at where she first met Michael, near a small beach by the Lake Erie shore.

It was a horrible beach, not well-maintained, with little to no traffic. She parked in a bushy, overgrown area and exited the car. As she walked, slowly, to the bench that faced the lake, she decided to sit there, crossing her legs.

The beach was not always like this. At some point, it was lively. Children chasing each other and playing tag. People training their dogs, vendors selling lemonade. It was the place where she used to talk and laugh with Michael, while feeling the icy cold water rushing up her heels, the smooth sand touching the tips of her toes. They used to relax on the beach, him looking at her lovingly while she read her books that were thrifted from a second-hand store, some by Chekhov, others by Tolstoy and Dostoevsky. June discussed her philosophies with Michael, too, and occasionally, they talked about the new gourmet French restaurant that opened in the city.

She missed those days when she didn’t have to worry about anything. Not their mortgage, not the funeral arrangements, not the fact that she hasn’t read a single book in a year. Frankly, she missed the days before having puffy eyes from crying herself to sleep every night. Whenever she thinks about her life in the past few months, a tear runs down her cheek. Like always, she quickly wiped it away from her face. Rather bewildered, she closed her eyes and relaxed her body, imagining a warm sensation crawling down from her head to her shoulders, to the tips of her fingers, to her thighs, and her knees and her toes. She fell asleep.

Moments later, as clouds started gathering in the sky, she heard a car pull up behind her. She slowly opened her eyes and turned to see Michael rushing angrily at her. She stared at his baggy suit.

“You look thin–”

“–What the hell are you doing here?” he screamed, interrupting her.

“Michael, sit,”

“No,”

“Sit. Please,”

He reluctantly walked to the front of that rusty bench and sat beside her. She looked at him and gently rested her head on his shoulder.

“Look,” she whispered, softly, pointing at the horizon while closing her eyes.

“What a beautiful day.”

The past few weeks, we’ve been studying Morrison, hooks, Adrienne Rich, and other amazing authors who discuss so much - in their pieces - about language and how we use language.

I think I’ve started antagonizing language. I don’t know why, but I have a natural dislike for anything oppressive. By associating language with a dictatorial connotation, I can no longer use it without feeling horrible. But I have to use it every day. How do I make it something that can empower me? Do I start writing in Mandarin? Do I start writing in the way my parents write, or my grandparents, or my ancestors?

How should I approach language? What on earth is my voice?

----------UPDATE NOVEMBER 22

I figured it out.

My birthday is in winter.

On December 9th 2005, I was born.

It was “the best day of my life.”

I love to feel, and my life allows me to experience things, to touch the water bottle next to my bedside, to see the beautiful garden outside my windows, to smell the slightly strong candle scent in my dorm room, to hear the loud exploding sounds of fireworks, to taste spice from all over the world, to interact with people, to have genuine conversations, to travel, and to be myself.

I experience devastation, anger, and helplessness very often, and music helps me cope.

Honestly, I am glad to be where I am,
“Right now, I'm just happy to be alive.”

Spring, for me, is ephemeral. Spring is a rush of ecstatic feelings that won’t last - but I wish it would stay forever. Spring was before high school, before worrying about colleges, before all pain. Spring is an infant-like, innate happiness.

Spring means putting on headphones, traveling to my favorite french concession coffee shop in downtown Shanghai, and immersing myself in 70s Japanese jazz while sipping perfectly brewed coffee.

The song - カーリーとキャロル - from Shigeo Sekito’s album (the world ii) perfectly epitomizes such feelings. Every time I listen to the exquisitely constructed melody with woodwind instruments, I am dragged through space and time, to my hometown, to where I was born, and to where I grew up. A few years ago, this song brought me pleasure. Now, this song brings me much more than simple pleasure; it brings me a feeling of home and a desire for my family to reunite again.

Mike Abouilkir smiled as he diligently prepared chicken gyros for his customer. Sweat slowly trickled down his face. He wiped it with the towel tucked in his belt, placed the deliciously smelling gyros onto a wrap, and carefully assembled the food together. In a matter of seconds, he moved from one order to another.

Abouilkir is a 52-year-old Egyptian immigrant working for Best Halal USA, a food truck located near West 62nd Street and Columbus Avenue. “We’ve been here for five years,” Abouilkir said, “in this street intersection.”

Best Halal USA food truck serves a wide range of food, from hotdogs to beef shawarma. Many students, tourists, and workers share a common love for this place. However, because of the Covid-19 global pandemic, the food truck’s popularity has declined massively.

“During Covid, our truck was dead for four months,” Abouilkir said. “Before, it was way better. People would line up to get food.”

Even though they encountered hardships, food trucks like Best Halal USA represent endurance because they prevailed even with the lack of customers. During the pandemic, they managed to survive and continued to sell meals on the streets.

“That food truck over there,” Abouilkir said, pointing to another Best Halal USA branded truck across the street corner, “we opened it earlier this year, to help with damage.”

Establishing another food truck near the area yielded profits for the Halal truck and ultimately compensated for Covid’s damage.

Right across the street from the two Best Halal USA is a food truck where a customer was waiting to pick up his favorite quesadilla.

“Honestly, for a food truck that sells street tacos, they have it perfectly flavored,” the customer said as he picked up his order. “I literally traveled from Soho to get lunch here, that’s how good they are.”

Azael, an employee of the food truck who did not disclose his last name, said, “This truck has only been here for a year, but the owner has had other food trucks before this.”

“He would tell us that during the beginning of Covid, it was really hard,” Azael said. “We’re still getting back.”

Azael said the reason his truck survived Covid was that the owner cared for his employees. The truck owner would personally purchase fresh ingredients from different stores and often stopped by to encourage the workers.

The global pandemic is far from over, and people are learning to cope with Covid’s long-term existence. With the world adjusting to the new “normal,” small businesses have been forced to adapt. Some food trucks, like Azael’s employer and Best Halal USA, succeeded because of business expansions and great leadership.

Other food trucks were not as lucky. During Covid, many food trucks were bankrupted from inflation, supply chain issues, and lack of revenue. According to a report from Datassential, 22.5% of food trucks closed because of the pandemic. These food trucks represented different cultures in the New York metro area and provided the taste of home for a large population within an immensely diverse city with around 6 million immigrants.

In an industry where immigrants hold most jobs, the impacts of the coronavirus were ruthless.
Many lost their livelihoods and couldn’t provide for their families. According to the Center for New York City Affairs, one in six undocumented immigrants in New York City became unemployed during the pandemic. Their undocumented status made them especially vulnerable because they constantly face risks of deportation while searching for new employment opportunities.

For Abouilkir, who was originally from Egypt, the pandemic was harsh as well. After legally immigrating to the US, Abouilkir has worked in the food truck business for 26 years. Although he did not lose his career during Covid, the virus outbreak prevented him from visiting his family members in Egypt.

While times remain uncertain, Abouilkir said that he is still hopeful.

“I wish to tell everyone to come and eat at our truck,” Abouilkir glanced at the passersby and said with optimism, “we have good food.”