by Maddy Hu
I am a bug. I am me. I am nothing. I am an ocean. I am everything.
When I was younger I thought of shapeshifting as a superpower—something I saw only on television and in movies. Turns out, I could do it all along. But not in the ways my 9-year-old self thought.
I first took note of my ability when I lived exclusively with white people for the first time. They would leave their random junk in the living room and kitchen: tacky artwork, a giant coke bottle, random tv show paraphernalia. They would shove their dirty dishes and messes into every nook and cranny that they could. They would be everywhere, taking up space wherever they could. They took up so much. They left me with nothing. I transformed into a fruit fly. A fly on the wall in my home that did not feel like home. Tip-toeing around—I felt like I could not exist in the same space as them because their sheer presence was too massive, too overwhelming.There was not enough oxygen for the both of us. It became so daunting that eventually I dared to not enter. I did not always want to hold my breath. I did not want to exist only in these narrow windows which they permitted. Even though I was a fly, did I not deserve space too? I’m still here! Don’t you see me? I ended up spending a lot of time in my room. It was safer. It was better. When I did dare to enter their space, my presence immediately contrasted theirs, and I was too aware of my fly body, my beady eyes, my fluttering wings. Can I make myself smaller and smaller? Let me hold my breath a little longer. Let me be a little smaller. Living with them for so long, I forgot how to breathe. I could not tell you what it was like to fill your lungs to the fullest nor how to exhale without worry. I could not exist. Not in the way I desired.
I moved out after a year. They did not.
Over the summer I worked at a job alongside a white male intern. His name was Freddy, and sure he was nice, but I felt forced to shapeshift nonetheless. I became bacteria. He talked over me because he was more intelligent, his ideas were more formulated, and his voice more commanding. I could not even get a word in at times, and I forgot that they did not see me. I tried to shout and scream: “I’m here too!” but how could I? I was a mere speck on the table. He spoke down to me like when you are scolding a dog but trying to retain your composure. Like I had peed inside the house or chewed up his favorite leather belt. Oh, silly dog, you do not know as humans do. Oh, foolish dog, you are so silly. No thought behind those big eyes of you dear. He would be included in meetings and events because “we want you, Freddy!” I sat in the next room—listening. Huh. Maybe they forgot that I was here. Maybe, I need to shout a little louder. Wave my hands around like a madman. Would that work? Would you see me then? He over-explained things like the partisan primary—telling me that if I did not know which candidate was more qualified, I should vote for the “minority.” As he was telling me this, I could not help but laugh. He did not understand. He went on to say that his political science professor told him this. I could only laugh.
He stayed for an extra two months. I did not.