Out of the Cave

Last Summer, I set myself up in the basement of a professor’s house in Montana with the intention to write. What, I wasn’t sure, but I was so set on it that spent much of the following days feverishly following threads of writing, many of which never panned out.

Then, I had this dream. It was dark, creepy, sci-fi– nothing like what I usually dream or write. I decided to try and get it down. After some very helpful feedback from lots of amazing folks (including Chris Kluwe who, after being tagged on Twitter, was kind enough to spend some real time giving me feedback), I called it a wrap and sent it to some magazines. It wasn’t published, which at the time I thought a failure, but I thought of it today and was proud that I’d pushed myself as a writer. So, here it is.


 

It’s the whoosh of the elevator that wakes her.

She hasn’t overslept like this in months, the sound of the elevator a rude awakening to an uneasy night of sleep. She blinks groggily, knowing that if they’ve already started the tours she’s likely missed her chance at breakfast. Normally, she’s up with the sun, and finds the government-issued tray filled with the same tasteless eggs, toast, apple, and cup of coffee (as if they looked up “human breakfast” when planning) outside the Cave. Most days she even manages a few push-ups and a lap around the room to stay limber. It leaves her with enough time to put the panel back in place just as they begin to walk the halls.

Not today, though.

She looks up at the faux-wood grain on the underside of a long table; the ceiling for the makeshift shelter she calls “the Cave” (to herself, of course) for two years now. She stares at it every morning, knows every swirl and crack in it, has lost herself in its lines as she tries to draft plans and figure out her next move. Now, she uses it as a compass to realign herself diagonally from point to point, the only way to stretch completely in the cramped space. She pulls herself long, her muscles thin and lean from shoddy food and a necessity to skulk. 

Suddenly, she freezes, thinking for a moment that she hears footsteps. What time is it? Footsteps will mean the tour has reached her on the 45th floor, and that will mean it’s already 10:45. Half her morning will be gone– unless she slept through the first round of gawking visitors.

She knows she must get her bearings and calculates the risk in her head. After a moment, she  thinks the footsteps are a trick of her imagination, a consequence of disrupting her routine, but there’s no real way to be sure. She quietly creeps over to a corner of the Cave, not wanting to make her presence obvious. She knows it puts her even more at risk.

In one corner, a small crack of light glistens between the panels. She puts her ear to the opening, seeing if she can catch a snippet of the tour, or the soft shuffle all Wreakers move with. She hears nothing. She pulls away from the corner and stares  at the slice of light. Her stomach knots, but her desire to know and the hopeful shining outside outweigh her sense of fear.  Continue reading

We Are The Adventurers: Thoughts on May the 4th

We have always been a family of dreamers.

My brother and I like to joke that growing up in our house set us up to be nerds. From a  young age, images of space, aliens, and other worlds were as much a part of my life as the introduction music to Reading Rainbow (and when the show visited the set of Star Trek: TNG, I nearly wept with joy).

My father loved science fiction, and I would often walk downstairs to find him watching an episode of The X-Files or Star Trek (TNG, then Voyager later). Sometimes, he would even pop in 2001: A Space Odyssey just for fun.

So, it should come as no surprise that Star Wars was, like many, a seminal part of my childhood. Empire Strikes Back was actually my parents’ second date. I can’t even remember the first time  I watched it. We had (and still have) a VHS gold box edition of the original trilogy that my brother and I would put on anytime our parents worked late or we were just looking for something to do. Our first “pets,” two tadpoles fished out of a grimy stream, were named “Luke” and “Leia.”

When I think, now, of why science fiction was such an important part of my upbringing it was because there was consistently a sense that magic was possible in our household. Growing up one of the few Latino-Filipino families in our upper-middle-class suburb, it would have been easy for our parents to err on the side of pragmatism. They had worked hard to ensure that my brother and I didn’t want for anything, and I have no doubt they wanted us to be successful and be able to take care of ourselves financially as well.

What they also did, though, was ensure that a drive for success never outweighed our ability to dream. When I wrote Star Wars fan fiction (no, you can’t see it, because I burned it) or we spent hours playing and collecting Star Wars cards, my parents never scolded us for wasting our time. When we poured over books to learn the mechanical and tactical differences between an X-Wing and  TIE fighter, they didn’t tell us to do something “better.”  When we devoured Star Wars novels to continue the stories in our head, they didn’t grab the pulp novels out of our hands, shoving “real” literature into them. They asked what we liked about the books.

My parents encouraged our imaginations, enabled our passions, and gave us space to think about other galaxies and imagine what it would be like to pilot the Millenium Falcon. When we watched Return of the Jedi together, my mom said she could understand the Ewoks (and since Lucas borrowed heavily from Tagalog, she could), and my brother and I looked at her with wonder in our eyes.

We were allowed to be weird, mind-adventurers because we lived in a household that fully supported not just the existence of magic, but also the discussion of what could be out there that was much, much bigger than us. 

So, when I hear John Williams’s opening credits, I still feel that sense of childhood wonder. My heart squeezes a little, and I can’t help but feel a smile spread across my face. Sure, in some ways it’s because I’m excited to see the familiar faces of Luke, Leia, Han, and Chewie come on screen.

Even more affecting, though, is the memory of my magical family. When I hear the opening credits of Star Wars, I instantly remember the feeling of my family curled up in the living room watching with wonder, dreaming together, and imagining what it would be like to live in a galaxy far, far away.