My Violin Recital

My precious violin, that’s been with me since I was a child, with the bridge snapped in two. A broken bridge needing hand-crafted care to fix. (2025)

This is a personal piece about healing—about breaking silence.

About the complicated relationship I have with my mother and my country. 

It’s a sad story but I need to get it off my chest. 

When I was around 9 years old, 

I worked hard for my size,

I memorized a long, 

Three page, 

Classical violin piece. 

But during the recital, 

I messed up—

Badly— 

And afterwards, 

My mom fumed— 

Madly— 

How I embarrassed her— 

Oh how I wasted her money! 

She sent me to my room—

Had me practice 3 more hours, 

Without stopping— 

All the while—

Screaming—

Count! Count! Count!

You stupid child!

You’re wasting my money!

My mother is a woman, 

Who likes only— 

Expensive— 

Shiny— 

Perfectly tidy— 

Perfect things. 

After that, 

I became very afraid.

I could not afford to make any mistakes. 

I needed to be shiny— 

Pretty and perfect—

To appease her critical gaze. 

I wish I could say it happened once or twice,

But it was constant. 

Even now— 

My chest tightens. 

How sad. 

No matter how hard I tried—

In the eyes of my mother,

I could not be shiny.

No amount of pressure—

Turned me perfectly perfect.

Not a 24 karat—

To be placed along side her boxes of treasure. 

I’ll be turning 35 next month.

It’s funny— 

How those memories… 

Travel with you…

Throughout decades.

But now— 

I want to embarrass myself.

I want to have fun. 

I think the world is better, 

When we’re allowed to make mistakes. 

Allowed to have fun. 

Be creative. 

Be diverse. 

The world becomes so much brighter— 

Colorful— 

When filled with laughter. 

I have a lot of big feelings. 

I’ve held them in silence— 

A long time— 

Afraid to feel— 

Afraid to speak my pain.

Afraid even throughout all this—

Somehow—

I’m weak. 

I’m an engineer— 

And an artist. 

I love making many things— 

Like hats and clothes and weird, wild— 

Even useless things.  

I love music and theater—

And some people may cringe—

I especially love—

Playing dungeons and dragons—

Dressed up— 

As rogues— 

As pirates—

Wizards and unworldly things— 

Exploring worlds and battling monsters—

With my nerdy friends in our shared imagination. 

My inner world is rich and colorful— 

With fairies, magicians, trolls and dragons. 

It’s magical— 

And I think— 

Right now— 

The wold can use a lot more magic— 

Instead of stuffing big things— 

Into teeny, tiny, neat, ticky-tacky, white boxes. 

The world is magical and wild and free—

Even when we’ve learned alchemy—

Even when we explain— 

And analyze— 

Amazing and complex things away—

Or tell others to hide 

Their shine away. 

For a long time—

I was proud to be 

An engineer—

A knower of complex things.

I have a deep love— 

Of maths and sciences—

And explaining everything away. 

But for a long time— 

I’ve been afraid.

Afraid of feeling.

Afraid of seeing magic—

Once more.

No longer a child—

Such things are foolish.

Heh—

I cannot bare— 

To hear— 

Those harsh cruel words— 

Said again and again.

I did everything—

So I would never hear,

Those awful words again—

Somehow affirming that—

Yes, indeed—

After all my studying—

After all my sleepless nights—

After graduating,

After reaching a point of prestige—

Even the framed 5 year, Tim Cook signed,

Apple anniversary plaque—

Could not appease my fear.

Yes, indeed—

My mother was right— 

I am nothing more than a stupid,

Stupid child. 

At first—

When I was a child, 

My parents tore up my pictures— 

Demons! 

Repent your sins—

They cried.

Then later— 

Because I didn’t want to become my parents—

Afraid of living— 

Afraid of hidden demons—

Afraid of creating beautiful, weird, wonderful things. 

I wanted to be analytical—

Logical—

Not ever see nonsensical things. 

And as I ran away from those awful, awful words,

Calling me stupid—

Afraid of the pain—

It became the only thing I could hear—

Even when unspoken. 

Even when I did great things. 

My trophies and medals—

They never shined for me. 

And the saddest words,

I heard spoken about me—

On Christmas day—

Poor thing—

Doesn’t know how to play. 

And with those words,

I knew I needed to change.

I put aside my profession—

Walked until my toenails bled.

Wandered—

Searching—

I realized I can hold— 

The truths and practices 

Of math— 

Of science— 

And still be in awe— 

Still have fun—

Discover magic in this world. 

I can choose to see the magic— 

In ordinary, everyday things. 

I can choose to see the fairies in forests,

Titans in mountains— 

Trolls, witches, wizards in cities—

Even beady-eyed dragons.

I can wonder and wander 

Without becoming lost. 

Without worry—

Without shame—

I can allow myself to play—

Freely.  

Without my mother’s scathing eyes,

Her cruel laugh—

Whispering hurtful imaginary gossip— 

To anyone who would listen—

Piercing me—

With self doubt, thoroughly. 

My parents hate San Francisco. 

They call it the devil’s city.

When my mom visited, 

She scoffed at our colorful— 

Pink and purple houses— 

“How awful—

These houses need to be painted white!” 

Not because of the sun or the heat—

But because she likes— 

When things— 

All look— 

Exactly— 

The same. 

It’s comfortable for her. 

She is comfortable in sameness.

Angry and confused—

When confronted— 

With difference.

When we’re comfortable, 

We don’t challenge ourselves. 

We don’t grow— 

It’s boring. 

So we fill each and every second— 

In neediness— 

With something.

And then—

Time passes…

We become incredibly afraid— 

Sometimes angry— 

Our lives have flown by in the blink of an eye.

And we’ve forgotten—

Forgotten how to heal wounds—

Forgotten how to adapt— 

Forgotten how to play—

Too scared to join the game—

A life—

Un-lived.

A life—

Forgotten. 

How angry we are—

Watching children play. 

For life:

To live, is to move. 

To live, is to change.

To live, is to grow—

Day-by-day. 

To this day—

All my mother does— 

Is go shopping. 

She watches tv in her big, lonely house—

With a man she does not respect—

Tired and resentful of his endless pacifying.

They point at the screen—

Shouting— 

The world is ending!

Jesus is returning!

Not wanting to admit they want out completely—

But tell me—

Why would their heaven be any different? 

Filled with the same players—

Who abandoned care for this world completely?

And when she goes out—

Never ending insults. 

Her favorite past time— 

Snubbing her nose,

Jeering at others— 

Oh yes—

How she’s better than every last one of them!

Remaining the same—

Unchallenging her own beliefs—

She gives into racism—

Again and again—

Head held high—

Points with pointy manicured fingers— 

Stands tall— 

In self righteousness—

It’s revolting. 

I don’t think she set out— 

To be that kind of mother.

I don’t think she set out—

To be that kind of person. 

Not when I see her in her kindergarten classroom. 

But… 

I think life—

And in raising children—

It has a way of reflecting—

Our burdens and baggage— 

Old wounds never acknowledged—

Never mended.

Without knowing—

I saw her suddenly—

Within an instant—

Lost in the flashbacks—

Trapped in memories—

She tried so hard burying.  

I know because I’ve been there—

Hours missing—

Looping—

Watching—

Sadness and anger—

It’s overwhelming. 

And sometimes when trapped,

We act out things done to us.

We do things—

Imprisoned in a fog of blindness—

In fits of rage—

Things we’ve promised ourselves— 

We would never do. 

It scares us. 

It scares others.

It scares our children.

What scares us most—

Sometimes…

We don’t know how— 

To fix it. 

Sometimes—

It scares us so much, 

We can’t even look at it. 

So we repeat to ourselves—

And to others…

That isn’t me—

I would never! 

That never happened. 

And we repeat,

Over and over,

No, no, no—

That never happened.

And in this denial,

Loved ones can’t stand by 

Hearing the never-ending spew 

Of self-inflicted lies.

It’s sad. 

I feel sad for her— 

Because really— 

My mother is— 

Incredibly, deeply, and utterly… 

Scared. 

She stares in the mirror—

For hours and hours—

Squinting at every impossible imperfections,

She scowls—

Meticulously lifts up the folds that I love in her face.

She rubs an assortment of serums and creams—

Anti-aging, expensive, snail-shit potions—

Then cakes on thick white powder—

All over her ivory Asian neck and face. 

She cannot bare to let others see her—

She does not want to see her true reflection—

Her own face. 

My country—

America— 

Is in an awful place. 

It’s been that way, 

For much longer— 

Than we care to admit. 

I’m very sad for my country. 

Scared for my loved ones.

Disgusted by all the lies.

As I’ve traveled across the world, 

To me, things feel uncertain. 

I’ve been through so much—

And even so—

It feels like a really scary place.

America— 

To me— 

Feels like my mother.

At first I was afraid—

I was afraid of my own mother.

I do not remember her face—

Only her shoes—

Even down to her correct shoe size—

Size 6— 

And a wonderful assortment.

And to this day,

I cannot draw—

My own mother’s face.

Now, I see—

The reflection of a hurt woman—

Too scared to look,

To admit,

All the scary things. 

Above all else,

She must show strength—

Never say sorry—

Never need help—

Never acknowledge the cracks underneath.

And just like my mother,

America is scared— 

Too scared to admit— 

It needs to change. 

So it doubles down— 

Even though everyone else can see— 

The lies— 

The rushed, painted-over cracks—

The scapegoating and gaslighting—

The vulgar words—

Shards of glass across the floor—

In careless, vengeful, stupid fights.

And we don’t even remember why. 

We may shout “Freedom”—

From the top of our lungs—

With a gun in our hand—

But everyone else…

Our enemies…

Our friends…

Loved ones we’ve manipulated— 

Attacked— 

They see America—

For who it truly is. 

In order to heal, 

We must take care of our wounds. 

Even old ones—

Hidden behind layers of scar tissue. 

We must acknowledge— 

Hidden, shoved-aside memories—

Too painful and shameful to admit—

Resorting to the past-time of book-burning.

We must slow down,

Like a surgeon—

Proceed with care.

This operation is not a slap-job—

No pink, star-speckled, smilie-face bandaid— 

With a thoughtless— 

Half-hearted kiss—

Will suffice. 

We must learn to give back to our communities. 

Learn to say, “Hello”—

Learn to check in on our neighbors—

Learn to greet others, different than us, with warmth—

Not shake in our boots,

Side-arm at the ready—

Assuming behind every stranger—

Is some ghastly, masked murderer. 

I believe the world becomes a better place— 

When we learn to heal,

To love, 

To take care of others—

To not be afraid to say—

I need to stop and rest—

I’m hurting. 

We don’t need to rob ourselves and others— 

Of the gift of giving—

Compassion. 

And yes,

I believe— 

In the act of play—

And playing on the same teams—

Men and women—

Together—

Learning how to respect each other—

In strength and weakness—

Sickness and in health.

And that’s what I love about Estepona—

In the year I’ve lived here—

Being subject to hugs and uncomfortable kisses.

To being waved at across the street—

To unexpected, two hour coffee dates—

I love Sundays free—

A day of rest. 

I love—

Estepona’s community. 

Yes, I am weird— 

I am strange— 

And even, a little gross— 

But I’ve come a long way 

In learning— 

How to love— 

And how to love— 

Me. 

It takes time— 

Healing— 

Stepping out of comfort zones— 

A little bit at a time. 

Even breaking and setting—

Badly mended bones.

Waiting—

Impatiently to heal. 

Taking the time to recover. 

But it’s worth it— 

Because I want the freedom— 

To be the big, beautiful, messy me—

Knowing I’ll make mistakes along the way—

But that’s ok.

I think it’s important to give children, 

Our own inner, forgotten child— 

The chance to mess up—

Tremendously— 

And still give them a great big hug— 

Telling them—

Hey— 

It’s ok— 

Don’t you worry—

I’m still here—

I still love you. 

My parents may not have been able 

To give that to me— 

But I’m learning—

I’m practicing— 

To give that— 

To me. 

And I just wanted to be open— 

Because some days— 

If we let ourselves admit it—

We really need a great, big, warm hug— 

To be told— 

Everything will be ok. 

Not because we know all the answers… 

But because we’re willing—

And able—

To try new things. 

And the best of all—

We’re not alone—

In our suffering. 

Together—

We can learn—

How to set ourselves free.

Thank you.