Fog curls around green velvety mountains. The quaint looking fishing village reminds me of an ink drawing from Japan, where my mother is from. In Sitka, as far north as I have been, the first session of writing class had me a little nervous. To get to know one another the instructor suggested we tell everybody about ourselves, by telling two truths and a lie. Simple enough. I am a loner by nature, truth. I am an only child, independent and creative enough to enjoy alone time. Painting is my passion, truth. I am happiest when I am painting. The truth was easy to find. It’s the lie that is harder.
I thought of my opposites. My father. He liked to drink, a lot. I was so afraid to follow in his footsteps that I joined a cult of no alcohol-drinking, vegetarians to keep me sober. I love to gamble, lie. My mom once told me if she had known my father was a gambler she would not have married him. By the time she found out he was a drinker and a gambler, she was already pregnant in a country she barely spoke the language. Sometimes I get mad at my dead dad for forcing my mom to change, to become a hard person. I know when she first arrived here, she was soft and yielding like any well behaved Japanese girl at the time. Such a simple concept, two truths and a lie, makes me ache inside.