My Old Youth

I was engaged with the party-pooper in me, the scared little girl, or brittle old woman who was afraid to connect with others, assert herself, afriad to live. Images of another recurring dream pops in my head: the party-pooper dream.

I am riding my bike, excited to go to this outdoor dance party...a rave, I guess when I notice that I am carrying three walkers with me. All the young people around me are racing past, a blur of color and laughter. I realize that I will never make it at this speed. Plus, I have these walkers with me for a reason. I am supposed to deliver them to my grandma and aunts whom I care for on the weekends. In real life, what is supposed to be my free-time is filled with care-giving for my elders, getting their prescriptions at the drug store, eating too much chow-mein and getting fat, Chinese choir rehearsals, doctor's appointments...and the list of old person activities goes on. During the week, I am working as an ESL teacher in Chinatown, going to university for my BA, in a relationship, and on top of that, going to Fresno on weekends to help with my grandma who has advanced Parkinsons.

I remember one of my outings with my grandma and her aunts. We went to lunch and their walkers were piled high in the backseat of my car and trunk. We were going to a new Chinese Restaurant with a seafood buffet. I had to stop the car two times because the aunties and my grandma all talk at the same time when they give me directions, sometimes telling me to go left and right at the same time. When we arrive at these restaurants, a small parade of walkers line the sidewalk and then aisle between the tables; I would walk ahead of them to move people and chairs out of their way.

I spent a lot of my weekends with old people at this time, which did not help with this debiltating seriousness that pervaded my life. I was in my early-mid-twenties yet I worried about illness, corns, falls, and of course, impending death. These thoughts seeped into my subconscious. I had dreams about dance parties where all my friends were holding onto walkers. They looked sad, trapped within their premature reliance on the walkers.

My other recurring part-pooper dreams consisted of the party that was happening in my house yet I was not invited. When I discover the party, I yell at everyone in a rage. "I have to be up early for work!!!" I scream. "I'm going to call the cops!" would be the final blow as everyone gathers their stuff and shuffles out the door. After I explode, I tend to feel bad. But at this point, there is nothing that I can do about it. I have already ruined the evening. No chance at having fun, now.