Twinkling Little Star
My first solo trip abroad was for a soccer tournament in England. This isn’t a sports story, since in my defender position I accidentally scored a goal on my own team.
When my dad went to prison as I navigated the magic of middle school, I got a flyer in the mail for a program called People to People Sports Ambassadors.
The organization called for exceptional student-athletes and young advocates in their community. It was a targeted brochure for doe-eyed middle school students like me, however likely ones that came from money to afford the five thousand dollar program fee for a week abroad.
Even if I visited my dad on weekends at San Quentin, a big scary prison across the Golden Gate Bridge, I beamed of optimism to make my wish a reality.
My mom was volunteering as the team mom for my brother’s Pop Warner team. My younger brother to this day is a more athletic, and possibly more resilient, version of me.
Instead of physical prowess, I exercised an agility of mind and adept imagination. I made friends with Barney and was babysat by Sesame Street. I could recite Disney lyrics verbatim. I pretended jungle gyms were castles and trees were enchanted cottages.
Mom was a princess in her own right. In a former life, she lived in a house with white Roman columns and a roundabout in front where cars like Porsche and other names I couldn’t pronounce parked in neat rows by her drivers.
On Hudson Street in Redwood City, however, we had a silver boxy Toyota Scion which we loved, and my younger brother and sister and I shared a bedroom. I often pretended to be sick to skip school, and I think my mom would just let me get away with it so she didn’t have to argue with me. I was as determined to get my way then as I am today.
When Mom told me that she didn’t have the money to pay for my European soccer adventure, and Pop’s money was tied up for legal stuff, I decided (with mom’s help) to do what I knew best — to write.
Mom was well-connected in the community. Nothing fancy, but she had a really easy time making friends. She was scrappy, resourceful, very sweet and chatty. Not unlike her, I seemed to know the City Manager of Redwood City and other local officials through my volunteering on the Youth Advisory Board at the Community Center.
What followed was a beautiful storm of two things I loved before I loved my children: writing and community. I typed with energetic furor, happy and sparkly, sitting at the computer in the corner of our kitchen. It was clunky and the keys clicked loudly as I spelled out my dreams. I wrote to members of the board of education, affluent architects and engineers at the firm where my mom was an executive assistant, and anyone I knew outside of my nuclear family. I raised the five-thousand dollar program fee in just a few weeks, from donations from the community I grew up around — educators, activists and philanthropists who inspire me to this day.
The community around me became the family I would model my own after for the rest of my life.
After a fun jaunt to London and Amsterdam (which is most certainly why I insisted on campaigning to go on this trip), I ended up scoring a goal on my own team eventually losing our game against the tall and blonde Swedes. Even for middle schoolers they were so angelic and elegant.
I didn’t have many friends on that trip and I’d get lost in my journal relaying the stories of exploring Picadilly Circus and scaling the narrow stairs in Anne Frank’s house. I loved Europe’s glittering character.
What I learned over the years after that eye-opening trip was that I am not a product of what I do or where I go, but most importantly influenced by the people around me — in this case, generous strangers willing to help a young girl fulfill a dream of exploring the world.
What I will tell my children as we continue to stamp our passports together, is that our greatest triumphs come from the darkest of times, moments that seem like the biggest mistakes. I found myself in travel and adventure during a time when I felt like my idea of home and family was fractured and imperfect. I imagined a world in which I was the hero of my own journey.
Today, as a new mother, it doesn’t matter which countries we go to, if I get a certain job or even if I brush my teeth. I want Irie and Trey to see a strong, confident woman when I peer at them in the rearview mirror. I want my husband to feel unending love even when I’m devastated from losing my passport for my magical solo and spiritual mommy trip, like I did this weekend.
My life is an absolute adventure. And whether or not I continue to catch flights or lose my mind in darkness like I did with postpartum depression, I will embrace the uncertainty and shine like the star I was born to be.
