Have you ever wondered what life would be like if you weren't in it? If you had never been born into this world, spoken your words, and taken your space? I've pondered this idea since I was only a child, trying to figure out what it meant to be a person, partially formed and fleshed out in this masquerade of a life that I lived. I never really wanted anything for myself: I did well in school because my mother told me to, I behaved kindly because I didn’t know how else to behave, and I knew better than to expect things from others. And so I would sit and ponder in a classroom full of folks, human and Othersiders alike, feeling connected to absolutely no one and getting the feeling that if I didn’t show up to school anymore they wouldnt even notice the empty seat.
The rifts that opened up in January of 1979, long before my parents had ever even met, and destroyed any semblance of normalcy that one could ever say possibly existed. Suddenly, when you opened a door, or crossed a bridge, you had no idea if the reality you arrived at on the other side was ours, or theirs. People started getting lost, but strangely enough, some force from the other side began rescuing them. If humans ate from the tree of knowledge, the Folks of the Otherside ate from the tree of life. Millions of different creatures, humanoid and otherwise, began turning up from these folds. They spoke our languages, mirrored our cultures, sometimes even harkened to our myth and legend; maybe they were our myth and legend, and the stories we told through cultures and generations were glimpses through whatever sheer curtain had separated us all this time.
Humanity got to mapping the folds, and before too long, we had a complex cartography of the new world, a conjoined map connected by portals and bridges. We began diplomatic relations between the governments of the two worlds. The first several conversations were pissing contests, showing the power of an atomic bomb compared to that of a wizard capable of rendering all satellite and radar targeting systems inoperable by simply uttering a phrase. Human leaders were stunned, having all of our bleeding edge technology made worthless by simple chants. When they realized that humanity was the lesser of the twin realities, human governments began to appeal to the Folk’s sense of decency; happily enough, they agreed, on the condition that they be allowed to settle in our territories. That didn’t happen until the year 1995, to give you a general idea of how stubborn human beings are. And I, the lowly human thing named Su-jin Park, wasn’t born until June 11th, 1996.
My family was quiet and kind. My father, a benevolent and steady Native American man who I’m told never went a day without making the world a better place, passed away when I was younger; too young to even remember his face past a picture. So my mother raised me softly, but never understood me. Being born in a first generation Asian American household was hard enough, trying to balance the delicate life of arguing to my mother’s landlord for her because her spoken English wasn’t understandable enough for him. Being born in the wrong body on top of that, was a form of hell in and of itself. I didn’t know what I was in those years (honestly, I still don’t sometimes), but I knew what I wasn’t: a boy, a human boy with a body and arms and legs and appendages that I felt sick even thinking about. But I was my mother’s only son, and so these thoughts would often fall away to guilt.
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Starting when I was four, she would take me on walks through the city streets and show me how to get around, mostly so I knew how to get home if I ever got lost. When we stopped for groceries she encouraged me to introduce myself and be courteous and forthright. When Folks from the Otherside walked by she taught me not to shy away; they were just like us, only they looked a bit different and were capable of different things. She would often remark on times before them, when people looked down on other people who were in the same situation, and how sad that was. She explained those differences, and though she had her judgements, she tried her best to keep it as neutral as possible. Looking back on those moments now, I love my mother for them, as they allowed me space. With that space came reflection, upon myself and how I fit in the world around me.
When I began school, her lessons helped gain me some popularity amongst my teachers and classmates. When other children were often making their first acquaintances with folks from the Otherside, I was already well comfortable with them and their many habits, quirks, and abilities. In a way, I became a bridge between the worlds of the humans and the Folk, and for the first time in my life, I felt like I belonged in a space. I was the friendly and kind one, unafraid to make friends and willing to go out of my way to make sure people got what they needed: if someone was behind on their arts and crafts project, I would stop mine and help them. That often meant I was behind on my own projects, but in my heart, I knew it was the right thing to do. Because my mother would do the same, and had done the same.
Those early years, where malice wasn't even a concept in the minds of most of my peers, were the happiest of my life. I flowed through the stressors of upholding peace like a stream through glacial ravines, cool and refreshing, unencumbered and clean. I came home from school every day with stories for my mother, peace I negotiated, friends I had made, discussions I had. Sometimes I even visited friends' houses, and saw the lives of others from within for the first time; it was beautiful and serene, whether it was a three bedroom flat or a house in the suburbs. No one ever came to my place though: a studio apartment is a bit too cramped for playtime.
Perhaps I should explain: my mother, on top of being a paragon of virtue for me, worked two jobs to pay for my private schooling. I lived in the inner city of New York, where public school had long become an afterthought, and the only way for families to ensure their children would get an education that would lead to college and higher advancements was to pay up. This was a sad truth before the rifts, and unfortunately, the welfare that poured in from the Otherside went to other more pressing things, like the adaptation of transport and housing. They would go on to make sweeping changes nationwide, but I wouldn't learn that until I moved back over a decade later.