I like making perfect coffee; of course it never comes out perfect. Today, it was close to perfect, perhaps because my mind was finally at ease, at peace. I’d been thinking too much, hoping to escape my worries by thoughts of driving to a beach, deliberately avoiding possibilities for change and self-betterment. I’d been preoccupied with insignificant imperfections of what life had turned out to be.
But then I thought of my prolonged summer after four months abroad. I thought of how much I did and didn’t do and decided in the end that my summer wasn’t wasted. In fact, I now feel quite sure that it was pretty close to perfect, interesting, fulfilling, easy but challenging, seemingly lazy and yet productive.
I thought of how we all strive for perfection, for life to be just right. We blame ourselves for the mishaps, ignore the laws of nature and logic and reason and take full responsibility for any incoherence. Sometimes things are the way they are because they were meant to be, because some force, something beyond our conscience was involved. Or because we just weren’t lucky.

Every afternoon, we, Maman, Baba, sis and I sit and have tea and think of what would make our lives ideal. What would entice our irresolute states of nature? What would in fact, make us happy, happier than we are, happier than we are meant to be?
Sometimes we don’t need words to fill our empty conversations. Sometimes our conversations are filled with words and yet still empty. We know we are happy, sitting on the porch on a clear August afternoon with just the right amount of sun, the grass green underneath us, the clouds moving about above us in unison. How do we get a more perfect picture? How do we become happier?
I tell Maman that I would give her the world if I could. And she smiles and puts her arms around me and says I am her world. I want to give Baba his dream: to travel the rest of the world, the parts he hasn’t seen, and revisit his favorites. I want to give sis her dream house in the middle of Georgetown.
In this imperfect world, the closest to perfect is what we have, America and our house on Cedar. And with this, we continue to dream. Who would have thought, that after so many years, we’d still be searching for something ideal.

In about a week I’ve turned into a waitress. I still don’t know how it happened, but I take orders, bring water, get soup while the chef makes amazing Sushi, bring the food out, and ask how the food is or if I can get anything else.
Then, I walk out at the end of the day asking myself how I did it.
It goes like this:
You wake up one day and you are an amateur writer, a student on loans, paying out of your parent’s pocket, dreaming the sort of dreams everyone has, where you are published, paid and called after. Then, you realize you have no experience, no proof of existence. You haven’t tried hard enough. You haven’t talked long enough. You don’t really know how to smile to strangers or how to greet them. Heck, you don’t even know how to flirt back to get more tips. So, you do the thing that scares you the most. You become a waitress. You put on a pretty smile and walk like you mean it. You serve. You get tips. You make your boss happy; your costumers make your boss happy; your boss in turns makes you happy, pats you on the shoulder and says, “hey, you are doing okay.”
Throughout the day, or week, you realize that most of your fellow waiters really depend on this job. That they really are doing it all alone. That unlike you, they don’t have too many options as to what pleases them the most: serving coffee or making sandwiches. Some are on student visas and have day jobs, still not making enough to cover their debts.
Suddenly, you see yourself as this tiny ant that has been crawling a safe, lonely road for a long time, not battered, not yet broken by rejection or criticism. And you see how much you have been missing, how much you haven’t yet seen or heard or thought of. This is where you see the lives of ordinary people, in the kitchen where you carefully take your hot plate and overhear the guys speaking in muffled Spanish and you pick up on a few words. This is where you see what they are doing, cleaning and washing, taking out the garbage, peeling fruit, scrubbing. While you are out there in your red tie, they are here taking your orders and no one tips them or says hey I know it’s rough work.
A part of you hates yourself for not having to suffer, for not getting yelled at or beaten by the rough walls that scrape your skin when you are unaware. Another part of you sees that you are trying, that you are becoming another person, which takes effort. You are smart, you say to yourself. You’re quiet, but you’ve got it down. You know what you’re doing. You take responsibility.
The cycle runs, with or without your help. Someone gets fired; another one is hired. Customers are served. The business runs, goes up and down. And you are somehow a part of it…either getting served or serving. The note you should mentally make for yourself is:
You are not seen until you are out where people are. Once you’re seen, you have potential to move up. And if nothing else, maybe you get a few compliments for being beautiful and that’s enough to keep you coming back.