Motion Sickness
Motion Sickness
Evie Huang
Regarding the Monterey Park Shooting on January 21st, 2023
As the train lurches forward, I realize that I’m sitting on the chairs facing backwards and think this is a mistake. Childhood nausea creeps back in as the smell of musty seats hovers around my nose, and it’s taking all my strength not to look at the gum on the floor lest my stomach attempts to slide up my throat again. Neighborhoods rush past the silver trap I’m in, ungodly momentum pulling me through a dizzying array of dark trees and empty buildings. My head floats away from my body, but I pull it back to me – I don’t have my pepper spray – will I be safe – how many more minutes till home – if someone grabs me, will there be
RED
glowed all around me today at the church: on that aunty’s silk dress, on those paper fans tinged with gold characters, on the lanterns waltzing with the breeze along the handrail, and even on the stained glass windows that hugged me with light as I walked past. Children dashed across the pavement carrying ecstatic grins and ruby envelopes, racing to show their mamas what good luck they had received. And during the priest’s sermon, I saw blessed squares hung upside down on the wall announcing fortune had arrived; they were painted
RED
appeared suddenly on the floor of the dance studio, its celebration interrupted by a barrage of vicious metal. (Luck was too weak a shield.) I almost don’t realize my hands are shaking. My vision swims through myriad shattered puzzle pieces: Red paper flapping on haunted trees with golden leaves and tiny silver bullet trains. The world keeps pushing and pulling, nudges turning to shoves. I squeeze my eyes tightly to steady my heart, but each jolt of the train reminds me of dancers swaying about, moments before they drop –
Earlier, a Jesus who looked like me carried a cross on His back and I cried out for Him to deliver His children because I am so sick of
RED
staining the sacred as fear bleeds out from fortune. I run towards my mama, but the backward train keeps dragging me toward a station full of empty, angry people. The world is spinning, and my eyes are pressed shut because darkness is safer than the blinding brightness out there, and my stomach crawls like it’s trying to escape something bigger than itself, and I am tired – I am weary – of a sickness that seems to have no cure.
Evie Huang
Poet & Student
Evie is an emerging author of poetry, songs, and more. She is currently an undergraduate student and was raised in Southern California, where she still lives and works. Her work has appeared in Foreshadow Magazine and Pearl Press. Follow her on Instagram at @jubileeveespoems.
Photography by Kellen Riggin