Reflection Learning Portfolio Post: Bridge 1

Jo’s room

Every room has its own aura. One particular room, though, have always lingered in my mind. If someone had asked me to describe this room, with confidence, I would be able to identify every curves and corner of this room.

I have only spent one semester in my crib — yet to me, it seems like a lifetime. Cream, crinkly, concrete walls with a bouquet of dead roses hanging on the wall and Jo, a brown-eyed, ginger-haired girl with slight freckles on her face would always lay ahead of me in the night with an eye mask blanketed on her face.

I never thought this rectangular-shaped room was large enough for two but it looks out to a beautiful view of the city that was appreciated only during the night; a sea of people navigating through maze-like streets with the street lamps illuminating their paths. The beauty of the city was the perfect temporary escape to my current surrounding that appears to be shrinking as time passed. Both Jo’s and my bed is placed on both ends of the rectangle. Although I do appreciate the personal space separation, there is always something tense and painful in the quality of that silence. It creates a thirst to converse and to hear her piercing, high-pitched voice that becomes excruciating especially when she gets excited. I remembered times in the night when the bone-chilling silence would grow so intense that I would start hearing the faint tapping of people walking in the floor above, or the muffled voices that echoed through the thin walls. At such moments, I would stiffen like a brick and would try to uncover the secret behind these whispered messages.

The friendship between Jo and I was never real or deep, though I would take a crack at creating mini-conversations that may seem utterly pointless but it would be our only interaction for the day. The half-hearted responses have created a barrier of mistrust around each other; her cold, steely gaze being the usual response. I would think that some things are just not meant to be and that this is my life and that I should stop trying. Sometimes, when she is drunk, the slightest part of me would attempt to catch the twinkling and faint possibility that maybe, just maybe, that we would be friends that go out for coffee runs, the pungent bitter aroma of scorching hot goodness waking us up. Or even just to explore the new ice cream place that had just opened, a plethora of different flavors each with its own unique profile. Sometimes, I wished it didn’t bother me. Sometimes, I wished I cared less about being a good roommate or even, a friend. I distinctly remember the times when I would stealthily creep towards the windows solely to open them for some space to breathe and to rid the musty artificial air trapped in the room. The floor would be gritty, dusty and even a little bit crumbly but frankly, I did not know what was clinging onto my feet. My mind and heart would race at the slightest movement from the other side of the untouchable room.

This room may come across as one of the idiosyncrasies of a prison system but simultaneously it is a representation of my journey. All of the unique artworks created, inspirations gained in school projects were acquired in this small two-bedroom room. The place in which all of this magic unfolds is a rectangular, light streaked brown wooden table. The table is loaded with skin care which invades more than three-quarters of the already limited amount of space. Next to the chair are a bundle of sneakers, boots, and heels towering like an ocean’s cliff. There is a circular hole that is drilled through the wooden desk and it overlooks to my territory – my bed. Occasionally during the day, I would be absorbed by its appearance and eventually capitulate and lay in its smooth, cottoned grey sheets with embroidery that appear to be so delicate that every so often I would mistake it for something real. While resting, I would hug my light-brown, squishy, black-eyed teddy bear named Bob that traveled all the way across the world from the comfort of my home to here. Thoughts about the bothersome homework would fly away like the leaves whirled away by the blast. And the next thing I know, the earth has made a quarter of a turn. I still remember staring at the cemented white ceiling that had welcomed streaks of light that shone through the window and into this personal space of mine as if it’s haunting me, reminding me of the weight that is carried on my shoulder. I would wait. Wait for my brain’s usual connections to resume.

Life in this room would say to be slipping away ploddingly but being strong would signify another major milestone in life. “Another school semester begins,” I would think before smiling to myself.

By Adeline Lee Xiang Yee

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