Magnets
I was 10 when my family’s tradition of magnet collecting started. The Grand Canyon came first; the small 2-x-2 magnet encompasses my memories of hikes, animals, and white-water rafting. I remember bolting through the garage door at 4 a.m. after coming home from the airport, in complete disregard for the house’s wailing security alarms. Once I reached my destination, I hoisted my body onto the tips of my toes, stretched out my arms, and placed the magnet as high as I could. This marked the moment my fridge transformed into a storyteller centered around my experiences.
Nestled between a plethora of National Park magnets, to the top right, is Banff National Park. As we hiked the outskirts of Lake Louise, I couldn’t take my eyes off the Canadian Rockies in the background as they merged, forming the valley feeding Louise her waters. The way the valleys united reminded me of the rich traditions of my Chinese and Korean upbringing. From diligently constructing chive and egg Jiǎozi — an art I have yet to perfect — to incorporating the searing rice, meat, vegetables and raw egg in Bibimbap, time with my family reconnects me to my culture. Although we have had our share of obstacles — job lay-offs, social tensions, health complications — some things never change. Sitting beside my mom, dad, and brother at the dining table while we speculate who made what dumpling — these are the little moments I live for, the people I trust, and the support system I treasure.
Toward the left, a red “I love New York” magnet interrupts a sea of blue, earthy tones. I love New York because of Broadway. There, in the mezzanine of the Majestic Theatre, was a 15-year-old girl clutching her copy of a Phantom of the Opera playbill. I was glued to the actors and musicians; the music was etched in the wrinkles of their face, the fluidity of their movements, and the intensity in their eyes. In that moment, I shut my eyes, trying to savor the sensations rushing through my body. I was transported back to marching season. The sun was beating down on my polyester uniform, its rays penetrating, creating droplets of sweat on my skin. “Thump, thump, thump.” The microphone was ready. I lifted my trumpet to my lips, inhaled, and eased into my solo. This time, I was the one conveying a story through my music.
Throughout the years, my parents have amassed dozens of pictures of me and my brother. The entirety of my left fridge door is home to these pictures, fastened with Lightning McQueen magnets from my childhood that have stood the test of time. Above the rest is a picture of 5th-grade me with my kindergarten reading buddy; I sported a shy, tight-lipped smile and a neon green safety patrol belt. As I became fond of working with children, reading sessions with my buddy developed into volunteering at my local library. Helping kids navigate the challenges of the English language and discover their inner Cézanne has taught me patience. When I’m an orthodontist, I’ll look back and relive the journey — countless hours of coursework and physical practice — it took to open my practice.
The fridge stands at the center of my house; it’s a central part of me. At one point, it sustained my desire to be thin. Efforts to lose weight led to midnight “snacks” and restriction. Tennis has empowered me to find solace through a balanced lifestyle of exercise and guilty pleasures in moderation. Once an enabler for social pressures, my fridge has become a symbol of liberation.
When I feel like I’m losing myself, my fridge reminds me of who I am. It radiates family, music, philanthropy, and health. Its mementos keep each distinct memory thriving, animated with life. The empty space across the freezer doors await magnets from occasions I have yet to experience. My story is a work in progress.