Letters to Who I’ve Been
Dear Emma Mudan Harrigan-Campbell,
All I remember of you is the spring of second grade. When you were still learning to write, and six sentences seemed like six pages, Mrs. Sherbert instructed everyone to write their first and last name in the top right-hand corner of the paper. You’d done this before, of course—you’d been practicing script all year—but now there were so many more letters to include. “H-A-R-R-I-G-A-N”: eight additional letters for the entirely additional last name, which squished up against each other even though you tried to anticipate how much space you’d need to fit “Campbell” in, too. Inevitably the “m-p-b” melded together, the “l’s” turned into one singular loop, so you turned it into a game. How skinny could you make the letters? How far could you spread them apart? For just one semester that year, the top right-hand corner of all your papers read half-legibly “Emma Harrigan-Campbell” because that was your legal name.
Do you remember how it happened? After the divorce, your parents agreed that your mother’s maiden name would be incorporated into yours—they just never agreed where. While your father thought it would be a second middle name (Emma Mudan Harrigan Campbell), your mother added it as part of your last name: Emma Mudan Harrigan-Campbell. I know you felt it, even then, the power of a hyphen to split you in half.
Freshman year of high school, my English teacher Mr. Salinas assigned us fifteen minutes to write about our names. I remembered you. I wrote about your trip to the courthouse with mom, the colonial red brick, signing ‘Harrigan’ when referring to yourself for the first time. I wrote about how proud you were to be a Harrigan. Your mom’s family from upstate New York, in true Irish Catholic fashion, lived on a farm and let you sneak powdered donuts from the table in early mornings. Your grandpa even let you do “tractor rides,” where you sat on his lap and worked the wheel while he worked the pedals, before he got sick. I wonder if that was the last time you felt whole—before you were old enough to see all your fragments reflecting each other—before you were old enough to realize you were back at the courthouse with your dad because your name was changing again, and you couldn’t remember if anyone told you why.
Dear Emma Mudan Campbell,
Here’s what might have happened on October 29, 2008:
You’re 5 years old. Light seeps through the blinds and you bolt out of bed because today’s the big day—the Halloween Parade. Every year, your school has a half-day and showcases the many vampires, princesses, and astronauts throughout campus. The kids practice their regal waves as they search the crowd for their parents, while the parents snap photos to prove that their kids are the cutest zombies ever seen. Other parents had zombies, anyway: last year, you were a clothing tag with the words ‘Made in China’ printed across the front.
This year, your costume—Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz—remains hanging in the guest bedroom, so you wouldn’t be tempted to throw it on after a sweaty day at school. Inspired by the music box your grandmother gave you last Christmas, the costume features a gingham-print dress, a toy Toto in a picnic basket, and the ruby-red shoes you click together with delight. It fills you with so much joy, in fact, you completely forget you fell asleep during the movie and have no real concept of the plot.
You run from your room to the second-floor banister where you perch suspended. A chandelier hangs from the ceiling, and the floor is covered with the carpet your parents purchased in China. But something is different today. There are suitcases propped against the wall, although you weren’t aware your dad had a trip. He’s always leaving for his job in the Air Force, not that you mind. You’re very proud of him flying planes because you can see it makes him happy. You race down the stairs and announce yourself with a festive, “It’s Halloween!”
Your mom scoops you up in her arms, but your dad turns to face the window, tense. There are emotions you can’t put into words yet, things you see and feel that your vocabulary won’t allow for, so you let it go.
“Let’s get you ready,” Mom says.
At the parade, you cup your hand like she taught you and wave to your loyal subjects, assembled along your yellow-brick road. Your parents pull you aside for a quick hug. “You look great, kiddo,” your dad says, cheek scruffing against yours. Your mom whispers something in your ear, a tiny, treasurable thing: “I love you fiercely and dearly.” When you pull away, your cheek is damp and you’re not sure why. She holds your hand, clings to it, but you’re confused, so when you feel her slipping away you don’t turn around.
Exhausted from the effort of happiness, you sleep the entire car ride. You only blearily remember some mention of “Mommy’s going on a trip.” You are unimpressed when your dad explains what “separated” means and that they still love you, no matter what. You call her every day, but sometimes use “I love you” to mean “goodbye” or “I’m sorry” or “I wish I understood more.”
When you climb into bed, you wind up the music box on your nightstand and listen as “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” envelops the room. There’s no place like home, you think to yourself. There’s no place like home.
Dear Soon Fung,
I know the least about you. Attempting to put together who you are or who you were going to be is something I’ve struggled not to do. When I say “my dad” I can picture him clearly, but he looks nothing like you or the man you would have called your father. I have never been able to fathom what my mom must’ve looked like. I wonder if she was the last face you saw that day in February… if you understood how lucky you were to be left in a hotel instead of a garbage can. You are the first and greatest “what-if” I’ll ever know.
From what I’ve been told, despite our looks, we are very different people. My parents have talked about how little you smiled in those first few weeks, how rarely you laughed, and I always wondered what happened at the orphanage to make you this way. You complain less than I do. You did not cry on the plane here from China—instead, your blackberry eyes, as my mom calls them, couldn’t stop looking out the window (we’re similar that way, then). My parents say you are small, the runt of the litter, and that may have been a contributing factor to your seriousness. Even your babbling is different, a replication of a language I may never know. Would you have made it your goal to master that language as well? Would you feel compelled to share yourself the same way I do? Would there have been a story to share?
You worry me. I worry I prefer to idealize the continent where you were born than the ground I stand on, which is to never know either entirely. I worry I may carve myself out of all the versions of you I could’ve been, attached to becoming someone worth being spared, living out the debt of feeling saved (do you feel saved?). Often, I picture myself less existing as a bold, etched outline I’ve drawn—as a figure created by my presence—but rather a silhouette malleably composed out of the negative space left for me, inevitably, shaped by my experiences.
It's no surprise, then, that I’ve been investigating you since I was little. I used to ask my mom how to spell “Gejiu City” over and over, just so I could try to locate in which hotel lobby you were left. I have been compiling every piece of you I can for years, hoping to gather enough to sketch some portrait of you in my mind, but I’m never satisfied. Perhaps that’s a good thing. I don’t know what your name means or why the nurses in the orphanage chose it for you. I no longer need to know. I will always wish I did.
Love,
Emma Mudan Harrigan Campbell