The dish cabinet in my family home is a patchwork of mismatched plates, saucers, bowls, and trays. Many traveled from my parents' old houses and apartments, and most have been around as long as I can remember. Floral themed, Christmas themed, geometric, classic, some that looked like they would be found in any local thrift store, and others painted with traditional Russian designs. Sometimes there were a few that matched; sets that we never treated like sets and usually separated in the stacks. One such set were these cheap lightweight rice bowls with red, blue, and yellow geometric patterns and chinese characters along the rim. These bowls were ‘stolen’ by my parents from the hallway of a hotel they once stayed at. We use them for ice cream.

    On one afternoon of a day I can no longer recall, I dropped a small porcelain saucer from their bizzare collection. It shattered and made a wincingly loud sound. The pieces scattered all across the kitchen floor. As I quickly bent down to collect the pieces, tossing them into the garbage, a shard of the porcelain stuck out to me. A tiny piece, unmistakably shaped like a fish. It was cool to the touch, sharp on all edges but the end of the tail, which was made up of the rim of the saucer. The lines on the rim lined up perfectly with the edges of the shard to make a striped body and a baby blue tail. It had a slight curve when looking at it from the side, and did not sit flat on a tabletop. It was perfectly imperfect, an accidental treasure, a definite Trinket. I was delighted by my finding. I pocketed the fish and continued my hurried cleaning.

    Although I was alone in the house when this happened, I felt a hot rush of embarrassment. Contrary to assumptions you may make from my experience in youth as a ballerina, an admittedly mediocre one⸺ I am in fact a very clumsy person. The kitchen is a common place for my accidents. Just this past year I can recall an incident with a carton of strawberries, and at least two involving scalding hot microwave noodle cups. I have dropped countless dishes in my life, but each time I feel equally as bad about it. Even when no one is there to watch, the shame of the mistake is enough to make me need to cover it, fix it, hide it, dispose of it, conceal it, do anything I can to make ‘It’ disappear immediately.

    Embarrassment has cost me many freedoms in my life. With clear mistakes like a dropped plate, it starts with that first chiding from my parents. A Bad action is established. To repeat it would be Bad, thus I feel Bad. These are clear precedents for embarrassment. Dropped plates, bad grades, spending too much money, forgetting things, misplacing things, breaking a rule. Other embarrassments were purely self manifested. Created through my own eye of judgement. It was the reason I couldn’t simply turn around on the street after realizing I was going in the wrong direction. Couldn’t take photos in public. Couldn’t order at the drive thru of a restaurant I had never been to before. Every unfamiliar thing involved prior researching, some fallback story, or debriefing any possible scenario in my brain. Hours of my life is spent working through embarrassment over something that has not even happened to me. This other, self manifested type, was a type of embarrassment that my parents likely didn’t share to my extent, seen through their way of obtaining those aforementioned soup bowls. I suppose I am just chronically ‘stuck in my head’.

    I don’t really think the fish lulled any of my embarrassment in the moment. It was a brief pause of wonder, but I went right back to the anxious task at hand. It was like picking something up off the street, putting it in the pocket of your jeans, and forgetting about it until you’re about to do laundry. I ended up placing that fish into a small jewelry box of trinkets. Other trinkets in the box include: two feathers. one petal. a small crochet bee crocheted by my friend. one apricot pit; perfectly shaped. snail shells from the river. a shard from another dropped plate, this one shaped like an arrow. a metrocard that expired in 2019. two shiny rocks. a smooth river stone. a heart shaped piece of sea glass. one volcanic rock. one smooth opal. a pointy piece of quartz. a tiny porcelain figurine found in my slice of king cake. a small quartz angel; slightly less tiny. a heart shaped Cheerio. The box stayed on my windowsill and I really only ever opened it to add a new member to its family. I don’t think I would miss the items in the box if I ever misplaced it. Honestly, I would feel more remorse at losing the jewelry box itself. But on my windowsill it stayed.

   When I moved to New York City for university, the box and the fish shaped shard came with me. I put it on my new larger windowsill in my new smaller room. The day I arrived was the same day my dad had to surrender my grandfather's apartment in the projects of Coney Island. My grandfather had been moved to a rehabilitation home earlier that year and my dad had been trying to conceal it to keep his apartment as long as he could. He kept it up for almost a year, until a malfunction with the medical emergency pull cord resulted in a door kicked down by firemen, a phone call with the housing office, and a dreaded 30 day notice.

   I was allowed to pick through my grandpa’s kitchenware before I moved in. His cabinet, like my parent’s, was stacked with mismatched porcelain. Along with some beat up pots and pans and a set of cutlery, I took a few of those cabinet wares with me. One was a mug of my grandpa and I’s shared zodiac sign, Aries. Plain white, slightly rounder than your standard coffee mug, with that yellow ram’s head front and center on one side. I’d drank out of this mug every time I had stayed at that apartment in the past. My other prize was three identical plates, smaller than dinner plates but bigger than a saucer. They were beautiful, a white porcelain base with pink roses printed on the center and along the ruffled edges. The rim was a shiny tasteful gold. These sit in my new room along with the one dish I took up with me from my childhood home. My favorite mug of all time. Pale blue, round, very spacious. Featuring an orange cat that walked above a witty inscription, “LIFE WITHOUT CATS. I DON’T THINK SO.” This mug had been designated as mine since I was old enough to declare so.

   Since I have been here, I have not yet dropped a single plate, cup, or saucer. They sit safely in a stack in a crate, all mismatched and patchworked like the beginnings of the cabinets of my parents and grandparents. The box stays on my windowsill, and I have only opened it twice, once to take out that smooth and wondrous fish shaped shard, and once to place it back. My embarrassment still precedes my judgement. I turn the brightness on my phone all the way down when I look up directions. I do not enter a kitchen when someone is already at the stove.