My Dearest,
My heart shall always go on. For you.
Kisses, hugs and Celine Dion,
Bethaboo
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
MBT #12: Being the Global Shit
Jason, the Professor:
"We've moved past the era where we rely on science and progress, structure and hierarchies to look for security. How do we reconcile the Enlightenment and democratization with the fact that billions of people are starving, right now? I know that even in this room, life is not easy for some of you. Some of you are working one, two jobs to pay for tuition. But you are all here. You are all college students. There are a billion people living on a handful of rice a day, and billions more working to move past that. You guys are it. You are at the tippity-top of the pyramid. You are the Global Shit.
Now the question is, what are you going to do?"
Something I learned over the summer is that the problem with privilege is that I'm always looking ahead. I'm always looking at my deficits. My inadequacies. My insufficiency. What I don't have and still want. I do some quick calculations in my head on how to progress, how to achieve, and work towards fulfilling our my equations and my agenda. Who I have to know, what I have to say so they like me, what I have to do.
What I fail to do is look behind me: even geographically, to look at those who were not born in the United States, not born into an affluent East Coast county, not born into a neighborhood with a strong tax base to support public education, not born into a state that subsidizes university study, not born into a country or state that could afford it if it wanted to. This doesn't even take into consideration all the other obstacles that were removed for me on my fast track towards success and working up towards job stability and security, because that's what we all want, right? That's just geography, the longitude and latitude I'm in, on no merit of my own. And it has made all the difference.
Jason's question terrifies and empowers. Here I am, at state university. On the quad, in the dorms: these are the world changers, the rising leaders, earth shakers. It's like merely walking out of here with a college diploma gives us a megaphone from which we can shout, and people will listen. But Jason's right: what will do, what will we say? Our amplified, elite-educated voices could drown out those of others, or amplify theirs.
I know I risk sounding cheesy, but more than unoriginality, my fear is that I will do nothing. That I will slap the faces of those who support me being here: God, my family, my friends, my professors and teachers, my university administration, the politicians who decided that I was worth investing in, the tax payers who pay so that I can have wireless internet in my dorm room. That I will accept going to college as the norm, and not the incredible blessing and privilege that it is.
Readers, the next time you hear me moan and complain about that killer 10-page bio paper or how I'm sick of the dining hall, please punch me and tell me to shut up. Tell me that I am the Global Shit. And that it's about damn time that I start acting like I deserve it.
"We've moved past the era where we rely on science and progress, structure and hierarchies to look for security. How do we reconcile the Enlightenment and democratization with the fact that billions of people are starving, right now? I know that even in this room, life is not easy for some of you. Some of you are working one, two jobs to pay for tuition. But you are all here. You are all college students. There are a billion people living on a handful of rice a day, and billions more working to move past that. You guys are it. You are at the tippity-top of the pyramid. You are the Global Shit.
Now the question is, what are you going to do?"
Something I learned over the summer is that the problem with privilege is that I'm always looking ahead. I'm always looking at my deficits. My inadequacies. My insufficiency. What I don't have and still want. I do some quick calculations in my head on how to progress, how to achieve, and work towards fulfilling our my equations and my agenda. Who I have to know, what I have to say so they like me, what I have to do.
What I fail to do is look behind me: even geographically, to look at those who were not born in the United States, not born into an affluent East Coast county, not born into a neighborhood with a strong tax base to support public education, not born into a state that subsidizes university study, not born into a country or state that could afford it if it wanted to. This doesn't even take into consideration all the other obstacles that were removed for me on my fast track towards success and working up towards job stability and security, because that's what we all want, right? That's just geography, the longitude and latitude I'm in, on no merit of my own. And it has made all the difference.
Jason's question terrifies and empowers. Here I am, at state university. On the quad, in the dorms: these are the world changers, the rising leaders, earth shakers. It's like merely walking out of here with a college diploma gives us a megaphone from which we can shout, and people will listen. But Jason's right: what will do, what will we say? Our amplified, elite-educated voices could drown out those of others, or amplify theirs.
I know I risk sounding cheesy, but more than unoriginality, my fear is that I will do nothing. That I will slap the faces of those who support me being here: God, my family, my friends, my professors and teachers, my university administration, the politicians who decided that I was worth investing in, the tax payers who pay so that I can have wireless internet in my dorm room. That I will accept going to college as the norm, and not the incredible blessing and privilege that it is.
Readers, the next time you hear me moan and complain about that killer 10-page bio paper or how I'm sick of the dining hall, please punch me and tell me to shut up. Tell me that I am the Global Shit. And that it's about damn time that I start acting like I deserve it.
Friday, October 30, 2009
MBT #11: Kindness from Strangers
This is one of my favorite commercials. Ever.
I don't want to claim that strangers who spread kindness are these amazing do-gooders because we all know how impossibly hard it can be to love and serve our own family most of the time. I mean, when is the last time I wanted to do the dishes? But I don't want to downplay the impact, either.
I never really got the chance to thank these strangers who popped up in my life, but I never quite forgot you either. This post is for you, for your audacity, your spontaneity, your joy, your selflessness. Thank you for brightening my day, and for restoring more hope in humanity action by action. Thank you for inspiring me.
1.) Lemonade Stand Woman - When Elliot and I were in elementary school, my neighborhood organized a community yard sale and every house had tables set up on the driveway. I'm not sure who proposed it, but Elliot and I ended up running a lemonade stand right at the entrance to grab the most attention. We were abuzz with excitement: the pitchers, the coin collection box, the cups, and the lemonade powder were too much for our scrawny bodies to handle. Little kids selling lemonade for ten cents absolutely screams adorable entrepreneurship, but it was hard selling it to people that were not my mom and dad. Thankfully, Lemonade Stand Woman arrived and asked for two cups, and took a sip. She told us it was delicious and "keep the change." She handed me a $5 bill.
2.) Guy at Starbucks - I was grabbing coffee with Ivria, and as we sat at the stools we started chatting about what you have been missing if you've been living under a rock. We hear laughter behind us and turn around to this guy in his late 20s/early 30s who looks up and asks, "The Onion? God, it's hilarious. That is so great that you are talking about it."
3.) Car Trouble Guy - It was a frosty post 9/11 afternoon after church; the roads were icy and the snow was marred from the weekend traffic. My family sat in bumper-to-bumper traffic and by the median I noticed two cars, engine to engine. It looked like one car just needed a jump start, which is pretty ordinary, but what really caught my eye was the guy who was hooking up the cables. He was young, maybe mid 20s. Attractive, sure. Maybe Persian. But he was only wearing a thin hoodie, sleeves rolled up so he could work with the engines. He was rubbing his hands together, breathing on them to keep warm. And he did all of this while smiling, laughing, and talking with the other driver. I don't know if he knew her or not, but I couldn't help but think of how many drivers had seen her and simply been too busy, too hesistant, or too cold (hey-yo!). And how the only person who stayed with her looked like the people we as a nation began to unfairly prejudge.
4.) Dining Hall Tray Guy - Last week in the dining hall, the food server informed a student in line that he needed to get a new plate because his had a melon rind on it, thus condemning him to the back of the dinner rush line. This guy a few spots ahead of me gave him his plate instead.
I don't believe that any of these people have transformed the world, but they have all changed it. Their stories intersected with mine in goofy and amazing ways, and as a result, I find it hard to act as if they had never touched me at all. So I won't. I'll let them move me.
I don't want to claim that strangers who spread kindness are these amazing do-gooders because we all know how impossibly hard it can be to love and serve our own family most of the time. I mean, when is the last time I wanted to do the dishes? But I don't want to downplay the impact, either.
I never really got the chance to thank these strangers who popped up in my life, but I never quite forgot you either. This post is for you, for your audacity, your spontaneity, your joy, your selflessness. Thank you for brightening my day, and for restoring more hope in humanity action by action. Thank you for inspiring me.
1.) Lemonade Stand Woman - When Elliot and I were in elementary school, my neighborhood organized a community yard sale and every house had tables set up on the driveway. I'm not sure who proposed it, but Elliot and I ended up running a lemonade stand right at the entrance to grab the most attention. We were abuzz with excitement: the pitchers, the coin collection box, the cups, and the lemonade powder were too much for our scrawny bodies to handle. Little kids selling lemonade for ten cents absolutely screams adorable entrepreneurship, but it was hard selling it to people that were not my mom and dad. Thankfully, Lemonade Stand Woman arrived and asked for two cups, and took a sip. She told us it was delicious and "keep the change." She handed me a $5 bill.
2.) Guy at Starbucks - I was grabbing coffee with Ivria, and as we sat at the stools we started chatting about what you have been missing if you've been living under a rock. We hear laughter behind us and turn around to this guy in his late 20s/early 30s who looks up and asks, "The Onion? God, it's hilarious. That is so great that you are talking about it."
3.) Car Trouble Guy - It was a frosty post 9/11 afternoon after church; the roads were icy and the snow was marred from the weekend traffic. My family sat in bumper-to-bumper traffic and by the median I noticed two cars, engine to engine. It looked like one car just needed a jump start, which is pretty ordinary, but what really caught my eye was the guy who was hooking up the cables. He was young, maybe mid 20s. Attractive, sure. Maybe Persian. But he was only wearing a thin hoodie, sleeves rolled up so he could work with the engines. He was rubbing his hands together, breathing on them to keep warm. And he did all of this while smiling, laughing, and talking with the other driver. I don't know if he knew her or not, but I couldn't help but think of how many drivers had seen her and simply been too busy, too hesistant, or too cold (hey-yo!). And how the only person who stayed with her looked like the people we as a nation began to unfairly prejudge.
4.) Dining Hall Tray Guy - Last week in the dining hall, the food server informed a student in line that he needed to get a new plate because his had a melon rind on it, thus condemning him to the back of the dinner rush line. This guy a few spots ahead of me gave him his plate instead.
I don't believe that any of these people have transformed the world, but they have all changed it. Their stories intersected with mine in goofy and amazing ways, and as a result, I find it hard to act as if they had never touched me at all. So I won't. I'll let them move me.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
MBT #10: Getting Sick
I usually enjoy being sick.
Although I'm not fond of the sickly and frail miserableness of it all, I can appreciate the humor of it. Most of the time I run around like an arrogantly invincible, reckless young adult, not taking any time to think of how I could be just one heartbeat away from the end. I try to think big, and dream bigger, and all it takes to drain my energy and make me irritable is a microscopic virus. It's not even a living organism, but is more than capable of ruining my week. I can't help but laugh at my distorted sense of homo sapien entitlement.
I also am a fan of letting other people take care of me. My pride doesn't allow this to come easy, but I'm learning to swallow it seeing as how I can't taste much when I'm congested anyway.
I'm often surprised by how many people play mom ("WHY ARE YOU NOT WEARING MORE CLOTHES?") or take the time to offer a hopeful smile ("I hope you feel better."). And especially concern from professors who see that:
my recovery > sticking to the syllabus
I can't help but feel pampered and loved when friends bring tea or soup or leave encouraging messages to cheer my immune system on. I also think it's incredible how all I really want is to be hugged and how for every person who shirks away from fear of getting sick, there is always someone willing to brave it for me.
So the next time you are sick, let us hug you, bring you tea, and insist that you wear a heavier jacket. And while you can, enjoy all the sleep you're getting and movies you are watching.
Although I'm not fond of the sickly and frail miserableness of it all, I can appreciate the humor of it. Most of the time I run around like an arrogantly invincible, reckless young adult, not taking any time to think of how I could be just one heartbeat away from the end. I try to think big, and dream bigger, and all it takes to drain my energy and make me irritable is a microscopic virus. It's not even a living organism, but is more than capable of ruining my week. I can't help but laugh at my distorted sense of homo sapien entitlement.
I also am a fan of letting other people take care of me. My pride doesn't allow this to come easy, but I'm learning to swallow it seeing as how I can't taste much when I'm congested anyway.
I'm often surprised by how many people play mom ("WHY ARE YOU NOT WEARING MORE CLOTHES?") or take the time to offer a hopeful smile ("I hope you feel better."). And especially concern from professors who see that:
my recovery > sticking to the syllabus
I can't help but feel pampered and loved when friends bring tea or soup or leave encouraging messages to cheer my immune system on. I also think it's incredible how all I really want is to be hugged and how for every person who shirks away from fear of getting sick, there is always someone willing to brave it for me.
So the next time you are sick, let us hug you, bring you tea, and insist that you wear a heavier jacket. And while you can, enjoy all the sleep you're getting and movies you are watching.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
MBT #9: Really Angsty 13 Year-Old Poetry
Lost
February 5, 2003
I never saw it coming,
I thought it would never end.
For the past few months you have been my life.
My past, my present, my future.
I depended on you for everything.
How can you not remember
all those memories shared together?
I loved you, you loved me.
You now leave me with tears not cried,
and words not said.
But now everything's different.
I'm independent and feel beautiful.
I feel perfect.
When I lost you, I found myself.
All I have to say is,
"Thanks."
It's heartbreaking hilarious and embarrassing to read my old poetry. I think I managed to hit almost every cliche (no mention of withering rose. yet.)It vexes me to think that this is really what I was about 5 years ago, that my existence revolved around a fellow fickle middle schooler in self-induced deceit, delusion, and superficiality.
And this really makes me wonder what I will think of myself 5 years from now. Will I be able to laugh at myself? Will I be proud of the person I am now? Will I be still remain unable to resist making fun of 13 year-olds?
Because it doesn't seem like that much has changed since I wrote this poem. I rush to any glimmer of instant gratification. My immaturity stunts my failed attempts to love others without expecting anything in return. I live for the temporal because the thought of life beyond myself terrifies me. And this is what gives me hope because 5 years ago, I would not have made that confession.
Even if it was online.
February 5, 2003
I never saw it coming,
I thought it would never end.
For the past few months you have been my life.
My past, my present, my future.
I depended on you for everything.
How can you not remember
all those memories shared together?
I loved you, you loved me.
You now leave me with tears not cried,
and words not said.
But now everything's different.
I'm independent and feel beautiful.
I feel perfect.
When I lost you, I found myself.
All I have to say is,
"Thanks."
It's heartbreaking hilarious and embarrassing to read my old poetry. I think I managed to hit almost every cliche (no mention of withering rose. yet.)It vexes me to think that this is really what I was about 5 years ago, that my existence revolved around a fellow fickle middle schooler in self-induced deceit, delusion, and superficiality.
And this really makes me wonder what I will think of myself 5 years from now. Will I be able to laugh at myself? Will I be proud of the person I am now? Will I be still remain unable to resist making fun of 13 year-olds?
Because it doesn't seem like that much has changed since I wrote this poem. I rush to any glimmer of instant gratification. My immaturity stunts my failed attempts to love others without expecting anything in return. I live for the temporal because the thought of life beyond myself terrifies me. And this is what gives me hope because 5 years ago, I would not have made that confession.
Even if it was online.
Saturday, September 5, 2009
MBT #8: Ultimate Cabbage
Hey do you guys wanna come play ultimate cabbage?
What?
It's ultimate frisbee...but with a cabbage.
I love the looks on people's faces when you invite them to play, and the wry smiles that inevitably follow as soon as they realize that they not only get the opportunity to throw vegetables at other people, but that it becomes a critical indicator of one's marksmanship and athleticism.
I love how one of my teammates was decked out in Under Armor. And I'm still unsure of whether him holding the cabbage made him look less or more intense.
I guess I generally love seeing athletes leave it all on the field for a cabbage.
I love the bruise the cabbage left on my elbow when Pat chucked it at me because I get to hold it against him until it heals and it makes for a great story.
I love how the field soon becomes peppered with cabbage leaves, crumpled and withering casualties of an epic struggle unlike most others.
I love how easy it was to clean up afterwards with everyone's help.
I love watching the reactions of people watching us play. They tried to maintain their conversations as they walked by us, but they ended up standing there, unable to satisfy their curiosity even with perpetual double takes. I'm fairly confident we either became the subject of their conversations, or they soon became part of ours as they joined in on the game.
I love how something so simple can be so whimsical and inviting and hilarious.
I love how afterwards, we all realized we need more of this in our lives.
I love how the guys next to us offered us their frisbee.
What?
It's ultimate frisbee...but with a cabbage.
I love the looks on people's faces when you invite them to play, and the wry smiles that inevitably follow as soon as they realize that they not only get the opportunity to throw vegetables at other people, but that it becomes a critical indicator of one's marksmanship and athleticism.
I love how one of my teammates was decked out in Under Armor. And I'm still unsure of whether him holding the cabbage made him look less or more intense.
I guess I generally love seeing athletes leave it all on the field for a cabbage.
I love the bruise the cabbage left on my elbow when Pat chucked it at me because I get to hold it against him until it heals and it makes for a great story.
I love how the field soon becomes peppered with cabbage leaves, crumpled and withering casualties of an epic struggle unlike most others.
I love how easy it was to clean up afterwards with everyone's help.
I love watching the reactions of people watching us play. They tried to maintain their conversations as they walked by us, but they ended up standing there, unable to satisfy their curiosity even with perpetual double takes. I'm fairly confident we either became the subject of their conversations, or they soon became part of ours as they joined in on the game.
I love how something so simple can be so whimsical and inviting and hilarious.
I love how afterwards, we all realized we need more of this in our lives.
I love how the guys next to us offered us their frisbee.
Monday, August 3, 2009
MBT #7: My Little Brother
A few years ago I threw a chair at Elliot because he was annoying me. But he dodged it, so it was okay. And we both looked at each other and laughed as we thought the same thing: Did she really just throw a chair at me? Really?
I also threw up on his head in the car.
I think the worst was when I slammed the bathroom door on his finger. After I slammed it, there was dead silence. And then he started bawling. It was this screeching agony that still gives me chills when I think about it. And I don't even remember my punishment. All I remember was that sound. As far as my relationship with Elliot has been, I don't think I've ever felt more ashamed about anything else.
We've come a long way since then.
Ever since I left for college, we've become friends. It's like with every visit, we realize that we don't have enough time to fight. So instead we go for late night 7-11 trips, YuGiOh duels, and collegehumor videos (Jake & Amir!). I feel like I am finally starting to see my brother as a fellow human being, who has dreams and insecurities and a killer sense of humor and a crush on the same girl for two years now and not just a "didi" the Chinese name for "(obnoxious) younger brother." As proud as my parents are of how nicely we can play together, I am just as proud of how much he cares about other people and how he's got a good head on his shoulders.
Now I know the real meaning behind his question whenever I call home: "So when are you coming home?"
Love you, too didi.
--
Me: So I think what I'm most scared of is getting into a freak accident the day after I graduate from college, and being paralyzed. That's scares me more than dying, but I know that I have no choice but to grieve and move on, you know?
Elliot: Well, you can't really move on.
I also threw up on his head in the car.
I think the worst was when I slammed the bathroom door on his finger. After I slammed it, there was dead silence. And then he started bawling. It was this screeching agony that still gives me chills when I think about it. And I don't even remember my punishment. All I remember was that sound. As far as my relationship with Elliot has been, I don't think I've ever felt more ashamed about anything else.
We've come a long way since then.
Ever since I left for college, we've become friends. It's like with every visit, we realize that we don't have enough time to fight. So instead we go for late night 7-11 trips, YuGiOh duels, and collegehumor videos (Jake & Amir!). I feel like I am finally starting to see my brother as a fellow human being, who has dreams and insecurities and a killer sense of humor and a crush on the same girl for two years now and not just a "didi" the Chinese name for "(obnoxious) younger brother." As proud as my parents are of how nicely we can play together, I am just as proud of how much he cares about other people and how he's got a good head on his shoulders.
Now I know the real meaning behind his question whenever I call home: "So when are you coming home?"
Love you, too didi.
--
Me: So I think what I'm most scared of is getting into a freak accident the day after I graduate from college, and being paralyzed. That's scares me more than dying, but I know that I have no choice but to grieve and move on, you know?
Elliot: Well, you can't really move on.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
MBT #6: Louis W.
Louis W. is 13 years old.
Three weeks ago, Louis W. did not know that 3-2=1.
Now, he better know that 3+6=9 and that 2+5=7 or else I will make him rewrite it 3 more times.
He also knows that LOUIS x 1 = LOUIS and that 1,234,567,890 x 0 = 0.
In short, I hope he is no longer afraid of numbers.
Right off the bat, he was my troublemaker. Leaving breakfast wrappers on the table, pretending to sleep during lessons. Telling everyone that he was going to murder them. That he needed some more crack.
During a round of Yu-Gi-Oh, I noticed that he was having trouble calculating his life points. I decided to ask him if he wanted to practice math with me after camp. I figured I would atleast make him the offer, and didn't expect him to take it because I am much to cynical and judgmental.
His reply: "Yeah, can we start tomorrow?"
In my worst moments, I find myself exasperatedly asking myself why I bother. Because he's not going to graduate from high school. Because everyone else in the neighborhood expects him to be in a gang, to deal drugs. Because college is laughably out of the question. Because he's going to end up in jail.
Because he told me, "Nobody teaches me."
But it's difficult to think that when as I work out problems, he moves in closer.
It's difficult to think that when I see him call out answers without using his fingers.
It's difficult to think that when he came in for tutoring even though he missed a whole day of camp.
Change is draining, but cynicism even more so.
Three weeks ago, Louis W. did not know that 3-2=1.
Now, he better know that 3+6=9 and that 2+5=7 or else I will make him rewrite it 3 more times.
He also knows that LOUIS x 1 = LOUIS and that 1,234,567,890 x 0 = 0.
In short, I hope he is no longer afraid of numbers.
Right off the bat, he was my troublemaker. Leaving breakfast wrappers on the table, pretending to sleep during lessons. Telling everyone that he was going to murder them. That he needed some more crack.
During a round of Yu-Gi-Oh, I noticed that he was having trouble calculating his life points. I decided to ask him if he wanted to practice math with me after camp. I figured I would atleast make him the offer, and didn't expect him to take it because I am much to cynical and judgmental.
His reply: "Yeah, can we start tomorrow?"
In my worst moments, I find myself exasperatedly asking myself why I bother. Because he's not going to graduate from high school. Because everyone else in the neighborhood expects him to be in a gang, to deal drugs. Because college is laughably out of the question. Because he's going to end up in jail.
Because he told me, "Nobody teaches me."
But it's difficult to think that when as I work out problems, he moves in closer.
It's difficult to think that when I see him call out answers without using his fingers.
It's difficult to think that when he came in for tutoring even though he missed a whole day of camp.
Change is draining, but cynicism even more so.
Friday, June 19, 2009
MBT #5: Three Year Olds
Me: Ok, so we have 4 friends waiting for us by the tree. How many flowers should we pick?
Three Year Old: um, 20!!!!!!!!
My (legally) adult thinking was hoping that she would say 4 because as an adult I am concerned with abstract concepts like fairness and equal distribution and evading guilt and preventing people from feeling left out.
Of course it's the toddler who chooses abundance, who seeks to bring to the rest of the group this incredible discovery of the buttercup variety.
And to bring it to the full.
When I found out that, let's just call her Zachiah, usually chooses a favorite intern to adorably cling to for the whole summer I immediately began judging the rest of the team in three critical categories of
1) silliness
2) creativity
3) soft skin
and proceeded to remove myself from the competition, resigned to my decidedly un-kid friendly future.
And again, of course Zachiah and I spend the following afternoon running through the park together, picking flowers and counting butterflies.
I was wondering if her adorableness could get any more adorable when as we walked back home in the early evening, I saw the flicker of a lightning bug. Seeing the teachable moment, (the telltale sign of burgeoning responsibility) I pointed them out to her, and that's when it happened:
She ran back to me, her face contorted in fear, tiny arms flailing in escape.
Proceeding to grab hold of my leg, she began softly whimpering "no.no.no.no.no." with her face buried in my hip.
Game Over.
Three Year Old: um, 20!!!!!!!!
My (legally) adult thinking was hoping that she would say 4 because as an adult I am concerned with abstract concepts like fairness and equal distribution and evading guilt and preventing people from feeling left out.
Of course it's the toddler who chooses abundance, who seeks to bring to the rest of the group this incredible discovery of the buttercup variety.
And to bring it to the full.
When I found out that, let's just call her Zachiah, usually chooses a favorite intern to adorably cling to for the whole summer I immediately began judging the rest of the team in three critical categories of
1) silliness
2) creativity
3) soft skin
and proceeded to remove myself from the competition, resigned to my decidedly un-kid friendly future.
And again, of course Zachiah and I spend the following afternoon running through the park together, picking flowers and counting butterflies.
I was wondering if her adorableness could get any more adorable when as we walked back home in the early evening, I saw the flicker of a lightning bug. Seeing the teachable moment, (the telltale sign of burgeoning responsibility) I pointed them out to her, and that's when it happened:
She ran back to me, her face contorted in fear, tiny arms flailing in escape.
Proceeding to grab hold of my leg, she began softly whimpering "no.no.no.no.no." with her face buried in my hip.
Game Over.
Monday, June 8, 2009
MBT #4: Late Night Talks with Parents
Hot English Teacher told us first-semester high school seniors last year:
I can guarantee you all that one year from now, you are all going to be in your dorm rooms eating pizza with your friends and asking yourselves something to the effect of, ''Dude, what if...what if we're just a fish's dream?"
And he was right.
I used to think true intimacy was limited to the hours between midnight and 3 AM, that meaningful discussions and soul-entwining talks could only happen late at night. That these were the prime hours for those big existential, world-view questions we are too busy to answer during the rest of the day.
That only the nocturnal were enlightened.
But this was because my understanding of intimacy was far too small, shamefully so. I am thankful that I am now learning that sharing of life does not depend on the rotation of the planet.
But there is something to be said of those early morning hours. Maybe we naturally lower our inhibitions as our bodies tire. Maybe with the darkness we more urgently seek out each other for security.
I don't know.
Regardless, I had my first late night talk with my parents last night.
I jumped onto their bed as my mom was winding down with a National Geographic and my dad was packing for his business trip. We started chatted about Elliot's violin lesson and somehow ended up examining the ramifications of torture on an international scale.
Politics is something that consistently divides me and my parents.
It is also something that always comes up.
Ultimately, we agree to disagree, but last night their stauchness was something I didn't anticipate. It was difficult to swallow my parents' criticism and accusations, but I think I understand them that much better, and that can never be a bad thing.
I actually began crying with relief to hear how their stances on some issues had softened. Or maybe I was crying from the stress of division. But it was beautiful to be able to tell my parents good night and kiss them just moments after stomach-curdling, heated debate.
It was even more beautiful to receive their reciprocation.
I can guarantee you all that one year from now, you are all going to be in your dorm rooms eating pizza with your friends and asking yourselves something to the effect of, ''Dude, what if...what if we're just a fish's dream?"
And he was right.
I used to think true intimacy was limited to the hours between midnight and 3 AM, that meaningful discussions and soul-entwining talks could only happen late at night. That these were the prime hours for those big existential, world-view questions we are too busy to answer during the rest of the day.
That only the nocturnal were enlightened.
But this was because my understanding of intimacy was far too small, shamefully so. I am thankful that I am now learning that sharing of life does not depend on the rotation of the planet.
But there is something to be said of those early morning hours. Maybe we naturally lower our inhibitions as our bodies tire. Maybe with the darkness we more urgently seek out each other for security.
I don't know.
Regardless, I had my first late night talk with my parents last night.
I jumped onto their bed as my mom was winding down with a National Geographic and my dad was packing for his business trip. We started chatted about Elliot's violin lesson and somehow ended up examining the ramifications of torture on an international scale.
Politics is something that consistently divides me and my parents.
It is also something that always comes up.
Ultimately, we agree to disagree, but last night their stauchness was something I didn't anticipate. It was difficult to swallow my parents' criticism and accusations, but I think I understand them that much better, and that can never be a bad thing.
I actually began crying with relief to hear how their stances on some issues had softened. Or maybe I was crying from the stress of division. But it was beautiful to be able to tell my parents good night and kiss them just moments after stomach-curdling, heated debate.
It was even more beautiful to receive their reciprocation.
Monday, June 1, 2009
MBT #3: Picking Up Where You Left Off
Angelo, upon seeing me at a church youth group meeting in high school:
"Are you lost?"
I love this man.
He is one of my best friends and has been my Sunday school teacher, counselor, role model, mentor, friend, and older brother. His patience and humility astound me, and in high school, he invited me into the Christian community when I felt that no one else did. His willingness to faithfully and actively pursue me and love me in quirky ways played a HUGE role in my personal encounters with Jesus, and continues to inspire me to do the same. He still claims that his love language is sarcasm. And I still laugh everytime I hear that.
In my eyes, he is kind of a big deal.
And throughout my first year at college, we struggled to maintain our friendship even with phone calls and school break dates. In loving me, he let me go: "You will always have your safety net back home. We are here."
And I never doubted it.
This past Saturday he gave me a ride to a friend's wedding, and after dropping off his ladyfriend at the church, we made a run for the Vietnamese grocery store across the street. Bringing back two sandwiches I had heard rumors of greatness about, we sat in his car under a tree and began unwrapping them. He was quick to add the one thing that would make this moment impeccable:
U2's "City of Blinding Lights"
The May breeze flowing through open car windows intermingling with U2's epic upliftness as we munched on crisp bread, fresh meats, and the sour fish sauce prickling my taste buds was too much. I began to laugh and he asked what was so funny.
"This is."
He later told me he wanted me to be part of the wedding as a greeter.
I would love to.
"Are you lost?"
I love this man.
He is one of my best friends and has been my Sunday school teacher, counselor, role model, mentor, friend, and older brother. His patience and humility astound me, and in high school, he invited me into the Christian community when I felt that no one else did. His willingness to faithfully and actively pursue me and love me in quirky ways played a HUGE role in my personal encounters with Jesus, and continues to inspire me to do the same. He still claims that his love language is sarcasm. And I still laugh everytime I hear that.
In my eyes, he is kind of a big deal.
And throughout my first year at college, we struggled to maintain our friendship even with phone calls and school break dates. In loving me, he let me go: "You will always have your safety net back home. We are here."
And I never doubted it.
This past Saturday he gave me a ride to a friend's wedding, and after dropping off his ladyfriend at the church, we made a run for the Vietnamese grocery store across the street. Bringing back two sandwiches I had heard rumors of greatness about, we sat in his car under a tree and began unwrapping them. He was quick to add the one thing that would make this moment impeccable:
U2's "City of Blinding Lights"
The May breeze flowing through open car windows intermingling with U2's epic upliftness as we munched on crisp bread, fresh meats, and the sour fish sauce prickling my taste buds was too much. I began to laugh and he asked what was so funny.
"This is."
He later told me he wanted me to be part of the wedding as a greeter.
I would love to.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
MBT #2: Peeing
look! i just found a shoutout to mindy, whose maturity i often find mind-blowing.
Back in elementary school we had bathroom breaks, which were awesome because the bathrooms were right across from each other so you would have a line of 1st grade boys facing a line of 2nd grade girls in a great im-sexist-before-learning-about-sexism-but-i-call-it-cooties kind of way. But what was even more awesome was looking around at the different pee dances.
And don't pretend like you don't know what I'm talking about.
Indicators that a small child has to immediately pee include:
1. telling you that they have to pee
2. crossing their feet while standing
3. crossing their feet while slightly swaying their hips
4. finding a wall to lean against as they do 2 and/or 3
5. nervously looking around, presumably for an adult to tell
5. telling you that they have to pee
you could always tell who had already used the bathroom because they would walk out of slowly and stand in the back of the line with self-satisfied looks on their faces.
and really, what's not to love about peeing?
especially here in the west, where we don't even have to stare down sqautty potties hoping that they will reveal to us how to use them.
aside from the actually physiological intricacies that allow us to (usually) expel water from our bodies at our will (cool), the relief afterwards is. yes.
i also get alot of satisfaction from looking at the color of my pee; i am proud of myself when it is crystal clear because it means that a) i am well hydrated b) oprah says i can read a magazine through it
the quietness of it is also much-needed. sure, i love trying to talk to friends when peeing because of the sheer absurdity, yet casualness of it, but really, there usually isn't much to do or say when you're peeing. lately, i've been trying to take this time to say two things to God: one, thank you for this pee. really. and two, open my eyes to you for the rest of the day.
Back in elementary school we had bathroom breaks, which were awesome because the bathrooms were right across from each other so you would have a line of 1st grade boys facing a line of 2nd grade girls in a great im-sexist-before-learning-about-sexism-but-i-call-it-cooties kind of way. But what was even more awesome was looking around at the different pee dances.
And don't pretend like you don't know what I'm talking about.
Indicators that a small child has to immediately pee include:
1. telling you that they have to pee
2. crossing their feet while standing
3. crossing their feet while slightly swaying their hips
4. finding a wall to lean against as they do 2 and/or 3
5. nervously looking around, presumably for an adult to tell
5. telling you that they have to pee
you could always tell who had already used the bathroom because they would walk out of slowly and stand in the back of the line with self-satisfied looks on their faces.
and really, what's not to love about peeing?
especially here in the west, where we don't even have to stare down sqautty potties hoping that they will reveal to us how to use them.
aside from the actually physiological intricacies that allow us to (usually) expel water from our bodies at our will (cool), the relief afterwards is. yes.
i also get alot of satisfaction from looking at the color of my pee; i am proud of myself when it is crystal clear because it means that a) i am well hydrated b) oprah says i can read a magazine through it
the quietness of it is also much-needed. sure, i love trying to talk to friends when peeing because of the sheer absurdity, yet casualness of it, but really, there usually isn't much to do or say when you're peeing. lately, i've been trying to take this time to say two things to God: one, thank you for this pee. really. and two, open my eyes to you for the rest of the day.
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