My present data of research towards the pros and cons of being a hipster, which was once the emo, was once the punk, was once the goth, which was once the asshole.
1
PRO: fashion conscious, on average better dressed than most
CON: overemphasizing importance of one's image and look,
2
PRO: despises and rejects established norms within the hierarchal groups found in adolescence and tweens
CON: participates meticulously in the styles, trends within their own social group, as well as patterns in manner, speech and activities
3
PRO: topics of conversation are interesting and eclectic
CON: more elitist than intellectual, overall superficial involvement in certain interests
4
PRO: funny, witty, sarcastic
CON: ironic to the point where nothing is genuine
5
PRO: good music taste
CON: judgmental, often times relentless opinion to mainstream music (unless otherwise trying to be ironic, see 3)
6
PRO: confident
CON: superiority complex, exclusivity
7
PRO: good company, good time
CON: typically seen in students of the upper-middle/upper class with no job or ambitions
8
PRO: reflective of the smug, individual-based and some cases apathetic generation of today
CON: adamantly popular and growing trend, and ironically losing its original goal of individuality
9
PRO: finds the label 'hipster' unappealing and pretentious
CON: usually is a self-proclaimed 'hipster' and keen to the collective movements happening within
10
PRO: cool
CON: cool
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Memories let you know when you're done for.
I. I was stuck working the at the community center, tutoring a man named Carlos because I hadn't done my taxes five years ago and had refused to pay the subsequent enormous fines. He was thumbing through one of those introductory level English dictionaries, and on a particular page, he paused for more than an awkward moment. He asked a question hidden inside a choppy sentence, along the lines of, "Hi James, what is difference from a words "disparate" and "desperate?", to which I replied "one letter".
II. He used to get so stinking drunk. He'd wake up in the morning shaking along with the almost caved-in floor never knowing quite what to do. I've never felt more alive than the days I spent looking in his window and watching him dissolve. And when he died, like we had all expected and hoped, his dogs knocked down the apartment door and mauled every mailman in California.
III. We lined up for the cork popgun shooting range at the fair. The hot dog vendor's catcalls have not made me sick to my stomach yet. A kid from the youth club hangs around, the one with the stray eyebrow. I lent him my last cigarette 'cause he looked at me cross eyed, and it made me laugh.
II. He used to get so stinking drunk. He'd wake up in the morning shaking along with the almost caved-in floor never knowing quite what to do. I've never felt more alive than the days I spent looking in his window and watching him dissolve. And when he died, like we had all expected and hoped, his dogs knocked down the apartment door and mauled every mailman in California.
III. We lined up for the cork popgun shooting range at the fair. The hot dog vendor's catcalls have not made me sick to my stomach yet. A kid from the youth club hangs around, the one with the stray eyebrow. I lent him my last cigarette 'cause he looked at me cross eyed, and it made me laugh.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
August
staring through windows
trees dark, expanding
needles in my hair
kisses are empty
i remember
the parking lot affairs
a means to no end
and hearts deep, aching
skin against skin
forehead against forehead
but the radio tunes out
august is coming to an end
trees dark, expanding
needles in my hair
kisses are empty
i remember
the parking lot affairs
a means to no end
and hearts deep, aching
skin against skin
forehead against forehead
but the radio tunes out
august is coming to an end
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
After Vitzel, Albert Goldbarth
This was very long but in parts, which I like in writing. This is what I attempted to mimic in my last entry. The phrases are very vague but expressive and it's more like the reaction the reader has when experiencing those words together, rather than the concrete meaning of it. Sometimes it's nonsense but he still manages to create a kind of flowing, almost comical voice. The vocabulary he uses always has a theme that ties it together. When paragraphs or moods change, so do his words.
The Death of the Moth, Virginia Woolf
Who's afraid of Virginia Woolf? That would be me. There is absolutely no plot in this story, but it is beautiful. She relies soley on poetic imagery and metaphor. On the surface it was to me mere idle musings and irrelevant to my life. But I came to see how it romanticized the relateable and similar stasis I have had in Biology class. I was of course bored out of my mind and far more concerned with the events of the yellow little spider on the wall then whatever the professor could possibly be talking about. And when the moth began struggling and protesting, and how she focused on the detail of the legs twitching and fighting for life -- it was quiet sad.
This was very long but in parts, which I like in writing. This is what I attempted to mimic in my last entry. The phrases are very vague but expressive and it's more like the reaction the reader has when experiencing those words together, rather than the concrete meaning of it. Sometimes it's nonsense but he still manages to create a kind of flowing, almost comical voice. The vocabulary he uses always has a theme that ties it together. When paragraphs or moods change, so do his words.
The Death of the Moth, Virginia Woolf
Who's afraid of Virginia Woolf? That would be me. There is absolutely no plot in this story, but it is beautiful. She relies soley on poetic imagery and metaphor. On the surface it was to me mere idle musings and irrelevant to my life. But I came to see how it romanticized the relateable and similar stasis I have had in Biology class. I was of course bored out of my mind and far more concerned with the events of the yellow little spider on the wall then whatever the professor could possibly be talking about. And when the moth began struggling and protesting, and how she focused on the detail of the legs twitching and fighting for life -- it was quiet sad.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Storytelling
I was born in a house that was really a wasp's nest where the arms of my siblings left trails on the walls that were sticky. The queen was always shouting. She broke bottles in her hands, feeding them jagged glass and spoiled contents -- yet her own belly curved into her heart, a striped fruit brimful of ooze.
Hidden well were the doors but the walls were sometimes tricky. On brighter days, I could escape high into the branches as they broke off and bled honey into my hands. Arched and shaking, I sang snail songs hidden from bird's-eye-view, sleeping in rotted trees that forever echoed earthtones.
After rainy days, I collected empty shells I wanted to somehow attach myself to. But it served only to let me drink in a deep, green, salt flood in my ravelled abdomen.
I did not know the forest.
Hidden well were the doors but the walls were sometimes tricky. On brighter days, I could escape high into the branches as they broke off and bled honey into my hands. Arched and shaking, I sang snail songs hidden from bird's-eye-view, sleeping in rotted trees that forever echoed earthtones.
After rainy days, I collected empty shells I wanted to somehow attach myself to. But it served only to let me drink in a deep, green, salt flood in my ravelled abdomen.
I did not know the forest.
Friday, March 20, 2009
Window
An armada of bulbed clouds started turning purple and orange. They appear as mobile billboards, advertising a vigil contentedness. The sky is an otherwise circumstantial layer, blanketing the white foliage with sweat, carrying the odor of car gas as its eternal wedding gift. That’s how Mother Nature works when she’s dealing with our house calls. She’s abbreviating a state-wide weariness, sour and pregnant with weather patterns...
Mostly what came to mind was the insane amount of people I ran into today. Some we scheduled to meet, some by chance. And to the ones by chance, I questioned the one's who didn't acknowledge me with a wave or smile. Did they just not see me or did they ignore me on purpose? That plagued me, to be honest.
I was doing the English exercise at this Hawaiian barbeque place with two friends I ran into. I remembered it when Mai mentioned a paper due for a class, which set me off into an internal nervous breakdown about having the time to finish. I also thought about the owner and his wife being extra nice, letting us sit and finish our food well past their closing time. He asked us about our ethnicities, majors and years with genuine curiosity. I missed receiving such ease and kindness from a stranger, though I can't really say we're stangers anymore. Very shortly after meeting him, he smiled at me in that familiar way you do with someone you know. I felt at home.
Mostly what came to mind was the insane amount of people I ran into today. Some we scheduled to meet, some by chance. And to the ones by chance, I questioned the one's who didn't acknowledge me with a wave or smile. Did they just not see me or did they ignore me on purpose? That plagued me, to be honest.
I was doing the English exercise at this Hawaiian barbeque place with two friends I ran into. I remembered it when Mai mentioned a paper due for a class, which set me off into an internal nervous breakdown about having the time to finish. I also thought about the owner and his wife being extra nice, letting us sit and finish our food well past their closing time. He asked us about our ethnicities, majors and years with genuine curiosity. I missed receiving such ease and kindness from a stranger, though I can't really say we're stangers anymore. Very shortly after meeting him, he smiled at me in that familiar way you do with someone you know. I felt at home.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Dinner
Five rice rockets* stand parked together in front of the restaurant. Passing them by, I relax and laugh at how such an image had assured me I was at the correct location. It reminded me of my family get-together during New Year's. We were lost in the winding Sacramento suburbs and desperately trying to find my auntie's home when suddenly, one of us points out a house with seven SUVs parked outside.
I walk inside. The dinner was set up as a fundraiser but was doubling as a birthday celebration for Vivian. Tonight, she wasn't wearing her typical head-to-toe American Apparel outfit. Instead, she had a short black dress, heels, a tiara, and a red sash with the sparkling words "Birthday Girl" sewed on. I look around the table and everyone is dressed to the nines.
Having come immediately from lecture and the library, I was still in my gray, oversized v-neck and tattered, once-white vans sneakers. 'Out of place' wouldn't do my feelings justice. No one seemed to have passed me the 'dress cocktail' memo but I thought back -- these were guys who got fancy for McDonalds; I should've known. Truly though, I didn't mind. If I'd gone home first, I wouldn't have had the motivation to get dressed up anyway let alone drive back.
As I sat down, my mind raced around the same thoughts again, again, again. I have an assignment for that online English class due tonight. I have a patho exam tomorrow morning. And a healthcare organizations exam after. WHAT am I doing here?
But I knew. They'd been asking around about me, where I've been and how I was. I thought back to how I hadn't been to any of their meetings or get-togethers since the semester started and how happy they all were to have run into me last Friday. They asked my brother about me at the party on Saturday and asked him to tell me please, please come today. But most importantly, I knew myself: my hermetic and unreliable nature, the tendency to alienate, and my overall incompetence to being a good friend.
Vivian was one of the girls to ask for me Saturday. I stood up and gave her a hug and peck on the cheek. I miss this, I thought to myself, I really do. And with that, I left the anxiety of an English entry published before midnight for later.
(Now to study for patho...)
*rice rocket: any Japanese imported car (Toyota, Honda, Mitsubishi, Nissan etc.), self-modified to look fast or racecar-esque
I walk inside. The dinner was set up as a fundraiser but was doubling as a birthday celebration for Vivian. Tonight, she wasn't wearing her typical head-to-toe American Apparel outfit. Instead, she had a short black dress, heels, a tiara, and a red sash with the sparkling words "Birthday Girl" sewed on. I look around the table and everyone is dressed to the nines.
Having come immediately from lecture and the library, I was still in my gray, oversized v-neck and tattered, once-white vans sneakers. 'Out of place' wouldn't do my feelings justice. No one seemed to have passed me the 'dress cocktail' memo but I thought back -- these were guys who got fancy for McDonalds; I should've known. Truly though, I didn't mind. If I'd gone home first, I wouldn't have had the motivation to get dressed up anyway let alone drive back.
As I sat down, my mind raced around the same thoughts again, again, again. I have an assignment for that online English class due tonight. I have a patho exam tomorrow morning. And a healthcare organizations exam after. WHAT am I doing here?
But I knew. They'd been asking around about me, where I've been and how I was. I thought back to how I hadn't been to any of their meetings or get-togethers since the semester started and how happy they all were to have run into me last Friday. They asked my brother about me at the party on Saturday and asked him to tell me please, please come today. But most importantly, I knew myself: my hermetic and unreliable nature, the tendency to alienate, and my overall incompetence to being a good friend.
Vivian was one of the girls to ask for me Saturday. I stood up and gave her a hug and peck on the cheek. I miss this, I thought to myself, I really do. And with that, I left the anxiety of an English entry published before midnight for later.
(Now to study for patho...)
*rice rocket: any Japanese imported car (Toyota, Honda, Mitsubishi, Nissan etc.), self-modified to look fast or racecar-esque
Thursday, February 26, 2009
HCR240 is Life.
It measures two and a half inches thick and holds the weight of a small child. At a staggering 1687 pages and 10 pt font, here stands my texbook "Pathophysiology: Concepts of Altered Health States, Eighth Edition", showing considerable devastation on the lifespan of my desk legs and perhaps my own. Mondays and Wednesdays are spent carrying it to lecture, always by hand in fear that it might break my bag. I've learned through time to lean it on my chest to conserve arm stamina. Nursing students -- what we learn, ah, we keep so close to our hearts.On nights, the book finds its home on desks, in libraries, beds and laps. I reread and highlight and tab and color code -- then re-reread and rehighlight. The corners are run-down and have lost their edge. A ring, coffee stain is slowly engraving itself onto the front cover. It has an illustration of two sacular arterial aneurysms... I like to place my mug strategically on the empty, larger circle. No reason.
Overall, I can appreciate this textbook's ability to bring out the direct and raw emotions of the present. Example: if I am feeling down about classes, one solid glance at this guy and I may well break into tears. Or if I'm sleep-deprived just enough, the verbose and repetitive jargon will put me right to sleep. And hey, if on Monday/Wednesday, I happen to pass by someone who's crossed me, the book and all its 8.5 lb glory can even double as an "immediate life-threatening condition". Coaster, pillow, sedative -- it does it all.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Reflections
"My Children Explain the Big Issues" -Will Baker
In four small snippets, Baker uses a few small paragraphs to efficiently create a vivid backdrop, a mood, a strong voice and impressionable ending. This is something I need a lot of work on myself. Dialogue is interwoven with the movement of the story effortlessly and allows the childlike discourse to contrast with his mature and intellectual voice. The word choice Baker uses to describe objects and scenery is vivid and gives a clear image of the scene. He also changes the sentence structure, allowing the reading to progress smoothly.
"The American Male at Age Ten" -Susan Orlean
Orlean’s sentence structure is clearly defined and her role as an interviewer and informer is established through this. There is a subtle humor and wit in the way she writes as she lists her collected information. The almost mechanical structure mixed with the childlike lexicon and phrasing are a part of this. There is also an initial personal distancing in her writing as she observes Colin. That however is soon dissolved when she relates much of his personal traits with her own.
I realized, after a few paragraphs into the story, that all the excess information written was to reveal Colin’s way of thinking and the way he sees and processes reality. I hope I can better incorporate different voices of character as Orlean and Baker have. These writings demonstrate the gravity that word choice and sentence structure have on the mood and flow of a piece. I also really appreciate writers who can incorporate a realistic, young voice in a very convincing and natural way.
In four small snippets, Baker uses a few small paragraphs to efficiently create a vivid backdrop, a mood, a strong voice and impressionable ending. This is something I need a lot of work on myself. Dialogue is interwoven with the movement of the story effortlessly and allows the childlike discourse to contrast with his mature and intellectual voice. The word choice Baker uses to describe objects and scenery is vivid and gives a clear image of the scene. He also changes the sentence structure, allowing the reading to progress smoothly.
"The American Male at Age Ten" -Susan Orlean
Orlean’s sentence structure is clearly defined and her role as an interviewer and informer is established through this. There is a subtle humor and wit in the way she writes as she lists her collected information. The almost mechanical structure mixed with the childlike lexicon and phrasing are a part of this. There is also an initial personal distancing in her writing as she observes Colin. That however is soon dissolved when she relates much of his personal traits with her own.
I realized, after a few paragraphs into the story, that all the excess information written was to reveal Colin’s way of thinking and the way he sees and processes reality. I hope I can better incorporate different voices of character as Orlean and Baker have. These writings demonstrate the gravity that word choice and sentence structure have on the mood and flow of a piece. I also really appreciate writers who can incorporate a realistic, young voice in a very convincing and natural way.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Ramble, ramble, ramble. Forgive! I couldn't help myself.
Explanation: The last movie I watched was "Burn After Reading". I emailed the professor and she said I could write about a television show or CD instead. I quite enjoyed "Burn After Reading" and wouldn't mind writing about it. The caveat now is given the option, I'd much rather write about something that moves me and that I borderline worship. I also wouldn't want to spoil the amazing twists and turns of the movie, in case you haven't watched it.
I treat my bouts of musical/author obsessions like milestones of my life. College, and possibly the rest of my adult life, has been consumed with the band, Beirut; and with it Zach Condon, the mystical man behind the curtain walls. Squalor, treachery and alternate lifestyle have always encapsulated my interest and are the base of any inspiration. So as expected, I completely devoured Zach Condon and his ways.
A high school drop-out and straight-A student, Condon seemed to prefer making electronica, blues inspired small 4-tracks in his basement. He had an upbringing that fed American classics like the Eagles and Springsteen; so much to his father's disappointment when he chose trumpets over guitars.
At 17, he traveled around Europe as a vagrant. The days in Paris struck him the deepest as he met street brass bands that offered impromptu lessons and neighbors upstairs blasting Balkan records and practicing accordion through the night. Obsessed with the timbre of brass and discovery of this new world sound, Condon though still a novice, was determined to make it his own. He symbolized to me a man who threw himself wholeheartedly into the unknown.
One album, one apartment in Williamsburg, New York, and two French-horn tattoos on his wrists later, Condon established a solid international fan base and new musical movement of orchestral roots, ukuleles and eastern European sentiment. When word of a second album took wind, world-wide anticipation commenced. Condon fled pressures of the New York scene back to his humble roots of Santa Fe, New Mexico for solitude. Reuniting with his childhood basement, he set to work on The Flying Club Cup, album two. I claim it a masterpiece. And Zach only being 23-years this day, I can only imagine what is to come.
There's sincerity and rawness in the simplicity of his lyrics and composition. The deep and expressive baritone unique to Zach is exploited to it's fullest. This is my favorite song on the album. Titled "The Island Song" during the pre-album release and later changed to "The Penalty".
It begins slowly, intimately with a ukulele. The lyrics are vague but expressive. To me, it's about an unsupportive family, disappointed about their child's life decisions. His home is an island, hostile and where he's perpetually on trial. He has to leave -- sanctioned by guilt, or perhaps exiled as penalty. He's living in purgatory with others homesick like himself.
A tuba is introduced, and the orchestra follows by a swell of sound. It ends serenely and open-ended. There's a sense of peace, when he mentions lights and hope. He also comes into terms with his family's feelings toward him, crediting them as blameless.
Like an ancient day and I'm on trial. Oh, let them seize the way. This once was an island and I could not stay for I believed them. Left for the lights always in season. Impassable nights in a crowd of homesick, fully grown children. You'll leave the lights. Your family may not wait, sir. Keep on believing. Our parents rue the day, they find us kneeling. Oh, let them think as they may for they've good reason. Left for the lights always in season.
(All songs from the album, Flying Club Cup, can be played and watched. This was a project to set all songs into a live video form. It stemmed from, La Blogotheque, a compilation of musicians performing selected songs (kind of like highlighted readings) in commonplace public forums around France. The idea is to bring music back to it's original roots -- directly connected with the people.)
Extra: If I had to write about a television show, I'd have enough heart to spare you an endless (literally, endless) ramble on classics like The Office and Arrested Development. Pushing Daisies is on the fence for cancellation and thought I could advocate for it briefly.
The series is weaved around a quirky set of beautifully crafted characters -- caricatures in speech and mannerism, but intentionally so. The themes include death, choice and forgiveness. Characters are endearing, imperfect and pleasantly peculiar. From pop-up book fetishes to eye-patches, twitches and wardrobes -- they are all intensely idiosyncratic. The omniscient narrator also reveals to the audience inner monologues, intent and hidden emotion.
The structure is simple. A narrator introduces a small clip of Ned, the main character's childhood. This has with it some kind of unresolved theme that troubles Ned psychologically. It follows back to the 'present time' where there is a typical "Sherlock Holmes" murder mystery that echoes the introduced theme. There are a series of bizarre events and interactions that move the supplementing drama between characters. Dialogue is witty, situations are always hilarious and subtly echoing the central theme of the episode. After 24-minutes, there's a resolution and a neat tie-up via narrator.
I watch this show like it's my part-time job!
"Oh my friend you haven't changed. Still looking rough, and living strange -- and I know you've got a taste for it too."
-Pete Doherty, The Libertines, "Don't Look Back Into The Sun"
-Pete Doherty, The Libertines, "Don't Look Back Into The Sun"
I treat my bouts of musical/author obsessions like milestones of my life. College, and possibly the rest of my adult life, has been consumed with the band, Beirut; and with it Zach Condon, the mystical man behind the curtain walls. Squalor, treachery and alternate lifestyle have always encapsulated my interest and are the base of any inspiration. So as expected, I completely devoured Zach Condon and his ways.
A high school drop-out and straight-A student, Condon seemed to prefer making electronica, blues inspired small 4-tracks in his basement. He had an upbringing that fed American classics like the Eagles and Springsteen; so much to his father's disappointment when he chose trumpets over guitars.
At 17, he traveled around Europe as a vagrant. The days in Paris struck him the deepest as he met street brass bands that offered impromptu lessons and neighbors upstairs blasting Balkan records and practicing accordion through the night. Obsessed with the timbre of brass and discovery of this new world sound, Condon though still a novice, was determined to make it his own. He symbolized to me a man who threw himself wholeheartedly into the unknown.
One album, one apartment in Williamsburg, New York, and two French-horn tattoos on his wrists later, Condon established a solid international fan base and new musical movement of orchestral roots, ukuleles and eastern European sentiment. When word of a second album took wind, world-wide anticipation commenced. Condon fled pressures of the New York scene back to his humble roots of Santa Fe, New Mexico for solitude. Reuniting with his childhood basement, he set to work on The Flying Club Cup, album two. I claim it a masterpiece. And Zach only being 23-years this day, I can only imagine what is to come.
There's sincerity and rawness in the simplicity of his lyrics and composition. The deep and expressive baritone unique to Zach is exploited to it's fullest. This is my favorite song on the album. Titled "The Island Song" during the pre-album release and later changed to "The Penalty".
It begins slowly, intimately with a ukulele. The lyrics are vague but expressive. To me, it's about an unsupportive family, disappointed about their child's life decisions. His home is an island, hostile and where he's perpetually on trial. He has to leave -- sanctioned by guilt, or perhaps exiled as penalty. He's living in purgatory with others homesick like himself.
A tuba is introduced, and the orchestra follows by a swell of sound. It ends serenely and open-ended. There's a sense of peace, when he mentions lights and hope. He also comes into terms with his family's feelings toward him, crediting them as blameless.
Like an ancient day and I'm on trial. Oh, let them seize the way. This once was an island and I could not stay for I believed them. Left for the lights always in season. Impassable nights in a crowd of homesick, fully grown children. You'll leave the lights. Your family may not wait, sir. Keep on believing. Our parents rue the day, they find us kneeling. Oh, let them think as they may for they've good reason. Left for the lights always in season.
(All songs from the album, Flying Club Cup, can be played and watched. This was a project to set all songs into a live video form. It stemmed from, La Blogotheque, a compilation of musicians performing selected songs (kind of like highlighted readings) in commonplace public forums around France. The idea is to bring music back to it's original roots -- directly connected with the people.)
Extra: If I had to write about a television show, I'd have enough heart to spare you an endless (literally, endless) ramble on classics like The Office and Arrested Development. Pushing Daisies is on the fence for cancellation and thought I could advocate for it briefly.
The series is weaved around a quirky set of beautifully crafted characters -- caricatures in speech and mannerism, but intentionally so. The themes include death, choice and forgiveness. Characters are endearing, imperfect and pleasantly peculiar. From pop-up book fetishes to eye-patches, twitches and wardrobes -- they are all intensely idiosyncratic. The omniscient narrator also reveals to the audience inner monologues, intent and hidden emotion.
The structure is simple. A narrator introduces a small clip of Ned, the main character's childhood. This has with it some kind of unresolved theme that troubles Ned psychologically. It follows back to the 'present time' where there is a typical "Sherlock Holmes" murder mystery that echoes the introduced theme. There are a series of bizarre events and interactions that move the supplementing drama between characters. Dialogue is witty, situations are always hilarious and subtly echoing the central theme of the episode. After 24-minutes, there's a resolution and a neat tie-up via narrator.
I watch this show like it's my part-time job!
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Tuesday, February 3rd, 2009:
the day of the inadvertent sweatpants social experiment.
It was a day like any other day. Or so it seemed. I'd showered, eaten, readied myself for the day -- only to be cut off by an empty drawer of clothes. Realization shafts me like a speeding truck.
I had come home last night with a mission, not to touch base with my family and have dinner, but to (let's get honest) do laundry. I guess rick rolling1 my Dad via his ringtone at the dinner table and thereupon explaining the concept of being 'rick rolled' monopolized my evening.
Since my sister is my size I run into her room to see if she can spare something. I open her closet; everything oozed tween. I didn't have the stomach to come any closer, much less imagine myself in one of her bedazzled, sleeveless numbers.
I knew my little brother had a sea of white v-necks and athletic pants in his room. Not my cup of tea, but what else did I have?--
And like so, I had unearthed and bequeathed onto my life the greatest invention known to man (apples-to-apples notwithstanding) THE SWEAT PANT.
I don't consider myself one to go out of way to get dressed for class... I wear what I have. So today I became quaintly educated with the standard I had best maintain around friends and the external community.
Exhibit 1: Healthcare Systems Lecture
"Tania," Kristie calls over to me two rows behind from where I am. Her voice trails that last part of my name, as if to end the phrase with a question mark. I walk towards an intimidating, raised eyebrow, "did you join a gang?"
"No," I stand confused. The intentions for her statement take me a few moments to register (do not judge my brain, and its innocence to the connotations of a sweat pant). "Kristie! I see you're liking the threads," I do a half-twirl to showcase, "Amazing, no?"
Shafted, part two. "Were you late this morning or something?"
Exhibit 2: Parking Lot
My older brother, offers to pick me up. I'm standing on the lot to the side as people walk by -- I kid you not, one individual did a half-circle around me! As if I had some invisible 5-foot barrier surrounding me.
Micah's acura pulls up. His grin is immeasurable, I can already see it through the tinted glass. "So where is your crew?" He leans over as I buckle my seatbelt. "I thought you were gonna moonwalk over to the car. Ya know, like at least bust a move or two." He does a sardonic bboy impersonation with his arms.
Exhibit 3: Piano Lessons
This was my personal favorite of the day. Irene, my teacher comes into the room. She is tall and thin, with a thick Russian accent and walks with her elbows bent and her hands slightly raised, as if she were perpetually conducting. When she walks in to see me, she stops and her eyes narrow-in below my waist. Her body is frozen from the moment my outfit visualized into her brain. I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing.
So this was my entertainment for the day. Seeing the differences, subtle to extreme, of how I'm treated because of what I wore. My only hope is humanity will one day receive the gift of lightness, flexibility and ease that a sweat pant offers.
1 rick roll: to fool someone into listening to Rick Astley's song, "Never Gonna Give You Up". This is typically witnessed online through mislabeled hyperlinks but I'm enjoying my blackberry hijacking variation.
(I'm not really sure what was expected for for this assignment. My day was so boring! I had nothing to write about. I'm hoping this works.)
It was a day like any other day. Or so it seemed. I'd showered, eaten, readied myself for the day -- only to be cut off by an empty drawer of clothes. Realization shafts me like a speeding truck.
I had come home last night with a mission, not to touch base with my family and have dinner, but to (let's get honest) do laundry. I guess rick rolling1 my Dad via his ringtone at the dinner table and thereupon explaining the concept of being 'rick rolled' monopolized my evening.
Since my sister is my size I run into her room to see if she can spare something. I open her closet; everything oozed tween. I didn't have the stomach to come any closer, much less imagine myself in one of her bedazzled, sleeveless numbers.
I knew my little brother had a sea of white v-necks and athletic pants in his room. Not my cup of tea, but what else did I have?--
And like so, I had unearthed and bequeathed onto my life the greatest invention known to man (apples-to-apples notwithstanding) THE SWEAT PANT.
I don't consider myself one to go out of way to get dressed for class... I wear what I have. So today I became quaintly educated with the standard I had best maintain around friends and the external community.
Exhibit 1: Healthcare Systems Lecture
"Tania," Kristie calls over to me two rows behind from where I am. Her voice trails that last part of my name, as if to end the phrase with a question mark. I walk towards an intimidating, raised eyebrow, "did you join a gang?"
"No," I stand confused. The intentions for her statement take me a few moments to register (do not judge my brain, and its innocence to the connotations of a sweat pant). "Kristie! I see you're liking the threads," I do a half-twirl to showcase, "Amazing, no?"
Shafted, part two. "Were you late this morning or something?"
Exhibit 2: Parking Lot
My older brother, offers to pick me up. I'm standing on the lot to the side as people walk by -- I kid you not, one individual did a half-circle around me! As if I had some invisible 5-foot barrier surrounding me.
Micah's acura pulls up. His grin is immeasurable, I can already see it through the tinted glass. "So where is your crew?" He leans over as I buckle my seatbelt. "I thought you were gonna moonwalk over to the car. Ya know, like at least bust a move or two." He does a sardonic bboy impersonation with his arms.
Exhibit 3: Piano Lessons
This was my personal favorite of the day. Irene, my teacher comes into the room. She is tall and thin, with a thick Russian accent and walks with her elbows bent and her hands slightly raised, as if she were perpetually conducting. When she walks in to see me, she stops and her eyes narrow-in below my waist. Her body is frozen from the moment my outfit visualized into her brain. I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing.
So this was my entertainment for the day. Seeing the differences, subtle to extreme, of how I'm treated because of what I wore. My only hope is humanity will one day receive the gift of lightness, flexibility and ease that a sweat pant offers.
1 rick roll: to fool someone into listening to Rick Astley's song, "Never Gonna Give You Up". This is typically witnessed online through mislabeled hyperlinks but I'm enjoying my blackberry hijacking variation.
(I'm not really sure what was expected for for this assignment. My day was so boring! I had nothing to write about. I'm hoping this works.)
Thursday, January 29, 2009
What to Reveal...
My biggest fear is coming out "cliché" -- where stories in my life that involve pain or loss or uncertainty become marginalized. This is why I try to avoid serious topics.
1. Family: My dad is a devout Christian, denomination: relentless. My mother became chronically sick my junior year of high school -- the reason I went to ASU and stayed in Arizona. My older brother is a textbook example of the prodigal son, like gluttony incarnate. My little brother is autistic. And the most dreadful of the lot, my little sister, the teenager (joke! somewhat). I am definitely the black sheep. It's a dysfunctional family that screams cliché.
One thing I absolutely loathe are these kind of one-to-five line descriptions for people. Each person and the relationship existing has its own dynamics and complexities. Writing about them to me is so difficult because I don't know where to begin.
For example, the relationship with my Dad in general is strained. He's my opposite – extremely pragmatic, a man of few words. He demands perfection to an extent and has never practiced the act of affirmation, only critique and discussing what can be improved. He has so many good qualities though – highly intelligent, good character, devoted to his family, hard-working and honest. There's such a keen sense of honor, duty but especially pride. A little of it's subconscious but I'm also quite aware just how much of my actions and life is geared toward gaining his approval. Problem is our personalities are mortal enemies and we hardly speak. Ironically, my Mom says I remind her most of him.
2. Growing Up Asian (American): This is a topic I'm living and discovering. I don't think anyone I'm close with knows this but it's also something I'm very sensitive about. I feel like I could ramble for hours, and I probably have at a lunch table or two. The topic can be tackled on so many levels: stories, existentially, current issues, etc. There are so many experiences I've had from subtle situational moments to blatant and hurtful racism. Academically, there are many psychological/sociological topics both historically and contemporary that I'm finding out about.
For example, the idea that Asians are this 'model minority' i.e. able to assimilate well into the culture, and statistically do well academically or in the work field. What people don't recognize is that through these, of course you're good at math, you're Asian, remarks, you cheapen the achievement by associating their intelligence with their race rather than the individual. It also devalues those who struggle with academics and who may not receive the attention they need because of preconceptions of their intelligence.
The issue I struggle with most is the "perpetual foreigner". It doesn't matter if an Asian is born here, speaks perfect English, has a sound education, and wears the same clothes -- they will almost always be perceived as foreign, either by first impression or subconsciously. Guess how many times I've been complimented on my "English skills". Not in the oratory/writing sense either, I'm positive they are referring to the incredulous, you can comprehend this conversation? I'm impressed kind of skill. How is that not insulting?
Yes, I am an immigrant, but I am also as American as any other citizen -- successful because of my own hard work, not god-given because of my race. So many questions arise... how much of our culture do we have to surrender to succeed in America, or what makes someone 'American'.
…which leads to another problem! All Asians are different. As France is different from Italy is different from Russia, likewise with China and Japan and Cambodia and the rest. India is part of Asia as well, not all Asians are Chinese.
As you can see, I am already getting carried away...
In one sense, I'm extremely passionate about this and am so eager to speak and learn more. At the same time, I don't want it to define me because I have perfectly functional mode that I use for the majority of my life and I'm not really as serious and intense as I sound when I discuss these topics.
To be honest, I really don't like confrontation.
3. Relationships: and that's enough of that -- I'm already feeling uneasy. It's something I never talk about, not even with friends.
Essentially, I'm afraid of being misunderstood... because how can others possibly understand my life if even I'm not sure what's really happening.
~
1. Family: My dad is a devout Christian, denomination: relentless. My mother became chronically sick my junior year of high school -- the reason I went to ASU and stayed in Arizona. My older brother is a textbook example of the prodigal son, like gluttony incarnate. My little brother is autistic. And the most dreadful of the lot, my little sister, the teenager (joke! somewhat). I am definitely the black sheep. It's a dysfunctional family that screams cliché.
One thing I absolutely loathe are these kind of one-to-five line descriptions for people. Each person and the relationship existing has its own dynamics and complexities. Writing about them to me is so difficult because I don't know where to begin.
For example, the relationship with my Dad in general is strained. He's my opposite – extremely pragmatic, a man of few words. He demands perfection to an extent and has never practiced the act of affirmation, only critique and discussing what can be improved. He has so many good qualities though – highly intelligent, good character, devoted to his family, hard-working and honest. There's such a keen sense of honor, duty but especially pride. A little of it's subconscious but I'm also quite aware just how much of my actions and life is geared toward gaining his approval. Problem is our personalities are mortal enemies and we hardly speak. Ironically, my Mom says I remind her most of him.
2. Growing Up Asian (American): This is a topic I'm living and discovering. I don't think anyone I'm close with knows this but it's also something I'm very sensitive about. I feel like I could ramble for hours, and I probably have at a lunch table or two. The topic can be tackled on so many levels: stories, existentially, current issues, etc. There are so many experiences I've had from subtle situational moments to blatant and hurtful racism. Academically, there are many psychological/sociological topics both historically and contemporary that I'm finding out about.
For example, the idea that Asians are this 'model minority' i.e. able to assimilate well into the culture, and statistically do well academically or in the work field. What people don't recognize is that through these, of course you're good at math, you're Asian, remarks, you cheapen the achievement by associating their intelligence with their race rather than the individual. It also devalues those who struggle with academics and who may not receive the attention they need because of preconceptions of their intelligence.
The issue I struggle with most is the "perpetual foreigner". It doesn't matter if an Asian is born here, speaks perfect English, has a sound education, and wears the same clothes -- they will almost always be perceived as foreign, either by first impression or subconsciously. Guess how many times I've been complimented on my "English skills". Not in the oratory/writing sense either, I'm positive they are referring to the incredulous, you can comprehend this conversation? I'm impressed kind of skill. How is that not insulting?
Yes, I am an immigrant, but I am also as American as any other citizen -- successful because of my own hard work, not god-given because of my race. So many questions arise... how much of our culture do we have to surrender to succeed in America, or what makes someone 'American'.
…which leads to another problem! All Asians are different. As France is different from Italy is different from Russia, likewise with China and Japan and Cambodia and the rest. India is part of Asia as well, not all Asians are Chinese.
As you can see, I am already getting carried away...
In one sense, I'm extremely passionate about this and am so eager to speak and learn more. At the same time, I don't want it to define me because I have perfectly functional mode that I use for the majority of my life and I'm not really as serious and intense as I sound when I discuss these topics.
To be honest, I really don't like confrontation.
3. Relationships: and that's enough of that -- I'm already feeling uneasy. It's something I never talk about, not even with friends.
~
Essentially, I'm afraid of being misunderstood... because how can others possibly understand my life if even I'm not sure what's really happening.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Rosehill Elementary
While walking to school, the sun is out and shining. I hop erratically on the crunchiest of leaves as my mother trails behind. A gust of wind comes and moves a hefty new set back onto the pavement, leaving me giddy with delight. The boxy, blue dress I wear moves restlessly along.
We pass by a classmate's house and I see the two brothers step outside. They are wearing the same gray-blue hue our uniforms require but with slacks. I run up to their fence, smiling and waving vigorously.
My mother is already meters ahead, with a face equivalent to a tapping foot. I run towards her laughing and tell her about all the silly boys in class. It is safe to say I was a child that talked often and plenty out loud. This to my mother was exacerbating enough.
"What do I do, what do I do…"
"What's the matta, Mum?"
"Tania," she sighs, "I can hardly make out a word you're saying."
"But you speak English, don't you Mum?"
"Yes, but not whatever you're speaking!" It's only been a few weeks since school started, and I had already adopted an accent too thick for her to understand.
School life in Sydney was worlds different than that in Manila. The first weeks I was placed in ESL. Mostly though, I remember recess.
The first days I spent exploring the grassy acres (or what seemed like acres) of our school grounds. Soon, I moved on to testing jump ropes and challenging the brass bars' tenacity with my own.
A few days later, I notice a group of girls from class giggling together by one of the trees. Up until then I'd been satisfied watching the boys playing rugby on the field -- so young but already jousting and grappling one another full bore. I leave the field and race up to this gathered group, eager and unafraid. I ask if I can join.
The faint uproar from the game echos through the grounds, contrasting starkly with the silence that has suddenly possessed the group. Eyes turn to examine me slowly head-to-toe, others stare directly at me. I leap from face to face. Their expressions ran cold, indifferent. They were waiting.
My thoughts turned inward. Shame swelled up inside me flooding my chest. I felt my legs faintly shaking, but I couldn't understand why. I began questioning my actions and myself. The classmates from my last school were all my friends -- what was so different here?
Tree branches continue swaying smoothly and the winds begin brushing our hair into our faces. Looking around, my surroundings then translate into a sea of wavving blond locks. Blue eyes. Freckles. Fair skin. I was different. So clearly different.
And the girl of impulse and fearlessness was no more.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Fate
It was my first conference in San Francisco. I was in this unreasonably fancy hotel with an ocean view and down feather beds that you would just melt inside. The first seminar, I missed (put the beds and a 7 AM wake up call together and you'll understand as well). The second seminar, I... attended (the definition of progress) but only to find that with my haste for this particular meeting I had come to neglect one of the more natural, familiar morning calls. I am referring to el baño.
The closing statements came like Christmas Eve. I skimmed the instructions on the overhead for our next assignment -- the pairing of small groups -- and bolted to the back exit. And oh did I run. Fast.
Yet somehow, not fast enough. There was an obscenely long line at the restroom lobby and I quickly made the decision to create and implement Plan B, that is run at a faster, somewhat more awkward pace to my hotel room and relieve myself there.
After accounting for elevators and hallways, people (many, many people), and the doors that forget they are doors and created to, you know, open... my little journey concluded in taking much longer than queuing with the others on the main floor.
And lo, it is no surprise on my luck to come down and recognize everyone already in groups. Leaders no longer had their makeshift signs waving in the air nor the shifting, attentive eyes that herded respective group members to their allotted space. I thought back hard on my skimming and remembered that I was in group #20, there were seven of us total, and that there was a John and a Jamie, or was it Jackie... Essentially, I knew a hopeless heap of nothing that would lead me closer to my group.
I try calling and texting roommates one by one--Kelsey, Shea, Jeane, Linda--but I can already tell from observing groups around me that they too must be in deep conversation wherever they be. I walk around the 500-some bodies as casually and composed as a wide-eyed orphan member could be when, God's grace, I receive a text from Linda giving directions to the far left corner of the main stage.
Spotting my friend, I'm anxious obviously but even more so having to interrupt this already perfectly functioning and cohesive group. All eyes are on me as I sit and give my awkward wave.
Cameron, one of the girls, finishes her story of not being accepted into her first choice university when Jerry, another student from the group, intercedes.
"I can completely relate. I wanted UCLA! Well," he points sternly at the side of his face, "straight A's and they rejected me. I was so mad. I wanted to urinate on their campus -- and I did."
Well despite the silence that followed, I laughed. Linda laughed too. That was definitely our humor. Mark the team leader tried to sweep the conversation another direction. His eyes were fixed on Jerry, reprimanding him without words. They pierced deeply, as if this routine had played itself out earlier on before.
Then I remembered the bet made between Linda and I somewhere midst our 15-hour drive from Phoenix to use my fail-proof pick-up line on an unsuspecting stranger. The main points: he would have to be a bona fide stranger and Linda must bear witness -- honor, glory and ice cream with mochi would follow.
Now I am a person of extreme self-analysis on my actions but I recognized this moment of fate if I'd ever seen one: Linda at arms length, a worthy stranger and words already halfway out from my mouth. The choice was no longer in my hands.
"Jerry, I have one question for you," I pause to glance at Linda knowingly. Her eyes dilate. "Are you a pokemon?"
"Pika?"
"Because I CHOOSE YOU."
The closing statements came like Christmas Eve. I skimmed the instructions on the overhead for our next assignment -- the pairing of small groups -- and bolted to the back exit. And oh did I run. Fast.
Yet somehow, not fast enough. There was an obscenely long line at the restroom lobby and I quickly made the decision to create and implement Plan B, that is run at a faster, somewhat more awkward pace to my hotel room and relieve myself there.
After accounting for elevators and hallways, people (many, many people), and the doors that forget they are doors and created to, you know, open... my little journey concluded in taking much longer than queuing with the others on the main floor.
And lo, it is no surprise on my luck to come down and recognize everyone already in groups. Leaders no longer had their makeshift signs waving in the air nor the shifting, attentive eyes that herded respective group members to their allotted space. I thought back hard on my skimming and remembered that I was in group #20, there were seven of us total, and that there was a John and a Jamie, or was it Jackie... Essentially, I knew a hopeless heap of nothing that would lead me closer to my group.
I try calling and texting roommates one by one--Kelsey, Shea, Jeane, Linda--but I can already tell from observing groups around me that they too must be in deep conversation wherever they be. I walk around the 500-some bodies as casually and composed as a wide-eyed orphan member could be when, God's grace, I receive a text from Linda giving directions to the far left corner of the main stage.
Spotting my friend, I'm anxious obviously but even more so having to interrupt this already perfectly functioning and cohesive group. All eyes are on me as I sit and give my awkward wave.
Cameron, one of the girls, finishes her story of not being accepted into her first choice university when Jerry, another student from the group, intercedes.
"I can completely relate. I wanted UCLA! Well," he points sternly at the side of his face, "straight A's and they rejected me. I was so mad. I wanted to urinate on their campus -- and I did."
Well despite the silence that followed, I laughed. Linda laughed too. That was definitely our humor. Mark the team leader tried to sweep the conversation another direction. His eyes were fixed on Jerry, reprimanding him without words. They pierced deeply, as if this routine had played itself out earlier on before.
Then I remembered the bet made between Linda and I somewhere midst our 15-hour drive from Phoenix to use my fail-proof pick-up line on an unsuspecting stranger. The main points: he would have to be a bona fide stranger and Linda must bear witness -- honor, glory and ice cream with mochi would follow.
Now I am a person of extreme self-analysis on my actions but I recognized this moment of fate if I'd ever seen one: Linda at arms length, a worthy stranger and words already halfway out from my mouth. The choice was no longer in my hands.
"Jerry, I have one question for you," I pause to glance at Linda knowingly. Her eyes dilate. "Are you a pokemon?"
"Pika?"
"Because I CHOOSE YOU."
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