I would imagine many people have been wondering why I write this "series of why I'm awesome" or whatever you want to call it. "Self-centered," "self-important," "egotistical," "full of myself," and "too much time on the hands" are remarks that I'm sure have surfaced in some minds at some point.
But why DO I write about why I'm awesome?
The answer is simple.
Because if I don't continuously remind myself by writing it all down, I'll forget.
That, and I like to write. A lot. And the easiest thing to write about when you get that itch is something you know, and something that I know fairly well is myself.
P.S. Anyone who actually thinks I really am self-centered and self-important and egotistical or even the slightest bit full of myself after reading any of the past 10 entries (or hanging out with me for longer than half an hour) probably isn't actually reading.
P.P.S. Okay that's it.
P.P.P.S. No really, that's it. Short and sweet.
P.P.P.P.S. It's really me you guys I swear I just wanted to write something short for once.
P.P.P.P.P.S. No, the act of resisting the urge to slam out another 2,000 words of high-minded bullshit did NOT cause me physical pain. Smartass.
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Monday, September 10, 2007
Why I'm Awesome (Part 9 of 7,412): CITYSCAPE
One of the niftier and lesser-known things about me is that I do not "hate" anyone. I am an angry bastard of a woman with a lot of pent up rage and aggression stemming from all kinds of environmental and internal stimuli, but even in spite of my more-than-frequent pissiness (haha Word tried to autocorrect that to "prissiness" DON'T TELL ME WHAT TO DO MICROSOFT YOU ARE NOT THE BOSS OF ME) and the endless string of snide quips and jabs and verbal diarrhea that hurls from my wrath-infested self, I do not hate people.
Before I continue, I'm going to go ahead and introduce a new concept I will be working into my blog entries, which is a one-line explanation as to what inspired me to write this post. Ready GO.
[[This post is brought to you by Greg, better known to most of you as Quetzi, even though there is nothing remotely Quet or zi about him, and a brief exchange of comments on my previous blog entry.]]
Hate, to me, is a very strong word that I would only ever use in jest. I don't think I can remember the last time I actually used the word and meant it, whether to address an object or a person. Objects don't deserve that level of emotional intensity. When it comes to people, well, that's another story entirely.
You see, I am a cynic. I'm sure you've plucked that fact out if you've been reading my blogs. I have a hard time seeing the good in people at large; generally speaking, I find the human race quite abominable and abhorrent and do not expect us to last very much longer (in the grand scheme of things). I mean, humans are really the only ones who can think that their 10,000-year existence on a planet that's 5 billion years old is really anything particularly significant.
But while my macro-view of people is less than favorable, on a mano-a-mano basis I am much more amenable to thinking better of people. That aside, however, on a more personal level, I generally try to find things about the other person that I find likable (yes, even when I'm being mean, I'm looking for the good things about them), rather than going balls-to-the-wall out and trying to find something I don't like.
The bad stuff almost always surfaces eventually…no need for me to go poking around for it.
It is scientifically and emotionally impossible for me to hate something or someone. Something that I dislike to such an extreme degree isn't worthy of notice or attention, let alone any amount of intense emotion. Why waste my energy hating something when I can channel that same energy into something or someone I like?
My emotional state is like a giant lump of Play-Doh that may or may not be brown in color owing to the mixture of all the other, prettier Play-Doh colors over the course of my childhood. Put in a more scientific way, my emotional state is basically the Third Law of Physics, which talks about conservation of mass (I don't know if that's the third law for real but it's one of them goddammit).
The amount and total mass of Play-Doh cannot be increased or decreased, and in my case let's say it's a very soft, very LARGE lump of Play-Doh. On the ground in front of you, there's an asterisk drawn on the ground (a big one), and at each point of the asterisk there is an emotion (angry, sad, happy, etc.). The lump of Play-Doh is placed in the center of the asterisk and then pulled and flattened and punched until it accurately reflects my current emotional state, so if I'm angry, the Play-Doh pulls more toward the asterisk point labeled "angry" and if I'm also a little sad, it pulls a little bit along the "sad" part of the asterisk but not so much.
(If you're a Naruto fan you know EXACTLY what I'm talking about here in terms of this diagram.)
IT'S CALLED A RADAR CHART YOU BUNCHA JAPANOPHILE WEEABOO CHILDREN GOD GO THE HELL BACK TO SCHOOL.
But basically, I am capable of feeling intense happiness just as much as I am capable of feeing intense anger, and if I'm mixing two or more emotions, that dilutes the intensity of them overall because there's less mass left over to distribute to the rest.
My ability to like or dislike something isn't so much a lump of Play-Doh as it is a series of graduated cylinders and a giant bucket of love. When I first meet you, you get 100 ml worth of love in a 1000 ml cylinder just because I am a nice person and I give everyone my respect at first. (Even if I appear to be being mean to you, the love is there, buried beneath the snide quips and harsh words.) Depending on how our interaction goes over the course of time, the amount of love in your graduated cylinder is reduced or increased. Any love going out of the cylinder is returned to the bucket of love, while additional love comes directly from the bucket.
As a general rule, anything below 100 ml means I dislike you more than I like you.
In some cases, the overall size of your graduated cylinder can be upgraded if I feel like the original one cannot possibly contain all the love I have for you.
After a period of time the amount of love in your graduated cylinder stops changing, and this means I've got a good handle on you and my relationship with you. (The love inside it solidifies into a Jell-O-like substance; less likely to change and of very high viscosity but still removable if necessary.) Some people have such a staggering amount of love that their graduated cylinders are the roughly the size of an office tower (it's a really big bucket of love) and the contents within have basically been cemented. Naturally, the bigger your graduated cylinder (and the corresponding amount of love inside it), the closer you are to me. The more solid the contents of your cylinder, the less wavering our relationship is (and the better I know you, which is sometimes a time thing).
Family members or people who have attained family-like status basically form the central business district of the giant city (that looks not unlike Hong Kong) that is my heart, with the CBD itself populated with towering skyscrapers of fully solidified concrete. These are the people who can do whatever the hell they want and it will take an act of god for me to reduce the affection I have for them. My unwavering loyalty to my closest friends is evidence of this.
Business associates and casual acquaintances generally do not get upgraded past the original cylinder. They're like the little tiny glass "people" that fill the streets of the mega-city, looking up at the towering people that I hold dearest to my heart, some of them hoping to reach that place of magic and wonder and elite status, others not particularly caring so long as they have at least 100 ml of love in within them.
Now, if I dislike you to the point where the amount of love in your graduated cylinder hits 0 (which is a very difficult feat to achieve), your graduated cylinder is unceremoniously plucked out of the city of my affections, brought into the wilderness beyond, and smashed as a last act of anger against you, the remains ground into fine powder that is then scattered into the wind. You no longer exist in my city, you are forgotten, it's like you never even entered my life.
As such, my dislike for someone isn't really recorded or even remembered, especially when it gets that low. My love is returned to the giant bucket (which is my heart, you idiots who need to read more), ready to better serve the filling of the cylinder of someone slightly more awesome than those whose powdered cylinders are the stuff of legend.
It should be noted that as a general observation, the contents of an individual's graduated cylinder is likely to be more solid if there's less in it; that means that the less I like you, the harder it is for you to get back into my good graces and I don't think about you enough for my dislike to go any further unless you force it in that direction.
On the flipside, the higher the amount of love in a cylinder, the longer it takes to solidify. That means that you are very likable to me, but you haven't yet earned my loyalty.
Metaphors are so much fun.
I am more likely to love the people I like than I am to hate the people I dislike. As I've said before, when you are one of my closest friends, you are in for life and there is very little that I will not do for you or forgive you for.
Doesn't mean that if you fuck me over I won't knock your glittering tower over, not unlike God reaching down out of the heavens and jamming that almighty thumb of his into the top of a building and smushing it right into the ground (picture that if you will for a moment). It just means that it'd have to be a pretty serious betrayal and I would need to see lots of evidence against you before I could ever be capable of writing you out of my life for good, let alone actually to it.
Plus it leaves this giant pile of wreckage and rubble right in the middle of my city that, unlike the glass powder of insignificant graduated cylinders, doesn't blow away because you meant that much to me…and the cityscape is forever marred by your departure from it.
D'awwwww.
Before I continue, I'm going to go ahead and introduce a new concept I will be working into my blog entries, which is a one-line explanation as to what inspired me to write this post. Ready GO.
[[This post is brought to you by Greg, better known to most of you as Quetzi, even though there is nothing remotely Quet or zi about him, and a brief exchange of comments on my previous blog entry.]]
Hate, to me, is a very strong word that I would only ever use in jest. I don't think I can remember the last time I actually used the word and meant it, whether to address an object or a person. Objects don't deserve that level of emotional intensity. When it comes to people, well, that's another story entirely.
You see, I am a cynic. I'm sure you've plucked that fact out if you've been reading my blogs. I have a hard time seeing the good in people at large; generally speaking, I find the human race quite abominable and abhorrent and do not expect us to last very much longer (in the grand scheme of things). I mean, humans are really the only ones who can think that their 10,000-year existence on a planet that's 5 billion years old is really anything particularly significant.
But while my macro-view of people is less than favorable, on a mano-a-mano basis I am much more amenable to thinking better of people. That aside, however, on a more personal level, I generally try to find things about the other person that I find likable (yes, even when I'm being mean, I'm looking for the good things about them), rather than going balls-to-the-wall out and trying to find something I don't like.
The bad stuff almost always surfaces eventually…no need for me to go poking around for it.
It is scientifically and emotionally impossible for me to hate something or someone. Something that I dislike to such an extreme degree isn't worthy of notice or attention, let alone any amount of intense emotion. Why waste my energy hating something when I can channel that same energy into something or someone I like?
My emotional state is like a giant lump of Play-Doh that may or may not be brown in color owing to the mixture of all the other, prettier Play-Doh colors over the course of my childhood. Put in a more scientific way, my emotional state is basically the Third Law of Physics, which talks about conservation of mass (I don't know if that's the third law for real but it's one of them goddammit).
The amount and total mass of Play-Doh cannot be increased or decreased, and in my case let's say it's a very soft, very LARGE lump of Play-Doh. On the ground in front of you, there's an asterisk drawn on the ground (a big one), and at each point of the asterisk there is an emotion (angry, sad, happy, etc.). The lump of Play-Doh is placed in the center of the asterisk and then pulled and flattened and punched until it accurately reflects my current emotional state, so if I'm angry, the Play-Doh pulls more toward the asterisk point labeled "angry" and if I'm also a little sad, it pulls a little bit along the "sad" part of the asterisk but not so much.
(If you're a Naruto fan you know EXACTLY what I'm talking about here in terms of this diagram.)
IT'S CALLED A RADAR CHART YOU BUNCHA JAPANOPHILE WEEABOO CHILDREN GOD GO THE HELL BACK TO SCHOOL.
But basically, I am capable of feeling intense happiness just as much as I am capable of feeing intense anger, and if I'm mixing two or more emotions, that dilutes the intensity of them overall because there's less mass left over to distribute to the rest.
My ability to like or dislike something isn't so much a lump of Play-Doh as it is a series of graduated cylinders and a giant bucket of love. When I first meet you, you get 100 ml worth of love in a 1000 ml cylinder just because I am a nice person and I give everyone my respect at first. (Even if I appear to be being mean to you, the love is there, buried beneath the snide quips and harsh words.) Depending on how our interaction goes over the course of time, the amount of love in your graduated cylinder is reduced or increased. Any love going out of the cylinder is returned to the bucket of love, while additional love comes directly from the bucket.
As a general rule, anything below 100 ml means I dislike you more than I like you.
In some cases, the overall size of your graduated cylinder can be upgraded if I feel like the original one cannot possibly contain all the love I have for you.
After a period of time the amount of love in your graduated cylinder stops changing, and this means I've got a good handle on you and my relationship with you. (The love inside it solidifies into a Jell-O-like substance; less likely to change and of very high viscosity but still removable if necessary.) Some people have such a staggering amount of love that their graduated cylinders are the roughly the size of an office tower (it's a really big bucket of love) and the contents within have basically been cemented. Naturally, the bigger your graduated cylinder (and the corresponding amount of love inside it), the closer you are to me. The more solid the contents of your cylinder, the less wavering our relationship is (and the better I know you, which is sometimes a time thing).
Family members or people who have attained family-like status basically form the central business district of the giant city (that looks not unlike Hong Kong) that is my heart, with the CBD itself populated with towering skyscrapers of fully solidified concrete. These are the people who can do whatever the hell they want and it will take an act of god for me to reduce the affection I have for them. My unwavering loyalty to my closest friends is evidence of this.
Business associates and casual acquaintances generally do not get upgraded past the original cylinder. They're like the little tiny glass "people" that fill the streets of the mega-city, looking up at the towering people that I hold dearest to my heart, some of them hoping to reach that place of magic and wonder and elite status, others not particularly caring so long as they have at least 100 ml of love in within them.
Now, if I dislike you to the point where the amount of love in your graduated cylinder hits 0 (which is a very difficult feat to achieve), your graduated cylinder is unceremoniously plucked out of the city of my affections, brought into the wilderness beyond, and smashed as a last act of anger against you, the remains ground into fine powder that is then scattered into the wind. You no longer exist in my city, you are forgotten, it's like you never even entered my life.
As such, my dislike for someone isn't really recorded or even remembered, especially when it gets that low. My love is returned to the giant bucket (which is my heart, you idiots who need to read more), ready to better serve the filling of the cylinder of someone slightly more awesome than those whose powdered cylinders are the stuff of legend.
It should be noted that as a general observation, the contents of an individual's graduated cylinder is likely to be more solid if there's less in it; that means that the less I like you, the harder it is for you to get back into my good graces and I don't think about you enough for my dislike to go any further unless you force it in that direction.
On the flipside, the higher the amount of love in a cylinder, the longer it takes to solidify. That means that you are very likable to me, but you haven't yet earned my loyalty.
Metaphors are so much fun.
I am more likely to love the people I like than I am to hate the people I dislike. As I've said before, when you are one of my closest friends, you are in for life and there is very little that I will not do for you or forgive you for.
Doesn't mean that if you fuck me over I won't knock your glittering tower over, not unlike God reaching down out of the heavens and jamming that almighty thumb of his into the top of a building and smushing it right into the ground (picture that if you will for a moment). It just means that it'd have to be a pretty serious betrayal and I would need to see lots of evidence against you before I could ever be capable of writing you out of my life for good, let alone actually to it.
Plus it leaves this giant pile of wreckage and rubble right in the middle of my city that, unlike the glass powder of insignificant graduated cylinders, doesn't blow away because you meant that much to me…and the cityscape is forever marred by your departure from it.
D'awwwww.
Why I'm Awesome (Part 10 of 7,412): SPOON
I was talking to my uncle on Saturday night over the many courses of a superb French dinner at one of Shanghai's finest restaurants (called La Platane, near Xintiandi, if you know it). This uncle is my mother's younger sister's husband and he also happens to be the uncle with whom I get along best. For reference, he is father to the third-oldest grandchild on my mother's side of the family, with Lilienne and I holding the top two spots. There are many reasons why he is basically my favorite uncle, but the one that really stands out is the fact that he and I have probably spoken the most over the course of my more formative years.
[ This post is brought to you by foie gras, whose pronunciation is so heinously butchered by non-French speakers around the world, yet we still insist on trying to pronounce it the French way because "goose liver" just doesn't sound quite as appetizing. ]
My mother's family consists of her being the oldest sister, then her younger sister, and then her two youngest brothers (henceforth called Aunt #2, Uncle #3, and Uncle #4, which is approximately what we call them in Chinese). My mother has contributed two granddaughters (my sister and I) to my grandmother's quest for world domination, while her siblings have contributed a total of four granddaughters and two grandsons.
That's probably more information than you will ever need about my pedigree.
I pointed out to this uncle (who was in town on a business trip) that at one point, I felt there was a lot of pressure on me as the oldest grandchild. If you recall tales of my woes prior to this year, this was not uncommon for me; I felt pressure from all kinds of sources, with family sounding the loudest. Whether it was pleasing my parents, worrying about impressing my friends, or other such "voices" that I felt I had to answer to, I put an ungodly amount of pressure on myself.
I had to set an example for the younger grandchildren, I felt. However distant we were in upbringing or parenting styles, we were still linked by blood and I felt that I would be used as an example by my uncles and aunts to say, "Look at your dai biu ze ('oldest cousin who is a girl'), she has done well with herself. Successful career, etc."
Because of this, I felt an overwhelming need to succeed, not just at a career that would impress me, but that would impress them. I wanted to inspire my little cousins to strive to be the best, not because I wanted to be that inspiration, but because I felt that is what was expected of me: my duty as the first grandchild.
Then came 2007 and a very serious, honest, heart-wrenching look at who I am.
Ever since a particularly loud, aggressive, angry, argument-screaming, solid-objecting-throwing, tear-filled summer in 2005, I learned that my parents never wanted anything for me but happiness. I used to think that they wanted me to fill a certain mold: doctor, lawyer, engineer, consultant…something that sounded high-powered and impressive. When I was lost in my college years as to what I wanted to do, they would throw these suggestions at me and I mistakenly thought it was them trying to push me in those directions. In the end, I graduated with a Bachelor's of Science in Finance because I felt it was a fair compromise: it was a technical skill I could use in any career and it was something that my parents seemed to be all right with.
Turns out it was because they just felt I would genuinely be good at any of those careers and were just wondering if I was confident enough in my ability to consider pursuing them. Wracked with doubt and second-guesses, I couldn't quite see it that way.
Even with the shouting that took place that entire summer, it took a little under two years for the message to sink in: they really just wanted me to be happy. They weren't saying it because they felt they had to because they wanted to be good parents (which was my original thought, sickening as it is for me to think that badly of my parents), they were saying it because they meant it.
With that realization came an incredible overhaul in my personality.
I went from an individual who cared entirely too much about what everyone thought to becoming someone who really didn't give a shit anymore. I looked back on everything that my parents had ever said to me about my future, and instead of second-guessing them, this time I took it to heart with no strings attached.
They wanted me to be happy. I owed them nothing except the joy of seeing me be happy. I need only answer to myself.
I used to want to stay with my old company because I could picture my parents telling their friends who I worked for and being impressed…and my parents swelling with pride. That is, put very simply, a "Hong Kong" way of looking at one's career and parental pride. It's always based on how other people perceive and judge your status, never what you think of yourself.
So my internal renovation shrugged that cloak of shallow materialism off my shoulders and proceeded to hack away at anything that even came close to answering to anyone but myself. And it worked.
I now have a level of self-confidence that, two years ago, was probably the same level but in the other direction. Sure, I still feel insecure about my physical appearance, but I no longer worry myself to death over what goes on in my head, over where I am in life, over how I interact with people, over what people think of me, over my future. Yeah, maybe after meeting someone new I wonder if it could've gone any better, but I no longer obsess over it or punish myself for it. I simply make a note of it and improve the next time.
It wasn't easy, though. It hasn't been easy. There have been many nights where, doubt-ridden, I cried myself to sleep, wondering if what I was doing to myself was really worth it. If it was right for me to do it. I fought old mental habits viciously, damaging and healing myself with the same strike, sometimes to disproportionate degrees. I will not ever deny that it was hard. I don't say it because I want to impress you with how hard I tried and how I came out the other side in one piece. I say it because it's true. It's what it took for me to break twenty-three years' worth of mental barriers akin in size and scale to the Hoover Dam, armed with nothing but a spoon (an admittedly resilient one with a level of tenacity not unlike the stuff that lines my very thick skull, but just a spoon nonetheless).
And even after all that, I'm not done. I still feel intimidated by people who are of a higher "rank" than I am, be it career-wise or by socioeconomic status or by IQ score. But I can feel it changing. It's not as bad as it used to be. Instead of shaking hands and being scared to death about how I'm going to screw up, I'm shaking hands and approaching the situation with increasing confidence.
I remember that one day in May when I was just hanging out, walking down the street, and almost stopping in my tracks to say to myself, "Viv, you're done all right. I'm proud of who you are right now, of what you've become in such a short period of time. I'm happy with you." That was easily one of the very best moments of my life, to know that at that point in time was the first instant wherein I was truly happy with myself in all aspects. It was my own personal reward, I guess, for having come so far.
I didn't do it alone. I couldn't have done it alone. Sure, most of it was a conscious realignment of my point of view, but I did have the help of my friends, in whose eyes I saw a hint of they could see, and they made it possible for me to claw forward. I had the will and I made the start, and they helped me get ever closer to the finish line, even if they had no idea they were helping me out all along. Sometimes, when I stumble in my stride, they're the ones who put me back on track, usually with little more than just being around me.
My uncle told me he was so very proud of me for everything that I'd accomplished, and even while he said this, my mind was thinking "Pffft that's not so great, I can list so many people way better than me in that respect." Realizing that this was an old habit starting to surface, I gave myself a proverbial kick in the forehead, told myself to shut up and just listen to what my uncle was saying. He was proud of me, and he was telling me how proud my parents are of me.
And I promptly found tears in my eyes, because I guess everyone's always looking for a little validation from the people they respect the most; even if it's not needed, it's always nice to have.
I do still care about setting an example for the younger cousins because I know that my cultural heritage expects it of me. It is not for me to judge how my uncles and aunts raise their kids, but it is for me to do my duty by them as the oldest grandchild and be happy. If I am really out to set an example, why not set one where I live a happy life, doing what I enjoy most to the absolute fullest extent I am capable of reaching?
You could probably argue and tell me that I'm still under pressure to live a happy life, that I'm doing it because my parents want it for me or because it's expected of me. Sure, there's a small part of me that knows it's somewhat true, but that's no longer the only reason I am doing what I'm doing. I am the biggest reason why I do what I do.
My ideology, from start to finish, has been that while I still can and while I'm still young, I'm out to live my life for me. If I ever get married, if I ever have kids, they will then come first, so goddammit, I am going to put myself first for as long as I can, until I am good and satisfied and ready…then I can focus on my family, free of resentment or regret, prepared to make the sacrifices I know I will need to make for the good of their happiness, and put them first, where they belong. It's what my parents did for me, and it'd be pretty shitty of me not to do the same for their grandkids.
Really, all of this would explain why I'm very intolerant of people who bitch and moan and ultimately do nothing to solve their problems. I'm not talking about whining about the person on the subway who blocked your way as you got out of it. I'm talking about your own deep-seated issues that you can't seem to get over because you feel like they own you. You identify it as an issue but you don't do anything to change it; you surrender that this is how you are and that's just how it is and it's a necessary hardship, blah blah blah.
I will never, ever agree with that. If you don't like something about yourself, then get the fuck out there and change it. (And before you argue the point, it is entirely possible to keep what you DO like about yourself while changing what you DON'T like.) It's not easy, but nothing worth having ever is. It's hard and you may think you can't do it alone, but then, no one ever said you had to.
Sure you can frown at me and say "Look at Viv, tooting her own horn because she could do what she thinks no one else can, she should just get off her high horse. This is all part of growing up, god, it's not that big a deal." My response to that will be, "Hmm? What? And I should care…because I'm over here conversing with the people I give a shit about, and you are clearly not one of them, so just run along please, you're blocking out the sunlight because your horse is ever so much higher than mine?"
If it were really that easy to change, then why did I spend endless hours writing to or talking with so many people aged eight to forty-seven for so many years, helping them as best I could, listening and learning to what really goes on in people's heads?
Never once will I ever tell you to change something about yourself, because I will always think you are just fine the way you are (even if I appear not to think that, I really do think that), but if you don't like something about yourself, if YOU are the one who wishes that part of you was different, then I will always be here to help you make whatever change you want, even if it's just a shoulder to cry on if the tears come, even if it's just a few rows of comforting text popping up on your IM screen, even if it's just a hug or a winning smile.
[ This post is brought to you by foie gras, whose pronunciation is so heinously butchered by non-French speakers around the world, yet we still insist on trying to pronounce it the French way because "goose liver" just doesn't sound quite as appetizing. ]
My mother's family consists of her being the oldest sister, then her younger sister, and then her two youngest brothers (henceforth called Aunt #2, Uncle #3, and Uncle #4, which is approximately what we call them in Chinese). My mother has contributed two granddaughters (my sister and I) to my grandmother's quest for world domination, while her siblings have contributed a total of four granddaughters and two grandsons.
That's probably more information than you will ever need about my pedigree.
I pointed out to this uncle (who was in town on a business trip) that at one point, I felt there was a lot of pressure on me as the oldest grandchild. If you recall tales of my woes prior to this year, this was not uncommon for me; I felt pressure from all kinds of sources, with family sounding the loudest. Whether it was pleasing my parents, worrying about impressing my friends, or other such "voices" that I felt I had to answer to, I put an ungodly amount of pressure on myself.
I had to set an example for the younger grandchildren, I felt. However distant we were in upbringing or parenting styles, we were still linked by blood and I felt that I would be used as an example by my uncles and aunts to say, "Look at your dai biu ze ('oldest cousin who is a girl'), she has done well with herself. Successful career, etc."
Because of this, I felt an overwhelming need to succeed, not just at a career that would impress me, but that would impress them. I wanted to inspire my little cousins to strive to be the best, not because I wanted to be that inspiration, but because I felt that is what was expected of me: my duty as the first grandchild.
Then came 2007 and a very serious, honest, heart-wrenching look at who I am.
Ever since a particularly loud, aggressive, angry, argument-screaming, solid-objecting-throwing, tear-filled summer in 2005, I learned that my parents never wanted anything for me but happiness. I used to think that they wanted me to fill a certain mold: doctor, lawyer, engineer, consultant…something that sounded high-powered and impressive. When I was lost in my college years as to what I wanted to do, they would throw these suggestions at me and I mistakenly thought it was them trying to push me in those directions. In the end, I graduated with a Bachelor's of Science in Finance because I felt it was a fair compromise: it was a technical skill I could use in any career and it was something that my parents seemed to be all right with.
Turns out it was because they just felt I would genuinely be good at any of those careers and were just wondering if I was confident enough in my ability to consider pursuing them. Wracked with doubt and second-guesses, I couldn't quite see it that way.
Even with the shouting that took place that entire summer, it took a little under two years for the message to sink in: they really just wanted me to be happy. They weren't saying it because they felt they had to because they wanted to be good parents (which was my original thought, sickening as it is for me to think that badly of my parents), they were saying it because they meant it.
With that realization came an incredible overhaul in my personality.
I went from an individual who cared entirely too much about what everyone thought to becoming someone who really didn't give a shit anymore. I looked back on everything that my parents had ever said to me about my future, and instead of second-guessing them, this time I took it to heart with no strings attached.
They wanted me to be happy. I owed them nothing except the joy of seeing me be happy. I need only answer to myself.
I used to want to stay with my old company because I could picture my parents telling their friends who I worked for and being impressed…and my parents swelling with pride. That is, put very simply, a "Hong Kong" way of looking at one's career and parental pride. It's always based on how other people perceive and judge your status, never what you think of yourself.
So my internal renovation shrugged that cloak of shallow materialism off my shoulders and proceeded to hack away at anything that even came close to answering to anyone but myself. And it worked.
I now have a level of self-confidence that, two years ago, was probably the same level but in the other direction. Sure, I still feel insecure about my physical appearance, but I no longer worry myself to death over what goes on in my head, over where I am in life, over how I interact with people, over what people think of me, over my future. Yeah, maybe after meeting someone new I wonder if it could've gone any better, but I no longer obsess over it or punish myself for it. I simply make a note of it and improve the next time.
It wasn't easy, though. It hasn't been easy. There have been many nights where, doubt-ridden, I cried myself to sleep, wondering if what I was doing to myself was really worth it. If it was right for me to do it. I fought old mental habits viciously, damaging and healing myself with the same strike, sometimes to disproportionate degrees. I will not ever deny that it was hard. I don't say it because I want to impress you with how hard I tried and how I came out the other side in one piece. I say it because it's true. It's what it took for me to break twenty-three years' worth of mental barriers akin in size and scale to the Hoover Dam, armed with nothing but a spoon (an admittedly resilient one with a level of tenacity not unlike the stuff that lines my very thick skull, but just a spoon nonetheless).
And even after all that, I'm not done. I still feel intimidated by people who are of a higher "rank" than I am, be it career-wise or by socioeconomic status or by IQ score. But I can feel it changing. It's not as bad as it used to be. Instead of shaking hands and being scared to death about how I'm going to screw up, I'm shaking hands and approaching the situation with increasing confidence.
I remember that one day in May when I was just hanging out, walking down the street, and almost stopping in my tracks to say to myself, "Viv, you're done all right. I'm proud of who you are right now, of what you've become in such a short period of time. I'm happy with you." That was easily one of the very best moments of my life, to know that at that point in time was the first instant wherein I was truly happy with myself in all aspects. It was my own personal reward, I guess, for having come so far.
I didn't do it alone. I couldn't have done it alone. Sure, most of it was a conscious realignment of my point of view, but I did have the help of my friends, in whose eyes I saw a hint of they could see, and they made it possible for me to claw forward. I had the will and I made the start, and they helped me get ever closer to the finish line, even if they had no idea they were helping me out all along. Sometimes, when I stumble in my stride, they're the ones who put me back on track, usually with little more than just being around me.
My uncle told me he was so very proud of me for everything that I'd accomplished, and even while he said this, my mind was thinking "Pffft that's not so great, I can list so many people way better than me in that respect." Realizing that this was an old habit starting to surface, I gave myself a proverbial kick in the forehead, told myself to shut up and just listen to what my uncle was saying. He was proud of me, and he was telling me how proud my parents are of me.
And I promptly found tears in my eyes, because I guess everyone's always looking for a little validation from the people they respect the most; even if it's not needed, it's always nice to have.
I do still care about setting an example for the younger cousins because I know that my cultural heritage expects it of me. It is not for me to judge how my uncles and aunts raise their kids, but it is for me to do my duty by them as the oldest grandchild and be happy. If I am really out to set an example, why not set one where I live a happy life, doing what I enjoy most to the absolute fullest extent I am capable of reaching?
You could probably argue and tell me that I'm still under pressure to live a happy life, that I'm doing it because my parents want it for me or because it's expected of me. Sure, there's a small part of me that knows it's somewhat true, but that's no longer the only reason I am doing what I'm doing. I am the biggest reason why I do what I do.
My ideology, from start to finish, has been that while I still can and while I'm still young, I'm out to live my life for me. If I ever get married, if I ever have kids, they will then come first, so goddammit, I am going to put myself first for as long as I can, until I am good and satisfied and ready…then I can focus on my family, free of resentment or regret, prepared to make the sacrifices I know I will need to make for the good of their happiness, and put them first, where they belong. It's what my parents did for me, and it'd be pretty shitty of me not to do the same for their grandkids.
Really, all of this would explain why I'm very intolerant of people who bitch and moan and ultimately do nothing to solve their problems. I'm not talking about whining about the person on the subway who blocked your way as you got out of it. I'm talking about your own deep-seated issues that you can't seem to get over because you feel like they own you. You identify it as an issue but you don't do anything to change it; you surrender that this is how you are and that's just how it is and it's a necessary hardship, blah blah blah.
I will never, ever agree with that. If you don't like something about yourself, then get the fuck out there and change it. (And before you argue the point, it is entirely possible to keep what you DO like about yourself while changing what you DON'T like.) It's not easy, but nothing worth having ever is. It's hard and you may think you can't do it alone, but then, no one ever said you had to.
Sure you can frown at me and say "Look at Viv, tooting her own horn because she could do what she thinks no one else can, she should just get off her high horse. This is all part of growing up, god, it's not that big a deal." My response to that will be, "Hmm? What? And I should care…because I'm over here conversing with the people I give a shit about, and you are clearly not one of them, so just run along please, you're blocking out the sunlight because your horse is ever so much higher than mine?"
If it were really that easy to change, then why did I spend endless hours writing to or talking with so many people aged eight to forty-seven for so many years, helping them as best I could, listening and learning to what really goes on in people's heads?
Never once will I ever tell you to change something about yourself, because I will always think you are just fine the way you are (even if I appear not to think that, I really do think that), but if you don't like something about yourself, if YOU are the one who wishes that part of you was different, then I will always be here to help you make whatever change you want, even if it's just a shoulder to cry on if the tears come, even if it's just a few rows of comforting text popping up on your IM screen, even if it's just a hug or a winning smile.
Thursday, September 6, 2007
Why I'm Awesome (Part 8 of 7,412): AWESOME
I've been on a blog-writing spree lately, for which I feel I should apologize on account of me nagging half of you guys to read it and subjecting you to wasting a good hour or so of your own time just to plow through my long, long, long, long, long rambling. I feel like I should apologize, but I won't. Generally speaking, I apologize too much. No time to change like the present, eh? I actually started writing this blog entry about two weeks ago, but thanks to the hectic moving and other recent developments at work and in my personal life, it's been a bit delayed, but here we go.
This latest rampage of optical abuse is brought to you by Romain Hefti, whose comment on Part 6 of Why I'm Awesome prompted me to explain a little something-something to the masses. And by masses I mean people who have the free time or low resistance against nagging to read it.
I feel like I need to define the word "awesome" here. You see, "awesome" in my mind is defined as something positive, attractive, memorable, unique, and that has an impact of some kind (i.e., "impressive"). Whether it's a person or an object, it has to include all of these qualities to be awesome, otherwise it falls into the not-so-awesome category of "cool" or "nifty" or "neat" or "meh" or "not very awesome at all."
"Awesome" is not quantifiable by anything beyond those traits. That is, it doesn't matter what it is that makes a person memorable, so long as they ARE memorable (and also meet all that other stuff listed up there).
This means that anyone with any kind of interest has the potential to be awesome. No matter what "subculture" you're from, no matter what you're interested in, you are probably still awesome because you are definitely all of those things to someone out there.
Therefore, if I play way too many computer games for it to be healthy and conducive to a productive lifestyle, that alone doesn't make me unawesome. Nor does, say, a frequent flexing of my mathematical muscles which, since those bygone years of high school, have fallen into disrepair and now suffer from saggy old-woman syndrome. If you're into cars, sports, finance, medicine, obscene amounts of porn, pocket protectors, or your Nintendo DS Lite (which I still lack because this country really blows balls sometimes), none of that particularly matters. It's not WHAT you're into that makes you awesome (or totally not awesome)…it's who you ARE that makes you awesome (or totally not awesome).
Let me break down what each of those traits means as far as my definition of awesome goes.
The one trait that most people tend to lack is their ability to be unique. With all things awesome, generally the most awesome of the awesome is that the most awesome thing is the one that is head-and-shoulders apart from the rest. Copycats are never quite as awesome; the more copycats there are, the less awesome each copycat is and, generally, this only highlights how unique the original act of awesome really was. Pioneers into the field of the never-done-before, well out of the range of simply "weird" or "quirky," will almost always satisfy the need to be unique. When it comes to people, then, the person who's going to satisfy this trait best is someone who is very much an individual, rather than a cookie-cutter type that identifies him or herself as being part of a subculture…rather than simply as being who they are. I don't mean that you cannot RELATE to these people, that's different. It's not that you have nothing in common or don't share any interests or that they are loners…none of this is true. Someone unique is someone who is very individual and someone whose personality you are not likely to meet ever again.
Next up you have to be attractive. Now, this qualifies as general attraction. Are you magnetic? Are the things you do magnetic? How well do you grab and hold someone's attention? Are you able to get other people interested in you (not for sexual or relationship purposes; what I mean is, are you able to intrigue people)? Your looks do not matter. Your ability to have mass amounts of sex does not matter. The only thing that matters is your general appeal to the people around you.
Memorable is also key, as plenty of cool things happen around us all the time but we generally forget them moments later because they just weren't THAT cool to begin with. As a person, you have to be remembered. If you've met someone before, they have to be able to remember you the next time you see them. The reason doesn't matter…they just remember who you are and at least something specific about you.
"Impressive" has been in quotes all this time because I don't mean it in the way that "wow, that was pretty cool." I mean it in the sense that something or someone left an impact. What separates "regular" awesome from "super" awesome is just how well someone leaves an impact on you. Did they change your life? Change the way you looked at something? Made you think about something deeper and more abstract? Got you interested in something new? The method in which they left the impression doesn't matter…that they had any impact at all means they meet this requirement of being awesome.
Positive is likely the most important of the bunch, as this means that you are not out to hurt anyone and are generally a contributor to the betterment of society as a whole. You don't go out of your way to screw someone over, and the things that you do don't involve coercing someone into doing something that they wouldn't otherwise do, and they don't directly or intentionally hurt someone. This means that if you're the kind of person that does some pretty memorable and "impressive" stuff but it comes at the direct cost of someone's well-being, you are probably not very awesome at all. This alone probably eliminates 70% of all potentially awesome people, because so many people just aren't awesome enough to know how to be all the things above without taking advantage of someone else.
Of course, all these traits vary depending on the individual trying to gauge the awesomosity. One person might find you very memorable while someone else goes "who what." You could've left an impact on one person but had zero effect on someone else. This is normal, as awesome is a purely subjective sort of concept.
What if, you wonder as you remember something I mentioned about how much people suck a few blogs ago, people just aren't paying attention to you and therefore you are not memorable…when you otherwise might have been, and thus awesome? Well my answer to that is that if that person doesn't remember much about anyone, there's a good chance they don't think anyone is particularly awesome…or maybe you just didn't leave enough of an impact to make them stand up and pay attention to you.
All these traits of awesome feed into one another and influence each other, but in different ways depending on the individual. Some traits directly boost one another as one is boosted, while others counteract and must be balanced. Which traits behave in which way relative to one another depend on the kind of person you are.
Generally speaking, because of this definition, very many people are awesome to me. It helps that I pay attention to what everyone says as closely as I can, and it helps that I naturally try to find something especially unique about them, so most people get two of the traits right off the bat. I don't always look for the good in people, being the awful cynic that I am, but generally speaking I don't assume the worst of people, either (just don't go around calling my best friend a pussy when he's lying on the ground, bleeding from his torso). Essentially, everyone I meet has my respect right from the get-go, regardless of rank or file, and it only goes up or down from there.
Man I just reread this thing and I wanna say that a drawn-out, logic-supported definition of awesome is slightly asinine. I wanna say it. But I won't. You can think it, though.
This latest rampage of optical abuse is brought to you by Romain Hefti, whose comment on Part 6 of Why I'm Awesome prompted me to explain a little something-something to the masses. And by masses I mean people who have the free time or low resistance against nagging to read it.
I feel like I need to define the word "awesome" here. You see, "awesome" in my mind is defined as something positive, attractive, memorable, unique, and that has an impact of some kind (i.e., "impressive"). Whether it's a person or an object, it has to include all of these qualities to be awesome, otherwise it falls into the not-so-awesome category of "cool" or "nifty" or "neat" or "meh" or "not very awesome at all."
"Awesome" is not quantifiable by anything beyond those traits. That is, it doesn't matter what it is that makes a person memorable, so long as they ARE memorable (and also meet all that other stuff listed up there).
This means that anyone with any kind of interest has the potential to be awesome. No matter what "subculture" you're from, no matter what you're interested in, you are probably still awesome because you are definitely all of those things to someone out there.
Therefore, if I play way too many computer games for it to be healthy and conducive to a productive lifestyle, that alone doesn't make me unawesome. Nor does, say, a frequent flexing of my mathematical muscles which, since those bygone years of high school, have fallen into disrepair and now suffer from saggy old-woman syndrome. If you're into cars, sports, finance, medicine, obscene amounts of porn, pocket protectors, or your Nintendo DS Lite (which I still lack because this country really blows balls sometimes), none of that particularly matters. It's not WHAT you're into that makes you awesome (or totally not awesome)…it's who you ARE that makes you awesome (or totally not awesome).
Let me break down what each of those traits means as far as my definition of awesome goes.
The one trait that most people tend to lack is their ability to be unique. With all things awesome, generally the most awesome of the awesome is that the most awesome thing is the one that is head-and-shoulders apart from the rest. Copycats are never quite as awesome; the more copycats there are, the less awesome each copycat is and, generally, this only highlights how unique the original act of awesome really was. Pioneers into the field of the never-done-before, well out of the range of simply "weird" or "quirky," will almost always satisfy the need to be unique. When it comes to people, then, the person who's going to satisfy this trait best is someone who is very much an individual, rather than a cookie-cutter type that identifies him or herself as being part of a subculture…rather than simply as being who they are. I don't mean that you cannot RELATE to these people, that's different. It's not that you have nothing in common or don't share any interests or that they are loners…none of this is true. Someone unique is someone who is very individual and someone whose personality you are not likely to meet ever again.
Next up you have to be attractive. Now, this qualifies as general attraction. Are you magnetic? Are the things you do magnetic? How well do you grab and hold someone's attention? Are you able to get other people interested in you (not for sexual or relationship purposes; what I mean is, are you able to intrigue people)? Your looks do not matter. Your ability to have mass amounts of sex does not matter. The only thing that matters is your general appeal to the people around you.
Memorable is also key, as plenty of cool things happen around us all the time but we generally forget them moments later because they just weren't THAT cool to begin with. As a person, you have to be remembered. If you've met someone before, they have to be able to remember you the next time you see them. The reason doesn't matter…they just remember who you are and at least something specific about you.
"Impressive" has been in quotes all this time because I don't mean it in the way that "wow, that was pretty cool." I mean it in the sense that something or someone left an impact. What separates "regular" awesome from "super" awesome is just how well someone leaves an impact on you. Did they change your life? Change the way you looked at something? Made you think about something deeper and more abstract? Got you interested in something new? The method in which they left the impression doesn't matter…that they had any impact at all means they meet this requirement of being awesome.
Positive is likely the most important of the bunch, as this means that you are not out to hurt anyone and are generally a contributor to the betterment of society as a whole. You don't go out of your way to screw someone over, and the things that you do don't involve coercing someone into doing something that they wouldn't otherwise do, and they don't directly or intentionally hurt someone. This means that if you're the kind of person that does some pretty memorable and "impressive" stuff but it comes at the direct cost of someone's well-being, you are probably not very awesome at all. This alone probably eliminates 70% of all potentially awesome people, because so many people just aren't awesome enough to know how to be all the things above without taking advantage of someone else.
Of course, all these traits vary depending on the individual trying to gauge the awesomosity. One person might find you very memorable while someone else goes "who what." You could've left an impact on one person but had zero effect on someone else. This is normal, as awesome is a purely subjective sort of concept.
What if, you wonder as you remember something I mentioned about how much people suck a few blogs ago, people just aren't paying attention to you and therefore you are not memorable…when you otherwise might have been, and thus awesome? Well my answer to that is that if that person doesn't remember much about anyone, there's a good chance they don't think anyone is particularly awesome…or maybe you just didn't leave enough of an impact to make them stand up and pay attention to you.
All these traits of awesome feed into one another and influence each other, but in different ways depending on the individual. Some traits directly boost one another as one is boosted, while others counteract and must be balanced. Which traits behave in which way relative to one another depend on the kind of person you are.
Generally speaking, because of this definition, very many people are awesome to me. It helps that I pay attention to what everyone says as closely as I can, and it helps that I naturally try to find something especially unique about them, so most people get two of the traits right off the bat. I don't always look for the good in people, being the awful cynic that I am, but generally speaking I don't assume the worst of people, either (just don't go around calling my best friend a pussy when he's lying on the ground, bleeding from his torso). Essentially, everyone I meet has my respect right from the get-go, regardless of rank or file, and it only goes up or down from there.
Man I just reread this thing and I wanna say that a drawn-out, logic-supported definition of awesome is slightly asinine. I wanna say it. But I won't. You can think it, though.
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Why I'm Awesome (Part 7 of 7,412): MARSHMALLOW
Before I get going here I'd like to say something to my compadres at Social Entropy ++:
We now return you to your regularly scheduled programming.
I started out this tirade of 7,412 obnoxiously long blog entries with a not-so-brief explanation of one of my two main strengths. These two strengths, as I mentioned before, are traits of my personality that I have found great confidence in, which, if you know me at all, you'll realize is a pretty big deal for someone as self-conscious and doubt-ridden as myself.
That first strength, you may or may not recall, is that I am very able to express myself. No matter how abstract, I can put just about anything into a verbally communicable form. I love that I have this skill, as it makes me a good communicator, and I do it well.
The second strength is that I can take good emotional care of myself. Generally speaking, I know exactly what I need to do to get over a rough patch in the heart zone.
Whether it's a bout of overwhelming depression, cuss-laden rage, or even just bouncy happiness, I'm generally able to make the most of it all without much outside counseling.
I know when I need to talk it out, when I need to shout, when I need to sweat it out, when I need to numb it, enjoy it, thrive on it, ignore it, suppress it, write about it, bitch about it, confront it, etc. It took me a long time to get to this stage, too. A lot of it comes down to a familiarity with oneself and, perhaps above all, honesty.
I've had to admit many things about myself, almost all of them negative in nature. I am stubborn, hot-tempered, loud, stubborn, validation-seeking, foul-mouthed, stubborn, pissy, whiny, bitchy, stubborn, obstinate, hard-headed, adamant, pigheaded, tenacious, and stubborn. (You might notice an ongoing theme there, I'm not sure.)
More than anything else, I am a stubborn person. When it comes to controversial debate, I may be convinced to accept a different viewpoint or even change my existing one, but this is only after I have ensured (with a tenacity that the Chan Clan is infamous for) that my point has been heard…without any chance of misinterpretation. When it comes to my emotional well-being, it's an arena wherein you just won't survive.
When I'm happy, there is very little that can stop me from being happy until I am good and ready to let the outside world come in and beat the crap out of me like it does to all of us. Likewise, when I'm depressed, I need to just sit there and BE SAD for a while before I will even entertain attempts to cheer me up. Most of you know what I'm like when I'm pissed off, but it's the same basic principle: I will go ahead and be pissed until I am damn well ready to not be pissed anymore.
How I handle things while being in an extremely emotional state is my true skill, because it ensures the longest recovery time for the so-called "bad stuff."
For example, if you go back several/many blog posts, you'll see one entitled "What Happened" or something to that effect, which is me talking about what is nowadays referred to as the "subway incident." I was pissed beyond reason and upset and I knew what I had to do to get over it as humanely as possible while sparing my landlord the need to clean up bloodstains from punching my fist into a wall a few too many times.
First thing I did when I got home was, well, slam the door a couple of times and perhaps smash the palm of my hand ridiculously hard into the wall of my bookshelf, just to get some pain going there. Then I picked up the phone with trembling fingers and pressed and held the number 2.
Michelle answers the phone, I tell her what happened, and with her ever-glorious understanding of what it means to be pissed off, basically egged me on in my violent, loud, and utterly unreasonable tirade of death threats, disembodiment designs, and a slew of swear words that make what I say on a daily basis the stuff of babies and rainbows and puppies and marshmallows and lollipops. She knew as well as I did that I just needed to be angry to have someone there to hear me be angry.
It's not about logic, it's not about comfort, and it's certainly not about making sense. So amidst cries for castration and various methods of asphyxiation, Michelle threw down her agreement and, without saying it outright, her understanding that I just needed to be pissed. I love her for it and it's why I called her first.
Next, after hanging up with Michelle, I pressed and held the number 3.
Romain picks up and I fill him in on what happened, this time with a much more tearful accompaniment. Death threats ensue yet again, some of which probably made him a tad bit uncomfortable since I was basically mentioning male genitalia every other second, but this time with more of an emphasis on making ME feel better about what happened. My conversation with Michelle was more of a "how do I make this guy suffer as much as possible" deal.
This conversation was slightly longer since, as is expected of Romain, he laced a bit of "ok let's make sense and start calming down here a bit" into the phone, which ultimately had its effect. I took a shower and then picked up the phone one more time, pressing and hold the number 7.
As I talked to Chuck, I was much, much calmer, with minimal swearing (by my standards) and a much more rational recount of events. I asked if I could sleepover at his place, and in his very maternal way he said yes and offered to take good care of me. I went over, hung out with him and Romain and Michelle (who brought a bottle of Bailey's because she is just awesome) for the evening, eating an inordinate amount of American junk food and overdosing on cheese-in-a-can, having milkshakes at City Diner, and spent the night in Chuck's spare room.
Black Hawk Down, a violent movie dotted throughout with really hot men in uniform, was just, well, a perfect complement. The next afternoon saw a healthy three hours of volleyball, where the remainder of my rage was channeled out of me in the form of physical abuse on a bouncy ball that really never did anything to hurt me.
By Monday at Zapata's, I was pretty much fine and in a manageable enough mood to talk about what happened in a calm and conversational manner with my closest friends. Still a bit jumpy and nervous while on the subway, but nevertheless able to function as a wholly sane human being.
Breaking down this example, I took hold of my anger in stages that I knew would be most effective for me to get over what happened. Of course, this would never, ever have worked without the company of my friends. Of course, this also meant that I had to know them well enough to know how they'd respond to the incident and know if it's the kind of response I wanted. I bottled up my need for a physical outlet until Saturday, where I knew a good round of balls-to-the-wall volleyball would be just what I needed to get the last of the bad blood out.
This isn't to say that the friends not mentioned in this post were not also amazing in their support and love, because it really meant a lot to know that so many people cared. Basically, what I mean is that I know what I need in a support system to get over a trough in the utterly irregular (and often unfair) oscillations of life's pendulum. I would imagine that me behaving the way I did with other friends might've resulted in a ruined friendship, not because those "other" people are bad friends, but because of my own personality (and their reaction to it).
I have a very volatile temper, which is just a nice way of saying I'm a bitch with an anger problem. Not everyone gets to see me at my worst because I simply don't WANT people to see me at my worst. Sure I know most of my friends would never judge me, but for my part, the worst part about being caught in a round of utter depression or extreme anger is to know that people have seen me that way (and might react badly to it). You could say I fear that people would think of me as being weak because of it, but really, it's that self-conscious stuff I've said before.
Let's put it this way. At my absolute worst, I worry that my friends might actually end up afraid of me. I don't mean that in a "teehee you're so scary teehee" joking kind of way. I mean that in a "holy shit this bitch is fucking nuts quick hide the knives" kind of way. I worry that people might shy away from me in fear of ever seeing me in such a state ever again.
It's because of that that I refused to see anyone until I was already calm. Shouting on the phone is bad enough…it's another for someone to be there and see me when I'm in such a rage.
I wish I were exaggerating but I'm really not. At my very worst I am almost always alone in person. My bitchy behavior that is visible on a day-to-day basis…you all know that that's just how I am. I am very seldom truly vindictive when I behave that way. No one, absolutely no one, has seen me when I have been truly, righteously angry. I doubt anyone ever will.
That's anger, I guess. Sadness is different. Depression depends on the circumstances that brought it about. Sometimes, I want to have people around me to hug me or comfort me. Other times, I want to be alone to cry it out for a while, then maybe talk it out later.
I know exactly what kinds of outlets I need whenever I hit a rough spot, and it's not the same for all cases. I call it a skill because, based on my own personal experience, a lot of people don't know what to do to get themselves out of their own emotional traps. I honestly don't know how I know what to do…I just do. Instinct, maybe.
Thing is, it's different for everyone. Some people need to talk it out. Some people need to have it out. Some people need to cry or scream or punch it out. Many times, people do not need what you think they need, no matter how well you think you know them as a person. It comes down to the individual and, as I said, I guess a lot of it means you have to be really honest with yourself: what kind of person are you?
I could go a bit farther and say that the way you handle your own emotional states (or, better put, what you need to recover from emotional duress) tells a lot about the kind of person you are.
I'm an incredibly sensitive, insecure individual (to an almost alarming degree, if you really got into my head) who wears her anger on her sleeve as a shield to cover up all cracks and soft spots. There isn't a thing I wouldn't do for most people, but I don't want them to know that. Oh, it's true: I'm a steel-coated melted marshmallow.
Rub that fact in my face and I'll take it out on yours.
Keeses.
- I miss each and every single one of you little shitsmokers, my new job is keeping me super busy
- I'm really sorry I won't be at PAX, it's killing me to know that it's this weekend and I won't be there
- I can't get on AIM or MSN at my new job, I can only use Skype, so stop crying at me you blubbering vaginas
- I occasionally check the forums but those chances I get are view and far between… I can't post much at work and after work and on the weekend I'm busy having a life that involves my general aura of awesomosity being shared with people who can enjoy its presence in exchange for many hugs
- ABLOOABLOOABLOO
- Okay now I'm going to go back to acting like I'm better than all of you because I have a spiffy job a bitchin' bod the best hair in the world and basically everything that you don't have ready GO
We now return you to your regularly scheduled programming.
I started out this tirade of 7,412 obnoxiously long blog entries with a not-so-brief explanation of one of my two main strengths. These two strengths, as I mentioned before, are traits of my personality that I have found great confidence in, which, if you know me at all, you'll realize is a pretty big deal for someone as self-conscious and doubt-ridden as myself.
That first strength, you may or may not recall, is that I am very able to express myself. No matter how abstract, I can put just about anything into a verbally communicable form. I love that I have this skill, as it makes me a good communicator, and I do it well.
The second strength is that I can take good emotional care of myself. Generally speaking, I know exactly what I need to do to get over a rough patch in the heart zone.
Whether it's a bout of overwhelming depression, cuss-laden rage, or even just bouncy happiness, I'm generally able to make the most of it all without much outside counseling.
I know when I need to talk it out, when I need to shout, when I need to sweat it out, when I need to numb it, enjoy it, thrive on it, ignore it, suppress it, write about it, bitch about it, confront it, etc. It took me a long time to get to this stage, too. A lot of it comes down to a familiarity with oneself and, perhaps above all, honesty.
I've had to admit many things about myself, almost all of them negative in nature. I am stubborn, hot-tempered, loud, stubborn, validation-seeking, foul-mouthed, stubborn, pissy, whiny, bitchy, stubborn, obstinate, hard-headed, adamant, pigheaded, tenacious, and stubborn. (You might notice an ongoing theme there, I'm not sure.)
More than anything else, I am a stubborn person. When it comes to controversial debate, I may be convinced to accept a different viewpoint or even change my existing one, but this is only after I have ensured (with a tenacity that the Chan Clan is infamous for) that my point has been heard…without any chance of misinterpretation. When it comes to my emotional well-being, it's an arena wherein you just won't survive.
When I'm happy, there is very little that can stop me from being happy until I am good and ready to let the outside world come in and beat the crap out of me like it does to all of us. Likewise, when I'm depressed, I need to just sit there and BE SAD for a while before I will even entertain attempts to cheer me up. Most of you know what I'm like when I'm pissed off, but it's the same basic principle: I will go ahead and be pissed until I am damn well ready to not be pissed anymore.
How I handle things while being in an extremely emotional state is my true skill, because it ensures the longest recovery time for the so-called "bad stuff."
For example, if you go back several/many blog posts, you'll see one entitled "What Happened" or something to that effect, which is me talking about what is nowadays referred to as the "subway incident." I was pissed beyond reason and upset and I knew what I had to do to get over it as humanely as possible while sparing my landlord the need to clean up bloodstains from punching my fist into a wall a few too many times.
First thing I did when I got home was, well, slam the door a couple of times and perhaps smash the palm of my hand ridiculously hard into the wall of my bookshelf, just to get some pain going there. Then I picked up the phone with trembling fingers and pressed and held the number 2.
Michelle answers the phone, I tell her what happened, and with her ever-glorious understanding of what it means to be pissed off, basically egged me on in my violent, loud, and utterly unreasonable tirade of death threats, disembodiment designs, and a slew of swear words that make what I say on a daily basis the stuff of babies and rainbows and puppies and marshmallows and lollipops. She knew as well as I did that I just needed to be angry to have someone there to hear me be angry.
It's not about logic, it's not about comfort, and it's certainly not about making sense. So amidst cries for castration and various methods of asphyxiation, Michelle threw down her agreement and, without saying it outright, her understanding that I just needed to be pissed. I love her for it and it's why I called her first.
Next, after hanging up with Michelle, I pressed and held the number 3.
Romain picks up and I fill him in on what happened, this time with a much more tearful accompaniment. Death threats ensue yet again, some of which probably made him a tad bit uncomfortable since I was basically mentioning male genitalia every other second, but this time with more of an emphasis on making ME feel better about what happened. My conversation with Michelle was more of a "how do I make this guy suffer as much as possible" deal.
This conversation was slightly longer since, as is expected of Romain, he laced a bit of "ok let's make sense and start calming down here a bit" into the phone, which ultimately had its effect. I took a shower and then picked up the phone one more time, pressing and hold the number 7.
As I talked to Chuck, I was much, much calmer, with minimal swearing (by my standards) and a much more rational recount of events. I asked if I could sleepover at his place, and in his very maternal way he said yes and offered to take good care of me. I went over, hung out with him and Romain and Michelle (who brought a bottle of Bailey's because she is just awesome) for the evening, eating an inordinate amount of American junk food and overdosing on cheese-in-a-can, having milkshakes at City Diner, and spent the night in Chuck's spare room.
Black Hawk Down, a violent movie dotted throughout with really hot men in uniform, was just, well, a perfect complement. The next afternoon saw a healthy three hours of volleyball, where the remainder of my rage was channeled out of me in the form of physical abuse on a bouncy ball that really never did anything to hurt me.
By Monday at Zapata's, I was pretty much fine and in a manageable enough mood to talk about what happened in a calm and conversational manner with my closest friends. Still a bit jumpy and nervous while on the subway, but nevertheless able to function as a wholly sane human being.
Breaking down this example, I took hold of my anger in stages that I knew would be most effective for me to get over what happened. Of course, this would never, ever have worked without the company of my friends. Of course, this also meant that I had to know them well enough to know how they'd respond to the incident and know if it's the kind of response I wanted. I bottled up my need for a physical outlet until Saturday, where I knew a good round of balls-to-the-wall volleyball would be just what I needed to get the last of the bad blood out.
This isn't to say that the friends not mentioned in this post were not also amazing in their support and love, because it really meant a lot to know that so many people cared. Basically, what I mean is that I know what I need in a support system to get over a trough in the utterly irregular (and often unfair) oscillations of life's pendulum. I would imagine that me behaving the way I did with other friends might've resulted in a ruined friendship, not because those "other" people are bad friends, but because of my own personality (and their reaction to it).
I have a very volatile temper, which is just a nice way of saying I'm a bitch with an anger problem. Not everyone gets to see me at my worst because I simply don't WANT people to see me at my worst. Sure I know most of my friends would never judge me, but for my part, the worst part about being caught in a round of utter depression or extreme anger is to know that people have seen me that way (and might react badly to it). You could say I fear that people would think of me as being weak because of it, but really, it's that self-conscious stuff I've said before.
Let's put it this way. At my absolute worst, I worry that my friends might actually end up afraid of me. I don't mean that in a "teehee you're so scary teehee" joking kind of way. I mean that in a "holy shit this bitch is fucking nuts quick hide the knives" kind of way. I worry that people might shy away from me in fear of ever seeing me in such a state ever again.
It's because of that that I refused to see anyone until I was already calm. Shouting on the phone is bad enough…it's another for someone to be there and see me when I'm in such a rage.
I wish I were exaggerating but I'm really not. At my very worst I am almost always alone in person. My bitchy behavior that is visible on a day-to-day basis…you all know that that's just how I am. I am very seldom truly vindictive when I behave that way. No one, absolutely no one, has seen me when I have been truly, righteously angry. I doubt anyone ever will.
That's anger, I guess. Sadness is different. Depression depends on the circumstances that brought it about. Sometimes, I want to have people around me to hug me or comfort me. Other times, I want to be alone to cry it out for a while, then maybe talk it out later.
I know exactly what kinds of outlets I need whenever I hit a rough spot, and it's not the same for all cases. I call it a skill because, based on my own personal experience, a lot of people don't know what to do to get themselves out of their own emotional traps. I honestly don't know how I know what to do…I just do. Instinct, maybe.
Thing is, it's different for everyone. Some people need to talk it out. Some people need to have it out. Some people need to cry or scream or punch it out. Many times, people do not need what you think they need, no matter how well you think you know them as a person. It comes down to the individual and, as I said, I guess a lot of it means you have to be really honest with yourself: what kind of person are you?
I could go a bit farther and say that the way you handle your own emotional states (or, better put, what you need to recover from emotional duress) tells a lot about the kind of person you are.
I'm an incredibly sensitive, insecure individual (to an almost alarming degree, if you really got into my head) who wears her anger on her sleeve as a shield to cover up all cracks and soft spots. There isn't a thing I wouldn't do for most people, but I don't want them to know that. Oh, it's true: I'm a steel-coated melted marshmallow.
Rub that fact in my face and I'll take it out on yours.
Keeses.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
Why I'm Awesome (Part 6 of 7,412): NUMBERS
So you might wonder why there are only 7,412 parts that go into explaining the full scale of my awesomosity. That's right, I said only. It is, as opposed to popular belief, not an arbitrary number.
I was going to do something mathematically nifty, like how 13 is most people's unlucky number, right, and since I am so fantastic that I cancel out all negative effects of negative objects, you split up the 1 and the 3 in the number itself and also the value of the number 13. Breaking it apart, you get 1, 8, 5, 3. Why? 1 and 3 from the 13 get split apart so they're on polar ends of the number. 8 + 5 = 13, and I chose those numbers because they are two lucky numbers in Chinese culture, 8 because when spoken aloud it sounds like the word for prosperity. 5 because it means self or "me" and it can also mean "nothing," which I then interpret as me being equal to nothing.
So that gives 1,853. Multiply that by the number of people in my immediate family, including myself, because we are the core parts of what makes me awesome, and that's four. 4 x 1,853 = 7,412.
I was going to do something like that but then didn't.
7,412 actually comes from three very important numbers: 7, 4, and 12. All three were my numbers when I played volleyball.
12 comes last because it's technically the least important to me. I was this number because at the time, the International School of Beijing didn't have custom uniforms and I was a fatass to end all fatasses. The uniforms the school DID have were scaled by size, so 1 was the smallest and 12 was the largest. Iping, if he's reading this as he damn well should be, is well aware of how this works. Andie, too, of course, and the rest of the 1999-2000 ISB Volleyball Team.
4 is next because it's my first ever volleyball number and, therefore, slightly more important than 12. When I first joined the 14-and-Under Volleyball Team at Brent International School, Manila, 4 was the number assigned to me. I don't remember why or how it became mine, it just kinda showed up on the back of my first ever volleyball jersey. Like 12, I was 4 for just one year.
7 has always been my favorite and most important number, not because it tends to be the favorite of many other people. For a long time before I even started playing volleyball, I liked that "seven" contained a V right smack dab in the middle of the number, it was the month I'd been born in, and mostly I just liked how it showed up a lot in my life. (We lived in the 7th floor in our apartment in Hong Kong, we lived at house #167 in Beijing and 1 + 6 = 7, 7 days in a week, etc.) As far back as I can remember, it's been my favorite number. There was even a period of time wherein it was my nickname. People would call me "Sev" or "Seven" instead of "Viv" or "V" as per usual.
(It was a bit weird, I'll admit.)
Volleyball is more than a way for me to keep in shape while escaping the excessive boredom that accompanies a trip to the gym. It gave me confidence and saved me from what would otherwise have been a dismal, empty stage of my life.
It is as large a part of my personal therapy as writing is. It was once the crutch for my self-esteem, being the only thing I was good at in high school, the only thing I was even marginally respected for. Now it keeps me in shape, helps me let out my frustration with work or with life, it's an avenue through which I meet all kinds of people, and it brings a smile to my face just to be playing a sport I love.
I hate the gym and I hate exercising alone. I would prefer to play a sport with a team.
I hate being bad at a sport and I hate losing. I would prefer to play a sport that I'm good at and have a chance of winning.
SOLUTION: volleyball.
So at this point you are probably still marveling at how I pulled a mathematical explanation behind a number that I chose completely at random out of the crack of my ass so you're very likely not paying buttloads of attention to what I have to say about volleyball.
Now you're thinking about butts.
Mission accomplished.
I was going to do something mathematically nifty, like how 13 is most people's unlucky number, right, and since I am so fantastic that I cancel out all negative effects of negative objects, you split up the 1 and the 3 in the number itself and also the value of the number 13. Breaking it apart, you get 1, 8, 5, 3. Why? 1 and 3 from the 13 get split apart so they're on polar ends of the number. 8 + 5 = 13, and I chose those numbers because they are two lucky numbers in Chinese culture, 8 because when spoken aloud it sounds like the word for prosperity. 5 because it means self or "me" and it can also mean "nothing," which I then interpret as me being equal to nothing.
So that gives 1,853. Multiply that by the number of people in my immediate family, including myself, because we are the core parts of what makes me awesome, and that's four. 4 x 1,853 = 7,412.
I was going to do something like that but then didn't.
7,412 actually comes from three very important numbers: 7, 4, and 12. All three were my numbers when I played volleyball.
12 comes last because it's technically the least important to me. I was this number because at the time, the International School of Beijing didn't have custom uniforms and I was a fatass to end all fatasses. The uniforms the school DID have were scaled by size, so 1 was the smallest and 12 was the largest. Iping, if he's reading this as he damn well should be, is well aware of how this works. Andie, too, of course, and the rest of the 1999-2000 ISB Volleyball Team.
4 is next because it's my first ever volleyball number and, therefore, slightly more important than 12. When I first joined the 14-and-Under Volleyball Team at Brent International School, Manila, 4 was the number assigned to me. I don't remember why or how it became mine, it just kinda showed up on the back of my first ever volleyball jersey. Like 12, I was 4 for just one year.
7 has always been my favorite and most important number, not because it tends to be the favorite of many other people. For a long time before I even started playing volleyball, I liked that "seven" contained a V right smack dab in the middle of the number, it was the month I'd been born in, and mostly I just liked how it showed up a lot in my life. (We lived in the 7th floor in our apartment in Hong Kong, we lived at house #167 in Beijing and 1 + 6 = 7, 7 days in a week, etc.) As far back as I can remember, it's been my favorite number. There was even a period of time wherein it was my nickname. People would call me "Sev" or "Seven" instead of "Viv" or "V" as per usual.
(It was a bit weird, I'll admit.)
Volleyball is more than a way for me to keep in shape while escaping the excessive boredom that accompanies a trip to the gym. It gave me confidence and saved me from what would otherwise have been a dismal, empty stage of my life.
It is as large a part of my personal therapy as writing is. It was once the crutch for my self-esteem, being the only thing I was good at in high school, the only thing I was even marginally respected for. Now it keeps me in shape, helps me let out my frustration with work or with life, it's an avenue through which I meet all kinds of people, and it brings a smile to my face just to be playing a sport I love.
I hate the gym and I hate exercising alone. I would prefer to play a sport with a team.
I hate being bad at a sport and I hate losing. I would prefer to play a sport that I'm good at and have a chance of winning.
SOLUTION: volleyball.
So at this point you are probably still marveling at how I pulled a mathematical explanation behind a number that I chose completely at random out of the crack of my ass so you're very likely not paying buttloads of attention to what I have to say about volleyball.
Now you're thinking about butts.
Mission accomplished.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Why I'm Awesome (Part 5 of 7,412): SARA
A couple of years ago, on a much older blog written by a much younger me, I recounted an incident that happened when I was in Hong Kong one Christmas. I'll recount it here, now, for the purposes of introducing a topic inspired by something I saw on the bus on the way to work today.
For those of you are familiar with Hong Kong, I was in Causeway Bay with my mom and sister, picking up snack foods to populate the over-priced minibar at the Excelsior Hotel (oooh fancy). Our destination? Wellcome {sic}, a very popular supermarket that, like most supermarkets and convenience stores in Hong Kong, accept the Octopus Card as a form of payment. For those not familiar with Hong Kong, the Octopus Card is a store-value card that can be used to pay for any form of public transportation in Hong Kong and can also be used at places like McDonald's, Wellcome, 7-Eleven, and the like. My former boss in Hong Kong could use it to get into his building and had it automatically charge up with money from his credit card whenever the balance dipped below HK$50. Spiffy.
But I digress.
While at the supermarket and possibly wondering if I could finagle an extra-large package of my favorite fish snack (don't ask if you don't already know what it is) out of my mother—in spite of the fact that I was 20/21 years old at the time—I happened to overhear a little girl's voice crying, rather shrilly as most such children do, "Mommy! Mommy! Moooooommmmmmmeeeeeeeeee!"
At first I passed off this assault on my aural senses as a typical child whining about how Mommy wouldn't get her an extra set of batteries (because I was standing right next to a giant rack of Energizer and Duracell products at the time) or whatever it is kids nowadays whine about not getting enough of. At length, however, my instincts told me to at least spare the little girl a sympathetic glance.
It was then that my astute observation skills noted that she was alone, with no one resembling her "Mommy" in the vicinity. She was a little brunette girl who could've been Canadian or American judging by her accent (which wasn't exactly discernable through the onslaught of hiccoughing sobs), probably four years old and not very much higher than my knee. She was clutching a stuffed toy of what looked like a mix of a rabbit and a pig and her face was in tears…not of the crocodile variety, but the red-faced kind that basically spelled out the fact that she was scared out of her mind.
Acting immediately, I knelt down in front of the girl and asked where her mommy was. I looked her in the eye and gave her a little smile and, after she'd calmed down enough to look at me, put a reassuring hand on her shoulder (I only touched it, I didn't grip it). She told me her Mommy was lost and she didn't know where to find her. I tucked a lock of hair behind the girl's ear and told her that I'd help her find her Mommy if she could tell me what she looked like. Brown hair. Pink shirt. Long and wavy hair. Kinda tall. Not particularly helpful but getting her talking was naturally the best thing to do as it calmed her down some.
My mother and sister appear by my side with a timing that only the Chan women can pull off, and I fill them in very quickly and they both go off to find a woman matching the little girl's description.
My own task? To bring the girl to the checkout counters and find someone who could announce into the loudspeakers that the girl was lost and waiting near the entrance. I put a gentle hand on her back and started guiding her through the crowd, and as we walk I let my hand dangle down beside her. She took it and squeezed it really tightly, not wanting to let go. (You NEVER take a child's hand if you do not know her; you let your hand hang there and let her take it. It's a comfort thing. Some kids get really scared at that kind of thing and the last thing you need is someone flying off the handle when they're already terrified.)
I keep her talking, asking her very general questions as we walked, all the while my eyes keeping a look out for a pink shirt topped with wavy brown hair.
We're pretty close to the checkout counters when a woman comes by, looking frantic. She looks down at the girl, then up at me with wide eyes. The look she gave me in the split-second I saw it wasn't very kind…it was the "who are you and what are you doing with my daughter let her go this instant" kind of look, as though I was some kidnapper looking to make it out of the store while tricking the girl in to a false sense of security.
The girl instantly runs over to her in relief, and I explain simply that I found her daughter alone and crying and was worried about her. The girl adds, "The nice lady was helping me look for you, Mommy."
The mother looks up at me and, this time, gives me a grateful smile and a rushed thank you. They bustled out of the store and I haven't seen either of them since.
Today on the bus, I saw a young woman get out of her seat to let an older woman sit down.
What surprised me wasn't the fact that it'd happened, but that I was surprised that I was surprised. (INFINITE LOOP)
When did we forget to be good Samaritans? Coming from the biggest bitch on the block and possibly one of the most sarcastic, cynical families on the face of the earth (minus my mother, who through it all has always maintained a very level-headed and fair view of life in general), I know this is a pretty large pill to force down your gullet but stay with me here.
When we were younger, in kindergarten and grade school, we had all these little lessons. From Aesop's Fables to your sweet little teacher, you were told to share, to be nice, to smile, to have fun, etc etc etc. When did we forget all that? When did it become okay to stop doing those things just because "no one else does them or will appreciate them?" or because "if I do people will walk all over me?" When did those reasons start shutting up your conscience?
I say this not to be preachy, but because I know I am guilty of the same. I very seldom go out of my way to do something nice for a stranger just for the sake of doing something nice. In a city like Shanghai, your deed will very likely go unnoticed, unappreciated, and forever mark you as a doormat. It's not what you would call "worth it." And I'll be perfectly honest, the fact that it has to be "worth my while" for me to do something nice absolutely disgusts me. When did I get this way? Is it because I've been exposed to a harsh, uncaring bitch of a city like Shanghai that has forever disillusioned my view on the human race?
If I were to consider giving up my seat on the subway or bus for an elderly person, anyone who has spent any time in Shanghai will know that there's going to be some other jackass trying to weed their way into the seat, even though you intended it for a senior citizen. What would then ensue is a shouting match that ultimately does nothing but get you riled up. Not the best way to start your day, eh?
Let's take it an additional step back, to Hong Kong, circa December 2004. It wasn't the holiday season or anything like that, it was the fact that there was a crying little girl in a giant, high-traffic store all by herself in a city where people basically suck a giant shit-ton of ass. (The imagery here is stunning, I know.) A little girl alone in a store? Even if she hadn't been Caucasian I would've thought the same thing: kidnappers or some other form of asshat scumbag.
You can call me paranoid all you want, but that would simply mean that you just don't know Hong Kong like my family does.
Beyond the worry that the girl was in personal danger as well as scared that she would never see her Mommy again, the Mommy's reaction was something that got my gears turning a little more rapidly.
Of course she would assume I was a bad person, out to snatch her daughter and not look back. In Hong Kong, it's not because I'm Chinese. It's because I'm a stranger. And all "strangers" in Hong Kong basically suckass. It's a ridiculous air of mistrust that permeates the entire city from the Island to Kowloon, regardless of political, socioeconomic, or professional standing. I'm guilty of thinking this way, too.
My problem is that the logical reaction for the mother to have was to be wary of me. Why couldn't she assume the best of me? Give me the benefit of the doubt before giving me the stink eye? Thing is, I know the answer because, putting myself in her shoes (a feat I am so capable of doing), I would've very likely reacted the very same way.
Did I mention I was also disgusted with the fact that no one else had stepped up to help her right away? That everyone else just ignored her the way I did at first? Did I also mention that the fact that I just admitted to thinking the worst of people, even though that same attitude was thrown at me?
Nowadays it's so hard to just do something nice or think the best of people because you get so weighed down by the people who disappoint you or, worse, hurt you. You look at around, you see the very visible bad stuff, and it just gets to you. It's hard to do a nice thing when no one else seems to want to bother. (Notice I didn't say "right" thing, I said "nice" thing. It's not about right and wrong. It's about being a good Samaritan.) In a given day, I can riff off a list of all the shitty things I see in this city. I'm sure many other people in similar circumstances could do the same.
But how often do you sit back and take note of the good stuff that happens? The only reason the bad stuff sticks out is because it's so obvious and visible and, well, it pisses you off. I want to believe that, not unlike the probability of dying in a plane crash, you are a bazillion times more likely to spot the good in people than if you just step back and look at the big picture. You focus on the bad? On the disaster itself? Sure, you'll end up a cynical asshole like me. But for every bad deed you see, maybe try being fair to your own sense of well-being and try to notice when the good things happen, too?
I'm not going to lie here, folks. That's a very, very hard thing for me to believe even as I type it.
People will run down the street, so self-absorbed that they'll push each other over, knock each other out of the way, get in each other's way, cut in line, the whole nine. They just don't care. They do their own thing because hey, they come first.
It's a vicious cycle because that kind of treatment only breeds more of it.
I will probably never stop being a cynic. It's a sad thought, really, but I just can't help but think the worst of people, even when it bothers me that people probably think the worst of me. Even as I try to see the best in others, all I get is grief.
Is it really "today's world" that breeds this in people? The sense of self-entitlement? The self-centered arrogance that comes through in the simple fact that people can't be bothered to just say "thank you" or "please" or "excuse me," no matter how much such a small gesture might make someone else's day? The lack of necessity to pay attention when other people are talking? The motive behind any good deed being a giant slice of selfish self-gratitude?
I don't think so. I think this bullshit has been around forever, but because people are so self-centered they think it's "today's world." What do I mean? When you're young, you're taught all these valuable morals and lessons that you're supposed to carry with you for the rest of your life. But so very quickly, you find yourself looking into a festering cesspool of egotism, disrespect, self-importance, and false pretenses. So you think of the lessons you were taught as a kid, think they're supposed to apply "today" but they don't, and so you assume that something's wrong with the state of the world today. Newsflash: everyone was a kid once, everyone has been disillusioned.
I look around and shake my head at the world around me. My parents look around and shake their heads at the world around them. My grandparents looked around and shook their heads at the world around them. I'm absolutely sure my great-grandparents and great-great-grandparents, all the way back to the butchers of Shandong Province from whom I am descended, looked around and shook their heads at the world around them. (And for the love of god before you whine at me remember that history's just what you read on paper, plus, let's not forget that when thinking about the past, you're usually looking at it through rose-colored glasses.)
The thought of that doesn't comfort me. That doesn't make it okay for us to be this way. All it does it absolutely disgust me. People, past present and future, disgust me. I disgust me. Every so often you find a gem of a person who is truly, truly altruistic, who doesn't give a damn what anyone around them thinks and does something just to make someone else smile. But that's so rare because even the most virtuously good people get taken down so easily by the people around them.
Someone once quoted some saying at me that went "a good deed is its own reward" or some such high-minded bullshit. When I heard that for the very first time, I remember asking, in wide-eyed innocence, why there had to be a reward at all.
Even something so small as remembering some detail about someone is something "nice." It's such a tiny gesture but it makes that other person feel remembered and they feel good about themselves. What's it cost you to remember that someone grew up in Toronto and had a cat named Benny but they had to leave it behind because they were moving to Hong Kong?
What's it cost you to remember anything at all about the people around you, even if you're just meeting them for the very first time? A little bit of attention. Put yourself aside for once and just pay a little goddamned attention to the people around you instead.
Six billion people on this fucking planet, and a significant proportion of them can only seem to give a fuck about one. That's my cynicism right there. Never mind that the guy who just knocked me backwards rushing off the subway was probably trying to get to work so that he wouldn't lose his job so that he could feed his family, right? God I really hate myself sometimes.
What about just smiling at a stranger? I haven't done that in a long time. Not since college. Just smiling at someone not because you want to get in their pants or need something from them; I'm not going to list out the good things that can happen for you if you just smiled at a stranger. I'm not going to say "smile at someone because it will make you feel good, too." I'm going to say, smile at someone because it makes them feel good.
And guess what.
I'm sickened by the fact that right now a string of "consequences" for giving a stranger a smile are running through my head.
Fuck you, human race. And fuck you, me.
PS - See Jaya I totally didn't mention you in this blog thing at all.
PPS - Oops. :D
PPPS - I'm still awesome.
PPPPS - The little girl's name was Sara, she was born in Toronto and had a cat named Benny that she had to leave behind because her family was moving to Hong Kong. She was due to turn six years old on August 15th of the next year, and if my memory serves me correctly and this took place in December 2004, that means she is going to turn nine years old tomorrow. Happy Birthday, Sara.
PPPPPS - 2,878 words.
For those of you are familiar with Hong Kong, I was in Causeway Bay with my mom and sister, picking up snack foods to populate the over-priced minibar at the Excelsior Hotel (oooh fancy). Our destination? Wellcome {sic}, a very popular supermarket that, like most supermarkets and convenience stores in Hong Kong, accept the Octopus Card as a form of payment. For those not familiar with Hong Kong, the Octopus Card is a store-value card that can be used to pay for any form of public transportation in Hong Kong and can also be used at places like McDonald's, Wellcome, 7-Eleven, and the like. My former boss in Hong Kong could use it to get into his building and had it automatically charge up with money from his credit card whenever the balance dipped below HK$50. Spiffy.
But I digress.
While at the supermarket and possibly wondering if I could finagle an extra-large package of my favorite fish snack (don't ask if you don't already know what it is) out of my mother—in spite of the fact that I was 20/21 years old at the time—I happened to overhear a little girl's voice crying, rather shrilly as most such children do, "Mommy! Mommy! Moooooommmmmmmeeeeeeeeee!"
At first I passed off this assault on my aural senses as a typical child whining about how Mommy wouldn't get her an extra set of batteries (because I was standing right next to a giant rack of Energizer and Duracell products at the time) or whatever it is kids nowadays whine about not getting enough of. At length, however, my instincts told me to at least spare the little girl a sympathetic glance.
It was then that my astute observation skills noted that she was alone, with no one resembling her "Mommy" in the vicinity. She was a little brunette girl who could've been Canadian or American judging by her accent (which wasn't exactly discernable through the onslaught of hiccoughing sobs), probably four years old and not very much higher than my knee. She was clutching a stuffed toy of what looked like a mix of a rabbit and a pig and her face was in tears…not of the crocodile variety, but the red-faced kind that basically spelled out the fact that she was scared out of her mind.
Acting immediately, I knelt down in front of the girl and asked where her mommy was. I looked her in the eye and gave her a little smile and, after she'd calmed down enough to look at me, put a reassuring hand on her shoulder (I only touched it, I didn't grip it). She told me her Mommy was lost and she didn't know where to find her. I tucked a lock of hair behind the girl's ear and told her that I'd help her find her Mommy if she could tell me what she looked like. Brown hair. Pink shirt. Long and wavy hair. Kinda tall. Not particularly helpful but getting her talking was naturally the best thing to do as it calmed her down some.
My mother and sister appear by my side with a timing that only the Chan women can pull off, and I fill them in very quickly and they both go off to find a woman matching the little girl's description.
My own task? To bring the girl to the checkout counters and find someone who could announce into the loudspeakers that the girl was lost and waiting near the entrance. I put a gentle hand on her back and started guiding her through the crowd, and as we walk I let my hand dangle down beside her. She took it and squeezed it really tightly, not wanting to let go. (You NEVER take a child's hand if you do not know her; you let your hand hang there and let her take it. It's a comfort thing. Some kids get really scared at that kind of thing and the last thing you need is someone flying off the handle when they're already terrified.)
I keep her talking, asking her very general questions as we walked, all the while my eyes keeping a look out for a pink shirt topped with wavy brown hair.
We're pretty close to the checkout counters when a woman comes by, looking frantic. She looks down at the girl, then up at me with wide eyes. The look she gave me in the split-second I saw it wasn't very kind…it was the "who are you and what are you doing with my daughter let her go this instant" kind of look, as though I was some kidnapper looking to make it out of the store while tricking the girl in to a false sense of security.
The girl instantly runs over to her in relief, and I explain simply that I found her daughter alone and crying and was worried about her. The girl adds, "The nice lady was helping me look for you, Mommy."
The mother looks up at me and, this time, gives me a grateful smile and a rushed thank you. They bustled out of the store and I haven't seen either of them since.
Today on the bus, I saw a young woman get out of her seat to let an older woman sit down.
What surprised me wasn't the fact that it'd happened, but that I was surprised that I was surprised. (INFINITE LOOP)
When did we forget to be good Samaritans? Coming from the biggest bitch on the block and possibly one of the most sarcastic, cynical families on the face of the earth (minus my mother, who through it all has always maintained a very level-headed and fair view of life in general), I know this is a pretty large pill to force down your gullet but stay with me here.
When we were younger, in kindergarten and grade school, we had all these little lessons. From Aesop's Fables to your sweet little teacher, you were told to share, to be nice, to smile, to have fun, etc etc etc. When did we forget all that? When did it become okay to stop doing those things just because "no one else does them or will appreciate them?" or because "if I do people will walk all over me?" When did those reasons start shutting up your conscience?
I say this not to be preachy, but because I know I am guilty of the same. I very seldom go out of my way to do something nice for a stranger just for the sake of doing something nice. In a city like Shanghai, your deed will very likely go unnoticed, unappreciated, and forever mark you as a doormat. It's not what you would call "worth it." And I'll be perfectly honest, the fact that it has to be "worth my while" for me to do something nice absolutely disgusts me. When did I get this way? Is it because I've been exposed to a harsh, uncaring bitch of a city like Shanghai that has forever disillusioned my view on the human race?
If I were to consider giving up my seat on the subway or bus for an elderly person, anyone who has spent any time in Shanghai will know that there's going to be some other jackass trying to weed their way into the seat, even though you intended it for a senior citizen. What would then ensue is a shouting match that ultimately does nothing but get you riled up. Not the best way to start your day, eh?
Let's take it an additional step back, to Hong Kong, circa December 2004. It wasn't the holiday season or anything like that, it was the fact that there was a crying little girl in a giant, high-traffic store all by herself in a city where people basically suck a giant shit-ton of ass. (The imagery here is stunning, I know.) A little girl alone in a store? Even if she hadn't been Caucasian I would've thought the same thing: kidnappers or some other form of asshat scumbag.
You can call me paranoid all you want, but that would simply mean that you just don't know Hong Kong like my family does.
Beyond the worry that the girl was in personal danger as well as scared that she would never see her Mommy again, the Mommy's reaction was something that got my gears turning a little more rapidly.
Of course she would assume I was a bad person, out to snatch her daughter and not look back. In Hong Kong, it's not because I'm Chinese. It's because I'm a stranger. And all "strangers" in Hong Kong basically suckass. It's a ridiculous air of mistrust that permeates the entire city from the Island to Kowloon, regardless of political, socioeconomic, or professional standing. I'm guilty of thinking this way, too.
My problem is that the logical reaction for the mother to have was to be wary of me. Why couldn't she assume the best of me? Give me the benefit of the doubt before giving me the stink eye? Thing is, I know the answer because, putting myself in her shoes (a feat I am so capable of doing), I would've very likely reacted the very same way.
Did I mention I was also disgusted with the fact that no one else had stepped up to help her right away? That everyone else just ignored her the way I did at first? Did I also mention that the fact that I just admitted to thinking the worst of people, even though that same attitude was thrown at me?
Nowadays it's so hard to just do something nice or think the best of people because you get so weighed down by the people who disappoint you or, worse, hurt you. You look at around, you see the very visible bad stuff, and it just gets to you. It's hard to do a nice thing when no one else seems to want to bother. (Notice I didn't say "right" thing, I said "nice" thing. It's not about right and wrong. It's about being a good Samaritan.) In a given day, I can riff off a list of all the shitty things I see in this city. I'm sure many other people in similar circumstances could do the same.
But how often do you sit back and take note of the good stuff that happens? The only reason the bad stuff sticks out is because it's so obvious and visible and, well, it pisses you off. I want to believe that, not unlike the probability of dying in a plane crash, you are a bazillion times more likely to spot the good in people than if you just step back and look at the big picture. You focus on the bad? On the disaster itself? Sure, you'll end up a cynical asshole like me. But for every bad deed you see, maybe try being fair to your own sense of well-being and try to notice when the good things happen, too?
I'm not going to lie here, folks. That's a very, very hard thing for me to believe even as I type it.
People will run down the street, so self-absorbed that they'll push each other over, knock each other out of the way, get in each other's way, cut in line, the whole nine. They just don't care. They do their own thing because hey, they come first.
It's a vicious cycle because that kind of treatment only breeds more of it.
I will probably never stop being a cynic. It's a sad thought, really, but I just can't help but think the worst of people, even when it bothers me that people probably think the worst of me. Even as I try to see the best in others, all I get is grief.
Is it really "today's world" that breeds this in people? The sense of self-entitlement? The self-centered arrogance that comes through in the simple fact that people can't be bothered to just say "thank you" or "please" or "excuse me," no matter how much such a small gesture might make someone else's day? The lack of necessity to pay attention when other people are talking? The motive behind any good deed being a giant slice of selfish self-gratitude?
I don't think so. I think this bullshit has been around forever, but because people are so self-centered they think it's "today's world." What do I mean? When you're young, you're taught all these valuable morals and lessons that you're supposed to carry with you for the rest of your life. But so very quickly, you find yourself looking into a festering cesspool of egotism, disrespect, self-importance, and false pretenses. So you think of the lessons you were taught as a kid, think they're supposed to apply "today" but they don't, and so you assume that something's wrong with the state of the world today. Newsflash: everyone was a kid once, everyone has been disillusioned.
I look around and shake my head at the world around me. My parents look around and shake their heads at the world around them. My grandparents looked around and shook their heads at the world around them. I'm absolutely sure my great-grandparents and great-great-grandparents, all the way back to the butchers of Shandong Province from whom I am descended, looked around and shook their heads at the world around them. (And for the love of god before you whine at me remember that history's just what you read on paper, plus, let's not forget that when thinking about the past, you're usually looking at it through rose-colored glasses.)
The thought of that doesn't comfort me. That doesn't make it okay for us to be this way. All it does it absolutely disgust me. People, past present and future, disgust me. I disgust me. Every so often you find a gem of a person who is truly, truly altruistic, who doesn't give a damn what anyone around them thinks and does something just to make someone else smile. But that's so rare because even the most virtuously good people get taken down so easily by the people around them.
Someone once quoted some saying at me that went "a good deed is its own reward" or some such high-minded bullshit. When I heard that for the very first time, I remember asking, in wide-eyed innocence, why there had to be a reward at all.
Even something so small as remembering some detail about someone is something "nice." It's such a tiny gesture but it makes that other person feel remembered and they feel good about themselves. What's it cost you to remember that someone grew up in Toronto and had a cat named Benny but they had to leave it behind because they were moving to Hong Kong?
What's it cost you to remember anything at all about the people around you, even if you're just meeting them for the very first time? A little bit of attention. Put yourself aside for once and just pay a little goddamned attention to the people around you instead.
Six billion people on this fucking planet, and a significant proportion of them can only seem to give a fuck about one. That's my cynicism right there. Never mind that the guy who just knocked me backwards rushing off the subway was probably trying to get to work so that he wouldn't lose his job so that he could feed his family, right? God I really hate myself sometimes.
What about just smiling at a stranger? I haven't done that in a long time. Not since college. Just smiling at someone not because you want to get in their pants or need something from them; I'm not going to list out the good things that can happen for you if you just smiled at a stranger. I'm not going to say "smile at someone because it will make you feel good, too." I'm going to say, smile at someone because it makes them feel good.
And guess what.
I'm sickened by the fact that right now a string of "consequences" for giving a stranger a smile are running through my head.
Fuck you, human race. And fuck you, me.
PS - See Jaya I totally didn't mention you in this blog thing at all.
PPS - Oops. :D
PPPS - I'm still awesome.
PPPPS - The little girl's name was Sara, she was born in Toronto and had a cat named Benny that she had to leave behind because her family was moving to Hong Kong. She was due to turn six years old on August 15th of the next year, and if my memory serves me correctly and this took place in December 2004, that means she is going to turn nine years old tomorrow. Happy Birthday, Sara.
PPPPPS - 2,878 words.
Friday, July 27, 2007
Busy
It's been a pretty insane week for me. Let me list what's been going on (and what's coming up) for those who are less than well-informed as to my antics.
Saturday July 21: release of Harry Potter 7
Sunday July 22: my sister arrives for a week-long visit
Monday July 23: the usual trip to Zapata's for free booze with my sister in tow
Tuesday July 24: my birthday!
Wednesday July 25: finalizing my costume for Friday
Thursday July 26: arrival of my old friend Cheryl and preparations for Friday
Friday July 27: my last day at work, Michelle's birthday, our joint birthday party
Saturday July 28: one hell of a hangover followed by volleyball with the sister
Sunday July 29: Michelle's birthday brunch
Monday July 30: sister's departure, preparations for my new job, and Zapata's again
Tuesday July 31: transportation test run for my new job
Wednesday August 1: first day at the new job
It's a pretty well-booked calendar, if I do say so myself. For today's long-winded post, however, I will focus on just one thing: today is my last day at my current job.
This is the first full-time job that I've ever had, and I've been floating around in a surreal bubble of indifference ever since I turned in my resignation letter one month ago. Some that has to do with the fact that I can no longer stand this job, but most of it is to do with the fact that, for the last month up until today, this moment always seemed so far away.
Now it's hear, I've got a duffel bag in the corner of my cubicle, ready to pack up and leave for good.
This all hit me as I was walking up to my building and glanced up at it, realizing that, wow, this the last time I will ever make this trip to this office.
It's a bit of a sad thought, I know, particularly when you never know what will bring me back to these hallowed halls for whatever reason; if there's one thing my parents always reminded me, it was to never underestimate the power of your network of business contacts.
Still, I don't know if I will be coming back any time soon, if at all, so I must say that it is a bit overwhelming, and I'm not even sure if everything I have in the office with me will fit in the duffel bag!
Two years ago, I came to this office to help organize their Global Management Committee Meeting here in Shanghai, a meeting that is held every quarter and that brings the group's CEOs from around the globe to one city for a two-day meeting. It was following this two-week stint that I was offered a permanent position here at the company.
The company was new at the time, so they couldn't hire me right away because I'm not a Chinese national (being British by passport and Hong Kong ID by birth, I needed a work permit, which they couldn't apply for because they had not yet received their full operational license). As a result, I worked at the office's Asia Pacific counterpart Hong Kong for three months, working long-distance on a project for the China office.
November 19, 2005, I arrive in Shanghai, looking for an apartment with my mother and father helping me along. November 23, 2005, I come to the office to report for my first day at work.
What followed was 20 months of what can only be described as an experience I will never forget. From running translations to project management to sitting around being bored out of my mind, this job was quite the learning experience. When it comes to the inner workings of Chinese management and the Chinese market, I gained a lot of very unique insight that I am sure will be invaluable as I continue my foray into China's expatriate workforce.
Even if I'm eager to get out of here and not look back, my heart still finds itself heavy with the sense that I will miss this place and the people in it. The job was never all bad. Indeed, there were days where I came in and left with a smile on my face, enjoying the work I was doing. I do like that the internet's routed through Hong Kong, granting me access to Livejournal and other websites deemed "inappropriate" by the Chinese government. The ease of getting to work, which was a straight shot for me on the subway. The accessibility of cheap places to eat. The fact that, at a glance, no one has any clue that what I'm doing isn't actually work.
I know that, to most people, I'm blowing this way out of proportion, but I feel like a chapter of my life has ended. It was my first job, my first step into working for myself by myself, and I survived and came out on the other end a better person, ready for what comes next.
I'm both excited for and terrified about my new job, one that will eat up a considerably larger chunk of my time, but I think I'm ready for it. Nothing good ever came from wasting away in front of a computer for 8 hours a day. Plus, I'm a fast worker in general…I don't see free time as being too big a problem for me.
So, here's to my old company, with great thanks for everything that they have taught me and all the opportunities that they have afforded me. It has been an unforgettable experience.
I will recount my birthday week after the party tonight, which promises to be incredibly interesting. Cameras at the ready, because it will be a night that I will not likely remember.
Okay, no, that's a lie, I actually don't plan to get THAT trashed, if only to keep from making a total ass out of myself (again). All the same…it will be fun.
(Here's to the Irish!)
Saturday July 21: release of Harry Potter 7
Sunday July 22: my sister arrives for a week-long visit
Monday July 23: the usual trip to Zapata's for free booze with my sister in tow
Tuesday July 24: my birthday!
Wednesday July 25: finalizing my costume for Friday
Thursday July 26: arrival of my old friend Cheryl and preparations for Friday
Friday July 27: my last day at work, Michelle's birthday, our joint birthday party
Saturday July 28: one hell of a hangover followed by volleyball with the sister
Sunday July 29: Michelle's birthday brunch
Monday July 30: sister's departure, preparations for my new job, and Zapata's again
Tuesday July 31: transportation test run for my new job
Wednesday August 1: first day at the new job
It's a pretty well-booked calendar, if I do say so myself. For today's long-winded post, however, I will focus on just one thing: today is my last day at my current job.
This is the first full-time job that I've ever had, and I've been floating around in a surreal bubble of indifference ever since I turned in my resignation letter one month ago. Some that has to do with the fact that I can no longer stand this job, but most of it is to do with the fact that, for the last month up until today, this moment always seemed so far away.
Now it's hear, I've got a duffel bag in the corner of my cubicle, ready to pack up and leave for good.
This all hit me as I was walking up to my building and glanced up at it, realizing that, wow, this the last time I will ever make this trip to this office.
It's a bit of a sad thought, I know, particularly when you never know what will bring me back to these hallowed halls for whatever reason; if there's one thing my parents always reminded me, it was to never underestimate the power of your network of business contacts.
Still, I don't know if I will be coming back any time soon, if at all, so I must say that it is a bit overwhelming, and I'm not even sure if everything I have in the office with me will fit in the duffel bag!
Two years ago, I came to this office to help organize their Global Management Committee Meeting here in Shanghai, a meeting that is held every quarter and that brings the group's CEOs from around the globe to one city for a two-day meeting. It was following this two-week stint that I was offered a permanent position here at the company.
The company was new at the time, so they couldn't hire me right away because I'm not a Chinese national (being British by passport and Hong Kong ID by birth, I needed a work permit, which they couldn't apply for because they had not yet received their full operational license). As a result, I worked at the office's Asia Pacific counterpart Hong Kong for three months, working long-distance on a project for the China office.
November 19, 2005, I arrive in Shanghai, looking for an apartment with my mother and father helping me along. November 23, 2005, I come to the office to report for my first day at work.
What followed was 20 months of what can only be described as an experience I will never forget. From running translations to project management to sitting around being bored out of my mind, this job was quite the learning experience. When it comes to the inner workings of Chinese management and the Chinese market, I gained a lot of very unique insight that I am sure will be invaluable as I continue my foray into China's expatriate workforce.
Even if I'm eager to get out of here and not look back, my heart still finds itself heavy with the sense that I will miss this place and the people in it. The job was never all bad. Indeed, there were days where I came in and left with a smile on my face, enjoying the work I was doing. I do like that the internet's routed through Hong Kong, granting me access to Livejournal and other websites deemed "inappropriate" by the Chinese government. The ease of getting to work, which was a straight shot for me on the subway. The accessibility of cheap places to eat. The fact that, at a glance, no one has any clue that what I'm doing isn't actually work.
I know that, to most people, I'm blowing this way out of proportion, but I feel like a chapter of my life has ended. It was my first job, my first step into working for myself by myself, and I survived and came out on the other end a better person, ready for what comes next.
I'm both excited for and terrified about my new job, one that will eat up a considerably larger chunk of my time, but I think I'm ready for it. Nothing good ever came from wasting away in front of a computer for 8 hours a day. Plus, I'm a fast worker in general…I don't see free time as being too big a problem for me.
So, here's to my old company, with great thanks for everything that they have taught me and all the opportunities that they have afforded me. It has been an unforgettable experience.
I will recount my birthday week after the party tonight, which promises to be incredibly interesting. Cameras at the ready, because it will be a night that I will not likely remember.
Okay, no, that's a lie, I actually don't plan to get THAT trashed, if only to keep from making a total ass out of myself (again). All the same…it will be fun.
(Here's to the Irish!)
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Why I'm Awesome (Part 4 of 7,412): L2SPELL
I believe in kids.
This may come as a surprise, but I strive for excellence. I am not a perfectionist, but I believe that if you do not give something your all, you might as well not bother getting involved in it at all. Why do things half way? Why try for a B instead of an A? Why settle for a 3.5 instead of shooting for a 4.0?
When did it become all right to be average? To be mediocre? When did a C become acceptable? Why do the people who get straight A's get ridiculed? Why do those who devote themselves to doing the best they can end up with nothing more than a nod?
Now, before the jocks of the world yell at me, I do not mean this in just a grades-based sort of way. I mean excellence in anything that you set out to do. If you want to play a sport, give it your all. If you want straight A's, give it your all. If you want to write, give it your all.
I would, however, like to focus this particular discussion (at least at first) on a single facet: spelling and grammar.
My fellow SE++ers snicker, as they know exactly what drove me to write about this particular topic. (No, it's not you, Chuck, you know I have a deep affection for you and your spelling habits.)
What I am, my friends, is sick and tired of hearing about people getting off easy for bad spelling and bad grammar. I don't even mean teachers letting these kids get away with it. I mean the language itself being changed to accommodate kids who are just too plain lazy to learn how to spell properly.
"It's too hard to remember," they whine. "Everyone spells it THAT way so I'm going to keep spelling it THAT way (even if it's wrong)." "I've only ever seen it spelled that way." "More people spell it this way than that way." "This spelling makes more sense to me."
Fuck you all.
I and countless other non-native English speakers have worked our asses off to get good at your fucking language…and meanwhile you're going to sit there and whine about how "hard" it is for you to learn when you are surrounded by it every moment of your waking life.
Fuck you and your mediocrity.
When did it become okay to be "mediocre?" When did these standards lower to accommodate people who are simply too fucking lazy to do the work? I blame the baby boomers. My parents were part of that generation, as are most individuals who are now in their 50s and 60s. You had shit handed to you on a silver platter and now you can't stand to see your kids suffer.
When your kid gets a D, you don't yell at your kid. You yell at the teacher for being a rotten teacher. You're happy with just a C because it's considered "average" and you're happy that your kid is just "average." You don't let your kids do the International Baccalaureate program because it's "too hard" and "too stressful."
Never mind the benefits of pushing your child to strive for excellence. Never mind the benefits of putting them to the test when they still live under your own roof, where you are able to hold them up when they fall or guide them when they need it. No, never mind any of it. Let's just say "it's too hard for my C-student, I don't want them to stress themselves out." Lower those expectations, mom and dad, because heaven forbid your child face a single goddamn challenge in his or her life while you are around to help them through it.
Yes, some kids are not A students and they are excellent in their own ways, be it as an artist or an athlete or something else. I respect that. I have mountains of respect for kids who are well-rounded, able to excel in more than one pigeon-holed area of expertise. I myself am very capable of singling out an individual's strengths. It's why I am such a fantastic person to come to when you need an ego boost.
Honest to god, I hate the idea of lowering expectations just to accommodate an unwillingness to challenge oneself. The English language has been mastered by people long before this generation. Why now do you change it and simplify it? What's wrong with this generation, now, that makes it impossible for THEM to learn how to spell properly when all generations before it seem to lack that problem?
Blame the internet. Blame computers. Blame television. Blame ADHD. Blame whatever the fuck you want, but placing blame doesn't change the fact that all you are doing is making it okay for kids to just stop trying. You are making it okay for them not to do the work. You are making them think that the second they face an obstacle, it's okay to ignore it instead of overcome it, because they're going to go ahead and believe that, eventually, someone will remove it for them.
If they suck at spelling, fix the fact that they suck at spelling. Don't fix the language they're trying to spell in. Challenge them. Bring them up to the standard, bring them up past it, don't bring the standard down.
The kids can do it. The only reason they think they can't is because everyone is too busy making excuses for them. Push them, and kids will always fucking surprise you. Parents, do you really have that little faith in your own ability to raise a child that you don't think they can handle something like the IB? Sure they'll bitch and complain that it's hard, but that's why you're there. You're supposed to tell them they can do it, that they have the ability to do it. You're there to show them that yes, it's hard, but when they finish it, they will finish it as a stronger person, better prepared to face what comes next (in the case of the IB, that would be college).
One day, life will throw something nasty in their face, and you won't be there to help them through it. Do you really want that kind of situation to be the first time they feel like they can't take something on? Help them now, support them now through their challenges so that when you're gone, when they're out of the nest, they are better prepared, better armed to tackle life's bullshit.
Huh. Talk about a passionate and preachy digression. My apologies. I know I sound elitist in those previous paragraphs, but this is what I will tell anyone who thinks their kid "can't hack it." I believe in your kids. Why don't you? But back to the topic.
Sure, spelling is a small facet of a much larger issue, but it alone is a stellar example of the kind of thing I'm talking about. No one asks for A's. It's okay to be second instead of first.
As long as you gave your best, sure, you can be proud of that. But you better swear that you did in fact do your best, that you did in fact give it your all, before you look at that silver medal with pride.
Saying that you did your best, that you did everything you could, is a pretty far cry from actually doing it.
Nothing, nothing worth having ever comes easy. I don't want to think about what the next generation will be like if they believe otherwise.
This may come as a surprise, but I strive for excellence. I am not a perfectionist, but I believe that if you do not give something your all, you might as well not bother getting involved in it at all. Why do things half way? Why try for a B instead of an A? Why settle for a 3.5 instead of shooting for a 4.0?
When did it become all right to be average? To be mediocre? When did a C become acceptable? Why do the people who get straight A's get ridiculed? Why do those who devote themselves to doing the best they can end up with nothing more than a nod?
Now, before the jocks of the world yell at me, I do not mean this in just a grades-based sort of way. I mean excellence in anything that you set out to do. If you want to play a sport, give it your all. If you want straight A's, give it your all. If you want to write, give it your all.
I would, however, like to focus this particular discussion (at least at first) on a single facet: spelling and grammar.
My fellow SE++ers snicker, as they know exactly what drove me to write about this particular topic. (No, it's not you, Chuck, you know I have a deep affection for you and your spelling habits.)
What I am, my friends, is sick and tired of hearing about people getting off easy for bad spelling and bad grammar. I don't even mean teachers letting these kids get away with it. I mean the language itself being changed to accommodate kids who are just too plain lazy to learn how to spell properly.
"It's too hard to remember," they whine. "Everyone spells it THAT way so I'm going to keep spelling it THAT way (even if it's wrong)." "I've only ever seen it spelled that way." "More people spell it this way than that way." "This spelling makes more sense to me."
Fuck you all.
I and countless other non-native English speakers have worked our asses off to get good at your fucking language…and meanwhile you're going to sit there and whine about how "hard" it is for you to learn when you are surrounded by it every moment of your waking life.
Fuck you and your mediocrity.
When did it become okay to be "mediocre?" When did these standards lower to accommodate people who are simply too fucking lazy to do the work? I blame the baby boomers. My parents were part of that generation, as are most individuals who are now in their 50s and 60s. You had shit handed to you on a silver platter and now you can't stand to see your kids suffer.
When your kid gets a D, you don't yell at your kid. You yell at the teacher for being a rotten teacher. You're happy with just a C because it's considered "average" and you're happy that your kid is just "average." You don't let your kids do the International Baccalaureate program because it's "too hard" and "too stressful."
Never mind the benefits of pushing your child to strive for excellence. Never mind the benefits of putting them to the test when they still live under your own roof, where you are able to hold them up when they fall or guide them when they need it. No, never mind any of it. Let's just say "it's too hard for my C-student, I don't want them to stress themselves out." Lower those expectations, mom and dad, because heaven forbid your child face a single goddamn challenge in his or her life while you are around to help them through it.
Yes, some kids are not A students and they are excellent in their own ways, be it as an artist or an athlete or something else. I respect that. I have mountains of respect for kids who are well-rounded, able to excel in more than one pigeon-holed area of expertise. I myself am very capable of singling out an individual's strengths. It's why I am such a fantastic person to come to when you need an ego boost.
Honest to god, I hate the idea of lowering expectations just to accommodate an unwillingness to challenge oneself. The English language has been mastered by people long before this generation. Why now do you change it and simplify it? What's wrong with this generation, now, that makes it impossible for THEM to learn how to spell properly when all generations before it seem to lack that problem?
Blame the internet. Blame computers. Blame television. Blame ADHD. Blame whatever the fuck you want, but placing blame doesn't change the fact that all you are doing is making it okay for kids to just stop trying. You are making it okay for them not to do the work. You are making them think that the second they face an obstacle, it's okay to ignore it instead of overcome it, because they're going to go ahead and believe that, eventually, someone will remove it for them.
If they suck at spelling, fix the fact that they suck at spelling. Don't fix the language they're trying to spell in. Challenge them. Bring them up to the standard, bring them up past it, don't bring the standard down.
The kids can do it. The only reason they think they can't is because everyone is too busy making excuses for them. Push them, and kids will always fucking surprise you. Parents, do you really have that little faith in your own ability to raise a child that you don't think they can handle something like the IB? Sure they'll bitch and complain that it's hard, but that's why you're there. You're supposed to tell them they can do it, that they have the ability to do it. You're there to show them that yes, it's hard, but when they finish it, they will finish it as a stronger person, better prepared to face what comes next (in the case of the IB, that would be college).
One day, life will throw something nasty in their face, and you won't be there to help them through it. Do you really want that kind of situation to be the first time they feel like they can't take something on? Help them now, support them now through their challenges so that when you're gone, when they're out of the nest, they are better prepared, better armed to tackle life's bullshit.
Huh. Talk about a passionate and preachy digression. My apologies. I know I sound elitist in those previous paragraphs, but this is what I will tell anyone who thinks their kid "can't hack it." I believe in your kids. Why don't you? But back to the topic.
Sure, spelling is a small facet of a much larger issue, but it alone is a stellar example of the kind of thing I'm talking about. No one asks for A's. It's okay to be second instead of first.
As long as you gave your best, sure, you can be proud of that. But you better swear that you did in fact do your best, that you did in fact give it your all, before you look at that silver medal with pride.
Saying that you did your best, that you did everything you could, is a pretty far cry from actually doing it.
Nothing, nothing worth having ever comes easy. I don't want to think about what the next generation will be like if they believe otherwise.
Monday, July 16, 2007
Aqua
I am in a very strange mood today. One might call it an almost ethereal apathy, where I have a hard time caring about anything but in a much deeper way than the statement itself suggests. I'm not just separated from everything, but I am, essentially, completely insubstantial to the things that are around me. I'm not sure I've ever felt this way before, but basically it involves me spacing out frequently, not really listening to what the people around me are saying, having no opinion on the subjects at hand, saying very little, and speaking very softly.
It's pretty much the anti-Vivienne, right there.
Needless to say, this serene state of indifference does not last very long. It was over pretty much the moment I stepped on the subway this morning.
What does it take to spawn the anti-Vivienne? The Nikki to my Jessica? The Sara Kerrigan to my Queen of Blades? The Jekyll to my Hyde? While you may sit there in your throne of literary superiority and point out that Jekyll and Hyde were not "good and evil" (respectively) so much as they were simply two extreme representations of the same man, I'll simply say that, um, yeah. Get out.
On a very pleasant Sunday morning, I awoke at the alarming hour of 9:17 am. Being that I had not gone to bed until 4 am after another typical Saturday (even though there's nothing typical about seeing the Transformers movie a second time), this was disconcerting to me…until I noticed the brilliant sunshine beaming through my curtains.
Instantly, I picked up the phone and sent a text message to Michelle and, for the first time in known history, woke her up instead of the other way around. This message asked if she'd be up for going to a place called Mandarine City (no, there is no spelling error there, that is what the place is really called). She told me she wouldn't be able to join me until later, but sent me the address and all that fun stuff like the excellent friend that she is.
What followed was an ill-conceived mass text-messaging of most of my regular crew members, many of whom were either still asleep or already at work and thus unable to call in sick on such a rare, beautifully sunny Sunday in Shanghai.
I snuggled in bed a little while longer, enjoying the sunshine, then got up and proceeded to deplore how my outfit for the day looked on me. It was, suffice to say, a less than glorious sight…but it would be well-hidden.
At 11:55 am, I was in a cab with Mylynn, the very first person to text me back with a reply. Being that we live five minutes away, we shared a cab and went west in Gubei for approximately 38 yuan. At about 12:25, we arrived at the Mandarine City outdoor pool.
As some individuals from SE++ and elsewhere know, likely via the AIM attack I received shortly after waking up that morning, that day was my first day in a bikini. It was, simply put, a mind-bender of a self-esteem issue for me, what with my self-consciousness consuming me from all angles at once, forming a veritable, collapsing vacuum around me. It took a lot of effort and distraction for me not to change into my usual one-piece bathing suit instead of the bikini.
The reason why I've never worn a bikini until now, if you are curious, is more a practicality issue more than a self-esteem one. I was a competitive swimmer for about 15 years of my life, so whenever I hear "pool" or "beach" I think "swimming!" A bikini is not exactly the most practical item for the job.
Mylynn and I arrived at the pool, bumping into a friend of hers on the way in, and already there is my ever-faithful favorite, Mr. Romain Hefti himself, already enjoying the water. For several moments I stood by our table, hesitating, not really wanting to take off my T-shirt or undo my sarong, but at length decided to just rip it off like a too-sticky Band-Aid. Within 30 seconds of the removal of said outer armor, I hopped into the pool.
It was glorious. Prior to that moment, it had been upwards of about two years since I was last in a real pool, and I had forgotten just how happy being in the water makes me.
Many people, I have heard, tend to identify themselves with a single element more than others…possibly Captain Planet style sans the superpowers and screwed-over-South-American. Mine is undoubtedly the water. As I said to Romain yesterday after admissions that it was gonna sound "really cheesy," in the water is where I belong, and realizing that at a time where I am finally happy with the kind of person I've become…it's a lethal combination that throws a rather large boulder of regret right into the pit of my stomach that whispers, "you should've gone with your first instinct and been a marine biologist or an oceanographer."
I cannot tell you how amazing it was to be in the water again. I felt at home, I felt safe, I felt powerful. Within an hour I completely forgot I had previously been in a state of self-conscious anxiety and just enjoyed the water. Being underwater, feeling it hold me tightly yet gently, the way nothing else ever could, brought me an inexplicable feeling of tranquility and happiness.
As I repeated several times that day: "do not underestimate how much I love the water."
(To some extent, it is also the reason I love rain, be it a drizzle or a thunderstorm. I love the ocean for a myriad of reasons, one of them being that it is essentially a massive body of water.)
In the water, I am far from master or commander, but I can hold my own. I am an excellent swimmer, though years of neglect have caused my lung capacity to shrivel somewhat from its former asthmatic glory (little known fact: I was asthmatic when I was younger and I basically beat the crap out of that infliction by swimming it to death), so I can't swim with nearly the speed or power that I could before. My form, however, is pretty much just the way it used to be, though with some additional drag since the girls were not restrained under the cover of a one-piece bathing suit.
We spent about 5 hours at the pool (Remy and Melanie joined us a little bit after we arrived), with me being in the water for at least 4 hours and 45 minutes of it, only getting out to check my cell phone. I used the excuse that I wanted to hide my hideous abdomen from the world, but really I just wanted to stay in the water as long as humanly possible. I will admit that even when the others were ready to leave, I was not…I wanted to stay much, much longer.
It was with a heavy heart that I departed, and once I stepped out of the shower and sat on my bed, I felt a wave of depression wash over me. I know it's weird beyond even my own standards, but I can't explain it. I wanted to go back and jump into the water for just a while more.
Following the depression came this sense of great detachment described in the opening paragraphs of this too-long rambling. All through dinner, at which I met up with my friends once more, I was removed from the conversation…aloof, wistful, as it were.
I just really miss being in the water, being in a place in which I feel safest and most alive. I can't wait to go back.
It's pretty much the anti-Vivienne, right there.
Needless to say, this serene state of indifference does not last very long. It was over pretty much the moment I stepped on the subway this morning.
What does it take to spawn the anti-Vivienne? The Nikki to my Jessica? The Sara Kerrigan to my Queen of Blades? The Jekyll to my Hyde? While you may sit there in your throne of literary superiority and point out that Jekyll and Hyde were not "good and evil" (respectively) so much as they were simply two extreme representations of the same man, I'll simply say that, um, yeah. Get out.
On a very pleasant Sunday morning, I awoke at the alarming hour of 9:17 am. Being that I had not gone to bed until 4 am after another typical Saturday (even though there's nothing typical about seeing the Transformers movie a second time), this was disconcerting to me…until I noticed the brilliant sunshine beaming through my curtains.
Instantly, I picked up the phone and sent a text message to Michelle and, for the first time in known history, woke her up instead of the other way around. This message asked if she'd be up for going to a place called Mandarine City (no, there is no spelling error there, that is what the place is really called). She told me she wouldn't be able to join me until later, but sent me the address and all that fun stuff like the excellent friend that she is.
What followed was an ill-conceived mass text-messaging of most of my regular crew members, many of whom were either still asleep or already at work and thus unable to call in sick on such a rare, beautifully sunny Sunday in Shanghai.
I snuggled in bed a little while longer, enjoying the sunshine, then got up and proceeded to deplore how my outfit for the day looked on me. It was, suffice to say, a less than glorious sight…but it would be well-hidden.
At 11:55 am, I was in a cab with Mylynn, the very first person to text me back with a reply. Being that we live five minutes away, we shared a cab and went west in Gubei for approximately 38 yuan. At about 12:25, we arrived at the Mandarine City outdoor pool.
As some individuals from SE++ and elsewhere know, likely via the AIM attack I received shortly after waking up that morning, that day was my first day in a bikini. It was, simply put, a mind-bender of a self-esteem issue for me, what with my self-consciousness consuming me from all angles at once, forming a veritable, collapsing vacuum around me. It took a lot of effort and distraction for me not to change into my usual one-piece bathing suit instead of the bikini.
The reason why I've never worn a bikini until now, if you are curious, is more a practicality issue more than a self-esteem one. I was a competitive swimmer for about 15 years of my life, so whenever I hear "pool" or "beach" I think "swimming!" A bikini is not exactly the most practical item for the job.
Mylynn and I arrived at the pool, bumping into a friend of hers on the way in, and already there is my ever-faithful favorite, Mr. Romain Hefti himself, already enjoying the water. For several moments I stood by our table, hesitating, not really wanting to take off my T-shirt or undo my sarong, but at length decided to just rip it off like a too-sticky Band-Aid. Within 30 seconds of the removal of said outer armor, I hopped into the pool.
It was glorious. Prior to that moment, it had been upwards of about two years since I was last in a real pool, and I had forgotten just how happy being in the water makes me.
Many people, I have heard, tend to identify themselves with a single element more than others…possibly Captain Planet style sans the superpowers and screwed-over-South-American. Mine is undoubtedly the water. As I said to Romain yesterday after admissions that it was gonna sound "really cheesy," in the water is where I belong, and realizing that at a time where I am finally happy with the kind of person I've become…it's a lethal combination that throws a rather large boulder of regret right into the pit of my stomach that whispers, "you should've gone with your first instinct and been a marine biologist or an oceanographer."
I cannot tell you how amazing it was to be in the water again. I felt at home, I felt safe, I felt powerful. Within an hour I completely forgot I had previously been in a state of self-conscious anxiety and just enjoyed the water. Being underwater, feeling it hold me tightly yet gently, the way nothing else ever could, brought me an inexplicable feeling of tranquility and happiness.
As I repeated several times that day: "do not underestimate how much I love the water."
(To some extent, it is also the reason I love rain, be it a drizzle or a thunderstorm. I love the ocean for a myriad of reasons, one of them being that it is essentially a massive body of water.)
In the water, I am far from master or commander, but I can hold my own. I am an excellent swimmer, though years of neglect have caused my lung capacity to shrivel somewhat from its former asthmatic glory (little known fact: I was asthmatic when I was younger and I basically beat the crap out of that infliction by swimming it to death), so I can't swim with nearly the speed or power that I could before. My form, however, is pretty much just the way it used to be, though with some additional drag since the girls were not restrained under the cover of a one-piece bathing suit.
We spent about 5 hours at the pool (Remy and Melanie joined us a little bit after we arrived), with me being in the water for at least 4 hours and 45 minutes of it, only getting out to check my cell phone. I used the excuse that I wanted to hide my hideous abdomen from the world, but really I just wanted to stay in the water as long as humanly possible. I will admit that even when the others were ready to leave, I was not…I wanted to stay much, much longer.
It was with a heavy heart that I departed, and once I stepped out of the shower and sat on my bed, I felt a wave of depression wash over me. I know it's weird beyond even my own standards, but I can't explain it. I wanted to go back and jump into the water for just a while more.
Following the depression came this sense of great detachment described in the opening paragraphs of this too-long rambling. All through dinner, at which I met up with my friends once more, I was removed from the conversation…aloof, wistful, as it were.
I just really miss being in the water, being in a place in which I feel safest and most alive. I can't wait to go back.
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