missing your warmth

Grandma, you used to whisper to me every night, "Daniel, I can see you growing up and becoming rich and successful, when you do that, maybe then you can buy grandpa and I a car."

When I learned that your vision was deteriorating, I drew myself into denial hoping, wishing, praying that you would remain young forever. Now I've realized that our time together is limited. You've always wanted the best for me, constantly questioning me on my future and wellbeing. So, Grandma, now when you can still see, please look with me and see my dream with me.

This morning, before it was bright enough to see, I took a walk through the chilly, lonely sidewalks. I've learned that the world is a cold place. Everyone will be resting in their own homes with their own selfish dreams. As I walked, trudging through the deep snow, the lack of people and warmth frightened me. I was awake while the world was sleeping. A moment of epiphany hit me. For all the obstacles life shoves in our path, we can either choose to weep at the unfortunateness of the pile of snow slapped in our path, or we can trudge forward, step after gruesome step, and create our own path through that wretched, freezing terrain. Sure, it will be cold and lonely, with the occasional frostbite whipped at your face or the freezing ice tumbling onto your legs, filling them with dampness and a shock of cold pain, but through it all, we create a path for those behind to follow, literally in our footsteps so they will have it easier for their lives. But this is for sure, someone has to be the first to walk through the unknown, the untouched blanket of white snow. Every time we fall on the unstable, slippery grounds, we must get back up so we can continue making that path that those we love can follow.

Grandma, I want to be an entrepreneur, the most successful, inspiring, and crazy businessman to walk the earth. I want to be the one who shapes the world, the one who is criticized and called insane, but who's ideas nevertheless leaves a spark inside people, slowly chewing away at their beliefs and challenging their initially stable worldviews. And one day, I hope those ideas will blossom and generate a blanket of change across the world. And I will carry the torch that Grandpa and you left to my father and mother, and take it from them and continue living out your legacy. I will leave a blazing trail across the icy world and leave a fiery passion across all my peers. Through the letdowns of life, I will burn right through them, because you have given me so much strength and character to flame them with.

I want to live my life freely, free from the restrictive binding laws of society, and free from the grasp of social acceptance. I want to travel across the world, living in Airbnb's and experience all the richness of life, the highs and the lows. I want Life to think that I robbed her and of all her richness, that I took from her everything I can possibly take so I can die with a smirk on my face knowing that I didn't obey her laws, and I became the man I dreamed of becoming. For months, I want to live homeless nights, and experience the epitome of gratitude and appreciation, eating hot and ready every night because that's all I can afford. Other months I want to climb the mountains of China and see for myself the views that only a few have the luck of experiencing. I want to find the obscure and secluded family ramen shops on some broken down alley of Japan and learn all I can about their story.

Grandma, I want your life to be as rich as possible. While you can still see, I want you to witness how far your family has come. From the dirt-poor farms of China, the starving cries of those who hardly appear human, from my mom stealing medicine to feed her hunger, my dad stealing apples from our neighbors, and the late night candle light my father used to work his way out of poverty. Look how far we come now, from my childhood of that tiny apartment on the highest floor of the building, the crazy nights with my four brother cousins each sharing views a few years apart, those morning breakfasts we had to trudge across town for, because of it's the fair price. When I refused to go to daycare, you used that wretched whip made of tree branches to beat me. I've learned the hard way that love hurts. Look at us now, with our air conditioned homes, my father's multimillion company, my sister and I's top notch education. We have enough money to take you anywhere in the world Grandma, to places you've never even heard of when you were a child, to experience vacations of any scale.

And when you can no longer see and you lose that vessel of experiencing life, my cousins will tell you their life stories, their philosophies, their jokes and make you laugh. My sister will talk to you in her half understandable Chinese. I will play to you piano that you insisted I had learned. I can let you hear the most beautiful melodies I can express so that you can be proud of helping me learn all this from the initial C-scales and Joy To the World.

And when you cannot hear, I want you to feel the warmth from your family, the wealth of goodness that you've poured out. Those aching bones of yours that carried your siblings on your back, that cut down trees and worked long hours in the fiery sun, can finally rest. Know that with them, our family has thrived.

From you and Grandpa, to my mother and father, to my sister and I, we've been separated by the gap of generations, but we've also been tied together by the thread of family and our beliefs. We've never been the people to settle with life, to look at the world and say, "I'm satisfied with the way things are". I'm sure that we can all agree that we "want so many things in life" (Hansberry). Grandma, I want you to feel completely satisfied with your life, so that you can look back and see the family and the legacy you've left behind. I want to help myself and the ones I love find fulfillment. And when the snow falls again, because it will, we will be tied together with the passion and love of family and we'll burn it away with our unshakeable affection for one another. This is my dream. This is my life story. I promise you, Grandma, I won't give up.

Hand in hand

Through my life, I've experienced a wide spectrum of personalities. I've befriended crazy ambitious guys who thoughts have provoked my imagination, humorous and lively people who can make any situation bright, and compassionate people who's altruistic behavior arouses some deep thankfulness for this world. Although these people have quite distinctive characters, they are inevitably similar in their visions for the future. 

The motivated driven, relentless person works endlessly through challenges fulfill his dreams of changing the world. The charming humorous person finds fulfillment in arousing positive emotions with those around him- every smile to him is the physical incarnation of happiness. The compassionate person works selflessly to give himself up for the benefit of others. Every action is taken to further their ideas of self-fulfillment. 

The world, filled with a multitude of characters each chasing after their own dreams, seems quite idealistic.  This romanticized version of society doesn't capture the gruesome realities of human interaction. 

In reality, especially in Troy High, people are like a pit of lions, thrashing and clawing around, selfishly reaching for the meat of success. Every action they take is a strategic move to propel themselves forward while simultaneously pushing others behind. The corrupt mindset of success, at the expense of others, engulfs the students at Troy High. I've heard those around me whisper threats and jealous remarks that haunt the school hallways. 

"...He didn't deserve to receive that award...how did such a dumb person...Let's screw him over for the club election..."

Materialism is defined as the wish to possess the physical world: wealth, property, and objects. Though it seems to be much less pervasive in the current era, it seems to show itself in another form. Specifically, materialism's close relative of possessing accomplishments permeates through our school. Every student desperately claws at the chance to obtain an award, a scholarship, a club position, without any care at the harm done around them. Every person that is harmed, is one less person competing for scholarships...

Materialism, by itself isn't necessarily evil. It's the vicious race for materialistic values that tramples on the wellbeing of others that becomes evil. Likewise, the search for success is actually quite a positive quality, but the corrupt rat-race present at our school is undeniably a nightmare. 

I believe an adoption of a new mindset is required for us to take one step further to the idealized world. To instead of harming our competitors, wish them the best of luck and happiness in whatever they do. This way we can avoid becoming "careless people... [who smash] up things" rather than doing good. Let us realize that the key to success lies in reaching out to those around us and creating real meaning, rather than deceiving ourselves into thinking it comes as a cheap paper certificate. 

Looking past the words

In the past hour, I've been sifting through the pages of Great Gatsby in search of the passage that strikes that chord with me, resonating in synchrony with all my accumulated beliefs. I looked desperately, seeking for that thread of words that seems to tug at the heart and pull a gaping hole through my chest in which all that builds my character is poured out. Then as I carefully dissect those words and see if they match with those pieces, I can finally rest, satisfied that the words on the page are correctly adjusted in amplifying my own beliefs.

Then, as the minutes one by one flocked past me, I might've realized that I was really not progressing at all. Perhaps with this, we can truly realize why The Great Gatsby is considered such a spectacular conception. The time I spent seeking for that static passage revealed to me the many underlying layers of Fitzgerald's work. I realized that The Great Gatsby hardly contains any direct passages at all.

Fitzgerald has successfully tied together a novel, a personal expression, and a hopeful offering of his personal views all in a single piece. The structure of the words in The Great Gatsby are crafted in a way that the words live even as Fitzgerald has died. They thrive timelessly, adapting to the decades, and thread together in a way that allows for endless interpretations. Thus my search for this passage ended upon the novel's ending.

“Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgiastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that’s no matter–tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther…. And one fine morning– So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.”

With his final lines, Fitzgerald offers his final thoughts with this timeless advice. As I sat churning the words in my mouth and attempting to swallow it in a way that makes sense to me, I decided that I can only decipher it personally, not universally.

Fitzgerald hopes for us to avoid the pitfall of an illusory future. As Gatsby loses himself in an endless chase after an enticing dream, Fitzgerald warns us to avoid the entrapment by our falsified dreams. Furthermore, he hopes that we will respect the past and allow the past to stay there. Gatsby has driven himself so deeply into the past, reminiscing over the memories of his happier days, that he has foolishly blinded himself into thinking that the past will be the future.

When we catch ourselves getting swallowed by the memories of the past, we must remind ourselves to turn around and look towards the future so that we can keep moving in the right direction.

The one we truly despise

As with many other forms of social interaction, criticism is centered entirely upon the one delivering it. The person receiving criticism hardly needs an identity since they are merely a platform on which the critic lashes out his or her own self-perceptions. 

In psychology, a term known as psychological projection reveals the ironic nature of criticism. In its essence, it states that people tend to criticize others based on their own insecurities and qualities. This characteristic of criticism is quite curious; doesn't it make sense that people should criticize qualities that they themselves don't possess? 

Perhaps the nature of criticism reveals more about the critic than the victim. The comment on the rudeness of a classmate might as well point towards the rudeness of the commenter. The words spilled about a person hardly describes the person receiving it, but presents a clear view on the feelings in insecurities about the person saying it. The words collectively form the person's unwanted characteristics or the jealousy of qualities they aspire to possess. 

With this in mind, a second look at the Great Gatsby reveals a more understandable view on the Narrator's seemingly contradictory feelings. Gatsby represents "everything for which [the narrator has] an unaffected scorn"(Fitzgerald) yet he was also described as gorgeous. Gatsby might just be the physical projection of the Narrator's inner beliefs and feelings. At least this will explain why he both feels scorn towards Gatsby's character yet also deeply admires his whole person. 

"We always see our own unavowed mistakes in our opponents"(Carl Jung)

The mirror may be a better place to direct our criticism. 

The pieces that form us

A look at the concrete mechanisms of human interaction reveals quite an inefficient and undesirable ideal. An engineer might say that the human is the most horribly designed creature; if each human were a piece of machinery, the mechanic will be overwhelmed that each gear is pulsating, scratching the ones near it, and randomly erupting into flames. Quite frustratingly, each gear must be tamed, prodded, and eased into working properly. Each piece requires constant attention and maintenance; otherwise, it will quickly break down.

Perhaps the objectification of humans isn't quite fair in describing the entirety of the human experience. Where the machine is superior to man in terms of raw efficacy and power, humans make up for in their resilience and consciousness. The gears of an engine don't possess a large room for error, a small hiccup in a piston or wheel, and the entire engine collapses. On the other hand, the wide spectrum of human emotions, such as love and empathy, creates in a sense the most advanced form of lubricant. This creates a wide margin for human error, allowing gears to function even if their neighbors were rusting away. 

A possible misconception arises through the usage of such a metaphor: that all machines require an operator. A legitimate machine requires a manual, or some sort of overarching program, to inform each gear of its proper functions. However, the human machine is independent and self-operating. If a wire were to fall out of place, another would immediately replace it, constantly maintaining the cohesiveness of the entire unit. This potential allows for entire sections to blow up and fall apart, and the machine will quickly rebuild its missing parts. 

The capacity for such exquisite emotions allows for the gears of the human machines to mold and adapt to varying circumstances; when one piece is entrenched in depression and fails to operate, the nearby pieces all collaborate to mend it back together. I might even suggest that the greatest disparity between the humanistic and the mechanical is this vastness of human emotion.

Then comes the battle between differences parts of the machine. Some pieces, are undoubtedly more widely used and apparently differently colored and sized. There seems to be an overwhelming focus on the specs of all the different gears and functions. To those who focus on the criticism of the physical aspects, I have to say forget it. The war on the physical is unending, the differences between each piece will never be undermined or fully overcome. 

In this focus on the physical attributes, we have lost focus on the greatest human strength. Attention to the physical complexions specific to select groups creates a constant battle between the superiority of certain attributes. While eye color or hair texture might be distinctive qualities, emotions are universal. Perhaps we need a shift towards the more encompassing humanistic traits and expand the potential of our emotions to create a sea of "all-embracing tenderness"(Morrison)-that might be enough to diminish the value of physical characteristics. Every second spent on wallowing in the unfairness of our build or complexion is one less second that can be spent on developing a loving, appreciating character. Maybe the gears will fall into place once we emphasize what makes us human. 

Thin as a Pencil

I am a pencil, thin and easily broken by the words spoken at me. My creativity is easily expressed through my marks on my paper, and the yellowness covering my body presents a sense of mundane and ordinary. Just as all pencils are expected to be able to scribble on paper, my expectations as a person of yellow color emphasize that I must be intellectually gifted yet physically scrawny. I find myself oftentimes turning upside down at the critique thrown at me and erasing whatever blunders I can find. Though my applicability and usability are immense, I’m ultimately lost in the mass of other pencils, all withholding similar expectations imposed upon them by society. The irony that the very words I create are also the ones that tear me down, makes me terrified of the words I let out. Criticism of an erroneous mark or misplaced word unavoidably engulfs all pencils. This judgment has sucked out all my self-esteem, and I embody the pencil that willingly allows other, more capable beings, to use me, and take advantage of the potential that I never discovered myself.  

Perhaps the greatest the greatest envy I have is that for the pen. The pen and the pencil are vastly different; the pencil creates scribbles while the pen can amass beautiful, bold and confident works of writing. The pen creates timeless and permanent pieces, while I hold the expectation to be erased, blurred, and replaced by the more important and secure ideals. The pen's slender figure is entailed with a soft grip that is pleasurable to hold, while the rough unpleasing edges of the pencil burden the hand that grips it. The pen lies comfortably in its crystal casing, each priced considerably as a luxurious device with individual niches and qualities. 

I've long since lost "my sense of worth"(Morrison) and forgotten the possibilities a pencil can create. Attempts to realize the potential will only be over-ridden by the conceived notion that pencils are expendable, bought in packs of 100, and created as the most basic and bland tool of writing. Perhaps the overexposure of the pencil has lead us to forget that the malleability that only pencil lead can create. As society condemns pencil-work as meaningless scribbles and allows it to dull, it's innate potential will be forgotten. I hope that someone will see the capabilities in me that I cannot see myself, help me sharpen again my lead, and only then, can I create art from the scribbles. 

The ugly truth

The constant fight to end beauty standards seems to many like an admirable cause. Yet as it's often the case, these righteous endeavors bear with them many bothersome issues. Doesn't it seem strange that the ones with the strongest, loudest voices against beauty standards are also the ones who dump makeup on themselves and buy the trendiest outfits in an attempt to beautify themselves? It's always bothered me that the hypocrite is myself. 

I so easily rationalize to look beyond the physical appearance of others and find the prevalent problems with societally defined standards of attractiveness, yet I can't escape the encompassing force of judgment. I've felt such a tear in character between the rational, well-meaning man seeking equality and the instinctive, and more powerful judging man. It bothers me that every person proclaiming to end the tyranny of beauty is also the one seeking the most attractive spouse. 

Of course, I feel a terrible imagining the problems faced by the ones societally deemed "ugly". To imagine waking up each morning "trying to discover the secret of the ugliness"(Morrison 45) in the mirror is a thought so gruesome and unsettling that any person with any empathy at all will feel for. I can hardly imagine walking through the hallways attempting to avoid the gazes of others and praying each night for someone, anyone, to find me attractive enough to date. Then again, I feel so terrible knowing that I will be the one who'll be judging as well, and sometimes I feel as if all we can do is feel bad for that person; as if sympathy will help cure their ugliness. 

If Pecola lived in our school today, I would certainly wish with all my heart that someone would find her beautiful, but I know that I would never even consider her as someone lovable. As Pecola walks through Troy High receiving sympathy and blessings from each individual before she's brushed off and walks home each day still alone. I think that's the issue, that we're treating those who are ugly as a problem, hoping that someone will solve it, but desperately avoiding the problem ourselves. Those who aren't beautiful are objectified into a pitiful creature in need of sympathy; a poor thing everyone hopes that another person will come along and take home while they themselves walk home to the comfort of their perfectly groomed cats and dogs. 

So then what is there left to do? The fight between the morally right ideals and the reality that actually takes control of our lives is ever prevalent. Every man that I know will wish for themselves to find the most beautiful girl, and leave the issue of morality up to verbal debate and others to deal with. 

Should I attempt to correct my own ideal of beauty, and find the traditional "ugliness" to be mesmerizing, or should I attempt to completely remove all judgment of appearance? Perhaps the problem isn't in informing others the many detrimental issues with beauty standards, almost everyone has already experienced its harmful effects, but to dissect it more carefully and find a way to approach the problem at hand. 

In all honesty, I wish I could say I have a solution, and that our fight on outward appearance can finally end, but alas I'm just as lost as the next person. I can completely acknowledge the presence of the problem, but that doesn't make it any smaller. Perhaps all I can do for now is engage in small battles of morality each day with myself, and hope that someone will find a cure to the hypocritical problem of beauty. 

Back to cribs and dolls

Through our childhood, my sister and I have always been captivated by the joys of stuffed animals and dolls. We created our own wonderland, fabricating adventures that we experienced alongside our collection of toys. We traversed the menacing lands of make-believe while breathing life into the inanimate toys. Max, the brave and charming husky was our champion guiding everyone in exploration of our desolate basement. We used a whiteboard in visualization of our imagination,  drawing the foreign planets we visited and the endless skies we soared. Our time as children and our wild joyous adventures have always held a sacred place in my memory. 

Today, our companions who we've had so many experiences with have all lost their spots in the physical world. Many have gone missing, have been broken, or been tossed out into the trash. Max, the once loved hero of our stories, now sits in some tucked away box, torn and stained through mishandling. Yet here's the thing, none of the physical things matter because all of our experiences existed as an addition to reality; it never bothered us if one of our animals had lost an ear because our imagination could always fill in the gaps and small errors of reality. 

Currently, in our hypercritical society, even our wonderfully treasured childhood cannot escape the judgment. Prager makes a convincing argument on the effects that Barbie has had on the younger generations. She notices all the mechanical design errors that might've been purposeful in Barbie's creation: her breasts are proportionally far too large to be realistic, her skin is perfectly shaded in one color and completely hairless, and she lacks all the softness associated with feminity.

Despite all the rhetoric, I have to make a case for Barbie. To my sister and I, Barbie was never the symbol for over-sexualization, but a friend and companion we traveled with. We never noticed the peculiar features of Barbie and we've certainly never even compared Barbie to any real life person. Prager argues that Barbie is a symbol for male domination, but in our world, she was a strong-willed charismatic leader for the other toys. And to argue that "Barbie and Ken could never make love"(Prager 355) was complete and utter silliness. For all we cared, Barbie and Ken could love each other as much as they desired, because sex was never a part of it. 

I can feel my inner child get angry with the criticism of Barbie, who at the time was such a close and dear friend. Such harsh criticism of a character held so sacred in memory is almost insulting to childhood. As children, we were always more focused on the fictional world of make believe rather than the concrete physical properties of our toys. Certainly, we never noticed the over exaggeration of Barbie and never believed that she had any malicious intent. Even as children, we knew that toys were never meant to be a reflection on reality. 

It's almost silly that we are so openly nit-picky with our critiques. We formulate our judgment in rapid fashion, arguing convincingly that pink elephants don't represent reality enough, batman's incredible physique is causing the loss of self-esteem in young men, or even that all the toys in our market are subtly brainwashing children into agreeing with commercialism. Even Jesus, who was tortured and crucified didn't judge the Romans who killed him as much as we are judging the toys that our children enjoy. 

Once upon a time, innocence reigned supreme and creativity and openness were valued above the constraining, binding rules so easily offended. Maybe the apocalypse won't be caused by zombies or mass warfare, but might be induced by the six-inch tall plastic dolls which so cruelly represent the underlying evils of society. My childish argument would've screamed for people to stop being so serious and that such petty things don't matter. Hopefully, that didn't offend too many people. 

Appreciation

Before he knew life, my grandpa stared at the face of death. Innocently unaware of the dangers, he curiously reached his hand out grabbing at the gun muzzle pointed at his head. His eyes shone with childish wonder, in stark contrast with the dreary, deadly eyes of the Japanese soldier hoisting the gun. Sweat oiled the soldier's forehead, as his index finger touched the trigger softly, teasing it. 

The war had dragged on for far too long, and the soldier had lost the ability to distinguish between the living and the dead, bloodshed had clouded his sense of judgment. Whatever sympathy and morals he carried into the war had long since been lost; he long forgot the purpose of the war, except to follow the directions of the higher-ups and shoot at any Chinese man that crossed his path. 

Alas, something tugged his heart when he saw the boy smile and play with the weapon which could've blown apart his head. The boy's mother came running and when she saw the soldier, she dropped to her knees, weeping and begging for the soldier to spare their lives. He could've so easily killed them, just as he had killed so many others before them, a light tug on the trigger would've done it. But that smile stopped him. The undeniable innocence of the boy drew from his scarce reserve of sympathy and he decided to give them life. He retreated back leaving my family unharmed. 

I owe my life to that man. A sudden gust of wind might've been enough to cause him to pull the trigger and take away everything I know. Things could've been so easily different. 

My grandpa didn't have it easy growing up. Though he was lucky enough to make it out of the war alive, it was a different story for the majority of his family. The war devastated mainland China, millions were dead, food was scarce, and people were left to fend for themselves. 

My mom told me tales of herself rummaging through grandpa's medicine cabinet because of just how badly she was starving. 

It's been quite a leap from my grandpa's time to my generation. In just a few decades, everything has changed. The worries shifted from hoping to find enough food to eat to worrying about if the right kind of cereal is in the cabinet. The troubles of the past seem so distant that even those in my family who survived it are slowly forgetting. Their previous enthusiasm and appreciation for just finding a house to live in slowly diminished and changed into distaste for any apparent discomforts. 

I can see this happening so clearly with my own family. When I was younger, my parents took special care in eating food slowly, savoring each bite of what they could've only dreamed of in their past life. They looked over furniture carefully to make sure everything was clean and safe. My sister and I watched over our stuffed animals carefully(we only had a few) and rejoiced when another could be added to our collection. In general, we were pretty thankful people. 

Today, our house is filled with constant complaints. The house is always too warm or cold, the food we're served is never the right taste, and the newest devices are always too slow to function. When I stop myself to truly think about my childish complaints, I can see foolishness of my annoyances, and I can't help but feel "some kind of guilt about having had an easier life than [my parents] did"(Spiegelman). I wonder how much my grandpa would've wished to live the life we are currently living. 

It only takes a second to acknowledge all the pleasures of modern life, yet so many people are dissatisfied. It should seem that it's almost a duty for use to appreciate the abundance of goodness that so many before us died for. Perhaps the paradise that we dream of now will only be daily life for the future. To be dissatisfied is almost an insult to the real challenges faced by those of the past. My life is in itself a stroke of luck. I only hope to use it squeeze dry all the joys my grandpa never experienced and truly breath in all the opportunities they gave to us. 

A broken past

A particularly compelling scene of Maus depicts Vladek reminiscing over his lost family members. Spiegelman questions his father on the fate of the rest of his family, only to bring up tragic memories which tear Vladek's spirit apart. In the page, the form and content meet; Vladek appears heavy-hearted as his head droops and he painfully tells the tales of his family to Spiegelman. Vladek's body spans several panels and the individual panels almost represents how the war has broken him apart into pieces. The tragic deaths of his family not only destroyed Vladek's spirit mentally, but has also physically torn him apart. 

The pictures of his family also depict something more significant. Valdek holds in his hand a snapshot of the only member of his family that survived the war. The rest of the pictures are scattered upon the floor, dead and defeated. An interesting point to note is that all the pictures face upwards as if all the lost members at least can still be remembered, even if they are dead. Unfortunately, Vladek doesn't possess any pictures of his only family, which signify that their memories are slowly being lost. Vladek's eyes can be seen looking towards the ground, searching hopefully for something lost, just something to grab onto as a physical reminder of his own family. 

The layout of the ground is also surprisingly representative of Auschwitz itself. The photo box's shape appears like the walls of Auschwitz standing upon the field. The couch's pattern also resembles the barbed wires that entrapped the prisoners. Perhaps this setup is an indicator of the destiny of the family members captured in the photos. Although they've tried to temporarily escape the confinement of Auschwitz and Nazi terror, metaphorically represented by Vladek taking out the photos, ultimately, they return to the photo box, back to the place where their bodies rest with eternal unrest. 

"From the rest of my family, it's nothing left, not even a snapshot" (Spiegelman 116)

Thinking out loud

If I were to remind myself...

Self-awareness at its most basic level is the ability to recognize and react to our inner feelings. To acknowledge moments of sadness, of joy and respond appropriately. It’s the bridging of a primal, instinctive, thoughtless lifestyle into one which we truly live. Truly living is the ultimate expression of oneself, to not just survive, but to thrive in the world. Truly engaging in the environment we’re presented with, breathing in all it’s opportunities, taking part in all the various activities, and also offering every ounce of ourselves we can. A balance between taking in, and giving every fiber of our being.

It’s a jump from the mundane boring lifestyle. In every social situation, we have the option to either sit and listen, to merely observe our surrounding, or to engage fully, build real satisfying relationships, and to hold meaningful conversation. Our lives are too short to worry about the hate we might receive, for every ten meaningful conversations we can produce, we also receive ten other haters who’ll pounce at any opportunity to criticize and attempt to break you down; all a mere projection of their own jealousy and inability to produce meaning in their own lives. They’ll be sly in the way they attack. First, they’ll backtalk you, to gather others in support of their hatred of another. Then, they’ll start putting labels upon you, “a flirt”, a “player”, “desperate”, "slut", “attention seeker”. They’ll go as far to ignore you if you even attempt to form a connection with them, hoping that seeing a failed connection might deter you from further conversing with others.

To them I’ll say, if you don’t put yourself out there, one hundred percent, take opportunities that might offend others, you’re already dead. There’s hardly a difference between a ghost and those who sit on the sidelines listening, judging and throwing their unneeded opinions upon every situation. Those who wish to play things safe, not test the boundaries of social standings, and purely yell out their own jealousy at those who are thriving. Jealous upon those who dare to take risks, who thrive in a world where difference is attacked and hated, who wish themselves were the ones who could live and ingrain themselves in the fruitful world. The world is so nutritious, filled with opportunities and countless stories only waiting to be discovered. I only choose to seek the fruit of the world and gorge myself upon the joyful moments I can discover, yet there are so many who see the fruit in my hand and become angry that I’m the one who put in effort to attain it. They are angered at why their own efforts haven’t been enough to find their own fruit. They wonder why their efforts which amount to a two feet deep hole dug into the earth, haven’t been enough to uncover the jewels and diamonds buried underneath.

Let those who wish to live, live. I say this to the unsatisfied man, if you desire to become those you are so jealous of, all you need is to take heed and walk forward; the opportunities are only waiting. But if you wish to remain jealous and attempt to drag those who are thriving down with, you may as well be dead. At the very least, a ghost cannot influence the living, they cannot slow down those who seek to do great. If you are not living, then you are merely circling the starting line, and digging your own grave.

Many who set on upon the journey of self-fulfillment will undoubtedly encounter a mass of these evil men, who will see you try to take a step out of the mundane, and do everything in their power to drag you back. Take hope, because for every evil man there is, there are just as many good ones who will reach out and help you. The stress and hatred you will face will be great, but you will soon find that for each step you take, the next one will be easier. Soon enough, you’ll realize that even the hatred of a thousand men will not phase you. The farther you walk from the pull of negativity, the closer you will be to self-fulfillment. This is the journey to the paradise of fruitful opportunity and satisfaction. Each day that passes, you’ll realize that you are not aging, but you are living more and more. Even so, you’ll discover the path won’t be straightforward, sometimes you’ll start walking backwards, but each step you take back, you must walk two more steps forward. Sometimes, you’ll find yourself lost in the journey, and it’s then when you must trust in yourself to keep moving forward when the direction isn’t clear. Perhaps when you escape that forest, you might be further back on the trail, but then you’ll know how to circumvent that forest and cross it doubly as fast.

If you already see a few who have set out upon this path and are much farther than you are, do not grow jealous. You have the choice to either wish to drag the other person back, or to use him as an inspiration, follow his footsteps, to speed up your own pace to catch up.

This is the alternative to “unconsciousness, the default setting, the rat race, the constant gnawing sense of having had, and lost, some infinite thing”(Wallace).

I only wish that we could all live a little.

To bridge our divide

Our government is our leader, a guide who helps the lost regain focus. A singular entity which unites the masses, a singular voice representative of the sum of ideas within the nation. A government exists to channel the wishes of the countrymen and to take action in leading us to a hopeful tomorrow. It exists in an attempt to bridge the gap of separation and create peace in disagreement. It exists to invoke the emotions of togetherness and warmth, to place in its citizens a swelling, sizzling love for the nation.

Why then, has our government become a center of mockery? Why does the mentioning of the government arouse a feeling of discomfort and why does it bring about a set of negativity and possible hatred? Our government currently exists as a composition of failures rather than its glories. Its name no longer invokes pride among citizens and jealousy among other nations, because it is now a representation of police cruelty, a depiction of political injustice. and a painting of civil ignorance. We've come to believe that "America would not long retain her rank among the nations"(Thoreau). In its lifetime, our government has taken a dramatic turn from a center of envy to one of ridicule.

Perhaps a cause of modern distaste of our government is an apparent disconnect between the citizen and the state. As our country has grown more expansive, the citizen has forgotten his place within the government. We've lost the previous unity when we started treating the government as a separate entity rather than one who's body is composed of the citizens. We no longer feel we are the body of the government and it's much easier to hate a stranger than ourselves.

Within us, we all possess a tendency to protect ourselves. A side-effect of this desire is our humanistic wish to avoid blame. It's easy to criticize a distant government for modern issues, but truthfully, we are just as responsible for blame. Unity cannot be met one-sided, it takes both a national pursuit and a readily embracing citizen body to be acquired.

So long as we are perfect in our own minds, we have no reason to change. So long as we place the blame upon the government, which resonates the voice of all the people, our country will only know blame. A prosperous America requires civil disagreement, individual responsibility, and action to become reality. The support from all the citizens builds up a thriving government, just as a thriving government creates thriving communities; we are as much part of the government, as the government is part of us. This mutualistic relationship is required to create unity.

Maybe then, we can fully become Americans. Perhaps, we can once again be unified with the government under a single entity of citizen and state. Certainly, we will then feel pride again and wake up each morning to feel a true sense of belonging.

Why do you laugh?

My memories are a mess of interconnected thoughts and unclear edges. I can hardly ever recall the absolute actions taken, specific words spoken, or raw details of events. The fuzziness of my memory is both frustrating and breathtaking. When I look back at New Year's in China, I remember the feelings of warmth and family. When I look back at Disneyland, I'm met with wonder and childishness. Sandy Hook brings up hatred and angry solitude. But when I wish to remember specifically what I ate, or the name of a person I just met, I have to voraciously rummage through the ends of my brain, turning corners to find that precise memory. I have a memory built on emotions. 

Maybe this is why I have deep respect for those who can spark humor at an instance. I'm jealous of their ability to be memorable while everything else is lost with time. Humor has the ability to conjure a multitude of powerful emotions, all synergistically helping to ingrain a moment as a memory. Humorous people stick out as ones we remember because they paint a positive tint on initially dry and ordinary moments. I can never remember the specific joke told or the timely sarcastic comment made, but I do remember the overarching mood of the environment: the light feeling of ease, and the warmth of being surrounded by laughter. 

Humor has powers in both the present and the past. In the present, it ties the environment together and pushes it towards a cheerful light. It helps release the uneasiness and tension, replacing it with warmth and comfort. I've lost count of the number of times where timely humor helped save drowning situation. In times where tension threatens to engulf a location, humor helps the uptight banter survive a careful dance between negativity and cheerfulness

Looking to past memories, humor acts as a paintbrush, overwriting the ugliest of recollections with a pleasant color. Through the usage of humor, my negative qualities become my strongest weapon; my tragically awkward and lonely middle school life becomes a laughable, distinctive contrast to just far I've come. A man's realization that he's an accidental birth can become "a goofy reservation mixed drink"  of "whiskey sperm" and "vodka egg" (Alexie 27): a story to engage laughter and smiles. 

A man's existence is largely comprised of a collection of memories. Some may be tragic, tear-jerking or heart-wrenching, while others are on the positive side of the spectrum. Many people are stuck in the past, wallowing in past memories and allowing themselves to drown in yearning and in wishing. Perhaps humor can be the medicine to help them, to help me, move on. I can indulge in humor to oil the rough edges of memory, soften them in a lighter color, and even make them easier to digest. 

Fiction-Born Truths

Before you criticize, before you remark or comment, let me tell you something. I've pondered quite a bit about how much of myself I would dare to expose on this blog. On one hand, I could make myself vulnerable, reveal my true feelings and hidden thoughts to my peers; but to be honest, I feared and still fear the possibility of criticism. After all the ideas and beliefs that formulate my being are just as vital and fragile as the heart and organs that form my physical body. On the other hand,  I could carefully construct a barrier of tactfully placed words that both hide and shield my inner beliefs. Maybe, above all, I'm scared of being wrong, of sounding ridiculous or having absurd ideas that might give the impression of a crazy man.

But then again, what's the purpose of playing the safe card and repeating what's already been said; no one can disagree with common knowledge, but common knowledge won't impact the world. I believe the very act of normalizing absurd ideas that one may believe, or making the idea more moderate in itself is an act of deception. Thus, in order to stay true to myself, I've decided that I'm going to take a risk and speak the truth and verbalize my possibly ridiculous thoughts. If all of humanity's ideas were contained in a bubble, it takes these slightly unorthodox ideas to poke and prod the edges and make the bubble grow. Tomorrow's accepted idea might just encompass today's ridicule. So I'm going to take this risk: to be brave enough to sound ridiculous, to willingly accept mockery, to have the humility to be wrong. After all, it takes a deep understanding of faults of ideas and careful inspection of flaws in logic, to avoid the pitfalls moving forward, and to keep steady the focused vision of where I want to go.

A true story, or maybe with a touch of fiction...
If I were to go back in time and take a look at my freshman self, I'd see an awkward, insecure teenager trying to find his place in the world. At that time, I knew that I wasn't where I wanted to be, but I knew where I wanted to go. High school was the first time I became aware of the realities of life; life no longer consisted of looking forward to the next video game, hanging out with friends, and avoiding homework at all costs. I realized I was leaving the protective bubble of childhood, and I had to readily adapt to the new lifestyle.

And so, I began my habit of fictionalizing. I knew I lacked many qualities that I aspired to have, and it was far too hard to develop them without experience. I lied to myself. One day, I'd live as Bruce Lee, and carry myself with the utmost confidence; another day, I'd live as Vinh Giang and adopt his charisma and charm. Of course, none of the confidence or charisma came from myself, I was channeling Bruce's and Vinh's . I repeated my act of lying to myself until I could fully adopt the qualities without a model; at that point, those qualities became innate and a part of my character. I used fiction to adopt truth. I continued to fictionalize different qualities; I wasn't positive, so I imagined myself as Abe Lincoln, I wasn't composed, so I carried the image of the Dalai Lama.

Today, I still lie to myself. I remind myself every morning of the fictionalized version of myself, with all the qualities I wish to have. I give myself a name to live up to, a guiding image of who I want to be. I created a cohesive image to tie up all the loose ends of my character. I've realized in the past years that it's this utmost belief in myself that can catalyze a change in character. If I fully believed I a revolutionary thinker, I'd change the way I carry myself, I'd have a completely different self-image of who I am.


Here's the truth, it takes a lie to guide us towards our destination. Even in society, we use these fictionalized ideals as a model for the way we act. A world without violence, without hatred, and complete cooperation is without a doubt, unattainable-it only exists in fiction. Yet, we use this world as a compass to keep us on the right track. I heard somewhere a quote that shaped my thinking, "Perfection can never be achieved; it's not a destination, but a guiding star.".

“The thing about a story is that you dream it as you tell it, hoping that others might then dream along with you, and in this way memory and imagination and language combine to make spirits in the head. There is the illusion of aliveness.” (O'brien 220)

I think half of my real life story is still in my head.So maybe the boundary between truth and fiction isn't as distinctive as we once believed.