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.