Lost…again

Time again and again I forget the purpose of this blog. I wanted this to be neither a public journal nor a compilation of links to websites. Oh I have ideas… I’ve recently initiated quite a few blog posts, but they are all still in draft form, on topics ranging from urban education, the family unit, “professionals,” why we travel, and love stories.  The drafts still need some further digging. I’m just lost. Haha, even LOST, the tv show on ABC, is not as stimulating as before. For you LOST lovers, I’m sick of the show’s twist on Time.

Speaking of time, I’ve been looking back on the past to find life-changing moments. My last post was about discovering the power of miscommunication in the development world. The post before was on the idea of intention not readily translatable to calculated results, as well as negative side effects of short term solutions. Expect more posts on my and friends’ past life stories. I’ll be clearer on why I still remember such details and their applicability to the future.

Addicted: Ronnie Lane and Ronnie Wood’s “Ooh la la” – favorite part of the song: “I wish that I knew what I know now”

Lost in translation?

— Spring break, junior year of college, a town in the highlands of Guatemala

Med student (MS) is reading Jeffrey Sachs’ The End of Poverty.

Me: Oooh I’ve been meaning to read that book. What do you think of it so far?

MS: It’s okay. Some parts are kind of boring. I would probably understand it better if knew more econ.

Me: I don’t think poverty can ever end.

MS’s face is covered with shock and annoyance. Perhaps a peck of confusion?

Me: It can’t end because trying to pull people out of poverty is just ONE thing. When one level of poverty disappears, there’ll be another type, just another name for poverty.

MS…still annoyed look.

*Sigh* I had great professors in the fall of my junior year, the semester before this trip occurred. They taught me to question absolutely everything. (I used to be easily persuaded by “experts” without really polish critical thinking for myself.) They also persuaded me to focus more on inequality and relative comparisons, particularly of foundational systematic issues, instead of rungs of surface conditions.

By the end of our group’s service trip, I never found the opportunity to explain myself. We’ll probably not cross paths again.

A little lie is never a good thing

— Fall of sophomore year, high school, a suburb outside Albany, NY

New town. New kid. A month into a new school.

Migrating from inner city high school in Chicago to a suburban school in upstate NY was not like dancing a New Trier HS-inspired-“Mean Girls” salsa. Still, there were some slight shocks to my system. The classes were less competitive than Chicago’s IB curriculum. I was drowning in a sea of upper middle class, 99% white, Abercrombie and Fitch t-shirts. Football meant slightly more than monthly theater productions and music programs. Despite much contrast to the Chicago high school’s racial and ethnic makeup as well as the city’s diversity as a whole, the upstate NY charm was hard to avoid. The people were certainly very friendly and easy going…and oooh everyone had so much talent. Ah but high school is still…high school no matter where one moves.

Chicago's Lincoln Park H.S.

During my first semester at the new school, I befriended a girl in the junior class. I was a sophomore, but we had the same gym and chem lab periods. She thought I was “optimistic and friendly like a ray of sun.” “Perky” was her other description. Soon, she was curious about which boys I liked. Boys in a completely new school were bound to hold some interest for me, she said. One day in chem lab, as soon as the teacher let us loose to do some experiment, she turns to me with a hungry look.

“There must be guys you are starting to like here.”

I wasn’t really interested in anyone at the time. I missed Chicago terribly and was a bit overwhelmed with such homogeneity in the new town’s makeup to think about boys. Oh and a “little” event called 9/11 just happened.

“No one really. How about you?”

“Oooh but there has to be someone!”

She continued to ring my ears with the same line of questioning. Finally I thought I could get out of the tedious, monotonous conversation by saying a name, any guy’s name. Hmmm but WHOSE?

I started visually categorizing the guys I’ve met in four categories: 1) Taken; 2) The guy likes a girl / a girl likes the guy; 3) Singleness uncertain; and 4) Singleness absolute. Reasons? Easy: the first three categories are off limits. I would not want a girl to get wind of anything; gossip kills potential friendships fast. Caution is the New Girl’s best friend.

new school in upstate NY

Despite having been at the new school for only a month, it was obvious who liked whom in my classes and in the peripheral circles of my classmates. How about …… ? He must be single, and I’m fairly certain I haven’t heard of any girl who likes him. Hmmm and I don’t think this chem lab girl would know him. She’s a junior, and we are sophomores.

“If you don’t say his name, I’m going to start listing them for you!”

Mr. Swinton, the lab teacher, gave us a disapproving look as if to quiet us down. This has got to stop. I felt a flash of warm air hitting my cheeks. Oh no! I’m blushing.

“Actually there is someone. We barely talk though.”

“Ooooh. WHO?!”

“His initials are BH.”

Immediately, the boy sitting in front of me turned toward us slowly, careful to not incite attention. His ears perked up. Too late.

“What’s his full name?”

“Really?! Are we going there? That’s enough isn’t it?” Hmmm she’s not blinking at all. How can she do this! Does she not notice the guy sitting in front of me? Fine. Whatever. He probably doesn’t know BH.

“Okay. Okay.” I sighed. “It’s B—- H—–.”

The mysterious guy smiled. Oh no.

—– A week later

“Mr. Swinton? You know the guy who came in late last week? What’s his name? He left his notebook with my pile of books.”

“Oh I’m sorry. I don’t remember. Maybe try the Lost and Found?”

Think of something! Nothing. “That’s a great idea!”

Mr. Swinton starts roll call. The attendance sheet.

Pretending to ask a question at the board, I later sneaked a peek at the sheet. Everyone in my lab was accounted for. This means the stranger was making up a lab section. How am I to figure out who he is without revealing the reason?

SHS's chem lab in the 80s? 70s?

— 3 years later, senior prom

I finally figured out who the mysterious guy was. I danced with him at prom and suddenly recognized his half-smile. Maybe he did tell BH about my fake “crush.” It doesn’t matter now. My lack of interest in gossip was a turnoff to the chem lab girl’s crowd. I was secretly glad we stopped talking after my lie about having a crush. BH and I were not friends, and there was never any awkward tension.

—8 years later, one year post college

High school seems like such a long time ago, but I still remember the lie. To prevent gossip, I inadvertently caused one instead.

Inverted triangle

Do you know the inverted triangle rule?

It is one of the first lessons journalists learn as writers. One usually reports with a lead followed by details in order of significance. This is designed so when editors need to cut a story short, the last paragraph contains the least amount of relevant material.

I fear I’ve failed to practice here what I learned in the high school newspaper editing room.

In an effort to make this blog more conversational rather than a repository of websites, videos, and images I find interesting, I’ve lost touch with the visual creativity. I also don’t write drafts for blog entries and let stream of consciousness take over. Henceforth I’ll try to take more into account the reader’s overall experience. Why?

Because we see before we read. See Magritte’s “Key of Dreams” to the right. More on this can be found here. (And if you are still at Penn, take Prof. Lamas’ URBS 452.)

It’s never too late to change for the better! A friend signs her emails with this quote: “No one can go back and start a new beginning, but anyone can start today and make a new ending.” Enjoy a morning elegance! It’s beautiful.

Perception

In the spring of 2006, I had planned a trip to East Timor for that summer. Through a series of (un)fortunate events, I was saved from a civil war conflict and joined an amazing group of people for a project in Philly.

Looking back on that spring, a friend was fundamental to my acceptance of sadness of incapacity. Sadness because an ongoing conflict over land and water, grandchild of colonial powers, went unnoticed in American media. Incapacity because my countries, the U.S. and China, and myself could not do anything. These were not the most surprising feelings. It was what my friend Cindy said that gave me a greater realization.

After my eyes oozed out the anguish over this great disappointment (and happiness at my own safety), Cindy was quiet for a while. She turned to me, smiled, and said, “I’m glad to see you sad and struggling with your safety rather than feeling arrogant for being knowledgeable about East Timor.” I felt fire rising in me, anger at learning that it is possible for people to feel avarice of pride than sadness and guilt of inaction at such an hour.

I take great satisfaction in sharing what I learn from people, places, books, websites, etc. Education is key to building community and increasing tolerance. But since that spring, I have been very careful, having learned that my love for knowledge-sharing can be perceived as arrogance. (The irony here is that personal blogs are usually viewed as the latter.)

I do care about how others see and how to use their perception to reveal the real me. But what happens when I step out of my comfort zone, away from people used to knowledge-sharing, socioeconomic and racial diversity, and service for social justice, to…a place of homogeneity, to the Old America*? I’m learning.

So far so good(?). I watched Obama’s inauguration at this new setting. His speech gave me goosebumps. I felt like a child watching rainbows every thirty seconds. But his speech is like traveling back in time for me. I have seen the possibilities of his optimism in my communities. With this new place, I don’t know. It will take much longer than other American cities, suburbs, and small towns.

But. This week, I witnessed the inauguration of an African-American man to the highest office, in “the City upon a hill.” There was neither clapping nor cheering, but oooh there was subdued joy in quite a number – tightened fists, glistening eyes, and makeup undone.

*I wanted to say the American suburbia, but that term does not apply because suburbs can differ greatly. Also, “Old” here does not represent people’s age. It describes Sarah Palin and John McCain’s America. Their “America” is disappearing.

Image courtesy of NYTimes.