My Day

Today was arguably the worst day I've had all semester, yet for some reason, I felt a (probably false) sense of contentedness and joy. I spent most of today, as I latterly do, alone.

I went to sleep at a late hour, greeting the sun at its early yawn before I tucked myself into the comforts of my static electricity-infested Asian mink blanket.

I then woke up for my 8AM class.

Normally, my friend, Naman Desai, wakes up around 7:30. He doesn't look at the clock in the early hours of the morn, but rather, simply times himself. By the time he finishes his morning routine, he has a few minutes before he has to leave for class. Thus, if he finishes his routine and doesn't see his friends up, he calls them to make sure they go to class. Good friend, good intentions.

But Craig Jeong (or Jeongward as we call him these days), who is Naman's roommate, decides to set his alarm for 7AM this morning instead of the customary 7:30AM. Thus, Naman does his morning routine and wakes me up when he finishes...at 7:20AM.

My alarm goes off at 7:35AM, so when Naman called, it was 15 minutes early. For some reason, in my groggy stupor, I just said, "Alright. I'm getting up." I looked at my clock, but it didn't register to me as being too early. When Naman calls me, I'm usually late, so I think I just took it all in stride and got ready.

And I finished at 7:30AM, 5 minutes before my alarm would even go off.

Needless to say, when I had realized what happened, I was pissed that I lost sleep. However, that anger was quickly replaced by my plan to sleep straight through my Anatomy lecture unnoticed. The class is fairly large, so I knew from prior experience that I could sleep as long as I blended in with the other students.

Unfortunately, all my plans went askew as class began.

Dr. Anderson had a bone to pick with us. It wasn't quite the same bone Shenzi picked with Scar, but it was similar. He was mad that many people were whining about one question on the last quiz. This question was worth 2 points. In a course with 1400 points, this was fairly negligible. However, not only was he angry about the very vocal minority who whined to him, his anger was increased tenfold when he heard complaints of the question being "unfair."

Now, Dr. Anderson has his ups and downs (ask Eric Woo), but he has also given us 2 free points on every quiz. A quiz that has 15 questions usually contains a bogus question, so as to ease our anxieties about our grade, or simply because he's nice. I don't know his reason, but I don't question it.

Dr. Anderson argued that if he took that question out of the last quiz, then he should take all the "free" questions out of the other quizzes in order to be "fair." This was obviously met with criticism, and thus, Dr. Anderson asked for our input, challenging us to find a compelling reason for him not to take away the points.

One person said that the syllabus already established the point total, so it would be inconvenient at best to change it this late in the semester. Dr. Anderson countered by pointing out that the first thing in the syllabus says, "I reserve the right to change anything." He calls it his "God clause."

Dr. Anderson thus says that he's allowed to give and take points as he pleases.

The good Doctor giveth, and the good Doctor taketh away. That's God, Ph. D., for you, folks.

I voiced my opinion, convincing him that the students do realize that he is the God of the lecture hall, and that's why sometimes we complain, because we know he has that power. That's why we go to class, our biweekly church, to show him our attendance rate, because we know he controls the fate of our grade. That's why we go to his office hours, our Holy Days of obligation, to show that we care about the class, and we love Anatomy, our academic religion. But in the end, the good Doctor giveth, and He can certainly taketh away.

However, my anger did not stem from the arbitrary nature of his points. I could care less. Just work hard and make him laugh, and you'll be fine, I say. My anger stems from the fact that right after I spoke, voicing my opinions, offering my prayers to the good Doctor Himself, he took mental note of me. That means he noticed me. That means that I couldn't go unnoticed. That means that I couldn't sleep.

I was frustrated, but this quickly subsided because I had hours before my next class to sleep. So I got back to my room after Anatomy with the intention of sleeping until my next class. As I set my alarm, I hear the loud rumble, similar to a leaf blower. I look outside and on the building adjacent to mine, they were fixing the roof with a random machine. A loud machine. I told Stephanie this already, but it sounded like the gargling of a lion with lung cancer. Or a dragon. Why do you need a dragon to fix the roof?!

Again, for the third time, now, I was vexed nearing my limit. So I closed my roommate's window, and texted him to inform him. That's when I found out my phone had been disconnected because I forgot to pay yesterday.

My anger was calm, even though it was the fourth transgression upon me in a very early day. It was easy to pay. I just needed to do it online, like I do every month, and in an hour or so, probably when I wake up, I'll have service again. So I go online. It normally goes smoothly, but this time the card number was rejected.

Five times this morning was I subject to ill-will. Five small, but still irksome, annoyances greeted me.

Any other day, I would have been angry beyond measurement. But I felt okay for some reason. I wasn't pissed, but just felt like sleep would make it okay. I didn't have time to be angry because I had to study for my Lab Practical. I calmed myself, and took a quick nap. Realizing that I lost sleep in the morning, during lecture, and before noon because of the loudness, realizing that my phone was dead, my (dad's) card number rejected, thus freezing my telephone capabilities for the rest of the day, realizing that I was having a horrid day, I was still okay.

Then I got a text message from Sean, and I realized that while my phone was dead, I could still receive but not send text messages.


And I was fucking livid.

The Secret Life of Daydreams 2

Everyone’s thought about running away before. Maybe after a long, drawn-out argument with your parents and/or siblings over something as mundane as school. Maybe after a particularly embarrassing moment at a party. Maybe even after a traumatic experience of abuse.

Regardless of the circumstances, countless of children and youngsters have contemplated half-seriously about packing their bags and leaving their family in search of a more immediate happiness.

I have done so a few times myself, but those are stories for another time.

For now, where would I go if I ran away? What would I do? How would I live? Certainly, my career goal as a dentist would be temporarily delayed, if not forever. I would probably live somewhere like Las Vegas, a city not too populous, but certainly a city in its own right. I would start by taking in tutoring jobs, maybe living poorly with a day and night job. I’d probably aspire to be a writer of some sort, or maybe a movie critic if I could manage it. I’d be free from the shackles of my parents.

I thought about it extensively today, my daily budget and schedule. I’d probably go into teaching at some elementary education, dealing with young kids. I’m pretty confident with my skill set that I’d find a few jobs, though obviously not high-paying, but well enough to put me above the poverty line.

I'd probably be able to spew out a few screenplays or novels, maybe contribute to a local newspaper.

Maybe I’ll get lucky somehow, strike it rich with a literary piece. I don’t know. I just wanna get outta here. I know I’d find something to do, living as free as I’d like, as happy as can be with my own choices. I know it’d be the perfect lifestyle, no one telling me what to do, what to eat, what to think.

I thought about it for almost an hour, uninterrupted.

Then my mom handed me my bowl of phở.

“I already put lemon in it,” she said as she poured me a cup of milk. “Just how you like it. If you want, there’s more over here. I have tuong (hoisin sauce). Also, if you can’t finish it, just leave it, and your dad can eat it.”

I blinked twice, initially angry at her for interrupting my daydream.

Then I looked at my home-cooked phở and dug in, all thoughts of running away immediately forgotten.

Mom: 1, Andrew: 0.

Failed Scholar.

Perhaps it is the eternal struggle of desire that pits me this afternoon into an almost-tranquil trance. My story is not particularly more interesting than others’, nor does it offer the general depth of perception and literary convention most (good) stories do. My story does, however, follow in the tradition of Edgar Allen Poe. Poe believed that stories should be read in one sitting, and in order to emphasize this point, the dark and dreary artist wrote a majority of his works in one sitting. Thus, I have concluded that great works come in two varieties: the result of many a hard night’s labor, or the result of supernova explosions of inspiration.

The college student inside me has automatic tendencies toward the latter.

Though my story tries most earnestly to avoid convention, it inevitably must fall under some kind of category. Categories and taxonomies and labels in general seem to be a human intuition. Genres and titles make things less scary. We are inherently afraid of the unknown (i.e. the dark, or the Future), and placing things in categories helps us understand things better, or so we think. Ergo, it stands to reason that such taxonomic tendencies ease our anxieties about that which we do not understand. Thus, I must categorize my story.

Let’s call it self-referential for now.

I am a loud, loquacious and lucky college student at the University of the Pacific. I have been blessed (and I use the term semi-sardonically) with the opportunity to study Biology in a Pre-dental focus, having been enrolled in the very unique program Pacific offers.

My educational experience at Pacific has been a mixed and varied one. I have seen first-hand the dichotomy that dissects the various majors of the school. In general, the science majors stick to themselves and the rest stick to the rest. I see music majors clique themselves. I see SIS majors band together freshman year before dispersing. I am enrolled in the Honors Program, and even when we are forced into the same classroom, somehow we know how to segregate ourselves into our respective majors.

It is a sad sight indeed, when my educational experience is not dominated by my education itself, but rather by my observations regarding our very classist society. I guess “sad” isn’t the right term for it, really. I think it is more apt to call myself concerned.

But I digress.

I am a science major, which in and of itself yields inevitable connotations beyond my ability to fathom. As diligently as I try to analyze my situations from a third-person viewpoint, I cannot fully understand what others feel and see when they see a science major. The connotations are boundless in their complexity and yet infinitesimal in their implication.

My story, then, begins in an honors section of Pacific Seminar. I was asked to be involved in a documentary the school funded for the class, and I accepted merrily. I like looking at myself, you see, and there is no better way to watch yourself than in a cinematic format. Alas, my film debut was limited, and I began to accept my squashed dream as a movie star. I did, however, learn a few things about myself and the context in which I have placed myself here at Pacific.

I learned that my ability to write and discuss in Pacific Seminar did not help me in my science classes.

I learned that my knowledge of biology did not help me (much) in my humanities classes.

I learned that injustice occurs in almost every corner of the world, and despite my observations, one person rarely makes a difference.

I learned that despite my ability to write, to put into words my most visceral thoughts and ideas, I cannot fully explain the intuition that is human desire. I have let go of that goal. I cannot explain the intricacies of the abstract.

Love, joy, sadness, anxiety, depression, desire, Chuck Norris. These are the things that we cannot explain in words. We are at a limit in our communicative abilities to express our feelings.

But we try, Lord knows we try.

Perhaps it is our desire to reach out that makes our limits so difficult to bear.

Perhaps it is our desire to be understood that makes us so grotesquely insistent on expressing our feelings.

Perhaps it is our desire to love and be loved in return, as Toulouse claims, that drives us.

Perhaps it is not love, but habit, that breaks our hearts when we separate from each other, whether it is an emotional parting of two lovers or the physical parting of a friend or father.

Perhaps, as Fitzgerald eloquently states in The Great Gatsby, “we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.”

Perhaps it is the desire to put to peace our past mistakes that worries us.

Our fear of the unknown is evident in our fear of the future. We know the past and so we obsess over it. Our fear of the unknown keeps us confined to the familiar, and separates us from the foreign, the strange immigrants, the changing pop culture, the differing majors.

Perhaps it is not the eternal struggle of desire that pits me this afternoon into an almost-tranquil trance. Perhaps it is the unknown and the acceptance that I cannot control the unknown that puts me at peace.

For, despite my upbringing, despite my “science” major, despite my Roman Catholic guilt-ridden educational background, I find Buddha’s words most True:

“Suffering comes from desire. To end suffering, end desire.”

It is the automatic human intuition of desire that makes us suffer.

And it is the fear of the unknown that fuels such desire. We fear that which we do not know, so we desire to Know. So we suffer. And we segregate. And we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.

And I have an anatomy test next week, so I can’t spend more time with this story or else I have to use more than one sitting.

Poe would be proud.

Restless

Everyone needs to see this.

I don't know exactly if others' education parallels my own experience, but growing up, my elementary school days were invariably replete with American history. We learned of our forefathers, and especially, we learned about the Revolutionary War that established these great united states.

Thus, though we may not always proclaim or show it, but the undercurrents of the "underdog" very much flow through our veins. For some, it flows more strongly, and for others, it is but a hint, a trace, a trickle of emotion that we may or may not squash before it hinders us.

We have always been a culture that celebrates the "story" behind a journey. We exalt and proclaim the bravery of those that fight "against the odds." Even when we are at the top of our game, already respected and revered, we somehow make ourselves the underdog, twist our point of view to fuel our underdoggedness and fight to beat the powers that be.

And we are usually the powers that be.

Take, for example, the Olympics. We are already considered athletically superior to a very large percentage of the world, yet our media coverage somehow finds a way to make it seem like we're the underdogs, fighting for the American freedom like our forefathers.

I'm sick of it.

We live in a great country, maybe the greatest in the world, maybe the greatest in the history of the world (except for Iceland, Norway, Canada, Australia, Ireland, Netherlands, Sweden, Japan, Luxembourg, Switzerland, France, Finland, Denmark and Austria), but quite honestly, there is a fine line between national pride and national arrogance.

Also, the whole "underdog" thing is so tiresome. I don't care if the story is inspirational, or if it's truly "American", in the end, it's just a story, a life that has to be lived like all other lives.

Enough with counterculture and underground and indie. It's time to realize that all of that is a part of the whole, a part of the big picture.

It's time to understand that nonconformity has become the new conformity.

Now leave me alone to eat my burger and freedom fries.

Lent

is over.

I had another post, but I saved it for later, since I think this needs to be said.

I can finally eat meat!

So I found that Lent ends on Holy Thursday. Naturally, I decided to eat meat on Saturday.

My brother, mother and I went to Applebee's and I ordered a shrimp entree...and a sirloin steak.

For once, ironic considering how small they are, my eyes were bigger than my stomach.

We took a to-go box, and saved the shrimp for later because the steak gave me a stomachache.

I guess I deserved that.

Also, I ate with Cha Tri Dinh! We went to Chili's (God bless America) and had a blast with my parents, brother, Rosemary and Nila. It was good times.

I also found out that Cha goes on Facebook often but found out how to sign in without letting people know he's online.

He's so tricky.

Like a priest would be...

I told Stephanie about my stomach problems after eating meat, proclaiming that I think I might have lost my appetite for meat.

She responded with, "That's the worst news ever!"

I smiled, thinking she might actually care for once.

That is, until she said, "Other than Jesus being dead of course."

Is everything a joke to you, woman!? Have you no soul?


Here's an Easter story.

There was once this teacher of a catechism school on Sundays. She was talking about Easter to her very young students.
"Does anyone know what Easter is?" she asked, smiling at the children.
Unfortunately, she was met with silence. Children seem to understand the precise moments to be quiet and loud, and knowing this, they often do the opposite.
However, one child was brave enough to raise her hand.
"Yes, dear. What is Easter?" the teacher asked supportively to the nervous girl.
The girl put her hand down and gulped.
"It's when Jesus comes out of the tomb," she replied meekly.
The teacher was very happy.
"Exactly," she began. "Easter Sunday is wh-"
"But," the girl interrupted, now filled with confidence. "If he sees his shadow he goes back in and winter lasts six more weeks!"

Based on a True Story...

It’s like a scene from a comedy, and then you realize how horrible it is.

Here I am, sitting at my local library, my weekends filled with the droll and arid taste of studying. I had been sharing a table with a stranger, both of us mutually compatible with capitalizing the limited space. No words were exchanged. We just sat and minded our own business.

And then I believe my stranger left temporarily. I’m sure many of you have been in that peculiar, potentially awkward situation when you’re sitting with a friend, and then your friend leaves to use the bathroom. Then someone else attempts to take the seemingly vacated spot, only to hear your disappointing proclamation, “I’m sorry. I believe someone is sitting there.” Or if you’re Jillian, “I already claimed that spot.”

But that’s another story in itself.

Now imagine this person has left, and someone else is trying to take the “empty” spot.

Imagine a paraplegic, confined to a wheelchair, a Stephen Hawking type. He can only move with the movement of his fingers, the index dictates the direction of his desire. I see him from the corner of my eye, the shame of my mobility preventing me from looking at him directly.

What I see for literally the next three minutes is his painstaking attempt to wheel into a small spot. I noticed that he had glasses and hadn’t shaved in a while. He first tried to go into the spot feet first. Then, when he found he couldn’t fit, he turned around and wheeled backwards. He still couldn’t fit all the way, but stopped, half his back end in the spot, face to face with me, who was still avoiding any eye contact possible. I’m pro at that. When he stopped, seemingly settled into his spot, he began to open the book on his lap.

FML, his arms were shaky. He couldn’t clench his fingers to open the book so he half-scooped it up with one hand and shuffled through the pages clumsily. It was really a sad sight, this old, frail man confined to a wheel chair and trying so weakly to open a book and simply try to enjoy the minor pleasure of reading. For us, it’s simply sit down and open, but for this man, it has taken him (and still taking him as I write this) an immense effort to do that which we take for granted. At this point, I was torn between laughing out loud and crying.

Then I noticed he was wearing a baseball cap with “I <3 Jesus” on it. Again, I was torn between laughing and crying.

Then I noticed the book he was trying to read was the Bible.

He took another three minutes to open it up, his arms vibrating involuntary and violently and his fingers noncompliant. It was as if God sent this man to see if I had a heart or not.

Well, God. I didn’t laugh out loud.

I just chuckled.

And he left.

You may say that I’m going to hell, but let me explain the reason behind my overt burst of giddiness. I didn’t laugh at his condition itself, far from it. I was laughing at the fact that it was such an exaggerated form of his condition and seemed almost surreal. I was laughing at the fact that this could be a scene straight from 30 Rock, and I was definitely laughing at my own awkwardness and inability to deal with the situation like a mature adult. It was ridiculously awkward and random. I was laughing because this is a situation that could easily be handled with maturity, but I noticed that I failed to be mature.


Dammit. I’m still definitely going to hell.

Attention Deficit Disor- (April 1)

One of the many physical and real examples of getting distracted is blogging at 4AM. It's actually about half past 4.

Another good example is looking up random things. Just now, to clarify the time, I looked up the definitions of "passed" and "past" to see which one fit in the situation of being 30 minutes into an hour. Unable to quench my thirst for knowledge, I searched "how to tell time" on Google. Upon searching through a few websites, I found that it is indeed "half past" an hour.

Interesting, no?

At this point, I would like to be honest. I am indeed "suffering" from Attention Deficit Disorder (A.D.D.). I am prescribed Ritalin (or a generic version of it, actually) and see a psychologist periodically.

I don't mind joking about it or people poking fun at me for it. Technically, I qualify for extended time on midterms and stuff, but I refuse to take it. In a sense, it can be thought of as a "disability" or whatever, but I think I'm a bit too proud to admit it.

I would like to take this chance to admit that sometimes, people go a bit far with the jokes. I don't mind the occasional jab or jest, but when it comes to the point where people start saying things like, "Oh, it's cuz you have A.D.D" and simply blame a mishap on it, then I think it's a problem.

It's ok to say stuff if I'm actually distracted, making fun of my situational stupidity, but to bring it up out of nowhere is kind of a low blow.

Or when people say, "Have you not taken your medication today or something?"

It's a bit ignorant, in my mind.

I am just as capable as the next person, and any deficiency should not be blamed on a pill, but rather, on my own shortcomings as a person.

Honestly, as I've said, I don't mind joking about it, like the constant Bumper Stickers and pins about bunnies and being distracted in the middle of a sentence.

I've pretty much seen/heard (hear and see?) all of the A.D.D. jokes on the web.

Including this one.




So yeah, just a thought.

My dad has it too, apparently. He thinks I'm half-retarded because of it, claiming he somehow "knows" how I'll act simply because I am his direct posterity and therefore will act directly in accordance to his mindset.

The other day, I was eating dinner, and I see my oft-distracted father looking at a pot of water. Standing there for a few moments, concerned, I ask him, "Bố, what are you doing?"

He pauses, still staring with great perplexity at the heated water, before he answers.

"Bố don't know why it take so long."

Damn it. It's 5AM.

On My Knees, Looking for the Answer...

I read a book by Anne Morrow Lindbergh called Gift from the Sea. She was the widow of pioneering aviator Charles Lindbergh and was herself a pioneer in both aviation and civil rights, particularly women's rights.

The book itself started off boring as hell, but eventually picked up decently. It's a very feministic book, and I was required more than once to get in touch with my sensitive side in order to keep up, or just to care, really.

The book has many valid observations, but the main image that struck a chord within me was Lindbergh's analysis of relationships. She says a good relationship is like a dance, both partners moving in the same rhythm. They don't always have to be touching each other, or even directly in contact all the time, because in the end, they're moving to the same beat. The problem people have with relationships is that they want to be loved all the time, forever, constantly. But in a good dance routine, you're not always moving the same way. You have to be allowed to make your own movements without following the exact steps of your partner. You have to maintain, somehow, your individuality while keeping in sync with your partner.

Only then can your relationship be full and realized.

The analogy is limited, but I think she has a very valid point. We always have demands and desires for our partners, but while the dance is the same, the steps themselves should never be.

It reminds of The Killers' song "Human", where they ask, "Are we human? Or are we dancers?"

The answer is that humans ARE dancers. Relationships are beautiful things, but sometimes they take years of practice to master.

Also, the lyrics are NOT "Are we human? Or are we dancers?" as everyone believes. By everyone, I mean to say that I thought those were the lyrics.

It's actually, "Are we human? Or are we denser?" So yeah, the song has nothing to do with the dancing analogy...

Damn it. It's 5AM.

EDIT: Apparently, according to Jen, The Killers' song lyric IS in fact "dancers", so I'm not sure what to make of it. Eric claims they have no artistic or literary merit, and it's blasphemous to say so, but now...I'm just so confused.