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.