In transition

Sometimes it's great to feel like a little kid again.

And sometimes it just sucks.

At times I feel childish. I'll feel like I'm 15 all over again, where my parents called out my every move, I worried about what people thought of me, and I wondered where the hell I'd be in three years' time.

But is that so wrong?

People keep asking me when I'm going to graduate. I usually give the self-deprecating, defeatist, beat-around-the-bush answer - "haha, never!" "whenever I can pass these classes." Why do I do it? I know when I'm going to graduate. I know the exact day, even. But I don't say it.

I tried to convince myself that I keep quiet about it because I don't want to jinx my graduation. That if I tell people when I'm graduating, and by some chance I really don't, then I'll just look bad, that my parents will be upset and ashamed, and so will I.

There are several problems with that rationale. It's completely irrational. First off, so what? My father once told me "you worry too much about what other people think." For a man who has never carried a deep conversation with anyone, let alone me, he hit that one on the dot. Secondly, how long can I keep it a secret? Do I keep it a secret until it's about time to walk into the Greek Theatre with a ridiculously expensive (and ridiculous looking, for that matter) cap and gown? What does it take?

Then I realized why I avoided the topic when someone else brought it up. It's not that I'm afraid of making it to graduation. I'm afraid of what's after.

You know two years ago to the day, life cherished me. Yes, it sounds lame, but I was weeks away from graduation, I had a job lined up, and I had a one-way ticket to California. I was moving out of the house I grew up in, I was getting an apartment of my own, and for the first time I felt as though the world was at my fingertips, at my discretion, at my disposal.

Deep down, though, I knew starting this nine-to-five job wasn't going to be the end of it all. Deep down, I knew I was going to graduate school. I took the GRE later that month. I had my letters of recommendation. I wrote the essays, got the transcripts. I sent them in and less than a month later I got word. It was back to taking classes, meeting new people, getting up late, sleeping whenever I wanted to. I'd still be living on my own. In effect, it would be the college experience I always wanted but never had. I couldn't wait to go back to school.

It's now been three semesters, with two more (I think?) to go. 2008 is already defined for me. Go to school, have a summer internship, go back to school. And then what?

I think that's what worries me the most. The unknown. I'll graduate, I'll get a job, and I'll get my own place again - but what's after that? How does my life change? How will I define the rest of my life? The last time it happened, I responded by going back to school. But my masters degrees are terminal degrees for me. There's no going back; once I'm back in the real world, I'm there to stay.

After they ask me when I'm going to graduate, they'll ask me what I'm going to do after it all. Am I going to get a job? (This is akin to asking my friend what she plans to do after getting her ph.d. She retorted, "I'm going to be a stay-at-home mom.")

The frustrating part is, I don't know what I'm going to do. That's not entirely true - there are tons of things I want to do, but I haven't finalized anything yet. But it seems like I'm surrounded by ambitious, driven people who know exactly what they want to do, where they want to do it and when they want to do it. Have I dropped off the wagon? Am I missing something here? Does every person plan his/her life this much, this far in advance?

I can't escape the fact that I'm all grown up now. Now in my 20s, I'm closer to being 30 now than I am being in high school. It's a chilling thought, but it's one that I can't ignore. I've been approaching it the wrong way this entire time. The future is something I need to look forward to, be excited about - not run away from.

It was easy being a kid, wasn't it? You were taken care of, you were told what to do, you didn't have to worry about having food on the table or about paying bills or getting a job. Those were carefree days, the days that I think back on and wish I didn't take for granted. Right?

Sure, it's a great feeling, and I don't think there's anything wrong with feeling that way once in awhile. But you can't go back to it forever, no matter how bad you want it to. No matter how much you think it will help get your mind off of what's next. Because that would be childish.

Every day you live is a day you'll never get back. There's no use chasing it. That's what memories are for.

Tomorrow is another day. It's time to move on.

 

I'll be the first to admit - I didn't grow up like your typical Wonder Years, Facts of Life 80's child. But what, in that twisted head belonging to yours truly, is a typical American childhood? I think this is what it's not - a childhood devoid of sleepovers, absent of rollerskates and remote-controlled cars, nonexistent laughter bordering maniacal. I recall those years encased by four very white, very bare walls - kneeling next to my bed or sitting cross-legged on the carpet floor, engaged in my world of make-believe that rivaled Mr. Rogers', bar none. Deviations met opposition from the wooden end of the feather duster. Occasionally the flesh made a quick brush with razored fingernails. It's just the way life was - silence was golden; obedience, compulsory.

I could never complain, I really couldn't. In a working class family, you can't really ask for more. A father out the door by 6 in the morning and a mother gone by 6 in the evening, all to make those little ends meet up, somewhere, somehow. The leashes were on tight, the iron fists were poised, but all with the best of intentions. The end justifies the means, quipped the post-Peace Corps high school ethics teacher. Insofar as to what? No time for silly questions. Daddy's tired. We can go to the park another day.

While the sheltered (physical, social, emotional, whatever) life may have its ups and its downs, those of us with that experience may occasionally forget one of the more important 'ups.' Food was always on the table, through thick, thin, rain, wind, sleet, snow, hail, earthquake. (Hmm. Looking back, I was rather blessed by the lack of natural disasters.) In any case, where the hell am I going with this? Yes. The trade-off. You could easily give up those wacky, trampoline-jumping, basketball at twilight with dad, swimming at the beach in the summer years with something far more important. In addition to the food, the clothes, the shelter, nothing reminds you more of the love your family professes than when you're lying in bed, forehead glowing, eyes squeezed tight, limbs aching, temples throbbing.

All you could have was a cold, maybe a little cough. Maybe your occasional episode of porcelain tourism. But the water was always there, the thermometer at an arm's distance, the Dimetapp a tablespoonful away. Every class of mud known to China would be stewed in boiling water, and you'd sip it with that strange look on your face - the priceless manifestation of the this-is-gross-but-good-for-me dichotomy - minutes before you'd down the Tylenol and strike that perfect balance between western and eastern medicine. You'd never appreciate it more than now, when you're twenty five hundred miles away from that place you once felt trapped in, the place you once hated to spend your sunny 30°C autumns in, that place you once called home, the one place where you felt... safe.

It's lonely when you live by yourself; it's even lonelier when you're entering the tenth day of these flu-like symptoms that just won't go away - in fact, it just plain sucks. The nurses at Tang tell you there's nothing they can do, the lab technician hastily jabs you with needles until you don't even know how much blood you've lost but compensate with a bruise the size of your clenched fist, and you go back to your apartment and let the night pass you by. There is no one to call, because you don't want people to worry - but secretly, you don't want people to know. You don't want people to catch you at your point of weakness, at that one moment in time that brings back the memories of being six years old and without a damn care in the world. But when you're thousands of miles away from these memories, they call even harder, and you can't help but wish you could just let it all go.

Getting sick is no big deal, as I've always trucked along just fine. Living in San Jose was quite possibly the best year of my life, sans episodes of bronchitis, sprained ankles and mysterious bacteria-based influenzae (don't ask). There was something different though. I didn't deal with nurses who didn't know what was going on. I didn't deal with the unforgiving life known as graduate studies at Cal. I didn't deal with relationships with people or worry about the prospects of them. I didn't weigh myself down with these seemingly unrelated issues or let my complete disregard for my health catch up to me, eleven weeks down the line. But I have, and it is my responsibility to tackle these issues, one at a time.

It may feel like the walls are getting closer and closer together, but it will pass. It always does. And when I wheeze and cough and can't tell whether it's a virus or the choking ghost wreaking havoc on my vocal cords, I stare out the window at the laces of pink streaking across the sky from the 4:30pm setting sun. All I have to do is remind myself of life's simple little pleasures... and at the end of the day, I know it'll all be okay.

I had a point but it got dull.

Other than the facts that midterms were a complete disaster and I wouldn't trust AC transit for taro milk tea (from Sweethearts, I'm sick of Quickly's chewless tapioca monstrosities), nothing much is going on. In an effort to build up to some sort of point in these dull posts, I'll start with admiring the wonderful weather Mother Nature has been sending our way, dense fog notwithstanding. Okay that's enough.

Is anyone interested in a free copy of Lyndon LaRouche's dynamic propaganda? I have a seemingly endless supply of "The End of the Truman Era" coupled with "Is Joseph Goebbels On Your Campus??" (supplemental question mark and italicization for emphasis); all from the cheery, well-mannered yet potty-mouthed economics student who cornered me this morning at the entrance to Sproul plaza, demanding to know what I thought would give Democrats their balls back and my opinion on the not-so-secret right-wingers who go to universities to get politically-conscious professors axed. I nodded attentively.

Apparently I'm invited to a meeting of similarly well-informed and politically-passionate students interested in mobilizing yours truly's ignorant ass in downtown Oakland tonight. As much as I miss the 19th Street station in all its sky-blue glory, I've already made prior commitments to roll on a bike with one missing wheel. But I appreciate the offer! I've already distributed a few booklets to unsuspecting co-workers. Together, let's take the House.

In this era of globalization, I really do agree that we need to promote a more sustainable community for our billions and their children (regardless of their legitimacy). Two weeks ago I attended a film screening in Dwinelle Hall with a Cornellian classmate and San Gabriel Valley's very own Earl - China Blue is a poignant glimpse at the harsh and soul-wrenching story of a stipended Sichuan (might I also add a hater of Canto cuisine, =( ) teenager working countless hours in a Guangzhou jeans factory. If only her boss weren't such an asshole with his You'll be looking hard for work tomorrow if you don't work hard today motivational slogans maybe his underpaid underlings would be able to send some money home. Maybe if we didn't add so much to designer label profits we'd stop promoting this status quo. In any case, I went back to my apartment after and checked my tags. I'm sadly guilty of hypocrisy. Then I checked my pocket - just in case I was one of those mysteriously large Americans who got that special letter from Jasmine in simplified Chinese. I would certainly write back.

The Ides of October

Commence