You are currently browsing the monthly archive for April, 2006.
There's something I've noticed about people who have known you a long time. Whether it's friends from high school or people who have watched you grow up – they have a tendency to assume perfect knowledge. We study history because it gives perspective to the present, allows us to make predictions of the future. And we look at people as if because we know their past, it gives us perfect knowledge of their present.
I'm not really sure what I'm driving at. Lately, the Triumverate (three adults I am really close to in Jetsonville, who have watched me grow up, and basically been responsible for my sanity) have been reallyon my case. And I'm not sure if its because they are *really* on my case, or whether I'm perceiving it that way because I'm hearing things that I don't like, or don't want to admit to.
They talk about concepts, principles. What are my core beliefs? What drives me? Why do you do what you do?
The answer is I don't know. Actually, that's not true. More than anything else, I am driven by a fear of failure, mediocrity and as cliche as it sounds – a desire to prove my parents wrong. Success gives a temporary relief to a long-term pain, and at the end of the day – it's never enough. I already know that about myself, but I'm not sure there's enough of a difference between an unhealthy motivation towards a goal, and what constitutes as a healthy ambition.
So now it's not enough to want to be something, you have to make sure you want it for the right reasons. They're all pushing counseling on me, and I agree. But it's just not feasible to begin that in finals week, especially as I'm leaving in less than 10 days. They all keep pushing me to do it, but come on – is that even a realistic possibility? All this just adds to more strain – and probably furthering an unhealthy desire to please people who are imortant to me.
The point is, I know I'm a basket-case. I know I have a lot of issues that need to be dealt with, but for the love of all things holy – does it have to be turned into such a big deal? Does every trauma need a billboard, or can it be simply managed as it is: a past experience. I get criticized for trying too hard, not trying hard enough. Doing too much, not doing enough. Not thinking ahead, or thinking too far ahead and trying to map out my life. WHAT DO YOU ALL WANT FROM ME?! I am not a perpetual flaw that you can keep trying to fix, I'm a human being. And I will always be flawed. Accept that. Do what you can to help, but for crying out loud – know when to leave me alone. Remember that when you were my age, you probably were just as clueless, if not more.
Sometimes I forget that the triumverate are three discrete people. Information flows so fluidly amongst the three of them, that I usually just assume things get passed down the grapevine. It's a little annoying, because nothing's really ever new to them. Or a surprise. But I know that's not right. And I ought to give credit where it's due.
I just wish they weren't so quick to jump to conclusions. So quick to assume that they have a perfect picture of my life, and the challenges that I face. But then again, maybe I'm not listening, and am too quick to write off their advice.
The bachelorette pad of 1022 has become a whirlwind of activity in the last two weeks. Not that it was ever entirely calm – there's always someone running off to some event (Ginger), someone working their tail off for a project (Michela), someone trying to take on more than humanly possible (me) and now – someone with six men in tow (Skye).
For a while, Skye had been in a long distance relationship with a boyfriend from home. Monogamy lasted until Spring Break, after which they decided (or she, rather) to be in an open relationship. Two weeks later, they were officially broken up and thus begain the fleshfest of 2006.
Before I continue, let me say that Skye is an amazing person. She is one of the most unassuming, kind, and down-to-earth people you can ever meet. I'm not sure how she does it, but this is probably the reason she can have any man she wants – though she'll be the first to tell you that's not true. (Statistics show otherwise) Here is a woman, in the process of discovery, liberation and her unyeilding honesty is refreshing, where so many people are in denial.
In a way, Ginger, Michela and I live vicariously through her. We all hover around her when she gets home, sit around the table and hash out experiences, and giggle like school girls the minute a boy leaves our apartment. It's all good fun.
It's finals season and with the impending deadlines come the desire for escapism. Luckily, Ginger and Michaela have equal amounts of work and the three of us are constantly studying together and motivating each other. We don't even need to arrange a meeting – it just sort of happens. Skye seems to have half the number of finals that we do – and is busy having fun. I look up and realize it's Friday night, and I've been up until 2 AM reading Jewish history.
I guess what I'm trying to say is I have ambivalent feelings about her life. Somtimes I wish I had that sparkle that she carries so easily upon her shoulders. She is easily the center of a conversation and everyone stopping by makes sure to check if she's home. But at the same time, she deoesn't seem to have the stability and foresight that I've learned. Maybe it's because so few men have crossed my path that I've learned not to think of them as a bag of walking horemones. I also think strategically, have a tendency to live in my head, and am far more interested in an interesting mind than a hansome face. I don't want a whole string of lovers – I think innocence and purity can be good things – I'd much rather have an emotional connection with someone than pursue "good sex" (which seems subjective to me anyway.)
I'm the baby of the house. The one everyone teases about being inexperienced. I turned tomato-red the night before when Michaela asked me about a first kiss experience. But I know myself, and I'm just not ready. I'm not ready to throw myself out in the whole sex and the city dating game. I'm too old-fashioned, I'll get my heart trampled on, my optimistic true-love-is-worth-waiting-for world view in tatters – and I think that would be a great tragedy – the day I stop believing that "I do" can mean forever and a lifetime, that sex is sacred as well as fun, and that waking up to the same person every day is the best part about being in bed with someone.
I guess I just struggle with myself. I wonder if I'm not missing out, if Skye doesn't really have it right after all. But coming home night after night after a new conquest, another notch on the bedpost, there must be something lost as well as gained. To eat an entire pint of ice cream in one sitting, and call up a boy at 2 in the morning to go across town to sleep – perhaps there is something behind that veil of experience that I'm better off without. Still, I'm grateful for the friends that surround me, share their lives without apology. In a way perhaps it does me good, and keeps me thinking critically about my beliefs.
Monday is the last day of class. Tuesday is reading day. Wednesday is my macroeconomics and Civil Liberties final. Then 4 days break, Monday again my International Economics final and that's it. The end of junior year.
I have still yet to book my tickets home, and I'm flying in less than two weeks. Still haven't figured out summer housing, still don't know what I'm going to do about summer classes. Still so much to do.
Three essays due on Monday, 15 chapters of econ to memorize. A billion cases for law. Trying not to panic. Enjoying my girls – Michaela and Ginger, we've taken over the dining table and the three of us look like we're in a computer lab. Three matching (mac!) laptops, energy drinks, notepads, hilighters strewn across the table. It's crunch time boys and girls – time to prove your worth.
"I like Shoji's Bum"
(arrow pointing to "Shoji") "is a horndog."
Unusual phrases? Not so for the residents of 1022. Instead they are part of the everyday vernacular and are scribbled on the little white-board outside the apartment door, for passerbys to raise their eyebrows in passing.
Inside, a secret no-boys allowed club, where four not-a-girl-not-yet-women girls reside. The giggles can be heard from around the corner, and on certain nights either really really loud hip hop music, or really really loud opera.
Michaela, the token latin girl – Brazilian from the flag hanging over her bed, havaianas on her feet, and well.. let's just say when she turns around, "nuff said." 
A vivacious character once you get to know her, but hard working through and through, and a constant friend. "Ginger" Shoji, the self proclaimed porn star – playing up the whole east-meets-west advantage at every angle. I kid. She is poised and confidant, silly, and everything a friend should be. And then, there's Skye. Half Filipina, half English, born and bred in Singapore – my roommate. Together we share a common (and extremely faint) British accent, barely noticeable and yet it's what we're both teased for amongst our friends. A tendency to drop our a's. We both worked for Merrill in our freshmen year (actually, she worked for my boss' boss – heh) and both think travelling to third world, communist countries to live in a tree sounds fabulous. We all live vicariously through her, as she's recently decided that since she broke up, she's just going to have as much fun as she can. We make an odd pair – this worldly, take-no-prisoner girl and me – the "innocent one" and the baby of the house, and yet it's me that sits up until four in the morning, advising her on scenarios I would never even dream of being in myself.
In each of our own unique ways, we compliment ourselves with our differences. I could not be more different from each of these girls, and yet they have made me feel more at home then anywhere else on the earth. Walking through the front door, to a room full of laughter is always a joy. There's almost always cookies or munchies on the table – someone's always baking, cooking or managed to sneak contraband from a school event. We dance at odd hours of the day – to the great amusement of our neighbors, four boys ("the beer pong boys") whose windows look into ours, and always someone to talk to about life, love and happiness.
There are only a few more days until we're off for summer, and next year, we're all living in different places. But I'm always going to remember this semester fondly, and my three crazy roommates.
It was raining. The streets were pitch, and uncharacteristically cold for what should have been a warm spring evening. I skittered, unelegantly, through the rain, with my full-length gown in one hand and an umbrella in the other. This was certainly not how Cinderella went to the ball – but then again, I've never been the fairy-tale sort. Magic pumpkins nowadays are yellow taxi-cabs, and the only magic involved is getting one to stop by sticking your hand out into the street. In tow, a man in a tux, and and a young pixie-like girl in a white dress.
We were the strangest set you could possibly imagine, attending a sorority formal.
Nonetheless, we had a pretty good time. He was visiting family, after flying in for a week from Asia. The dress I wore, he chose during winter break. I hate shopping for formal gowns. Actually, I hate shopping, period. But he seemed to get a kick out of it. Picking out dresses like I was a living Barbie doll. He said he wished he could see it – I said, that's actually not impossible. I invited his daughter along – who's really the kid sister I never had. They came into the city for the day, and we went to formal. It was.. an experience. I'm not how to classify it – but that's kind of how formals are. If you're the date, you're probably bored, and if you're the one doing the inviting – you're torn between entertaining your guest and acting like a goofball with your friends.
Then again, I've never brought a date (let alone two, simultaneously) to one before, so I really wouldn't know.
It's been about four months since we've seen each other, and almost two years since the drama. Because of the distance, we never really got a chance to talk about things. And when I left, and started dating someone else, well – it became the pink elephant in the room. We each have entirely different notions about what happened. He thinks it's because I found someone else, and felt the need to drift away. I said it's because I couldn't handle the ambiguity, the effect it would have on our mutual friends. Really, I just didn't know where it was leading and at eighteen, and completely untouched by experience – I confused one form of love for another.
But there is love. There is love that binds one person to another – even after a year and a half of silence and distance. After new experiences, and exclusion. After difficult transitions and changes – we are still drawn together. In a strange dance of paternal watchfulness and unplatonic chemistry. We dance a strange choreography, of blurry boundaries, and always – afraid to get too close but not really knowing quite exactly what "too close" is. We are in each other's thoughts, know the mechanisms. thought processes that construct the familiar terrain of each other's psyche – but never have things been so unfamiliar.
As we sit in the cab, I think about how different things are. How time, though it doesn't change things, at least dulls memories to a comfortable silence, compressing them small enough to shove into a dusty box in the back of your mind. I step out of the cab, and feel then, the faintest touch – tracing circles in the small of my back.
Three weeks.
My mother and I have a strange relationship. It's certainly a love-hate relationship, but in recent years, I'm starting to wonder if it's more of the latter.
Don't get me wrong. My mother was one of the most incredible people you could have ever met. She survived a revolution, 10 years without education and without a high school diploma, still managed to get abroad and get a college degree. She's completely fluent in four languages, worked in a huge trading firm, and on top of that survived an abusive marraige, divorce and raising two kids.
My mother in the 90's was a hurricane. A formidible force, an eternal optimist who almost refused to believe in reality and hung on to a distant dream that seemed beyond all hope. It may have been my grades and initiative that got me to college, but my mom was the one who put the notion in my head, and she's largely responsible for giving me the boost up. Opportunities have to begin somewhere.
This morning I rolled out of bed, and (naturally) glanced at my computer. Email from mom. I had asked her to pick up a document for me, and send it so I could apply for a new passport that is bound to expire. My one-paragraph email was rebutted by an eight-paragraph one, detailing my incompetance, lack of organization and goal-orientation and general suckage. An hour later at work, I received a text message about an on-going legal matter, and how there was good news and I called to clarify. Talking on the phone with my mom is like walking through a minefield. You never know when you're going to trip an explosion. I'm usually not very tolerant of her. I think we've perhaps had three conversations this year where we haven't hung up on each other, and believe me – that's a record.
When I was twelve, my mother sent us across the country to live with my grandfather. He was really – a relic of another era and was completely clueless as to what to do with my brother and I. And even at twelve, I can be unbelievably stubborn. We didn't speak for eight months. I got used to it. And to be honest, I think my mother was pretty indifferent as well. At sixteen, I started aiming for financial independence, and finally achieved it at eighteen. It took a gap year, moving to Italy and getting into college, but it finally happened. She's threatened lots of things – getting into my bank accounts (all completely bogus, of course) and until this morning, didn't even have my address in New York. The only thing I can think of that ties me to her still is the insurance policy she took out when she still had power of attorney and then borrowed against, de facto putting my policy in debt. That – still needs to be sorted out, but all in good time.
The trigger that set it off this time was me asking about the trust fund. Ironically enough, I asked about procedures to add to the principle. Trusts are interesting concepts, and far more an investment vehicle than most people think. They've been associated with the brats on "my super sweet sixteen" but my research and contact with the buy-side has made me look at them differently. She asked why I was intersted, and I just mentioned that I might want to add to the principle one day, to insure her financial security.
How this managed to set off an explosion, I'm not quite sure. The next thing I know, I'm told that she's fully capable of managing assets, that I don't even have a degree yet, and work two part time jobs and think I know everything. Great. Me and my big mouth.
If I could manage to find some sort of an inner peace, a way of being in the eye of the hurricane without being caught in the debris hurling past. Maybe that's the trick. Instead of running away from the storm, it's getting close enough to sit in the middle of the chaos. That, or temporary deafness.
These are the thoughts currently circulating in my mind:
I don't understand macroeconomics. I haven't gone to class in forever, because there's really no point. The professor dismisses us 45 minutes early, doesn't speak english well and I haven't been able to have half an iota of what's going on since the beginning of semester. I have 15 chapters to memorize in less than two weeks. My international economics class is so ridiculously smart, the grades are curved and even at 90, it's a B+. My Civil Liberties class, I'm so desperate to do well but I'm intimidated as all heck, and as for my Religion class – I have an A, but the prof hits on me and even though he doesn't grade my papers, I can't help but feel… slimy.
My GPA is abysmal, I haven't done this badly since skipping a grade and transfering into the IB system in high school. Harvard actually seems beyond my reach. My firm in HK called today and came up with the package – and it is such a joke that I could slit my wrists and make more from donating blood.
All I can think about right now, is how this is a crucial year and how badly I've screwed up. Because financial constraints, parents.. none of that has anything to do with my performance. It boils down to me -
screwing up.
.. to my train of thoughts of late
"Even if you're on the right track, you'll get run over if you just sit there"
- Will Rogers
In high school, I can't really say that I was the best of the best. In the local system, sure. But that's because the competition wasn't all that tough. Imagine "Dangerous Minds" and then getting straight A's. The challenge isn't the material or the classroom, but the peers. But put a teenager socially awkward enough to not care, and it's not hard to conceive why I got straight A's.
Enter the IB years. Attending an international school with a rigorous curriculum. Papers graded everywhere from Zurich to Calcutta. I was happy for the challenge, and rather masochistically – enjoyed the work. Certainly not the best of the best, but not too shabby either. The few leadership positions I held, I expanded. Really worked and established some great relationships with both peers and faculty. I was sorry to leave.
Enter the gap year. While everyone was off for freshman year, I took my private detour. Turned out to be a good thing. Not fulfilling in the way that I imagined, but it made me eager and thirsty for college. Then Florence – a whole continent for me to explore. Those were some great days. I wish I knew to appreciate them as much as I do now.
Fall 2004. Manhattan. Landing for the first time in a place that was both familiar and foreign at the same time. Every thing I owned fit into one suitcase, and all the means I had in an envelope full of cash. Either incredibly brave or naieve enough not to realize how precarious my situation. I prefer the former. Five moves in one year, and the grades – well of course they tumbled. But for the first time, I hadn't really paid much attention. Caught up too much in the moves, living in Brooklyn where my creepy Morrocan landlord that hit on me when his wife wasn't looking. Was outta there fast. Stayed barely 2 months. The trauma of first love – its birth, life and death, but most importantly – the loss of a dear friend. How I got through that year, I have no idea. Perhaps I simply wasn't introspective enough or not caught up enough with mainstream culture to fall into depression. Maybe I'm just wired funny.
Summer. New York, Puerto Rico, Hong Kong, British Columbia. I fly back to the Big Apple after a whirlwind of a summer and ready for a new start. Within the same day of the breakup, I join school organizations, throw myself into my academics – and it pays off. A little. Slowly but surely the A's reappear in the columns.. but there are still a few credits that linger behind.
Now. Three weeks until finals. One law brief, three finals and one paper to write. An internship to secure. An ambitious five countries to visit. Some business. Some personal. Then back again, to my western island of a metropolis. To finish the story where it first began. Here's to the next three weeks, and a brilliant senior year.
I can't. Concentrate.
This past weekend was relaxing, borderline pedantic. With no concrete plans and my roommates missing, I was able to sleep in, take walks throughout the city, and basically – do as I wished. The only thing is, I don't think I have a knack for relaxing without a schedule. I was bored in the Bahamas over Spring Break, and really only came alive when I was in Cuba – so much to see and do.. none of this lying around absorbing skin cancer nonsense.
And the many times I have tried to write a post – has wound up futile. I write a line, then promptly close the window to surf. I get no where, have too much time on my hands, and then I get frustrated because at the end of the day, I realized I really haven't accomplished much.
Perhaps I'm actually a vulcan. Or a borg. No no.. a vulcan. I need structure and logic. I wouldn't fare well as a bohemian wandering the earth – I'd probably be the first bohemian with a palm pilot.
RG is in the US. He flew in over the weekend and text-messaged me today about firming down plans for him and his daughter to visit on Saturday. Our relationship has certainly changed over the past few years. At times I am excessively optimistic, because I know that he truly does care about my well-being and wants to support me. But this man has vacillated so much in his role in my life, that I'm not sure what to make of it. I only know that he cares – but perhaps is too weak to stick to his guns and do what's right. Somehow turning "legal" seemed to give all older men precedence to treat me like I actually know what I'm doing – but in reality, nothing could be further from the truth.
I'm a strange anomaly, I think. Experience and maturity far beyond my years, that when 'adults' talk to me they forget how young I am. The insecurity of a teenager, who still hasn't gotten over an out-dated self image. The college student that resides in the 21st Century, surrounded by liberals still struggling to make logical sense out of beliefs. In my junior year of college, I am perhaps more confused and so "open minded" that I feel like everything's going to fall out. In the classroom, I struggle with apologizing for my beliefs. When I go home, I struggle against the rigidity of expectation and social structure. And yet, I don't think any other of my friends are doing much better – we are equally caught between worlds.
In the last two years, I've noticed that the discipline I had in high school has seemingly disappeared. I really have the attention span of a goldfish – it takes me forever to start doing work, let alone see it through. But at my heart of hearts, I'm an academic. I love debate and ideas. Somewhere along the way, I seem to have lost my confidence – the metaphorical cocky swagger that I could actually out think and out smart my peers. Ha. Oh the days of arrogance.
Instead, I'm frustrated. It's not more freedom I want – so much of it on my hands that i'm lost. It's more discipline. Maybe boot camp is the answer to frustration, of any sort.
