Snippets of conversation with my family, Winter 2012

1.

My brother had just finished his first semester of university and doing things by himself. One morning, he decided to make everyone sunny-side-up eggs. As he served us the eggs, my dad told us about one time he ate forty (!) boiled eggs in one sitting.

“Your great-grandfather would bring in dozens and dozens of eggs because he lived in the country. So one day grandma had boiled a lot of them and I just started eating them with a friend. He stopped at 10, but I ate 40. He called me a monster.”

“How old were you, Dad?”

“Oh, we were young. Like nine?”

2.

We were standing in line at one of the big Korean grocery stores in Coquitlam. I had just bought 10 packs of 새콤달콤, one of my favourite Korean candies from childhood. I asked Dad what he liked to eat when he was a kid. Then we started talking about ramyun noodles — the kind you find in grocery stores for less than a dollar each these days.

“You know,” he said. “Those used to be for special guests at our house. When a guest came, you’d boil one with an egg in it — that was treating a guest well.”

3.

I spotted a prettily wrapped package in my brother’s suitcase when he got home.

“What’s that?” I asked. “A present for mom and dad,” he replied. After a while, he sheepishly added, “it’s just chocolate.”

I was just impressed that he had even thought to buy them something at all, before he chimed in: “I didn’t know what to get you. I was gonna get you a book, but then you’re like this hipster girl who’s read everything.”

Probably the best compliment my brother will pay me.

On writing, and the fears related to it

This post by Magda made me think a lot about my writing process, and writing in general.

Good writing  comes mostly from discipline and patience that allow for long hours of editing and pondering over words. This was never news to me, but it’s something that hits close to home these days, as I produce more botched sentences and unfinished drafts on my computer than I’d like to admit. I have never been good at being patient — which is why I’ve responded so well to instant outlets like this blog and other social media formats, rather than longer formats.

Unclear sentences have been a consistent presence in my writing, often in my final drafts too. In undergrad I had the fortune of having talented writer friends who were willing to edit my work, and it made me terribly lazy. Every once in awhile I would have a stroke of….something that sounded a bit poetic, and for that I was rewarded, far too generously. But I was incapable of fixing my sentences, because I was just too impatient to fix my errors. It culminated to a point where a professor wrote in the comments of my final essay once: “underneath this piece of writing there is a good essay…” I can’t tell you how incredibly humiliating it felt to read that. But he was right. I lacked the discipline to produce long papers I was truly proud of. I’d like to blame the internet, but the internet needs its enabler too.

Funny, it wasn’t until I quit trying to be any kind of “writer” (a.k.a. finished with my liberal arts education, stopped trying to be a “journalist”) that I learned how to fix my structure, and learn the value of clear writing. I suppose it had to do with teaching myself a lot of grammar (for my job) and being restricted in format and style (hi, law school), where I had to learn to edit my work and be a bit more aware of my writing process, rather than frantically coming up with a thesis and some nice-sounding quotes.

This fall, I have to delve into longer paper-writing again. While I know I’m capable of doing it (we are capable of many things, theoretically) part of me still bristles at the idea. I have to be responsible for sculpting an unwieldly block of writing into something worthwhile, something that will last more than a quick, distracted glance on someone’s social media feed. Wish me luck.

Memories of Paris, in no particular order

I went to Paris in August, 2008. Because it was August, the locals fled the city just in time for tourists to cram the city with enthusiasm for picture-taking, pointing at the Louvre, and reading Paris maps with confused looks. It was the first time I was taking an international flight alone to a country where I didn’t speak the language very well, but I managed to tell the cab driver where to go and even exchanged some kind of a joke with him that made him smile.

I stayed in a tiny apartment in the 9th arrondissement, owned by an older couple named Ghilaine and Simon. Simon spoke English with a rigid British accent because that’s where he learned English, and made very strong coffee with a Krups every morning around 8am.  Ghislaine made excellent meals, held my hand a lot and told me encouragingly that my French was improving a lot (which was very generous of her, but not very true).

Every morning, Ghislaine and Simon would watch the Olympics and tell me how the Korean teams were doing.

There was another student in the apartment named Francesca, who came from Milan. She also spoke English with a British accent because she had gone to a language school in London. She told me once that Americans and Canadians chewed on their words when we spoke English, which she found puzzling.

One night during a dessert cheese plate, Ghislaine told me in all sincerity that she believed Sarkozy would do good things for France because he knew what being French meant.

I walked through the Jardin de Luxembourg every day to get to my French classes – just long enough that I almost forgot how beautiful the surroundings were.

One of the corner stores near Ghislaine and Simon’s apartment had a banana-flavoured soda. It looked exactly like urine in a bottle, and drinking it reminded me of sitting in my dentist’s chair with fluoride solutions.

Because I was curious, I paid almost 20 euros to go to an upscale all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet in Paris. It was one of the more memorable meals I had in that city. The lady in front of me had a mountain of shrimp tales and watermelon ends. I also went to a diner called “Breakfast in America,” where they charged way too much for a mug of coffee like it was some Starbucks drink.

On justification and close-ups.

This week, I was told to think about the “violence of justification” – how we let go of valuing something for itself when we say why it must exist, where the thing is then reduced to a means to an end. It’s an apt thing to think about, especially as a law student, where law school is often experienced as a means to an end, rather than as a thing that can be lived in itself.

And it makes me wonder, why is it so? This is not to say every day of my first year has been filled with epiphany and wonder, but I have certainly not been enduring this like some torture I must get through to the prize of…a big paycheck? I feel almost guilty expressing how much I enjoy what I am learning, and how I even enjoy reading some of the cases (the volume of readings I have to get through is another story) because it’s like reading a tedious Victorian narrative of human failure and tragedy. But if I had to tell you where this is all going or why this is important in the grand scheme of my “life” – where many plans had been scrapped or rerouted completely – I wouldn’t know where to begin.

The notion of justification as violence also reminds me of Deleuze’s theory of close-ups in cinema – where close-ups are these moments of “pure affect” where the face escapes the linearity of plot and the contained nature of the character for just a few seconds. The moment of potential and indescribable feeling, before being resolved into the totality of a narrative.

That pure affect is how I feel about life at the moment – the unresolved, unbridled potentiality, before having to “choose” – justify – my life choice of going to law school. I don’t have to tell everyone why I’m here and where I’ll be going – just yet.

[the clip above is from a 1928 silent film "The Passion of Joan of Arc," possibly the best film for multiple close-ups, as well as a useful experiment in experiencing narrative and temporality]

Surviving

 

It snowed in Montreal again today, so this video is resonating with me a lot tonight. The determined footsteps, the armour-like winter jackets, everything. Watching this video also made me realize I have lived in Eastern Canada for so long now that real winter seems completely normal. The other day, a West coaster asked me when the snow stops. April, sometimes even May, I said without much thought. That doesn’t seem so ludicrous anymore.

I am feeling bouts of melancholia these days, reading snippets of The Waste Land and listening to Sylvia Plath between my “real” readings about unfortunate people getting the short end of the stick from the courts. But things are going very well for me. It is what it is.

Being honest: my (interracial) relationship anxieties

I haven’t made real resolutions for 2012. But a few nights ago, I lay in my bed, tossing and turning thanks to West Coast jet lag, I promised myself that I should be more honest about my emotions and try to write them down more.

So here’s a start: my interracial relationship makes me feel anxious sometimes.

When I go to the Korean-run grocery stores with my boyfriend, I unconsciously start walking faster to be in front of him – rather than beside him – because I’m afraid the grocers will judge me for being with him. I am aware of how this makes me sound. But I am being honest – don’t worry, my boyfriend has already noticed made fun of me for this tendency.

I am afraid of my hypothetical children not knowing about their Korean heritage, or even worse, being ashamed of their Korean heritage, like I was for a long time in my teens. I am afraid of not being able to pass my culture or teach my children about their heritage in a meaningful way.

Of course, the above statement shows just how irrational and unfounded my shame is. My full-fledged “Korean-ness” did not mitigate the shame about my heritage. I am too embarrassed to count the times I wished my parents could make me a nice casserole and speak better English during my teen years.

I remember the first time I felt the racial politics of dating. One of my old housemates in university had invited one of his friends over our shared house. He was a nice guy; we chatted a little, but I didn’t think much of it after. After this guy left, however, my housemate came up to me all smiley-faced and asked: “So? What did you think of [guy whose name I have now completely forgotten]?”

“…I don’t know? He’s nice?”

At this point I realized that what my housemate had in mind was match-making. Because this guy was Asian, I was Asian, and we both liked English lit! Actually, it wasn’t a bad guess, and I’m not blaming my former housemate for this at all. But it was definitely a moment where I recognized my racial difference demarcating my “dating territory,” per se.

Maybe I’ve internalized that moment in my mind too much. I do that. And I know how much of a burden this internalization has been to my very patient partner. I know I have acted unfairly against him because of my own mixed feelings. But I’m learning to get over my shame and learning to get over the propaganda about pure-bloodedness and the link between ethnicity and culture. I think about how hard I would have to work in order to communicate my own confused identity to my hypothetical future children no matter what. I think about how love was not born with a rational mind, but a need to have happiness in an intangible, incalculable way.

A friend recently said to me: “If you worry about everything, you’ll just be alone anyway.” And what good would being alone and paranoid do to furthering my culture and heritage, if that were the case?

 

What I discovered in 2011

In general, 2011 was a year of many changes. I went back to school after a brief break, changed disciplines, and changed my laptop loyalty to good ol’ Apple. Here are some new things that became a part of my life this year:

(more…)

I used to write…

While I’m (still) adjusting to my new schedule, here’s some writing I did before my life got really, really occupied with school again:

I had the pleasure of guest posting for Franca at Oranges and Apples while she’s off  honeymooning – it’s about my first Euro-trip at the age of 16, and the little not-quite-a-fling I experienced in southern Italy and Greece.

Alex and I had a chat about the first-ever scholarship for LGBTQ-identified students at Elmhurst College in Illinois, and its implications, over at The Gaily.

Continuing the birthday tradition of writing self-absorbed reflections: 25.

[Me, at age 4]

I turned 25 on Friday. I thought it would feel more significant, but so far, I feel pretty much the same. Sure, there are a few novel things – like the proximity to being 30, as well as perceiving myself as someone officially in her “mid-20s.” If that makes me sound really mature, let me also tell you this: yesterday, I failed to eat an ice cream cone properly and let it melt all over my hands and clothes, while the children around me managed to eat theirs in a perfectly civilized manner.

Maybe the biggest change is feeling comfortable in my own skin. My early twenties were perhaps the most confusing and destabilizing times of my life so far. I jumped from one thing to another, hiding behind internships and institutions, hoping one of those things would help define myself. Then I kind of hit a wall after last year, exhausted and completely unsure of where to go next. Then a breakthrough happened, very unexpectedly. I fought off the insane insecurities I racked up in grad school about my abilities to be a writer, to be a thinker, and to make a difference. One main reason for my breakthrough came from learning to take time for myself, and also learning to build my support network. But another contributor to me finding myself was this blog I started out of panic – because grad school was ending and I had no real plans beyond that. Who knew that it would evolve to such a significant side project that let me explore my politics, writing skills and boundaries in such a profound way?

So thank you, the blogosphere, for letting me connect to great people, for opportunities that involved press passes and review copies and getting paid (on certain occasions) to write words. And thank you, everyone in my life, for believing in me and helping me get here.

Google thinks my blog is about…

I started school this week, which was a bit of a shock to the system after enjoying a leisurely schedule of working part-time for a year. I hope to do a real post soon; in the meantime, here are some bizarre and fascinating Google search terms that directed strangers of the internet to my little blog in the month of August.

“it’s not rape if you yell surprise”

“hearing others argue makes me snap”

“how to draw a girl in a dress”

“how to draw abear [sic] standing up”

“feminist the strong sex”

“wen [sic] is sex harmful”

 

 

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