I never realized it when I was a kid how pathetic it was that half of the time I could not understand half of the people on this island that I lived on because I don't speak their dialect. You know what's worse? One of them is my dad.
That's pretty sad. But I didn't like him anyway.
Now things have changed. The once oppressed South Fukien dialect is not only making a comeback, even the president speaks it. So I don't understand half of the people on this island most of the time. I've also made amends with my dad. Double whammy.
Case in point: I was quite happy to have dinner with some of my dad's friends whom I haven't seen in 13 years. We used to travel with this gang to other parts of Taiwan, Southeast Asia, and North America. I couldn't understand them half of the time then, but since their dialect was oppressed in the schools, I didn't think much of it other than the want to pick up a few words here and there. Cut to tonight. Steaming dishes and dim sum (no longer an afternoon tryst, it's now a 24-hour decadent possibility in this awesome city) was served one tempting plate after another. Two bottles of $40 Cabernet Souvignon and one 17-yr-young whiskey were quickly being relieved of their burdens. Boisterous conversation was the norm, spiced with an occasional toast in recognition of a good joke (crass or otherwise) or randomly for no reason at all. I enjoyed myself, that's to say, I felt like a solo American sitting at an all-Chinese table, forcing every joke to be repeated in Mandarin, spiced with an occasional English, Japanese, or Spanish phrase, with any good pronunciation skinned before delivery. I tried hard to pick up words I'd recognize, but the amusing reality was that I simply couldn't understand what was being said.
Oh my I had a great time. Two-thirds of a bottle of wine didn't hurt the cause. But I don't even like wine.
8.24.2005
Roots I
This is how my journey began, trying to shed the lingering separation anxiety and chasing daylight across the Pacific at 35,000 ft. With sable peeking above almost every seat, I could've been back in high school math league again. Or some much more distant past, yet also more familiar.
What awaits me across the ocean? Old friends, or new alliances? My first time in Taiwan without the protection I've been accustomed to, what adventures will greet me? What perils (like the big one across the strait, armed to the teeth)? I can't wait to find out.
My dad only half guessed that he was being cajoled into picking me up by my stepmum, but his half-surprise mirrored mine. On the ride back to the little town where I spent the first decade of my life, I kept trying to reconcile the modernizing city with hazy and rundown memories. New and wider streets, taller and shinier buildings. Once our apartment building was the tallest around the turnabout; now it's the runt of the litter.
At least one thing remains constant. Not a star to be seen in the night sky of Taipei.
Our living room. It took (a lot of) my brother's blood spilled by the left divider for me to realize how much I loved him. I never hit him again.
My later room: furthest away from my parents' room, and the place of my first drive for independence.
Who's more racist, black people or white people?
Chinese people. 'Cause only we have a best selling toothpaste called "Black Man".
What awaits me across the ocean? Old friends, or new alliances? My first time in Taiwan without the protection I've been accustomed to, what adventures will greet me? What perils (like the big one across the strait, armed to the teeth)? I can't wait to find out.
My dad only half guessed that he was being cajoled into picking me up by my stepmum, but his half-surprise mirrored mine. On the ride back to the little town where I spent the first decade of my life, I kept trying to reconcile the modernizing city with hazy and rundown memories. New and wider streets, taller and shinier buildings. Once our apartment building was the tallest around the turnabout; now it's the runt of the litter.
At least one thing remains constant. Not a star to be seen in the night sky of Taipei.
Pulling aside the beaded curtain, half a lifetime of memories flushed in before my eyes...
My brother's and my room, where I used to beat him up. He's always been bigger than me, but he never hit me back.
Our living room. It took (a lot of) my brother's blood spilled by the left divider for me to realize how much I loved him. I never hit him again.
My later room: furthest away from my parents' room, and the place of my first drive for independence.
Who's more racist, black people or white people?
Chinese people. 'Cause only we have a best selling toothpaste called "Black Man".
8.21.2005
The Perfect Breakfast
There's something about the perfect soft boiled egg that fills the day with hope. The hope for a brand new beginning, like a chick awaiting its turn to hatch. No matter how desperately envious, no one else can ever take it away from you. Because I made it just for you, with the same love and care(ful timing) everytime you crave it, and everytime I need it.
It's just the way you want it: 2 organic eggs bouncing for 4:30 in boiling salt water, struggling to become perfect. The yoke flows slowly down your spoon, like magma's newfound freedom from a lifetime churning in its fiery prison; the eggwhite still far from the jadedness that comes with age and melts beneath your tongue. You loved it, as I knew you would.8.18.2005
What's "worth" got to do with it?
And so, my fellow Americans, ask not what your country can do for you; ask what you can do for your country.
Having moved onto completed status, Downey and I counted on having a light and carefree last year in AFROTC. I still want to be active, don't get me wrong, but please understand my ambivalence when command saw fit to designate us the "tip of the spear" in an aggressive Stanford recruiting campaign. What? I thought the Air Force had too many officers--enough to ask us to cross-comm to the Green Machine (which I considered because they have better helos, but decided that I might want to go Mach 2 instead).
Bless me and this great nation, the powers-that-be do value intelligence after all.
But there goes our light and carefree last year, and I'll tell you why. I don't want to just go through the motions of recruiting; I actually want to bring in bright cadets. I've trained with them and I've trained them, and I know we need bright cadets. Hell, I love the Air Force and the opportunities that it has given me so much, that I'd be happy to share it with others.
But will anyone at Stanford listen?
A year ago, a WWII-era video of handsome Army uniform-clad young men carousing with classy (as in more Vivian Leigh and less Pamela) babes on the steps of Green Library plucked a chord in me that's simply not strung inside most of my peers. "This war is wrong." Excuse me, I signed up before we invaded Iraq, and I'm absolutely sure that I didn't see you in line. "Boys and girls are not dying for a worthy cause." Excuse me again, but worth is only a mirage conjured by the politically inclined. Did anyone who went through D-Day believe that it was worth it?
Maybe if the media was as penetrating, the public as educated and life as complacent as now, America would've never entered WWII. KMT would've lost China to the Japanese, and I'd be saying konichiwa when I see you instead of wazzup. It wasn't always like this. Young men used to enlist, train and die by the hundreds of thousands for a "worthy cause" they did not comprehend. Scroll down to today: rich frat boys drunkenly scoping out another piece of ass while their less-than-fortunate high school classmates warily search for IEDs with their hearts in their throats. Oh no, Mr. Herbert, it's not just the loudest and richest hawks who aren't sending their Abercrombie & Fitch kids off to fight, but the richest finger-pointing bleeding-hearts, too.
"But why should they fight in a war that they don't believe is right or worth it?" Bingo. Herein lies the dilemma to which we as a society cannot supply a practical answer. Serving in the military used to be a badge of honor for all classes; now it's a priesthood entered by the choiceless. The military is stretched to a point of transparency, but it's political suicide to ask all echelons of America to sign up. That's what happens when you have an all-volunteer force. That's what happens when the citizenry has the means and a choice. That's how great empires die.
So what will I tell Stanfordians who might even have the remotest inkling to approach my booth? That I believe in the duty, honor and glory of serving, despite the questionable worth? No. I'll tell them that it's actually a great career move, full of leadership, upwardly mobile, and life-changing opportunities. Either way, I'd be honest, but the latter is what they want to hear. After all, my job is to bring them in, not to preach.
Sad, isn't it? When those who sounded the loudest war cries refuse to offer up the required blood sacrifice. When a predominantly liberal student body cannot live up to the admonishment of one of the greatest liberal presidents of this nation. That, my fellow Americans, is how great empires die.
Having moved onto completed status, Downey and I counted on having a light and carefree last year in AFROTC. I still want to be active, don't get me wrong, but please understand my ambivalence when command saw fit to designate us the "tip of the spear" in an aggressive Stanford recruiting campaign. What? I thought the Air Force had too many officers--enough to ask us to cross-comm to the Green Machine (which I considered because they have better helos, but decided that I might want to go Mach 2 instead).
Bless me and this great nation, the powers-that-be do value intelligence after all.
But there goes our light and carefree last year, and I'll tell you why. I don't want to just go through the motions of recruiting; I actually want to bring in bright cadets. I've trained with them and I've trained them, and I know we need bright cadets. Hell, I love the Air Force and the opportunities that it has given me so much, that I'd be happy to share it with others.
But will anyone at Stanford listen?
A year ago, a WWII-era video of handsome Army uniform-clad young men carousing with classy (as in more Vivian Leigh and less Pamela) babes on the steps of Green Library plucked a chord in me that's simply not strung inside most of my peers. "This war is wrong." Excuse me, I signed up before we invaded Iraq, and I'm absolutely sure that I didn't see you in line. "Boys and girls are not dying for a worthy cause." Excuse me again, but worth is only a mirage conjured by the politically inclined. Did anyone who went through D-Day believe that it was worth it?
Maybe if the media was as penetrating, the public as educated and life as complacent as now, America would've never entered WWII. KMT would've lost China to the Japanese, and I'd be saying konichiwa when I see you instead of wazzup. It wasn't always like this. Young men used to enlist, train and die by the hundreds of thousands for a "worthy cause" they did not comprehend. Scroll down to today: rich frat boys drunkenly scoping out another piece of ass while their less-than-fortunate high school classmates warily search for IEDs with their hearts in their throats. Oh no, Mr. Herbert, it's not just the loudest and richest hawks who aren't sending their Abercrombie & Fitch kids off to fight, but the richest finger-pointing bleeding-hearts, too.
"But why should they fight in a war that they don't believe is right or worth it?" Bingo. Herein lies the dilemma to which we as a society cannot supply a practical answer. Serving in the military used to be a badge of honor for all classes; now it's a priesthood entered by the choiceless. The military is stretched to a point of transparency, but it's political suicide to ask all echelons of America to sign up. That's what happens when you have an all-volunteer force. That's what happens when the citizenry has the means and a choice. That's how great empires die.
So what will I tell Stanfordians who might even have the remotest inkling to approach my booth? That I believe in the duty, honor and glory of serving, despite the questionable worth? No. I'll tell them that it's actually a great career move, full of leadership, upwardly mobile, and life-changing opportunities. Either way, I'd be honest, but the latter is what they want to hear. After all, my job is to bring them in, not to preach.
Sad, isn't it? When those who sounded the loudest war cries refuse to offer up the required blood sacrifice. When a predominantly liberal student body cannot live up to the admonishment of one of the greatest liberal presidents of this nation. That, my fellow Americans, is how great empires die.
Postcards and Human Relations
I've been collecting people's snail mail addies so I can send them postcards while I'm abroad starting next week. What started out as an innocent venture has grown more dimensions.
Maybe just in my mind.
Are postcards for sharing, or bragging? Or both? Do they mean as much to the recipients as to me? Do they mean more? There are the families that make me feel like one of them; some that think less of me. Some friends who I've not seen in ages; some that draw me in like magnets every summer and winter. Then there are the girls I used to have big unrequited crushes on, and one that loves me more than I could ever ask.
Not much fits on a postcard, but so much can be said in so few words and a picture, even the tilt of the postage tells a heart full of stories. What will I be sending you? If nothing, does that also mean something?
Maybe just in my mind.
Are postcards for sharing, or bragging? Or both? Do they mean as much to the recipients as to me? Do they mean more? There are the families that make me feel like one of them; some that think less of me. Some friends who I've not seen in ages; some that draw me in like magnets every summer and winter. Then there are the girls I used to have big unrequited crushes on, and one that loves me more than I could ever ask.
Not much fits on a postcard, but so much can be said in so few words and a picture, even the tilt of the postage tells a heart full of stories. What will I be sending you? If nothing, does that also mean something?
I got 136 on another test, I swear.
Thanks to Brian, there's now undeniable proof that college made me dumber.
| Your IQ Is 130 |
 Your Logical Intelligence is Exceptional Your Verbal Intelligence is Genius Your Mathematical Intelligence is Genius Your General Knowledge is Exceptional |
8.17.2005
Never Turn the other Cheek
I feel drained, like after Camp Bullis. Minus the pride, multiply the misery. Only 3 days left of my last long summer here, yet I can't have peace. I can't wait. I need to leave. Need to leave it all behind until I can prove myself an independent being. A secular being.
I feel ugly, and I fear the mirror. I feel fat. It's 84 outside and I promised myself that I'd run. Today. Any day. It's 1700 and I've lifted nothing heavier than a slice of pizza on a plate, that and years worth of sorrow once again distilled into spiteful words.
For 3 years I threw myself onto a blind path. Throwing away relationships, happiness and respect in the name of truth and all that is righteous and good, only to witness one of my own shredded with blades launched from a self-righteous, pathetic pulpit. Want me back on it? Try again later.
The once shredded has built her own altar to sacrifice me with those same dull, rusted blades. I don't need this anymore. Month after month, year after year, the same old recycled bullshite, the evermore fervent curses. I don't need to have my sins repeated to me. I chose them. I chose my life. I intend to live with my scars, or die bleeding.
I don't suppose I'll ever outrun this growing tesselation radiantly colored with guilt and fear. I'm once again broken apart inside, but I've learned not to cry. I believe there's beauty in the breakdown, just not before you.
I feel ugly, and I fear the mirror. I feel fat. It's 84 outside and I promised myself that I'd run. Today. Any day. It's 1700 and I've lifted nothing heavier than a slice of pizza on a plate, that and years worth of sorrow once again distilled into spiteful words.
For 3 years I threw myself onto a blind path. Throwing away relationships, happiness and respect in the name of truth and all that is righteous and good, only to witness one of my own shredded with blades launched from a self-righteous, pathetic pulpit. Want me back on it? Try again later.
The once shredded has built her own altar to sacrifice me with those same dull, rusted blades. I don't need this anymore. Month after month, year after year, the same old recycled bullshite, the evermore fervent curses. I don't need to have my sins repeated to me. I chose them. I chose my life. I intend to live with my scars, or die bleeding.
I don't suppose I'll ever outrun this growing tesselation radiantly colored with guilt and fear. I'm once again broken apart inside, but I've learned not to cry. I believe there's beauty in the breakdown, just not before you.
8.16.2005
How I Stopped Worrying and Learned to Love WD-40
0900. Welcome to our battlefield. Our morale is sky-high, and our weapons are more advanced than we've ever possessed (yesterday). The cornerstone of our impressive arsensal is a 150-piece Stanley Construction Grade Mechanic's Toolkit, not to mention our secret weapon--designation: WD-40--known only to professional mechanics worldwide.There shall be no mangled 1/2" adapters today. There shall be no rusted nut unturned. We will dismember the enemy wherever he stands, at a time and in a manner of our choosing. We will take no prisoner. I shite thou not: We will be victorious in time for mid-day chow.
0930. The war is proceeding according to plan. After liberal application of the top-secret WD-40 and battle-proven techniques such as misdirection and forceful insertion/extraction...
the Nuts & Bolt Battalion of the Stability Arm & Ball Joint Division, the victors of yesterday, was downgraded to non-threatening entity status.
1000. We've located our primary objective: to affect a regime change in a corrupt system where the people's hard-earned profits are leaked to waste, where social and political fallouts threaten their once clear voices. In one fell swoop, we will dispose of this greasy dictator. He will be displaced with one firm pull.One firm pull, my ass. I should've paid more attention to the Fog of War lesson in AFROTC 100. Capt B, I've failed you.
1600. This regime is more firmly rooted than we anticipated, and clings to power like rust on a bearing. Despite our repeated efforts, he could not be unseated. Our strength dwindling, our hope diminishing, a reluctant decision has to be made: we are pulling out, and a quasi-status quo installed in our wake.Lessons Learned:
How to control our fear of the trenches.
WD-40 is the opposite of duck tape: one's for bringing together; the other for pulling apart.
Rust is a bitch.
Quote of the Day:
"Except for actually doing it, we did everything." --Gen. Lewis
8.15.2005
There's Spice Under the Hood
"Hey, wanna come help me fix my car?" I hesitated. This isn't happening to me. No one's ever asked me to fix their car with them. That's what close friends from college do together later down the racetrack of life in front of admiring and wondering progeny. Service was starting. Good, I have 3 hours to think about it while I nap or fight boredom by autoafixiation.
Why did I just think that?
Changing the oil was a badge of honor at 13; changing the radiator, 18 (Nevermind that my prior negligence caused a total engine meltdown right on the MD-32 ramp off I-95. But how do you earn Purple Hearts without some idiot starting a war, huh?). Once upon a college-app time I yearned to elope with Lincoln Tech and be a car mechanic. Then again, once upon a grass-fragrant spring I dreamt of hitting lead-off for the Blue Jays. There is no free will; every choice is a bastard child of conscience and guilt. Forget about your predeterministic Almighty, an All-Azn Mum is way more persuasive. And she cooks better, too; just ask Moses and the manna-fed Israelites.
I played whiffle ball once this entire summer.
I don't know, I'm really busy. I have to fix some things around the house, get ready to go back to Cali, finish reading a book, sleep, sit around, wait for people to IM me..."Ok, no problem, what do you need to fix?" Replace the driveaxle and CV joint...by yourself? "Ok, no problem." Damn, another bastard child.
I love my '04 Matrix, but I've never even changed the oil on him. Problem sets. Convenience. Time is Money. But love leaves no room for excuses, and admission is the first step to recovery. The driveaxle and my attitude both need a replacement, and tomorrow will be the day.
Two mocha fraps and as many tool runs later, the '93 Camry was babied onto two jack stands. One wheel of the hydraulic jack cowered under the immense burden and burrowed into the asphalt. "Well, the jack might be rated for two tons, but the asphalt sure isn't." Well said, Lewis. We went to work. Off came the right front wheel. No sweat. Off came the axle hub nut. Some sweat, but not mine. Off came the support arm nuts...I said, off came the support arm nuts! Big sweat, from both of us. But they were rusted through and just wouldn't budge. One more gnarled effort only left us with a mangled 1/2" to 3/8" ratchet adapter and the hope that Walmart has a lenient return policy.
The Road of Recovery is not lined with tulips and carpeted with rose petals.
To be continued...
Why did I just think that?
Changing the oil was a badge of honor at 13; changing the radiator, 18 (Nevermind that my prior negligence caused a total engine meltdown right on the MD-32 ramp off I-95. But how do you earn Purple Hearts without some idiot starting a war, huh?). Once upon a college-app time I yearned to elope with Lincoln Tech and be a car mechanic. Then again, once upon a grass-fragrant spring I dreamt of hitting lead-off for the Blue Jays. There is no free will; every choice is a bastard child of conscience and guilt. Forget about your predeterministic Almighty, an All-Azn Mum is way more persuasive. And she cooks better, too; just ask Moses and the manna-fed Israelites.
I played whiffle ball once this entire summer.
I don't know, I'm really busy. I have to fix some things around the house, get ready to go back to Cali, finish reading a book, sleep, sit around, wait for people to IM me..."Ok, no problem, what do you need to fix?" Replace the driveaxle and CV joint...by yourself? "Ok, no problem." Damn, another bastard child.
I love my '04 Matrix, but I've never even changed the oil on him. Problem sets. Convenience. Time is Money. But love leaves no room for excuses, and admission is the first step to recovery. The driveaxle and my attitude both need a replacement, and tomorrow will be the day.Two mocha fraps and as many tool runs later, the '93 Camry was babied onto two jack stands. One wheel of the hydraulic jack cowered under the immense burden and burrowed into the asphalt. "Well, the jack might be rated for two tons, but the asphalt sure isn't." Well said, Lewis. We went to work. Off came the right front wheel. No sweat. Off came the axle hub nut. Some sweat, but not mine. Off came the support arm nuts...I said, off came the support arm nuts! Big sweat, from both of us. But they were rusted through and just wouldn't budge. One more gnarled effort only left us with a mangled 1/2" to 3/8" ratchet adapter and the hope that Walmart has a lenient return policy.
The Road of Recovery is not lined with tulips and carpeted with rose petals.
To be continued...
8.14.2005
Shooting the Big Apple from the Hips
New York moves way too fast in the POV from the rear seat of a...I don't remember, but it was an ol' and loving POS of a car. Working from 90 down, weaving from Broadway to Madison and back, I couldn't see a good bit, let alone remember. A raison d'etre for my blessed Canon A510.
Alone in Times Square: Something's wrong with this picture--Picasa2 digital alterations don't count, smartass.
I love curves and kinks, esp in unexpected places...
Alternatingly comic and beautiful. Nostalgic all-around.
Alone in Times Square: Something's wrong with this picture--Picasa2 digital alterations don't count, smartass.I love curves and kinks, esp in unexpected places...
Alternatingly comic and beautiful. Nostalgic all-around.
Where Do I Begin
6 Aug 05
2749 souls slept in two horrific moments. One awoke.I don't think it dawned on me until I was there, standing in the World Financial Center and looking out the window to a panorama of what was but is not. A gaping hole where the towers once stood, now their outlines defined only by a square of orange traffic cones, like victims of a crime yet unsolved. I had never been there. Not during their glory, nor after their demise. Until now. Now I stood before their ghosts, and it dawned on me.
How much has 9/11 changed my life? Incalculable. I divorced from fundamentalist Christianity for good. They saw in the crumbling towers the punishing hands of God and a world spiraling down the widening gyre; I too saw tragedy, but also nobility and bravery--in a word, humanity--shining like candles in the wind. The dead did not speak to me as I stood silent, but they already inspired me. I have more purpose in my life than ever before, if only to do all that I can to prevent it from happening again, if only to live up to heros' sacrifices. I do wonder if I've made the right choice, leaving behind potential wealth and comfort for a life less ordinary. I do wonder, but in the 4 years since, I never regretted and never turned back.
Somewhere along the line I forgot about the beginning, about how the dusk for so many brightly shined in the eyes of one who had been asleep for so long. Until I stood there, slowly possessed by the magnificent ghosts. No catchy political slogans rang in my ears, no blood-curdling last screams. It was peaceful yet surreal, and I saw the silver lining. This is the place of my Renaissance.
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