A work in progress

One of the things that I really enjoyed about the Round Robin class is the feeling that someone out there is reading my writing and perhaps, just perhaps, something I wrote was interesting to them.  The other benefit is looking back on six weeks of excerpts and panning for those idea nuggest that might turn into something more.  So far, nothing really stands out to me, but I did want to share one thing that I wrote after being inspired from a news story.

I was hesitant to share some more because, well… these are the rawest of raw pieces of writing that I have done in awhile.  I didn’t pass through many of those with a keen critical eye.  Instead, they were thrown upon the screen without regard and hesitation.  But this is one piece that I tried to write from a unique perspective.

Hope someone out there enjoys it!

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“Out the Window”

Henry didn’t like to look outside. Whenever he did, the lights would glint a little too brightly, stinging his eyes. He tried to look out before. He heard voices from outside, and a part of his mind always wondered about them. Some of them were soothing, their cadence soft and slow. It made him feel comfortable, like being wrapped in a warm, familiar blanket. And there where times when the noise was just too loud, rattling the panes and vibrating so hard that he felt it at the core of his bones.

Always though, he could never disregard the window. It was always there, and there were always noises and sounds.

He remembered the first time that he had peered outside. He was curious, and he stared endlessly at it, wondering what it all meant. He saw trees, he saw people. He saw animals and he saw people. They looked back at him, but he could never understood what it meant when their eyes did strange things. Their brows would move up and down and their lips would pull taut or lift up at the corners.

And sometimes, it just seemed like there was too much. Too many faces, too many sounds at him. When he looked out the window he knew that he was supposed to feel a part of something, a part of a bigger picture and of something grand. He knew this, but he never really understood it.

So instead, he decorated the inside. He picked his favorite things and adorned the walls. He had his favorite colors, and he plucked his favorite numbers and words. He rolled them into clumps and threw them together, delighted at how they somehow – magically – seemed to come together again. It made sense there.

But always though, he thought of the window.

How he tried, oh he tried – to see the world outside that window.

He had always seen the same people for years. Sometimes, he would put his hand against the cold glass and feel that vibration as the sound moved toward him. Muffled, yes, but he could still hear. He could still see. But then those other times, those people made loud noises, angry noises. He covered his ears and shut his eyes as tight as he could, feeling the walls close in on him.

But those never lasted long. And when those moments came, he learned to retreat back inside. His walls, worn and familiar, became his comfort. He liked those numbers, those colors. He knew the rhyme and reason to them. He knew those rules, and the roles that each of them played.

Then one day, he looked at the window. The same familiar face of the woman he always knew smiled at him gently. She was saying something, cooing it in a soft, gentle way. He stood up from where he was sitting, and slowly made his way to that window.

He paused, waiting for something to suddenly happen. He waited with bated breath, hoping that the light and sounds wouldn’t come pouring in, engulfing him in an overwhelming tsunami again. But still, the woman smiled. She seemed to say one thing.

“Type.”

Tentatively, slowly, he reached out a hand. He saw the letters appear before him. A little fire inside of him danced.

These – these were familiar. He knew those rules.

“Type.”

He stretched out his fingers, encouraged by the look on the woman’s face.

And he touched those letters. His hands unsteady, but he felt his confidence grow.

The screen on the computer blinked, and Jane felt her chest tighten with joy. There, the sweetest words she had ever read.

“Hi, Mom.”

I’ve been writing for about ten minutes each and every day for the past two months.

Okay, that sounds a little more impressive than it really is.  Truthfully, there are some days where I slip and I end up not submitting in my writing for the day.  Otherwise, I’ve been consistently writing at least a few paragraphs every day.  The purpose of my class at The Writing Salon was to build up my discipline muscles in addition to fueling my little creative voice.  So far…it’s been okay.

I can’t say that it’s been my favorite class.  Some days, I’m not sure why I am wasting my time submitting poorly written paragraphs to some unknown person who is forced to read and respond to my writing.  And, sadly, I often find myself at a loss for words when I need to send a response as well.  I can’t find ways to break out of the simple “this was interesting” or “that was detailed.”

Besides my writing, the latest drama that had been going on in my life was our pup coming down with pneumonia.  A few days ago, I noticed that he was extremely lethargic.  So lethargic that it was alarming.  Normally, he’s the furry little ball of energy that can’t stop eating or finding opportunities to eat.  Instead, he was lying on the ground listless, and trying to breathe without wheezing.

We took him in and he had been in care for about three days now.  He was in an oxygen incubator, and closely monitored. When his X-rays came out, we were told they were cloudy and that other puppies had deteriorated much more rapidly and died. Uhhhhhh… yikes.

Luckily, he had gotten better and we finally took him home  this morning.  He’s gnawing on his favorite stuffed horse at  the moment, and earlier downed a bowl of chicken and rice. Thanks to all the friends out there for the messages and the  thoughts - he’s doing well right now.  The frustrating thing  is that I won’t be at home for the next week since I am  traveling…but at least my mind is more at ease now that he’s back at home.

As for the hospital bill…. I’ll be enjoying a lot of home-cooked meals (read: ramen) for the coming months. But you can’t put a price on a furry little life that likes to snuggle.

Another bit of news that came out prior to Moose’s hospital adventure was that our family dog, Tally, was put down. I was shocked, but at the same time knew that it was bound to happen. She was getting up there in the years, and finally she had liver failure and my mother did not want her in pain. Yet, somehow, despite knowing in the back of your mind that they don’t live forever, it is still always a jarring thought that the furry face that had been there for over a decade will no longer be there any longer.

For the writing class, each day our teacher sends a prompt and we are urged to write whatever comes to mind. So, I wanted to share what I wrote that day. Part of the risk of writing is when you have an audience, right? Even if it is only an audience of one.

Here we go.

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“To be Continued”

I was sitting on the floor of the store, the smell of animals pervasive in the air. She was so small, so sweet and wiggly. Her pink tongue licked every part of my hand, and my eleven-year-old self fell love. She was perfect, and I couldn’t believe that she was going to be ours.

That was, of course, not without argument from my mother.

“No, I really don’t want this,” she protested as her friend handed the credit card over to her friend.

“I insist,” she said, waving my mom down. There was a major back and forth, and my brother and I watched wide-eyed, both of us hoping that our mother would finally relent. After she realized that she was not going to win the argument, my mom, defeated, no longer protested.

And that was how we got our dog, Tally.

Our family expressed mixed feelings about it. The cousins were excited, but the aunts and uncles were very against it.

“What kind of present is that?” my uncle complained. “Why don’t you buy her a dog and see how she likes it?”

“She was just trying to be nice,” my mom explained, her voice tired.

I wish I could say that our lives with Tally were like the ones in the books. I wish I could say that we had a bond that could never be broken. The truth is, she was saddled upon an unwilling mother and two inexperienced children with neither the understanding nor the time and money to understand what it meant to raise a dog.

Tally spent a good part of her life in the yard – an outdoor dog. In Texas, this wasn’t too terrible. Her summers were filled with drinks from the hose and romps in the sun, and the winter chill was kept away with blankets in her kennel. I remember feeling so bad for her and angry at my mother’s staunch refusal to let her inside the house.

“She’s a dog,” my mother said matter-of-factly, “she’s dirty and she’ll make the house dirty.”

And so my brother and I took her on walks and went to visit her in her world. During super cold nights, I bundled up in a thick jacket and held her against my body. She would shiver, her brown eyes staring up at me with wonder, devotion and love. My heart ached.

And then eventually, I moved away to school. I spent most of the year away from her, only to visit during the summertime and the holiday breaks. Graduation came and went, and then I moved out to San Francisco. My boyfriend and I moved in together and we got a puppy of our own. This time, I vowed to myself, I had the time and I made my own money. I gave everything I could to our puppy, but never forgot Tally.

This morning, I found out that Tally was put down.

I thought about the first time I met her on that dirty linoleum floor in the store. I thought about her soft puppy paws, her soft belly and her sweet ears. I thought about the times we chased her, yelling at her angrily when she ran away from us. I thought about the walks we had, the times she sat next to me patiently. I remembered the moments we snuck her into the house, and patted her head and she rolled on her side, content. And I remembered the times my mom and I would laugh when we watched her outside the window. Her four legs in the air, her head back soaking in the sun…she was relaxed and she was happy.

And more than anything, I hope she continues on in a happy place in doggy heaven.

I remember the time this lady at church told me animals had no soul.

“They DO have a soul,” I said angrily. “My dog, don’t tell me she doesn’t have a soul.”

And to this day I still think she does – and it was one of the sweetest ones on earth.

It’s no secret that I want to be a writer one day.  And when I say writer, I don’t mean one of those freelancers who float their way from one assignment to the next (although I wouldn’t complain, really).  My dream was to one day be holding a book in my hand, my name on the front.  And there would be a pretty good picture of myself on the back (I really hate photos of myself).

I’ve told many people this dream.  In a weird way, I’ve written about this dream more than I have actually taken steps toward making it a reality.  Maybe it was because by telling people, I was still able to keep the dream alive.  Maybe, it was so that there were other people who would (in my mind) be expecting me to DO something about this, and be accountable to what I say.  But, as life tends to happen, I ended up pushing it aside hoping to make a living doing other things.

Then, a few years ago, I happened upon NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) where I entered into a thirty day frenzy of writing with a group of people.  And, if that punishment and daily discipline of hammering out sentences wasn’t enough, I did it again.

I was pretty proud of myself.  After all, 50,000 words in 30 days isn’t exactly the easiest thing.  It takes time, discipline, and in the end I had a rather oddly constructed story that did indeed have a beginning, middle and end.

Whether or not someone will actually want to read it… is another story.  (Pun not intended).

At any rate, before this exercise I always thought that being a writer - an author - would forever be a dream.  It would be a pretty little picture of a life that I could never have.  Then, something else happened.  I was fortunate enough to reconnect with a high school friend.  As children’s book illustrator and writer herself, she has been an endless source of optimism mixed with a dash of pragmatism.  She was grounded in reality and was able to make those dreams seem like a possible reality that just required me to get on my toes and reach out my fingers toward it.

So, I decided to take my first wobbly baby steps.  The first was joining the Society of Children’s Book Illustrators and Writers.  When I got my membership package in the mail, I was giddy.  I felt official.  And look, I got a pretty nifty little magazine.

After the initial stir of feeling settled, it was time to push myself further.  I brainstormed ideas.  After much bantering and frustration with a close friend if mine, I got a general story outline of the first book I want to try a hand at REALLY writing.

I took a workshop about Plotting and Pacing, and most recently, I started a class at the Writing Salon where I have writing assignments each and every day.  For ten to 15 minutes, I would have to write.

A part of me is impatient.  Why can’t it happen now?  And when I hear stories from other people in a similar position, a little niggling bit of doubt crawls back into my head.  What about those millions of other aspiring writers out there?  What makes me different?

But all that - doubt, anxiety, impatience - I guess I can set it aside for now.  Because at the very least, I have started to, inch by inch, crawl forward.

Hopefully with a bit of luck and encouragement, I’ll find my way soon enough.  In the meantime, it’s pretty neat to be starting a journey (albeit a pretty darn tough one).  And, I hope to have the courage to share some of my writing samples on my blog.

I know I’ve taken quite a hiatus from my blog since my last post (which, ironically, assures my one or two readers out there in the lone Internet world that I was alive and ready to write).  Well, I still am.  Just not as much as I had hoped to.  However, I finally decided that it was time to post something after watching the final installment of the Harry Potter movie series at the midnight show.

I admit, this post will probably be like the hundreds of thousands of other stories out there about how JK Rowling successfully created a world and characters that changed our lives forever.  It’s long-winded, but you know. It’s my blog. I do what I want.

So, here’s my life with Harry Potter.

First of all, I have to say that I have always loved books as a child.  I read all the popular series: The Boxcar Children, Babysitters Club, American Girls, Sweet Valley Twins, Dealing with Dragons, Chronicle of Narina, Lord of the Rings… you get the picture.

But my relationship with Harry Potter is the one that will stay with me for the rest of my life. And, I hope, even as the mania dies down and the crowds disperse after the final movie, one day I’ll be able to spread this magic to the special children in my life.

More than a decade ago (!!!) when I was fifteen, my cousins and I decided to go see (and yes, I know, this is cringe-worthy) the Pokemon movie.  At the time, it was one of the most anticipated movies because of the major craze of “catching them all.”  I anticipated a long and tedious wait, so I asked my younger cousin if she had anything I could read.  She perused through her collection of books, and a paperback novel caught my eye: Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone.

I remembered my teacher mentioning that book and how it was a really great read … “for a children’s book.”  So, because of my soft spot for children’s books, I picked it up and started reading… and a few hours later, I was disappointed that the line for the movie wasn’t longer so I could finish and reach the end.

I asked a few friends around if they had read Harry Potter, but only one friend said she had - and she had all three books.  Eagerly, I asked if I could borrow them and then I devoured them in a few weeks, and I was hungry for more.

Unfortunately, plans for the release of the fourth book was a year away.  A whole painful year.

I knew that there was something special about those books.  It happens to me whenever I read something wonderful.  Somehow, it sticks with me.  A part of me yearns that the fictional world could be real, and that I could be a part of it.  I keep thinking about the characters, and I re-read the books over and over again in anticipation. I anxiously awaited to see what else would happen to my new found friends.

On the day of the fourth book release, I showed up at Barnes & Noble.  Naively, I thought I could waltz in, grab my book and be on my merry way to continue my adventure with Harry, Ron and Hermoine. I selfishly thought that Hogwarts was special to only a few people and we belonged in a super elite club … and I was unique enough to be a member.

Of course, I was wrong, and subsequently turned away.

After a few more attempts the rest of the day to more bookstores and even more disappointing tries following day, I finally nabbed the book later in the week and holed myself up.  I cheered for Harry during the Triwizard cup, I crossed my fingers that he and Cho would get together (I mean, c’mon - an Asian female character with the main hero?  HELLO!) and I was shocked with Cedric died and Lord Voldemort returned.

If I hadn’t been obsessed with the series before, the fourth book finally did me in.  I started reading forums that predicted the plot, looked at fan art, and read all about JK Rowling.  Then, I made a wonderful discovery.

I share Harry and JK Rowling’s birthday.

I felt even closer to to JK Rowling and Harry.  If Hogwarts DID exist (sigh) I was a Gryffindor, just like them - I knew it.  And, of course, it was much cooler to say you share your birthday with them versus Dean Cain (who was my prior go-to celebrity birthday twin).

The next book - book five - was yet another grueling wait.  Three years after the fourth, JK Rowling opened the doors again to the world and we were able to join in and play.  I remember book five because I was in college, and I couldn’t believe that it had already been close to five years since I first fell in love with the Wizarding World and Hogwarts.

And then, two more years after that and during my senior year in college, book six arrived.  I was preparing myself to go into the real world, and Harry was preparing for the fight of his life and his destiny.  Both of us, though in different circumstances and different ages, had changed quite a bit since we first began our journey together.  His world was full of adventure, danger and magic, and mine was filled with standardized tests, job hunting and the imminent approach of adulthood.  Is it any wonder why I had wanderlust for a fictional place?

The release of the final book was a bittersweet evening for me.  My mom and I drove to the bookstore at midnight, and somehow, miraculously, I got my book within twenty minutes.  I ran back to the car at breakneck speed, plopped down on our brown couch in the living room and cracked open the book.  It was close to 1 a.m.

And then I realized. This was the end.  And in my hands, was the last time I would be with Harry, Ron, Hermoine and everyone else.

I desperately wanted to savor it, but like a fiend, I couldn’t help it.  My eyes kept flitting forward, soaking in each sentence.  Within the first few chapters, Hedwig died.  I felt myself choke up, and I knew that I was in for quite an adventure.  As most fellow readers could probably attest, it was by far the best book ever - the magnum opus of the Harry Potter world.

Six hours later, I finished the book in one sitting.

Tired and half-hysterical, I smiled, I cried, and I mourned my loss.  You know they will forever live in your heart and your mind, but there will be no more new stories to come, and it’s always hard to say farewell.

When the ending credits of the movie rolled onto the screen, I’m sure many people felt that way all over again.  But really, I made peace with this years ago, and it just wasn’t quite the same.  I had gotten to know those characters and their mannerisms and small quirks - and even how they looked - were filled in by my imagination.

The movies, of course, were a lot of fun.  It was always a great feeling to be in a room with people who share the same fervent love and passion as you do.  But really, it was just icing on an already sweet and wonderful cake.

To quote a bit of Alan Rickman (Snape) who said it best and most elegantly:

A lifetime seems to have passed in minutes.

It is an ancient need to be told stories. But the story needs a great storyteller.

Thanks for all of it, Jo.

And thank you, Harry, Ron, and Hermoine.

Hello there, dear reader or two.  Yes, it has been awhile.  Yes, I am alive.  At first, I was going to talk about how Easter is the perfect time to revive the blog… but then I thought it would probably be better not to get into that analogy. (If…that’s the right word for it).

So what have I been doing for the past three or four months since my last blog post? Quite a bit actually, yet at the same time it almost feels like nothing at all.  It’s been crazy how quickly time has been passing.

I had a bit of a revelation (again) to prompt me to write this blog post. I’ve always said that one of my dreams is to be a writer and to have my very own book published.  A friend of mine pointed out, quite bluntly, that if I wanted to be a writer and if I was that passionate enough about it, then I should do it. Enough talk, just do it.

I’ve read books about writing, thought about writing, and talked about writing. But other than successfully finishing two National Novel Writing Month exercises, I have never actually sat down and seriously committed myself to creating a story from beginning, middle and end. With heroes and villains. Climaxes and twists and turns.

So, reflecting back on the first quarter of the year (yes, I’m thinking now in quarters… I am officially no longer a “new grad”) and my 2011 resolutions…I’m going to try to chronicle my experiences with writing.

Key word, of course, is try.

Here we go.

Throughout college, I used my blog as a way vent out my frustrations about life. As a result, it was chock full [Thanks, Voss!] of laments about how difficult things are (oh no, three exams in one week! What a hard life I lead…) sprinkled together with emo whining about relationships. The emo whining, of course, was often pretty vague. Just in case someone that I was whining about happened to be reading my blog at the time.

Nowadays, I’d like to think that I have matured just a little bit. Instead of immediately venting out my frustrations in vague emo paragraphs online whenever I’m in a slump, I usually talk to my friends (sorry, friends). I also start to scour for articles, read through books and Google keywords like “how to be happy.” (Sidenote: There are 569M search results for that).

Recently, I found an article that said happiness isn’t necessarily a destination, it’s a sense of being. In other words, you’re either traveling the road on the happy wagon or you’re letting the weeds of self pity slowly bring you down. And no, there is no such thing as Happyville. (Yet another sidenote: after writing that sentence, I had to actually Google “Happyville” to see if it did, in fact, exist. And it does. In a game. Just not in the metaphorical sense that I’m referring to.)

After reading this, my immediate thought was: what a load of crap.

What next? If you want to be rich, simply get a lot of money. Awesome. I’ll get working on that.

After my cynicism subsided, I started to think about this a little more. This resulted from recent things and people that have been grating on my nerves quite a bit.

Quite honestly, I think I am a rather introspective person. I think about what makes me tick, and why certain things bother me. So in a weird way, I try to combine logic and rationale to hopefully tame my wild emotions.

This practice has helped me clearly identify some of my flaws, which are (in no particular order):

• Insecurity
• Overactive ego
• Easily jealous
• Attention whore
• Judgmental
• Prideful

Not a pretty package. And definitely difficult to fix, even though I’ve identified them. Of course, I know what many of you might be thinking – how can a person be both insecure AND egotistical? The answer is … well, you can so shaddup.

Really though, the balance of insecurity and ego is like a mix of alkaline and acid. It just explodes in the nastiest way, and tends to fuel a pretty quick downward spiral. In fact, in recognizing that my personality somehow mashed up these two opposite traits, I realized why it always angered me when I encountered someone I found to be extremely arrogant.

I realized I disliked people who were full of themselves because my insecurity and pride had tied their general statement about themselves to me. So someone saying, “I’m an amazing writer,” would irritate me because I would read it as, “I’m an amazing writer, therefore I am better than you.”

Although my mother can be slightly over the top, I do recall one of the wisest things she said to me. Basically, “Someone can call you stupid, or ugly, or whatever they want. But no matter what they say, they can’t change who you are.” This is true, to an extent. Words don’t change who you are physically. If someone calls you ugly or hot, that’s their opinion.  And a person calling me stupid doesn’t automatically drop me a few IQ points. But most importantly, it can change how you view yourself.

If you let it.

Which is exactly what I was coming to in my long winded psycho analysis of myself. All too often, I let other people take the reins when it comes to my happiness.  And with something as important as my happiness, why do I let others dictate it for me?

When I encounter frustrating situations or people, it rubs me the wrong way. Or, sometimes the things people say hurt my feelings. And, it’s hard for me to stay calm when I feel like I’m being stepped on or patronized (thanks, ego, thanks a lot). I want to be a strong person and stand up for myself, but at the same time, my immediate response is to be upset, angry, or sad.

I realize the obvious fact now that it’s true – we can’t control another person’s thoughts or actions. But we can control how we react, and how it makes us feel.

Sure, we can think about the motivations behind their actions and thought process. It’s probably because those people have blinders on and are only focused on themselves. It may not excuse what they do, and it definitely doesn’t make it okay. But really, when I fixate on how they treat me or how I think the perceive me, it only hurts me, whereas they probably don’t have the slightest inkling of guilt or remorse. Or, for that matter, even care.

So, although it might be late, I think it is time for me to really try to make a concentrated effort to jump on the happy mobile instead of trying to locate happiness on the map.

A lot of my New Year’s resolutions were made with the thought that if I completed them I would be in a happier place. I would know more Chinese. I would be closer to my dream of becoming a writer. When really, it is all for naught when I let the little things or the people who ultimately don’t matter get to me.

So, I’m going to add to my New Year’s resolutions. I resolve to choose to be as happy as I can be every day. Sure, there will be slumps and there will be setbacks. But really, in addition to all the adventures and skills I want to learn this year, I think this is an important start to a lifelong Happiness Project.

Ahem. To sum up: haters gonna hate.

So why let it get to me?  I’ll choose to be happy instead.

Okay, I’m superficial. In fact, if someone tells me that they don’t care about what people look like on the outside, I call them a liar…emphatically, and most likely with finger pointing.  Or, they’re blind.  But that’s a whole other situation.

I don’t think it’s a bad thing that we’re superficial. After all, we’re programmed that way. Evolutionarily speaking, we all want to find the person that would be the best mate/partner so our offspring are strong and survive the cruel, harsh world of…well, superficial people.

I’m pretty sure that a good percentage of the population at one point or another has discussed with friends and/or family the rating or score of random strangers or people you know in general.  At one point in your life or another, I would bet that you have posed and/or answered the question, “So what do you think they are, on a scale of one to ten…ten being SUPER HOT?”

Then there comes the inevitable debate of the parameters. You know, should you allot more because of personality, or is it just based on looks?  Or, are super models and movie stars rated on the same scale?

It’s kind of fun, and the reason I think we enjoy doing it is because deep down, I believe people naturally like to be critics.  Plus, hating on things can be kind of fun. Why else would so many people write Yelp reviews about restaurants or debate over who they think the Oscar winning movie should be?

My friend W told me about a rather new and ingenious way of, well, ranking people. The more I thought about it, the more I had to share it with the world. They call it: The Golf Score.

Basically, it works like this…

Just like in golf, you always want to be BELOW or on par, which would be 0. To calculate the golf score, you take the number of attractiveness a person believes that they are and subtract the number of their ACTUAL attractiveness. For example, if a girl is a 5 on the scale of attractiveness (as objective as a scale like that could be) but she THINKS that she is a 7…her golf score would be 7 minus 5 which is … +2.

This indicates that she’s probably a little full of herself.  Tolerable, but not ideal.  Plus, she doesn’t really have the goods to back up her own mental judgment of herself, therefore has a slightly distorted grasp of reality.

A person who has a golf score that is -2, on the other hand, would be more ideal because they don’t think they are as attractive as they really are which may indicate that they’re humble…or have mild self-esteem issues. Either way, more tolerable and more ideal than the people who are scoring pretty high on the scale. Then again, a person with a +1 score might be okay because confidence is attractive to some people. But it’s probably best to stay away from the +7 to +9 people. Those with a -9 score may sound appealing, but they also have some deep-rooted self-image issues which is another load of baggage to carry.

Likewise, this Golf Score could also be implied for other characteristics beyond looks. We’ve all encountered that bureaucratic nightmare at work that thinks they are way smarter and capable than they actually are (+6 intelligence) or those managers that we tend to like because they’re down-to-earth and not at all puffed up about their skill level because of their title (-2 authority).

For a simple explanation, I offer you this chart (with pretty doodles!) -

So, go forth people, and judge using the Golf Score.  Seriously, in the words of Barney Stinson - it’s gonna be a thing.  Really.

I only wish I were the one who thought of this.

Recently, there has been quite an uproar (and by uproar, I mean a lot of Facebook sharing and tweeting) about the Wall Street Journal article titled, “Why Chinese Mothers are Superior.” Basically, in a brilliant public relations move by Penguin Books, author Amy Chua explains why the authoritative and many times demeaning ways Chinese mothers raise their children is much better than the lackadaisical ways of Westerners. Of course, by polarizing groups of people, stereotyping and inciting controversy, it has a lot of people talking.

And, of course, it does sell books. Not so coincidentally, “Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother” went on sale right after. (Seriously, Penguin Books, genius move).

It’s understandable why a lot of my friends would want to talk about it – after all, some of the things she writes about hit home. The scene about fighting over playing the piano with her daughter is all too familiar (I didn’t have the gall to rip up music, but at one point in protest I played piano with my feet and paid for it later with a fierce spanking) and “saving face” is incredibly important.

When you boil it down, the article basically states that the vital difference Chinese parents (and of course, she does note that these characteristics extend beyond just Chinese) and Western parents (read: everybody else) is that Chinese mothers are hard on kids because they believe in them. Western parents focus entirely too much on self-esteem, whereas Chinese mothers are okay with pushing children to the brink because they know they can do it. It’s their form of love.

The author writes, “What Chinese parents understand is that nothing is fun until you’re good at it. To get good at anything you have to work, and children on their own never want to work, which is why it is crucial to override their preferences.”

A friend of mine, Suzanne Ma, wrote a brilliant piece with her take on the article.

As I was driving to pick up my friend earlier tonight, I started thinking about my own take on the article and about the ways that my mother raised me. To give you a little background on my mother, she was the youngest in her family, born and raised in Taiwan. She wasn’t very good at school, and was actually held back at one point in her education. She also regaled me with stories about the times she had her knuckles hit because her handwriting wasn’t up to par.

My mother had a soft spot for her father, who was significantly older than her since my grandmother was his second wife and my mom was the youngest. Because my grandfather had Parkinson’s, he was often fairly weak and my mom described tender moments where she would like to hug him. Her only wish, she told me before, was to proudly tell her father that she was accepted into a prestigious school. Her father, recognizing that she was not the top of her class, patiently told her that no matter if she had to learn something ten times compared to someone else who learns it once, the most important thing is that she learned it.

Was my mother a hardcore Chinese mother? Definitely. But was it because she wanted me to get the straight A’s, play piano at Carnegie Hall, or go to Harvard to become a cancer curing doctor? No.

Yes, there were those fights over practicing the piano. For the first year or so, she would sit next to me and make me recite each note to her (and, taking advantage of the fact that she didn’t learn the same things I did, sometimes I would fudge the right answers). Do I wish now that she was as relenting as Amy Chua was on her daughters? Maybe. Perhaps by now I would be an accomplished pianist, versus wistfully thinking about how I squandered that time. But at the time, without even knowing it, I took advantage of the fact that she was a single mother and strapped for time, energy, and patience.

Despite the hardships that she had to face and that I was too naïve to understand, my mother wanted to give me all the things that other Chinese parents could give their children. The only difference was, she didn’t push me to go to Kumon classes or take extracurricular courses in math and violin (or in my rebellious case, viola). My mother was a hard mother when it came to character.

Yes, my mom was also all about “saving face.” Nothing morphed her into a rage more than when I was disrespectful in public, or when I wore my disdainful and angry feelings clearly on my face (which, to this day, is still a problem I struggle with). But was she shamed when I did not come home a valedictorian, or with a perfect 4.0 GPA?

Definitely not.

If anything, the only person putting pressure on me for getting good grades was me. I cried when I received a B. I felt like garbage when I didn’t get things right the first time. I also berated myself when I didn’t get into a top school. Shamefaced, and much like my mother, all I wanted was to make my family proud and to say they had a daughter, granddaughter or niece that was good enough to attend an Ivy League.

When it came to those moments where I disappointed myself and my feeling of inferiority was overwhelming, my mom would comfort me. That is, until I was disrespectful, thoughtless, wasteful, or displayed any other deplorable trait.

I still remember in a moment of anger, she said to me, “You’re a smart person, but it doesn’t matter if you aren’t a good person.”

So, just to clarify: I’m not saying I’m the best person in the world. In fact, there are a lot of times when I wish I could be better. I would like to be more patient, more considerate, and more empathetic. But regardless of my personal shortcomings, I would argue that her Chinese way of parenting is far superior to the coddling ways of many parents. After all – isn’t trying (or wanting) to be a good person one of the hardest things to do?

Too often, especially these days (maybe it’s a sign that I’m getting old) I feel that I encounter many people with a sense of entitlement. They feel that they deserve to be calling the shots without the hard work. Maybe it’s because of the craze where parents started handing out trophies to everybody, or maybe it’s because they got whatever they wanted. Or, perhaps more sadly, they became self absorbed and selfish because there wasn’t an eagle eye parent ready to smack them down when they climbed too high up on their horse.

My mother wasn’t perfect, but then again, which parent is? I know that I of all people should not be discussing the perfect methods of parenting because, frankly, I have a hard enough time as it is keeping plants and fish alive. And, strangely enough, it’s as I said earlier – sometimes, I wish my mother were harder on me when it came to academics and to pushing me. Because one thing Amy Chua wrote really stood out to me: things aren’t usually fun until you’re good at them.

It’s so true. Maybe that’s why to this day I don’t play sports.

Anyway, I digress.

I will share one final thought about the Chinese parenting ways described in the article – just as Socrates stated many centuries ago, all things in moderation. It isn’t good to be an absent parent or a parent that overindulges…but likewise, sometimes the harsh and shaming parenting of Chinese mothers and fathers can go too far.

Why else are there so many Asian and Asian American children pushed one step too far past the brink?

The important thing is, no matter what – thanks to my mother – I will always try my hardest to be a good person and really the best person I can be. I am incredibly thankful that my mother decided to be a relentless Chinese parent who wasn’t above slamming me for being a bad person…and not because I was bad at the maths.

My mom and her giant bowl of pho.

She ordered the large one because she said she just loves eating noodles so much.

After finishing it, she then said she felt bad because she was being gluttonous and greedy. Of course.

It’s hard to believe that a year has flown by and a new one has just started. And, of course, when I look back at some of the blog posts that I have written throughout 2010, the first thing I can’t help but think is … “wow, I had a lot of failures.”  At least, in terms of small goals.

I didn’t manage to read 100 books in 2010 (nor come even close to 50) and I didn’t stick to my 25 random acts of kindness for the 25 days of Christmas.  But then again, I’m happy that I still attempted to do something different. At the very least, trying is better than doing absolutely nothing, right?

As with many of my blog posts each December and first of January, I like to sit back and think about all the goals that I had for the year, as well as the memories and accomplishments. So, taking a look at my prior resolutions written on January 2010….

Continue to broaden my horizons by always trying to learn more
- In a way, I’m pretty proud that I completed an Illustrator class. In addition to finally learning the basics of the program, I even managed to enter a few design derbies on Woot and made a shirt for the BF

Try to improve my Chinese (I always say that…but one of these days, it will happen, right?)
- This will probably always be a long standing goal with me….urg

Keep writing
- Completed another round of Nanowrimo this year…and I hope that, finally, I’ll dedicate 2011 to actually sitting down and (frighteningly enough) edit and try to take another step toward my ultimate goal of being a writer

Don’t dwell on the past, and try not to be too hard on myself
- This is definitely tough. I think I’ll have to continue to work on this

Go on more adventures
- I’d say this was a pretty good year of adventures

Overall, I’d say hitting about 70% of my goals isn’t too shabby. At the very least, it’s a passable year. As for some of the adventures and memories of 2010 …

- Taking a trip to Asia…finally
- Seeing my Grandfather’s grave
- Learning more about my family history
- Celebrating 6 years with Tofu at Gary Danko and the amazing view at the Fairmont
- The many ski trips in Tahoe
- A Texafornian Disneyland Adventure
- Completing a year at my job
- Throwing my first baby shower for my cousin
- Meeting De Hua, the cutest baby in the world
- Attending a cousin’s wedding in North Carolina (and somehow surviving…grudgingly…the mishaps of my flights)
- An amazing birthday celebration with friends at Foreign Cinema and Medjool (at least, the parts that I was actually able to attend…)
- Luxury camping in Costanoa
- Going to Cabo!
- Running my third half marathon (so that’s a marathon and a half in my life….total!)
- LA adventures with Liz and Linda
- Cooking TWO Thanksgiving meals with Tofu
- Moving into a new home
- Celebrating De Hua’s first Christmas

Photo courtesy of ori2uru

I thought about changing it up this year by writing a mission statement for how I want 2011 to unravel.  But…that’s kind of annoying.  So, here are some of the things I’d like to focus on (perhaps writing a mission statement in 2012 is one of them…)

- To prioritize my spiritual health, whether through classes or reading in order to find more meaning in my life and how I can give back to my community

- Continue to strive to be a good daughter, sister, cousin, friend and employee - to stop being complacent with just doing things routinely

- Call my mom more regularly

- Proactively take steps to pursue my passions and interests, such as editing my book or taking more design classes

- Actually make a real effort to improve my Chinese, like writing cards and purchasing a textbook (and reading it)

- Write more blog posts regularly

- Learn to budget better

- Take trips…and always be on the lookout for opportunities for new adventures!

Here’s to a wonderful 2011!

It occurred to me last night that broadcasting my target goal of doing 25 random acts of kindness might come across as self-serving and completely against the point of a random act of kindness.  After all, the whole point of one is to be random and, most of the time, anonymous.

So, I just wanted to clear up the fact that I am not writing about my little goal for myself because I seek praise.  Really. Instead, it’s more to document my experiences with consciously trying to do a little good deed every day. Maybe it sounds like I’m trying to deposit a little bit of positive energy into my karma bank (and after today, I feel like I really needed it. More on that later).

Anyway, today was a bit of a challenge. Already…on day two.  But, luckily, an opportunity presented itself when I went to grab a coffee with a new coworker earlier this afternoon. I decided to treat her to her drink, which she kindly protested against, but then said an appreciative thank you and said that she would pay me back. Whether or not she does isn’t important to me - more than anything, it’s nice that I was able to do something nice for $2.00.

This brought me quickly to a realization. Many of the random acts of kindness that I had thought of, like buying a homeless person a sandwich or giving a homeless person a gift card, all boiled down to money. The sandwich I bought a random stranger, and the tea I purchased for a colleague. Although a few dollars here and there are inconsequential, racking it up over a span of 25 days could mean much more. Which is fine…but it made me wonder if there were random acts of kindness out there that didn’t involve money.

I did a quick Google search and didn’t come up with much. I did come up with a list that included things like “open the door for someone” or “give someone a smile.” Is that really a random act of kindness or…oh, I don’t know…common courtesy? I usually try not to close doors on people and scowl when I walk down the street.

At any rate, I guess it’ll be more of a challenge as I count down the days to Christmas.

Speaking of karma points - my friend and I always joked about how, whenever we do something horrible it’s like we’re making withdrawals from our karma bank. And, as the logic follows, any good deed we do is a deposit.

Apparently, I made a huge withdrawal and I didn’t even know that I had overdrawn. To make a long (and tedious) story short, and to save myself a little dignity because truthfully, the problems all arose from my own scattered brain…I misplaced my phone, ended up driving back and forth between San Francisco and San Mateo three times and then tweaked my neck.

Again.

If there really were such a thing as the Bank of Karma, I guess trying to commit myself to good deeds couldn’t have come at a better time.