It’s “okay”

I spent this entire quarter incredibly jaded.

Jaded with the world, jaded with my world, jaded with my daily schedule. Jaded. You know, typical amy-moral-conundrum  theme that appears too often in this blog.

But I was especially jaded because of Task Force. I spent 8 weeks cumulative researching initiatives and agencies, reading into their models, attempting to jam pack years of understanding multi-stakeholder initiatives and organizations into a few weeks and call myself an expert enough to make a policy recommendation.

I mean, given that this is nonetheless semi-mock. I spent 80% of the time going, who am I to say any of this like I know it? And the other 80% of the time going, they seriously can’t expect this to work?

The world of development is fascinating as much as it is daunting and travels along way too many gray areas and potential death traps. Even reflecting back on my time in India now, I often wonder how much damage I’ve contributed thanks to my ignorance than good I’ve actually done?

And so in developing policy recommendation for a new upcoming initiative that begs governments to be more transparent with their budgets, I just felt entirely disconnected with the research and wanted to draw a giant penis on the report and write “good fucking luck with that” under the peen.

Then the other day we finally presented to a representative of the organization that’s heading this initiative. He was a sweet guy from Bangalore who’s been working in D.C for a few years now. He used to be an accountant in India and became frustrated with the lack of information disclosed by the government. He then became an advocate for the Right To Info Act and has since been involved with the civil-society sector in promoting similar things internationally.

He shared a few anecdotes about his experiences in trying to navigate the waters of international development and the bureaucracy that makes up that world: meetings with chief deputies of IMF and OECD, and the surprises that come with interacting with individuals –along with the understanding that this initiative may or may not work entirely.

And in hearing the skepticism it suddenly dawned on me. It’s okay to be depressed about this.

I know, that’s probably not the answer you wanted me to arrive at. I suppose where I’m getting at is that skepticism will always play a role. It will always loom above the head of individuals who embark on grandiose efforts to save the world, in crude terms. But I suddenly felt better about this research and work after hearing him talk because he was clearly an individual who has seen the effects and been affected due to the lack of transparency and knows the capabilities of development once a government releases more of its information. Buzzword or no, he continues to believe in his work. He’s also devoted years to this field and realizes the potential of setbacks and closed doors, but he will continue to navigate these waters because he believes in it.

Later on that night we went to Schultzy’s to celebrate the end of TF. I asked my advisor how he manages to remain involved with this field, doesn’t it ever depress him? “All the time!” He said. “But you just have to find other things to make you not depressed. For example, what do you like to do for fun?”

“Netflix.”

“And writing. I enjoy writing. I enjoy stories. I enjoy hearing other people’s story  and writing about it.”

And if anything, writing has always kept me sane, reports and essays aside. And so I will take these two ambiguous lessons with me as I try to figure out my life: 1) believe in it, whatever it is, and expect doors to close and bring a brick or two to break open windows; 2) counter the depression with something I enjoy doing, writing and/or Netflix,– and hopefully something to counter the lack of physical activity.

I don’t belong here.

I miss the jet-setting lifestyle. I miss living out of a suitcase. I miss not knowing where I’ll venture to tomorrow. I miss the unfamiliarity. 

It dawned on me recently just how much the International Studies major just doesn’t fit me. The idea of it is nice; but the world it submerges me in reality: the jargon, the pretentiousness; the self-righteousness–that’s not me. It isn’t something I want to become. 

I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying that a good doesn’t come out of this, or that I haven’t learned anything valuable after dedicating 3.5 years to this. But lately it’s been a relentless battle of trying to prove to people, people who probably, after this quarter, will no longer ever be affiliated with me again, that I am an individual possible of producing my own ideas and thoughts. And, I get it, I get the whole mentality that this is all a competition, survival of the fittest intellect who can convey their thoughts most eloquently on paper; but just this alone seems to strip the very basis of why we all come together and want to learn about this subject. Or maybe it is me that enlisted on this journey with the misconception, after all. 

Inadequacy. I’m not meant for this lifestyle. I’m not meant for the theories and the disconnect between the text and the real world. I’m not meant for jargon and big words that doesn’t apply to 90% of the rest of the world.

I’ve never been an elite in any sense, and the more I seemingly am being surrounded by them; the less I want affiliated with them.

If.

If I could do high school all over again, the one thing (at least, the one thing at the top of the list), would be to interact more with the students in the ELL classes.

I got to know a few of them better towards my senior year, mostly because I got to tutor a student, Ikar, one on one and sat in his class with him. Those students. Cracked. Me. Up.

I vividly remember their sense of humor, although sometimes a bit crude, but highly entertaining, nonetheless.

They were a class made up of hispanic immigrants, Somalian refugees, and a few Thai and Cambodian individuals who were also new to the states.

I wish I would’ve stuck around and asked them questions. Offered to play board games with them and hear their stories. Lord knows they probably have some of the most provoking life stories. I wish we could’ve sat around comparing scars and exchanging stories of how we got those scars. I wish we could’ve kicked around a ball and talked about our dreams, maybe hear them tell me how they wish to improve their English and how I wish I could improve my Vietnamese.

I sit here today and a few images of their faces pop in my head. I’ve long forgotten their names but I wonder what they’re up to nowadays. Where have these past four years taken them? How’s their English? How are their dreams?

Locating Amy. Again.

Here’s a conspiracy theory.

Scholarship committees get some sort of cynical masochistic pleasure from having their applicants answer these ridiculous questions that mentally strips them of their pride and morals, naked to the point where they are vulnerable, bearing their skin to the world, showing everyone how they are just another meek human being.

Good thing I’m a sadist.

The things we’ll do for money.

Prompt: Write about your American Dream.

Response (in 1500 words or less): Motherfucker, that shit doesn’t exist.

End.
Too bad I’ll never have the balls to do that.

Sofa Talk.

It’s 2AM and our bodies lie contorted along the sofa’s plush limbs.

We bend our legs and spines at acute angles,

As to carefully avoid having our joints touch:

We lay like Tetris pieces

You at one end and I at the other.

My toes are dangerously close to your elbows,

And I try not to breathe, afraid to shift any body weight,

That would accidentally bring that bodily contact

I so self-consciously am wary of.

Instead,

I tell you everything and nothing,

And you tell me nothing and everything.

And we let our words condense into the crevices,

Where our angles are too shy to meet.

These distortions become my comfortable Saturday evenings.

We talk until the words fade into slow exhales,

And our eyelashes reconvene for their nightly rendezvous,

In which we give way into the sofa cushions

Falling asleep with bent knees and crooked necks,

Still conscious of the gaps in between us.

 

Family.

Most of my friends from SeaTac are Filipino. Having spent the bulk of my teenage years growing up surrounded by them inevitably meant spending plenty of time at Filipino gatherings. From Debuts to summer bbqs and birthday parties, I quickly became familiar to the texture of pancit and the scent of kare-kare, and adopted the habit of calling all by ‘uncle’ ‘untie’ and the occasional ‘lola’ and ‘lolo’.

Recently, having spent time with Jon and his family in Oahu, I came to thoroughly enjoy my presence within these family moments that, though I can’t call it my own (even though Jon insists that I am as part of the family as he is), I got to experience it.

It’s not technically to say that I am decrying any sense of ‘family’ I’ve experienced in my own nuclear family. I mean, yeah, as kids, though memories are faint, we went to parks on sunny days and a few parades and events here and there. But, most of those were experienced before the age of 13. By the time teenage years rolled around, the spirit of family trips quickly died as us kids realized that opting out of things were possible, and slowly, dad’s interest in wanting to leave his house waned (as the age of the internet grew). Needless to say, what sometimes kept us together were brief Christmas mornings when presents were exchanged and weekend dinners where the sound of chewing/slurping easily overcompensated for the lack of dialogue. Cue the heightened desire to escape from all us kids and poor over-worked-with-little-appreciation-mom and fast forward to present day and you get …well, an empty house.

It seems that, nowadays, conversations between ourselves somehow revolves around work and money. Maybe that’s just how adult life works, I guess. No warm family gatherings for a weekly traditional dinner with just conversation about anything but, no friendly updates from mom (just of a lot of complaints) and lots and lots of space in between all of us.

And after spending a full week with Jon and his family, I realized just how business-oriented my family is. Things work in bureaucratic ways, often monetarily, too. Unfortunately, this is all I know. Well, not necessarily. This is my experience. I know that there’s more to “family” than busy schedules and empty conversations. But maybe everyone still has a lot of growing up to do.

Semantics schmamantics

“Preparatory organizations and tutorial markets should be regulated. We shall also strengthen the construction and management of venues for extracurricular activities, to enrich the extracurricular activities for students.”

- A quote from the China Outline of Education Plan to 2020.

What the what, China?

Home.

“Tell me stories.” This line I must have heard over countless times in this past week of being home (and probably much more to come). What typically ensues is a rush of anxiety to try to conjure up something interesting and travel-y and china-y to share. Instead, I tend to choke and try to find ways of trying not to sound completely boring and ungrateful.

“China was interesting…”

“What kind of stories do you wanna hear?…”  (*followed by a “Shit, please don’t say ‘any!’ ” in my head)

And maybe this is difficult because I haven’t had enough time to really settle down with my thoughts since coming home and reflecting on my time in China. I mean, it was definitely an experience, (this term I’ve definitely have overused quite a bit), and I’m sure it’s left an impact on me, although what exactly it is, I’ve still yet to figure out. I currently have no sense of longing to be back in Beijing, but at the same time I have no longing to be anywhere in particular.

I think coming back to Seattle has been a healthy rejuvenation for my spirit and social welfare. There hasn’t been a moment where I’ve been left alone, which is something I’m grateful for, don’t get me wrong, although it’s extremely distracting for the sake of research paper writing. So I’ve been busy seeing faces and making up lost 21-runs, and have absolutely enjoyed eating up this novel moment of catching up with old friends again.

But I know it wont last forever, and before long almost everyone is leaving to explore their own worlds. And I’m thrust into this awkward limbo of transition phases, between coming back home, dealing with school and work and people who actually know me (aka real life, aka no re-inventing myself because I can easily get away with it), and then knowing that in one year I will be on my own. For real. This is absolutely frightening.

___

Brian’s graduation was yesterday and I’ve never felt so proud of anyone in my entire life. Always been stuck in that awkward middle child position, I felt like he was always misunderstood (although most of our sibling quarrels/fights have been based off of these misunderstandings) as someone who was in his older brother’s shadow and the awkward socializer of the family. For the bulk of my teenage years, he was the least-favorite older brother, mostly for his temper and his seemingly inability to be socially-normal (you know, such norms according to an angsty 16 year old). When I moved away from home I began to be a little more forgiving towards our relationship, though not quite ever on the level of full understanding, but on the level of willingness to make amends. We were both attending college at the same time and shared that connection. During his 2nd year of college he decided to switch majors, which would mean his graduation date would be extended another year, which would mean he would be the first one in the family to actually do the 5 year plan, which would mean that David still proved to be the most efficient and established child of the family (graduating college with no debts, finished college in a short amount of time, and landed a sweet job shortly after). In my head though, I was extremely grateful Brian pulled this off. This was Brian, I remember thinking to myself. This is FINALLY him. Doing something not for Dad, not for David (the two people I feel he’s always had to prove something to in his life), but for him. This would mean confronting Dad with the issue of his uncertainty and the issue of tuition money (two topics, most of you guys know, are extremely uncomfortable to confront with your parents). But he did it, and he dealt with it, although not gracefully at times, but as courageously as he could. And two and a half years later, he’s graduated with a secured job (and perhaps a sweeter one than David’s) ready for him a few days after his own graduation ceremony. And to me it’s not about the job that’s he has landed, it’s about the balls he had to go against the grain. And that I think he realized his quirkiness, his awkwardness (well, debatable), and his creativity, –to take a risk. He’s never quite been the most logical older brother, but he’s definitely been one to have more guts to say “no” more so than any of us kids,–though most times out of laziness,–and here he is. He’s okay. He’s gonna be okay. And I’m proud of him.

#*&$!

There is something amazingly satisfying with cussing. What beats that, however, is being able to say loudly in public without really fearing about that whole public indecency/breaking etiquette thing,–because no one understands you. Well, most people.

Potty mouth all around.

Language.

Found out today that an American student here in my program just got engaged with her 5 month long boyfriend. She’s a cute blonde  from Oregon and he’s a Beijing raised Inner-Mongolian. They communicate strictly on Mandarin. I’ve always been amazed with these gem type of stories, tickled, if you may call it, on how “love” can be found despite adequate reasoning and lack of word choices.  And whether or not this engagement will last until its wedding day and beyond is a long shoulder shrug, but it doesn’t change the fact that this whirlwind of an affair landed two strangers with full lack of semantic comprehension to find themselves suddenly smitten enough to want to commit to each other fully.

And sure, this whole thing can be glazed over with layers upon layers of skepticism, but I’m a hopeless romantic, so let me digress.

Body language. I used to give a lot of awkward hugs. After a few heartbreaks in high school, I hated the thought of being physically close. My parents are also very anti-touching and anti-affection, so this just further reinforced my desire to limit myself to side hugs and high fives. I also hated that moment when two chests would make contact, and to this day I still find it a bit awkward. But I realized that moving away to a place where reciting one’s goodbye can’t be fully exchanged despite a dictionary of synonyms, you learn to resort to body language.

Palm on shoulder, fingertips slightly resting on cheekbones, elbow to elbow, lips to forehead, arm hair to cotton t-shirt. A brief or extended kinetic movement to declare I (will) miss, love, be forever indebted, am lost, need, want, enjoy this moment, with you.

I mean, as humans we’re wired for that kinetic energy, our nerve endings after all rests on the tips of those body endings that we love to intertwine with our loved ones, fingertips, toes, lips, if not, so indiscreetly tingles when they’re brushed upon unexpectedly by someone else.

And so one learns to interpret movements: the cocking of a head, slight movement of the shoulder blades, bent of a finger, raise of an eyebrow, biting of the lips. And relinquish some sort of story telling of excitement, uneasiness, worry, fear, happiness. And these movements string into tangible sentences that you, yourself, learn to respond to using your own cracking of the knuckles, shift of the eyes, firming of the lips.

And maybe those moments of words gone evaporated leaves the points of clarity when you shift weight on your left leg to your right, or  your chest concaving its way into a sigh. Those moments when a thousand words fall short of meaning.

And maybe their relationship has been built on a successful amount of exchanging of words. Though, I can’t help but think that somewhere along the way, their alignment of shoulders have uttered a significant amount of understanding more so than any combination of nouns, adjectives, verbs and conjunctions ever can.

That, and maybe I just need a giant bear hug.