I have an ill-fated crush…part eight

Well, what’s new in my life? I have migrated over to blogger in order to achieve a fresh start for new friends and followers to follow my path to becoming an…actress. You may reach this site through this link.

Also…through my many years of blogs I write about heartbreak. Oh heartbreak. You are my strangely best friend.

Whenever I get my heart crushed by someone new, I revert back to the past. I remember those other boys who have broken my heart. I think it gets better, it does. I still cherish the memories. And you know what? It’s fine.

The other day, I was sitting on the bus. I looked at the glitter on my eyes. Then I remembered something that was long forgotten. When I was in Korea, I bought my first “sparkles” from Etude House. I dropped the bag on the busy streets of Myeong-dong. Upset, I must have told my then boyfriend about it. He later told me how he’d gone to get me some new sparkles. Yes, a tall lanky awkward white boy who didn’t speak any Korean in a make-up store looking for my sparkles. But he’d forgotten the sparkles at a church he’d been dragged to by his Korean co-teacher. And here I was, two years later, chuckling at the memory.

One day, or maybe not, I’ll find the one. Or I’ll settle for one. Until then, I shouldn’t sweat it.

Whether I return to update this WordPress blog remains to be seen.

Yesterday, she jumped.

Just a few days after I wrote the preceding post, one of my students took her own life. She was one of my five hundred eighty two students, whom I saw once a week…one who did not stand out in one’s memory as she was quiet, shy, and left unknown to me. She jumped from the seventeenth floor, they said.

The news came as a big shock to me, especially since it came in the form of a whisper before one of my classes. As I taught that class, my emotions within faltered as I tried to remain calm and carry on with my lesson.

This is Korea. Perhaps they thought it was strange that I would cry at lunch, as I was met with an embarrassed laughter from my co-teacher. I had burst into tears after recalling how I felt during high school when I learned someone had taken his own life. I didn’t know him, yet I still had felt an immense sadness at knowing that someone I had passed in the hallways wouldn’t ever be there again. But now, this was a young girl whom I had seen in my classes, whom I might’ve had the opportunity to touch in some way, whom I had drawn a star next to her name the one time she came to the front of the class with her group and participated. The students, however, at my school will never get a similar announcement. Instead, if any student asks, the girl died in an accident. There doesn’t seem to be some sort of counseling or grief support. It was almost business as usual, save the teachers going through the girl’s things, hushed teacher’s announcements, and the collecting of the grievance fee – the money collected to be given to the family.

All the while yesterday, I felt scared. I felt scared at the prospect of losing one of those kid’s brights smiles or breaking a student’s psyche if I was too mean. I didn’t want to have to lose any of those kids. I thought about the girl’s death – if she really had saved herself grief while giving her family some. Korea is a very competitive, work-driven country. The kids just go to school all day and study. They go to extra academies after school, learn three languages, and vie for limited spots at the top universities in Korea which barely hit the register of international prestige. Once all that schooling is done, there’s still the crunch of real life work afterward and the other social problems that we all must face. What sort of things would she have to look forward to? Another few decades of hard work? She was not a pretty girl and Korea of all places has a big emphasis on appearance. And I, myself, still feel the pains of life and have tears fall from my eyes, even in a public place such as a Seoul subway.

But, I wish I could have been there for her, even though I cannot possibly get to know all my students. I wish I could have at least had a fun class every week – something she could have looked forward to. All I really want to have accomplished by the time my job is over and done is to impart some positive outlook on life for my kids – to follow their dreams, not to worry about things that don’t matter, to be strong even when times are tough. The day before the last class she had attended with me, I had planned to introduce some sort of self-esteem boosting activity. But instead, we finished up last week’s survey. So she never got to play.

Do I have a right to feel as saddened and depressed as I do now? I wasn’t close to her at all, but I know I had collected her papers before, listened to her try to speak English, perhaps called out her name. There’ll be one more empty desk in class, where a 12-year-old girl would have sat. On the whiteboard, below the number 33 enrolled in her class, there is a 32 present, and 1 missing. It was still written that way today as well. The 1 is a student who will be permanently absent. I wonder when the top number will be erased and there’ll only be a 32. I had to go in and teach class as usual today (not to mention yesterday), with the students acting normal as if nothing had happened, being their usual loud and sometimes obnoxious selves. I found it hard to have any sympathy for them at that moment.

And this being Korea, I haven’t had the chance to talk to anyone about this – my feelings or whatnot. I don’t know if this is something I can just brush off. I even have to question if I have a right to be so deeply impacted. The system just tells you to keep churning. But a teacher’s job is so much more than just teaching a kid how to do science problems, math problems, or how to speak English. Even though it’s nowhere in our contract, we have to be there for our students. We have to help them turn out all right.

Yesterday, on the subway, someone’s head kept falling on my shoulder. Koreans are perpetually tired. And I wondered, maybe, if I could be someone’s pillow even just for a few stops, it could be the best sleep they’d get.

Today, I tried to look through my stack of papers for anything she had turned in. When my eyes finally found the paper with her name on it, a sadness fell over my heart. It was a small square of paper, an assignment asking the students what they had done during the winter vacation, with just one sentence saying that she had watched TV.

If there is anything I want in my life, I’d want to positively affect someone. I wish all of us could just reach out our hands to each other. Maybe the person is having the worst day of his or her life. I remember all the times the strangers had stopped to ask me if I was okay, and I was always grateful that they were there for me even though they had no idea who I was. I am even more grateful for my friends who were always there for me or even just once, as I know I am not always the happiest person in the world. At the same time, I know that we have only so much emotional capacity to take upon others’ burdens. Even though I’d like to, I can’t erase people’s unhappiness. We can’t always win every fight on our own.

I always wonder where all the people on the subway are going. We’re all on our separate journeys, yet we every now and then we are literally crushed together by force. I always imagine a conversation between two people on a subway ride to nowhere in particular. They each will ask each other where they are going. One is headed on a path to death, saying he is nearing the end of his journey and the other wishes him the best of luck and they continue to chit-chat. The other will go on living, either going home or to some magical adventure in a foreign land. Once the subway reaches a stop, they part amicably. And they never see each other again.

The Day that Love Died

As I sit here, miserable and sick and alone in Seoul…I recall the random phone call I made to my mom to pass the time about one year ago, while sitting in a suit near the sandy beaches of Malibu.

My mom told me that my dad was having a heart attack, but she told me not to worry and that everything would be fine. But I knew in my heart things wouldn’t be fine. I may have paused there afterward to say a prayer. Then I just wept. Seeing me crying, a man in a pickup truck shouted to me that everything would be okay, and for me to be strong, as I tried to smile and wipe away my tears.

I had an interview for a job there, with which I proceeded along to have. I’m not sure how I remained calm as a voice screamed inside of me saying that my dad was having a heart attack. The details are hazy now. Nonetheless, on the bus ride back home (to my university apartment), I had teary eyes. A woman asked me if everything was all right, and I may have shook my head or said nothing…but she told me everything would be okay. For some reason, I stopped along Santa Monica and walked about the shopping center…and just shopped. I bought two or three greeting cards – one was a Mother’s Day card. I stopped and looked at the Father’s Day cards. I didn’t buy one…because I knew. All the while, my mind was racked with thoughts of if what I did here would affect whether or not God would let my dad live, even though I don’t fully believe in God anymore. Maybe I should have given that homeless person some money – maybe God would let my dad live.

I saw a pink hippo in a store, but I did not buy it. I went back months later to buy the last one.

I stayed in Los Angeles for a week as my mom told me to stay there…there was nothing I could do back home. My dad was unconscious. The same Friday night, I stayed home and watched the Shawshank Redemption in the dark – a movie recommended to me.

Every phone call I got, I was afraid it’d be telling me of bad news. There were a few false scares prematurely. My dad was getting better, still unconscious, but then he took a turn for the worse.

The next Friday, after working with my group in the library and coming home to lounge, I checked my cell phone and saw a dozen or so missed calls as I had left my phone on silent. The cold pang of panic seared through my body. I didn’t check my messages – I just called and called until finally someone picked up. My mom told me to come home right away. She didn’t explain any further. I panicked as I looked for a last minute flight out of Los Angeles during that holiday weekend (the same MLK weekend I don’t get to enjoy this year in Korea). I booked one. I don’t remember how much I spent on that one-way ticket, but I guess that’s one (more?) time I can be thankful for United for having an open seat.

My roommates took me to the airport. I was lucky to have them around. I was quiet during the ride.

At the airport, the lines were hectic. I stood there by myself. I listened to my messages, one with either my mom or sister (my memory fails me now) saying in a strained voice that he only had forty-eight hours more to live. The realization that my dad really was going to die hit me. I broke down in tears. I called two of my friends, only to speak with them both for only a minute as they had nothing to say to comfort me. I was too shocked and scared to tell the people at the airport I really needed to get home; my dad was dying. So I waited in the long line.

On the plane, I read bits from a poetry book my aforementioned former lunatic half-love had given me. Tears dropped down silently as I sat in between two strangers on the night flight. I wanted to hope, but it was gone. I knew it was time.

My cousin and his now wife picked me up from the airport. I don’t remember what we said in the car.

The day will always remain with me. Time was suspended in those long hours in next to the hospital bed. My mom’s family was all there for her. My uncles and aunts and my grandpa.

When it happened, I probably had the most stifled response. I was still in shock. That’s my daddy’s name on the monitor and there is an X where the pulse is supposed to be. I watched as the monitor had gone from the hundreds down to nothing over a course of many hours. All the while, I knew there was nothing I could do to save him. I prayed, I asked my friends to pray…but I knew there was nothing to be done.

There’s that feeling of being the family sitting in the room after it’s all over and the doctor comes out and tells you that she’s sorry. The feeling of being the family walking through the ICU with the other nurses looking on in silence, after they have just heard all of you crying in the room next door.

Things don’t really start to look up for a long time. And even then, all of this remains with me in some way at any place or time.

I’m afraid of having to lose another loved one in the future. My dad really loved all of us…and I’ll never have another dad. I suppose, for me, I was lucky because my dad was someone who would always be there. He might’ve just told me to stop crying whenever I cried and he might’ve never been able to understand what troubled me – but he was always there just to tell me that everything would be okay. The only place I can see him now is in my dreams. Human life is so delicate. You can lose someone in an instant. You might even find the love of your life, your soulmate…only to have them torn away from you by some cruel twist of fate. It’s a scary thought, but one perhaps we should not try to dwell on. Those sayings about never knowing how much someone means to you until he is gone is true. I’m sorry, Dad.

I live life as a crazy artist

With it being the new year, I set out to clean my former love motel studio. By any accounts it is a complete pigsty, a place I would be too embarrassed to show any guest. After finally rolling out of bed in the afternoon and making a trip to the supermarket, I sat down waiting for my water to boil and looked about in preparation to clean…and realized that in its mess, it is a work of art. Everything is in place in a deliberate way, yet still unintentionally. It is a portrait of my life as is, with layers piled upon others.

On the floor, there lies more than a week’s worth of dirty underwear. On top of one stray trash bag, meant for biodegradable food wastes, there lies an unopened chestnut – one which I had received from a coworker perhaps two months ago. Close by is a shopping bag containing a pair of socks with the word ‘Corea’ stitched on in addition to the Korean flag. Next to that bag is a trash bag, containing a box of Korean cake – unopened, but a month old and an empty but now moldy Baskin Robbins ice cream container. Intermixed amongst the string of underwear is a bag stained with spilled oil…oil that had been brought to an ex-boyfriend’s house for a failed cooking attempt. An empty box of Pepero and an empty box of tangerines lie in another section of the floor, complete with bits of my former lesson materials and Korean maps.

Above an empty box of a shampoo set, there is an equally cluttered nightstand. On it is an empty box of French camembert, straight from a Korean Costco. There are some old Laneige creams received from putting on a cultural show two years ago in college. An empty container of body butter is exposed, with a cat mug with a few droplets of sangria left in it to the side. The UCLA refillable mug I received while working my first and only food service job sits a bit broken to the other side of the body butter. Strewn across the stand are cosmetics – gifts from a sister and a serum from the facial place back home which does not work at controlling oil. A piece of stationery, a gift from another teacher, sits above the box of camembert. And above all the items, hanging from a hook is a pink Prada bag ordered from Amazon.com.

On the bed, beyond the frame of this laptop lies a diary with sporadic rants of brokenheartedness. The bronze, flowered diary is a gift mailed from a friend during college. Above the diary is a set of cute stickers, purchased during a quest to find shiny Korean stickers for a brother’s love interest thousands of miles away. Under a pile of clothes is a box from the same former boyfriend, containing letters and cards from students and teachers. On the pillow, there sits a red hippo, purchased as a self Valentine. Under a towel lies my college sweater, the very same piece of clothing I wore when I last saw my former lunatic love leave…and a week later when watched my father die.

Facing the bed, there is a wardrobe and desk set. On the desk’s surface lies a pile of textbooks, surmounted by a self portrait hastily done in pencil. Above the sheet of paper lies a pink and white checkered piece of Victoria’s Secret underwear. Two dried roses, also from a former boyfriend, lie crumpled about. A corkscrew still planted in the cork sits under a smelly bedsheet lugged all the way from America only to be unused. A bag of pink Christmas decorations remain in the plastic wrap, unused, nestled in a pink Yankees cap ordered from eBay. Below the desk is an unused traditional Korean alcohol cup set…with a bottle of vitamins frequently never taken, and boxes of toothpaste which were overcharged but left unamended for.

The shelves above hold a variety of other hats, each with their own story. Shells from the beach of Busan sit next to an assortment of American coins and shotglasses – one of which says “Think Pink”, taken from Hollywood. Enveloped in its pink case are a pair of pink Betsey Johnson sunglasses, purchased in Manhattan.

In the corner sits a refrigerator, more filled with trash than food. A large bottle of soju with little action sits next to a bottle of unappealing carrot juice. The box of a birthday cake, another assortment of Korean cake, and a black bag of tangerine remnants have been sitting untouched for months. A three month old kiwi rests unbroken at the top, facing a large bag of lollipops meant for students.

On the way to the kitchen, liquid laundry detergent smears the floor, mixed with dirt and long strands of black hair. The kitchen sink is home to a moldy sponge. The counter features dirt from an unknown source while the frying pan holds the wrapper of the camembert. And in the corner lies an empty wine bottle, with its South African contents consumed months prior.

The bathroom perhaps will be left undescribed, but lies equally as intricate.

My life.

Life in 2008: A Year in Review

2008 has been an odd year, with so many changes. I started the year off half in love with and then heartbroken over a distant lunatic of sorts, one who would retreat into the realms of virtual nothingness in my life.

I underwent the most traumatic moment of life…watching my dad slip away and knowing there was nothing I could do to save him. One moment someone you love is there; the next, you are sobbing at a funeral, telling everyone there about your daddy. You see him there lifeless…you try to play his favorite music. Your high school English teacher shows up and your grief is slightly eased with the sympathy.

My dad’s funeral was on the day of one of my former unrequited love’s birthdays. I had forgotten about it. Really, some things take precedence. Also, that was the sign that perhaps I really had moved on. Ironically, because I made the connection between the two days, I doubt I shall ever forget it now. In any case, I laugh at the stupidity I had when I loved that boy with all my heart.

After my dad’s funeral, I returned to school and struggled. There was no grief group for me, no cushion for comfort and there was no love from the one I wanted. There was this feeling of strain inside, but I didn’t want anyone to worry about me. I didn’t want to open up. I trudged through the days, mostly hurting and trying to bottle things up. At times, I would find solace in drinking on my own.

One day, I cried while walking back home from class. A girl stopped and walked with me. I told her what was bothering me…and she told me that I was strong. I don’t think I’m strong most of the time, but…I will remember her.

There were many thoughts running through my mind, questions of what to do with my life. I could not wait to get out of LA – the ending was bittersweet. My family drove up to meet me for graduation, with my uncle coming in stead of my father. There was no big party, just a quiet ending. Finally, I left the place I had spent the last four years of my life.

During the summer, I wandered about Europe with a bunch of young strangers from all over the States…briefly dabbling about in seven new countries. While I eventually made some cool new friends, the trip only accentuated the feeling of loneliness I had within myself. I still thought of my lunatic love who had abandoned me for his reasons, with much sadness. I would think of him and wonder if he was having a good time. When I saw some photos of him enjoying himself, I was sad all the way over in Paris. On my dad’s birthday, I broke down in a nightclub. It was just one of those days.

But better yet, I moved to a foreign country and got my first full time job as an English teacher. It was the first time I really lived by myself and on my own. I realized how lucky I was to be born as an American. We Americans can go to other countries and know barely anything about customs and the language and still be fine. On the other hand, people born in these other countries often have to know several languages and don’t have such opportunities to go work abroad.

But all the while, I tried my hand at tango, improv comedy, the gayageum…and I’m learning a new language. Who says you are too old to learn? And I have probably dated the most this year out of any…attracting men of all races and walks of life. You have a Jordanian, white boys from Nebraska and Arizona, hometown Korean and Chinese and of course the idiot Russian. Yes, I still haven’t found love, but that’s what 2009 and the future is for, right?

I already rang in the new year in Seoul, but it still hasn’t hit back home yet. I don’t know where I will be next year, but hopefully it will be exciting. New places, new people…yet I still want something that will be more than just new.

Dear Dad,

It has been eleven months since you last saw me.

You dropped me off at the airport, sending me off for my next quarter at school. You waved goodbye.

I was lying here in the darkness by myself and I thought of you.

I miss you.

Dear Boy Who Was in my Dreams,

I wish I could’ve met you again.

Even if you broke my heart, I still wished that we could have met again. That maybe, I’d see you standing there.

I realize maybe you never think of me. Yes, I became crazy.

It was less than a year ago. Yet, it is gone. All gone.

You showed up in my dreams a few days ago.

The past.

Au revoir.

I still wish for someone to love me as I would love them.

It’s 4 AM in Seoul.

I awoke from a nap about three hours ago…a six hour nap…and here lies the remnants of my dream.

___

I was at my home, the home I lived in eight years ago…the one where I spent my childhood – but I was the age that I am now. I was sleeping, but awoke when I heard my cell phone ringing downstairs at an odd hour of the night – with Celine Dion’s “My Heart Will Go On” as the ringtone. I didn’t recognize who I had saved that ringtone for, so I ran downstairs to look. It was the name of someone I had once thought of every day a few years ago. I was a bit surprised, but I just looked at the phone and let it stop ringing as I dismissed it as being a drunk dial. I could imagine the people on the other end, laughing. I watched as the phone lit up with a new voice mail alert.

I stayed awake for sometime. My dad, of course, woke up and came to nag at me for being awake. My mom woke up as well.

Then, somehow or other, I was in Europe. It seemed that I would be there for an extended amount of time. But like an unpleasant surprise, I encountered a girl from college whom I was not happy to see. We didn’t say anything to one another. She conducted her tourist business, snapping photos while I tried to avoid her. Then someone from high school appeared with her, despite the reality that they wouldn’t know each other in real life. He greeted me and we chatted for a bit, but then excused himself…saying that he needed to screw. I said, “Excuse me?” to him, but then I comprehended what he meant as he explained the complicated situation he had with his friends and this other girl I didn’t recognize. I thought for a moment he was going to scatter off with the girl I didn’t like, but was slightly disappointed when he went off with another one.

Next I bumped into two other boys I knew, who have the same name. One was someone I used to talk to all the time, but now do not. I asked them what they are doing there. Apparently a professor at UCLA had just one day decided to take the whole class over to Europe. The boy said that he wasn’t fond of the professor, but hey! I thought about how wasteful of our funds that was. But I also noted to myself that that boy didn’t go to UCLA in the first place.

___

End Notes… I never had Celine Dion as a ringtone. I erased the boy’s phone number, too, so I wouldn’t have been able to see his name on my Caller ID. But I was glad that I had a dream where my dad was alive.

Now I’m wide awake.

Time for myself.

I haven’t written in over three months.

Within that time period, I finished my last days as an undergraduate…I passed out of UCLA with no large celebration, but rather just quietly with my family. No tearful goodbyes to my friends.

I trekked about Europe with the aid of a tour bus and whisked through eight countries. I really think to be born European is the luckiest draw of nationality you could have wished for. America is pretty good, but Europe is much better, with fewer religious fundamentalists and a lot more freedom and culture. Europe beats Asia, too, because Asia has to push forward to make up for all the times she has been screwed in the past. Europe, incidentally, was the perpetrator of screwing over most of the world. The life of an Asian youth is difficult…just studying for hours upon hours with the concept of hard work pummeled into their brains at an early age.

Nowadays, I’m either sitting on a subway in Seoul or in my former love motel studio. Perhaps this will be a time of learning, with no familiar faces about. Of course I still need to map out my goals and make sure I don’t become a broken down person with many regrets in the future. My life here has already had a confusing few ups and downs. I feel the Korean people have been very welcoming to me and I hope I don’t do anything to wear down their welcome. I have not yet felt the lashes of racism which I was warned against, but there is still a long time to go.

For a few moments here, I felt free…as a young, beautiful, unattached girl dancing alone on a table in the heart of Seoul. Foreign, of course. I’m here because I wanted to be here. It was never something expected of me – like they way you’d just go off to college after high school. I’m glad to be alive…to have the opportunity to go to foreign countries and survive perfectly fine with my own native tongue.

At the same time, I realize how hard my heart has grown. The scar tissue is thick. I’ve always had to condition my thoughts to guard against feeling hurt. I wonder what kind of a person I have become. Someone cursed me out pretty damn well, most of it over-the-top and unwarranted in my opinion, but I suppose some of it resonated with some truth. But…jesus! I didn’t deserve such harshness. If you must know, I will share details with you – if I haven’t already.

In any case, I shall learn to savor my life.

The push for productivity.

I’m 21.5 years old. I have no idea how my life will shape up to be…where I’ll be in the next few years.

I am graduating from UCLA with 2.5 majors (Business Economics, Political Science, and Accounting) in 4 years, with Latin honors, College honors and as a new member of Phi Beta Kappa. I am a second generation Chinese American woman. I graduated from Lowell High School in San Francisco.

Those three sentences should say something about me. First I pushed myself beyond what was necessary at UCLA but let my grades slip somewhat (hence you see it’s only honors). Second I am surrounded by the Chinese principle of hard work and success as a measure of respect in society. Third I cannot help but look and compare and realize what is true genius and shoot higher.

But let me break it down a bit more. First, I studied in more than one discipline at UCLA because I wanted to be more marketable. I looked at my peers and copied them. I hate accounting; I’ve never wanted to be an accountant and I wonder what it would’ve been like if I just studied something more self-enriching and pleasurable, such as Chinese or acting (however, there are two separate stories which explain why I did not). Honors to me is not good enough. The moment I tried to get to summa cum laude, it all went downward. But life will intervene and distract you from studies. Sometimes things happen which are out of your control. This was not necessarily the right way to go.

Second, the Chinese way of life kills me. For the most part, Chinese people are all about the money, the success, and the glory…and finding a good mate. (It’s not limited to Chinese, but come on…the majority of Chinese people) I’ve always been somewhat disgusted. However, being surrounded by Chinese people for virtually 99% of my life has definitely influenced the way I think and see things. I see failure when I see myself. It’s just never good enough. Sometimes I adopt methods of thinking of just be content, let it be, do what I can. But no. The Chinese in me knows that is complacency. I have to be a productive, working member of society who gives positive contributions. It’s much more respectable than the opposite, which is of course a matter of fact. Sometimes I feel like I have to be a machine. The free but trapped soul within me cries that it isn’t the way it has to be. The two voices within me clash and leave me conflicted.

I grew up in an environment with very competitive peers…I felt like I lost myself there.

While many of my peers and family are focused on productivity and becoming rich and making the most out of life, I cannot exactly say the same for myself. I feel very unproductive. I don’t have a full-time job lined up, despite my half-hearted attempts to find one.

Well, I do have a year planned, but now I’m freaking out and wondering if it’s something I want to do.

Yes, I’ll be ok. OK. Okay is not Chinese excellence! It isn’t my excellence. It isn’t the blood, sweat and tears my mom labored for all her life.

I don’t know where the hell to go. And temporarily it’s fine. But I have to know.