notes from a coffee shop.: 2012

Not-So-Resolute Resolutions

Saturday, December 29, 2012 / 9:18 AM

The night I quit my sorority, I sat in Reveka's living room unsure of what to do next. I hadn't expected the identity crisis that came with leaving an organization that wasn't for me in the first place, but here I was--over a year into college and feeling more lost than when I first began.

"You need a distraction," Reveka said, and brought up this new project she'd heard about from somebody else: The Day Zero Project encouraged people to make lists of 101 things they wanted to do in 1001 days. You had to write down specific things you wanted to do, and give yourself a deadline.

I went home that night and started compiling a list. I stopped several times. The thing that scared me the most was knowing I wouldn't be able to accomplish everything. I just knew I wouldn't be able to, and not because I wouldn't try, but because I had this incredibly cliche fear of failure. I didn't want to make plans because I'd made so many of them before and they didn't work out.

But the website said to "welcome failure," so I figured I'd give it a shot.

I made a list of 101 things I wanted to do by October 5, 2011. That day seemed so far away for a college sophomore sitting in her apartment engulfed in guilt for leaving her sisters and fear of not having a plan anymore. October 5, 2011 meant not being in college anymore and it meant even more uncertainty. Who knew, after all, what would happen in the next 2.75 years?

It's funny when I think back to making this list and all of the anxieties I had about it. It's even funnier to look ahead at June 2011 at my commencement speech where I encouraged thousands to embrace the unknown, the fear, the failures. In my list of 101 things, I never once considered listing "growing up"--but that's so vague, isn't it?

According to my Word document, I stopped keeping track of the things on my list in June 2010, about a year and a half before my deadline. As I look at the list now, I see many more things I've accomplished, both inside and outside of my October 5, 2011 deadline. Maybe I've always kept this list in the back of my mind because there are quite a few things on here I've done that I never thought I would.

But there's so much more, of course, I still haven't done. Perhaps one day I will, but what revisiting this list has taught me is that it isn't too late to do all of the things you've wanted. Life is short, and we should be living every day as if there is the potential to achieve something new, something grand. Sure, I haven't found a way to pet a panda yet (grr, someday!), but I have learned to knit a hat. I won't ever stand in Times Square on New Year's Eve (what was I thinking?), but perhaps someday I will learn how to tie a bow tie and I do have plans to get a manicure after the holidays with Sarah.

At the risk of sounding self-indulgent (is that the right phrase?), I think I really get why I was so adamant in my commencement speech to emphasize that plans don't always work out. My life is proof of that--everything I thought I'd do at a certain time in a certain place turns out to have changed, and I really believe that who I am right now and where I am right now is where I'm supposed to be. At senior retreat in high school, Mrs. Sparks had said to me, "You are where you're supposed to be," and I never really got that until years later after constantly doubting my place, my identity, my purpose.

Soon, it will have been four years since I first made that list of 101 things. It will also be two years since graduating from college, and one year since I've moved to New York. I may not have accomplished everything I thought I would, but it doesn't mean I should end my goals now. There's more to dream and more to do, so here we go...

Unimaginable

Friday, December 14, 2012 / 9:35 PM

From a vigil in Times Square (via Instagram)

I could recap the news for you, but the horror is well-known. I could list out statistics and rant and ask, "When is enough enough?" (Today may not have been the day to talk about gun control, as some have said. That's correct, because yesterday was when we should have had that conversation.) But I can't string any coherent thoughts together.

I can just say this: It is almost 2013. After today, I'll have sat in that newsroom for half a dozen mass shootings. I remember each day what happened--when I woke up, how I got the news, what I saw on our network and online, how long I was in the newsroom, how I got home... It never gets easier, you never really get numb from all this. Especially not today when you hear this one sentence, stated over and over: Of all of the victims, 20 dead were ages 5 through 10.

The night of the Aurora shooting, I was the last to leave the newsroom. It was just me, Keva, and Will, communicating via messenger in our different locations. When I did finally leave, it was late. I took a taxi home because I couldn't see myself making it on the subway, and--well, you know the story: I significantly freaked out the taxi driver by sobbing the entire drive home. He gave me a box of tissues. I went to my room and cried the rest of the night. (Granted, I was also going through my own unnecessary personal drama.)

Tonight, I saw the same thing happening, but am so grateful to have a nighttime editor in the same newsroom now, so I didn't have to endure it alone. And tonight, I was also so, so lucky to have someone bring me food and give me a hug and spend the night talking about everything.

And then there was a text from my mother. And IMs from friends. And reconciliation with another friend. And a message from the family of a person who kicked me out of his life. And tweets from people I've never met in person.

You forget sometimes to tell people you love them. It's easy to let people slip away. Sadly, it takes something unimaginable to become a reality before you remember.

Today, in one word, was horrifying. Perhaps, one day, we will not see this evil anymore.

RIP Roy, the 'Heart and Soul' of SFES

Sunday, December 9, 2012 / 7:52 AM

A Changing Season

Monday, November 26, 2012 / 10:10 PM

New York City's Sunday Punch

Friday, November 9, 2012 / 12:37 AM

I think New Yorkers are more expressive than a lot of people because they're constantly having to deal with and confront their, and others', emotions. New Yorkers are used to living, working, breathing in a city that throws you into crowds with zero hesitation, and they never get a moment of privacy while they're out and about living their lives. That argument on the train, that tear-soaked confession on the sidewalk, that really funny moment in the park...it's all there, on display, and it's not just yours to enjoy; it belongs to the city.

I remember the first time I had a panic attack on the train. It was in the early days of moving to the city, and there was something overwhelming about the events in between work and my apartment, and I fought back tears so hard that I ended up blinding myself and having to let them loose anyways.

And nobody really noticed. One look around a subway car on any commute, and you'll see a thousand different emotions on the faces of the tired, the angry, the heartbroken, the joyful. It's not weird to sit on the subway and cry, and once in awhile, a kind stranger offers you a tissue or napkin to dry your face.

In California, people find sanctuary in their cars. You get inside and you turn up the music until whatever it is you're feeling subsides. People don't stand on sidewalks in California and cry like lost five-year-olds. I've stood on many sidewalks in New York and fallen apart. But so have a lot of people.

Earlier, after work, I got on the F to Brooklyn and immediately fell apart. Three seats down, there was another girl doing the exact same thing.

Living in New York has made me more emotional than I've ever been in my life. Through college, I was guarded (for many reasons), but there's something about this city that has forced me to open up. Perhaps it's the fact that the city literally fights its residents every day, with subway delays and other minor inconveniences that add up to a lot, until your soul splits open and your mind screams, "WAIT, but don't you know me??" Or maybe I've just changed so much from the person I was when I left California more than a year ago, and only now have I finally caught up to the pace of the world I live in. Or maybe it was the oddly-timed arrival of a shadowy figure who turned out to be nothing more than a metaphorical sledgehammer to my whole being (warning, friends: be careful who you trust to carry your deepest, darkest secrets) and left me with these thoughts to share, and nobody to share them with.

New York is supposed to exhaust you as much as it exhilarates you too. It's supposed to drain you and make you feel like you've given everything you have until you have no choice but to sit on a subway and cry. I think that's how you know you're doing it right: when the pangs of growing and changing, and the challenges associated with it, hit you over and over each day until you become numb, and then one day--somehow--you stand up a little bit taller and hit back.

I'll get there someday, I think.

In Solitude Comes Perspective

Wednesday, October 31, 2012 / 1:20 AM

Being cooped up for days, alone with nobody to talk to but a fluffy and fickle cat as a monstrous storm wrecks your city, makes you think. It makes you crazy to stare out of two walls of windows as day turns to night, and in that insanity, it makes you breathe creativity. At least, that's how it feels as a writer. All of those emotions and thoughts and visions pour out of your head and hover above your living room as you struggle to write it all down before it disappears. I am filled with more words now than I was just three days ago.

I've always said that New York City is a place that makes me want to write. It's a place filled with stories on every block, and I always feel inspired by the sights and the sounds.

As full as this city is, it's also isolating. I sat through Hurricane Sandy alone.

Every time an accident happens or some story on the news of a fatality arises, I think about how small I feel. Every time I'm asked to fill out an emergency contact in this city, I hesitate. Would anyone notice in this city if I didn't show up? Work, yes, but that's because it's work and they have to see me every day.

I didn't go to college here, or anywhere on this coast. The family I do have on the East Coast is too far away and too out of reach. My first three months in New York were quiet. I was broke anyways, so I had nowhere to go.

The funny thing about that solitary time was the perspective I gained: I knew eventually I would have people in my life in this city who were friends with whom I would love, inspire, laugh, celebrate, cry...and I was right. It doesn't matter that I don't have a vast spiderweb of contacts like I did in college, and it doesn't matter that someone very important to me promised, "I wouldn't move to New York and then just abandon you" and then did; what matters is that we find our people sooner or later. We find the ones we can grow with, the ones we can learn from, the ones we can lean on. We understand why it's important not to settle.

And, just as important as those who are 30 blocks or 30 minutes away, are the ones who are thousands of miles away and checking in to make sure you're alive during a hurricane--from family to best friends to friends I haven't heard from in a year or even a decade. I am blessed to have all of these people in my life, and I recognize how lucky I am.

So that makes it okay that I picked up and left my home state on my own. It's okay that I still feel unfamiliar. And it's okay that I lost a very important person along the way. Because I think it's noteworthy that, in leaving and in losing, I've pushed myself to become more open, more honest, and more resilient to the pain of living.

Cheers to my friends riding out the storm up and down the coast! We're surviving.

A New York Story

Thursday, October 25, 2012 / 6:25 PM

I sometimes feel like I'm "doing New York" wrong.

When I moved here in January, I gave myself three days to find a place to live. It took me five. I was on Craigslist non-stop for the week leading up to my move, and I visited places all up and down the city. In the end, I settled in Harlem, and I've enjoyed it. The commute from some of my favorite places can sometimes feel like forever, but it's never been impossible. The subways move beneath the city like an endless pulse, and it's nice to be able to indulge my introverted side and get away from the chaos of a crowd.

Perhaps I'm doing something wrong by not living in Brooklyn or in the bowels of the Lower East Side. Perhaps the dream is to live in a shitty studio apartment with five of your closest friends and drink every night until the realities of the real world press in. I don't think that's ever truly the case for anyone though, as much as we can all talk and joke about it. In the end, I believe that I can find passion and chase dreams in this city while still having a room to call my own and enough food to get me through the day.

"Was anyone ever so young? I am here to tell you that someone was. All I could do during those three days was talk long-distance to the boy I already knew I would never marry in the spring. I would stay in New York, I told him, just six months, and I could see the Brooklyn Bridge from my window. As it turned out the bridge was the Triborough, and I stayed eight years.

In retrospect it seems to me that those days before I knew the names of all the bridges were happier than the ones that came later, but perhaps you will see that as we go along. Part of what I want to tell you is what it is like to be young in New York, how six months can become eight years with the deceptive ease of a film dissolve, for that is how those years appear to me now, in a long sequence of sentimental dissolves and old-fashioned trick shots--the Seagram Building fountains dissolve into snowflakes, I enter a revolving door at twenty and come out a good deal older, and on a different street."

-"Goodbye To All That" - Joan Didion (1967)

A traveling cellist at the Lincoln Center stop.

Growing up, New York City was always just one cloud filled with the dreams of a million. Now, I know the differences between the boroughs, and I can tell you how often the R train doesn't come. There's something so true about the way familiarity can strip the excitement out of a city. You learn what bridge is what and you learn what subway trains are the worst for late-night commutes. You pick up on the shortcuts. You let your optimism be clouded by jaded natives.

In some ways, I spent the first few months here feeling jaded that this wasn't the city I thought it would be. And yet, I'm falling in love with it now in a way I think Didion learned to love it too before she couldn't bear to exist in the throng of people on Madison Ave. "You see I was in a curious position in New York: it never occurred to me that I was living a real life there," Didion adds in "Goodbye To All That." I get that. I can see it in my future: I don't know if I can ever really call myself a New Yorker. I'll always be a Californian at heart.

But for now, in the present moment, it isn't that I have no interest in finding the narrative I feel I "should" be experiencing. Somebody once said to me that New York was the "city of singleness," and why would anyone ever want to settle down here? But that's silly. That's absolutely silly.

I don't feel this urge to paint myself into a portrait on the canvas where others who cling to their masks so strongly have embedded themselves. I am, for once, living without worrying about living.

(Late) Fill-in-the-Blank Friday: Lasts

Saturday, October 6, 2012 / 9:13 AM

But Maybe I Shouldn't Want Someone Like You

Thursday, September 27, 2012 / 1:24 PM

This is practically a no-brainer, but it's been on my mind lately: I see it on Tumblr at lot, or even Facebook and Twitter and Youtube. There's this tendency, this need to paint Adele's anthem of heartbreak "Someone Like You" as that song that will be the soundtrack for your pain and recovery. Don't get me wrong--it's a beautiful song. Adele sings it beautifully. The music video is beautiful. But I've really grown to resent it over time.

"Never mind, I'll find someone like you"? But why would I want someone like you? ("You" being the guy who pretty callously placed my heart on IKEA floating shelf and then took an ax to the whole damn wall.)

I mean, think about it. This seemingly-perfect guy who made the world feel whole and warm broke Adele's heart, and went off and settled down with some other girl so quickly after telling Adele he didn't want to settle down. Then he went and did it anyways, and it had nothing to do with not wanting to settle down; he just didn't want to settle down with Adele. "I can imagine being about 40 and looking for him again, only to turn up and find that he's settled with a beautiful wife and beautiful kids and he's completely happy," she revealed about the inspiration behind the song, "and I'm still on my own."

That blows.

Have you ever felt like "that person" was embarrassed of you? As if they didn't want you around and didn't want to introduce you to his/her friends or coworkers or family? As if "that person" has this overwhelming need to remove you from his/her life? I bet Adele never got introduced anywhere. I bet Adele would be used and tossed aside. I bet Adele wouldn't have gotten left alone at a Brooklyn subway stop at 3 a.m.

Okay, I'm projecting. I've been deep into the world of Mindy Kaling and Joni Mitchell this week, and it's causing me to dig deep into these personal issues of heartbreak and healing (or, semi-healing). Basically, watch out when you love someone because it'll probably lead you to a pretty dark hole that you--and all the stuff you carry with you as a reminder of that "summer haze" (photos and letters and trinkets and more)--will fall into someday. And if/when you crawl your way out of that whole, don't try to find someone like that person who led you there in the first place.

(Disclaimer: I still love Adele, I promise.)

Fill-in-the-Blank Friday: Autumn is Coming

Friday, September 21, 2012 / 10:25 AM

Eighteen Years Later, VAWA Still Matters

Thursday, September 13, 2012 / 1:52 PM

Eighteen years ago today, President Bill Clinton signed the Violence Against Women Act into law. VAWA, drafted by then-Senator Joe Biden, received broad bipartisan support and cleared both the House and Senate by clear majorities (though Republicans have tried to cut the Act's funding since 1995). Politics aside, I think it's important we take a look at what VAWA has accomplished, and understand the importance and need for a continuing discussion about violence and abuse in our society.

Think Progress noted today just a few of the victories achieved through VAWA:

Victims can call for help. The National Domestic Violence Hotline was established as part of VAWA. It currently serves over 22,000 victims a month and has taken a total of 3 million calls.
Law enforcement officers are trained to help victims. 500,000 law enforcement officials, judges, and prosecutors a year are trained with VAWA funding to help domestic abuse victims.
Partner violence and homicides fell. From the year before VAWA’s passage until 2008, the number of women being killed by partners dropped 43 percent, and partner violence against women fell 53 percent.
Stalking became illegal. Before VAWA, stalking was not a federal crime. The law established stalking as a felony offense.
Rape is rape, no exceptions. Since the passage of VAWA, each state in the United States has updated its laws so that rape by a partner is treated equally to rape by a stranger.

There is currently a fight on the Hill over the bill because Democrats have added language to expand VAWA to protect Native Americans, LGBT victims, and undocumented immigrants. There's also the matter of many conservatives who find the bill "redundant." But, as I argued back in May, "VAWA's sole purpose is not to criminalize violence against women."

The Violence Against Women Act was first passed in 1994 and provided taxpayer money for protection of domestic abuse victims and other programs and services to support victims, including community violence prevention programs, funding for victim assistance services such as rape crisis centers and hotlines, and legal aid for survivors of violence. The Act also allocates money to investigate and prosecute violent crimes against women.

The bill has largely been seen as a bipartisan issue, and was reauthorized by Congress in 2000 and again in 2005, but has been a point of contention in the House this year when the Senate's version expanded those protections to same-sex couples, illegal immigrants, and those living on Native American tribal lands.

There is story after story that can be found online of survivors who've benefited from the resources created because of VAWA, and I urge you seek those stories out to understand more of why VAWA matters. (For those unfamiliar with Project Unbreakable, I cannot recommend it enough.) And, even though it's been 18 years, VAWA will still continue to matter because there are still victims of violence out there who are silenced every day.

I've talked with many people about issues related to abuse, sexual assault, and rape over the last few years. These are things that nobody ever likes talking about, but I think it's important that we see and hear the stories in the mainstream media so we can end the culture of violence that still exists today.

Every story I heard, every person who opened up to me about their pain--it's been more than a journey through their stories; it became an understanding and acceptance of my own. It became an understanding and acceptance that this violence exists, it's real, and it needs to be talked about. It became an understanding that just because this happens to you doesn't make you a victim forever; it can be something that empowers you to become a survivor. Violence at the hand of somebody who is supposed to care about you is something that happens to you, but it doesn't need to be something that defines you.

It doesn't define me.

We can walk through our lives with masks on and pretend like the pain we endured is as invisible as some make it out to be, or we can stand up and affirm to the world that we are stronger than our attackers made us out to be. We are braver than our attackers thought we could be. We are worth more than our attackers told us we would ever be.

Violence against men and women still exists, and too often the attackers go free even after the crime has been reported. The statistics are out there, and the survivors are out there, and unfortunately the perpetrators of these crimes are also still out there. We need more education and we need more compassion if this cycle of abuse is to end someday.

Our Heroes and Their Leaps

Monday, August 27, 2012 / 9:53 PM

"The important achievement of Apollo was demonstrating that humanity is not forever chained to this planet and our visions go rather further than that and our opportunities are unlimited." -Neil Armstrong

Neil Armstrong, the famed astronaut and first man on the moon, died on Saturday at the age of 82. We all know the stories and images and that famous quote--"This is one small step for a man, one giant leap for mankind."--and those who were alive for that incredible moment have stories to tell. Where were you when they landed on the moon? Oh, what I wouldn't give to have a personal story from that.

Armstrong's death brings the end of an era to America's front pages. As BuzzFeed's Andrew Kaczynski pointed this out on Twitter on Saturday after news of Armstrong's death broke: "The youngest of the 8 remaining people who have walked on the Moon is 78, and America isn't making anymore of them."

Who are our heroes these days? What moments will we look back on and remember how we felt--that moment when we felt so American, so alive in this supposed Land of the Free? If someone were to ask me to fill in the rest of the question "Where were you when...," my answers would all be something along the lines of tragedy or heartbreak: Where were you when the Columbine shooting happened? Where were you when the Twin Towers fell?

Of course, there are questions on the other end of the spectrum to be asked...Where were you when Barack Obama was elected president?, and of course that was a historic moment. Where were you when the Mars Curiosity rover landed? That was momentous as well. But to idolize a politician and call him or her a national hero in these polarized days filled with mudslinging feels strange. And Curiosity cannot be a national hero; it is the geniuses of NASA who deserve that title, but how many of us know their names?

I keep thinking about who I'll tell future generations about. What moments will stand out?

The answer, I've discovered, fall in two categories: journalists and writers I admire, and ordinary people who don't make the headlines. In many ways, perhaps there's something poetic and lovely about that: the heroes in my lifetime, the ones who jump to mind immediately when the word "hero" is said, are the people who are personally in my life.

But, then again...I'm only 23. I've got a lot of living ahead (I hope). Here's to hoping we can unite again as a country and turn our eyes toward a moment that will life on in our memories forever.

The Importance of Independent College Journalism

Wednesday, August 15, 2012 / 8:26 PM

The student editorial staff of the University of Georgia's campus newspaper, The Red & Black, resigned Wednesday evening in protest of the board of director's decision to name a non-student employee as the paper's editorial director. Ed Morales, who was formerly the paper's editorial adviser, was granted complete editorial control of The Red & Black, a move that led students to walk out and tell their story elsewhere.

As a former editor of a campus newspaper, this news hit home: for two-and-a-half wonderful years, I had the privilege and the honor to be a part of the New University during my time at UC Irvine. I began as a Layout intern, transitioned into a staff member and writer, and served as the paper's Managing Editor for a year and a half. The experience and the skills I gained at the New U, along with my involvement in UCI's alternative media publications, ranged from editorial to management, and I was fortunate to have the guidance and support of amazing mentors and veteran journalists.

The biggest challenge was the struggle to define ourselves to some in the community who did not understand the leadership and the history of the New U. We were a campus paper that, yes, was once funded and fueled by the power of the university and of the student government, but had since broken off. The New U remains today, as it has for decades, an independent and entirely student-run publication.

There were many stories in my time at the New U that led to controversy. There were stories that upset the administration and stories that upset various groups of students on campus. While managing the paper, I cannot think of a week that went by quietly. Our primary goal was never to incite unnecessary anger, but we did work to shed light on various aspects of campus life that needed attention: from safety violations to shutdowns of protests to shitty service at the campus Starbucks.

I can safely and confidently say that there was never a moment in which I or any of my fellow editors were told by anyone in the university that we could not publish a story. The university respected our independence (our funding came entirely from advertisements), whether they approved of what we were doing or not--and, yes, there were times when they did not approve.

Independent college journalism is vital to any campus community. To hear that a campus newspaper was taken over is a shame and, in my opinion, a violation of an important freedom. A student paper should be run by students. A newspaper for students that is controlled by non-students is not a campus newspaper anymore; it is a propaganda tool, a newsletter to promote an agenda while at the same time silencing the stories that are deemed unfavorable.

Fill-in-the-Blank Friday: Who, What, Where

Friday, July 27, 2012 / 8:53 AM

Simple Kindness

Friday, July 20, 2012 / 9:40 PM

A Letter to Nora

Friday, June 29, 2012 / 3:36 AM

'You Deserve Better'

Tuesday, June 19, 2012 / 12:34 AM

I received an email from a good friend earlier today with a very sweet response to a bit of my ranting, with three words I think we're all familiar with: "You deserve better."

I think we've all said that to someone at some point, or heard it from someone ourselves. You deserve better, and you and you and you--so, in theory, we all deserve better. And yet, we all don't think so either. We're always selling ourselves short, letting others walk all over us in hopes that we can be the bigger person. But sometimes, people just treat others like crap. We all do it, whether it's intentional or not.

Perhaps we should all be striving for the patience and kindness we hope for others to bestow on us so it doesn't matter when we're placed on back burners or ignored, and it doesn't matter when someone makes a promise and forgets. If you put enough good out there in the world, some of it is bound to come back to you someday, right? At least we should all try to live a life that encourages compassion.

There will be people who you choose to invest in who will never take you seriously, never see you as an equal. They will forget the things you say, they will ignore you and choose others they may not really care about because you may demand too much: you may demand respect, and we don't like to be told we haven't been respecting others. They will mistreat you, and you will have a choice to stand up for yourself or not. Most often, we choose to sit back because we want to believe that that person we love cannot be that cruel. At least that's what I want to believe. I want to believe people are inherently good, and if that makes me naive, then so be it--I'm a fool.

The world itself is filled with so many things that make me lose faith in the decency of others. I spend my entire day watching the news and there's a lot of shit out there that is enough to incite utter chaos and despair in my brain on the subway ride home. So I don't like to feel like the people I come in direct contact with from day to day are indecent or disrespectful as well. I don't want to be someone who isn't a decent friend or a decent human being either.

I suppose this is just a very verbose answer to the question, "Why do you let yourself be treated like crap?" And the short answer could well be, "I'm not good enough for him/her/them/etc." Really, my answer is that, deep down, I'm sickeningly optimistic.

Blue Nights

Wednesday, June 13, 2012 / 7:27 PM

"'You have your wonderful memories,' people said later, as if memories were solace. Memories are not. Memories are by definition of times past, things gone. Memories are the Westlake uniforms in the closet, the faded and cracked photographs, the invitations to the weddings of the people who are no longer married, the mass cards from the funerals of the people whose faces you no longer remember. Memories are what you no longer want to remember.”

I just finished reading Joan Didion's Blue Nights, her "follow up" (if you will) to The Year of Magical Thinking. Friends and readers, you'll remember the first time I read The Year of Magical Thinking: it was the summer of 2010 and I was tiptoeing around the pieces of a broken heart. I felt silly for feeling "better" after reading the book because its subject is so painful. The loss of a husband and daughter almost back-to-back is nothing compared to a heartache; it's a different sort of heartache, really.

When Mengfei lent me The Year of Magical Thinking, she prefaced it with, "This helped me get over the death of my guinea pig." I laughed, but after reading it, I got it. Any loss--no matter how big or small--is still life-changing to various degrees. We lose a pet, and our lives are quieter. We lose a person, and our lives feel smaller. We feel smaller.

“Memory fades, memory adjusts, memory conforms to what we think we remember.”

It has been one year since I graduated college and parted ways from some of the most important people in my life. It's been five months since I moved to New York, away from the semblance of stability and community in DC. It feels like a slow growth, but a growth nonetheless, and I'm thankful for the place I'm at now, though there's an absence of "something more."

I hate to be morbid, but as I was reading Blue Nights, the same thought ran continuously through my head: this reads like Didion's farewell to the world. Didion's work has always contained an anxious feeling that death is soon to come, but there was something about Blue Nights that felt so finished, so final. And, in connecting the dots, I have to wonder if this heartbreak has finally come to an end--the heartbreak of living, of loving, of losing.

We can choose unhappiness every step of the way of our lives. We can choose to let the big or the little things break us. In the face of adversity and pain, we can choose to give in. Or, as Didion shows us, we can learn to live, and I do believe that every day is a struggle to learn to live.

But I also believe that nothing is never too impossible to learn to live through. Nothing is too much to ever stop us from truly living. You can go through your whole life putting off the inevitable to avoid pain and loss. Or you can choose to embrace it. I choose to embrace it.

Fill-in-the-Blank Friday: Teleportation and Accordions

Friday, May 25, 2012 / 9:22 AM

Happy Mother's Day

Sunday, May 13, 2012 / 6:54 AM

The three of us at my commencement.

For Mother's Day when we were little, Na and I used to get up early and "make" breakfast. I write it in quotes because it consisted of Dad opening the fridge and staring blankly into it, and then the three of us pulling whatever it was we found that was acceptable for a fancy breakfast: waffles (of the pop-em-in-a-toaster variety), whip cream and fruit, eggs, Pillsbury biscuits. Dad would make the coffee, and then we'd run up and wake Mom up right as the food was ready. Part of me thinks/knows that Mom used to pretend to sleep in so we could do this because she always was an early riser.

Most often, we don't want to admit that we are growing up to become like our parents. We probably spend more of our childhoods fighting the similarities than accepting the inevitable path. And is it so bad to be like our parents? Maybe in some ways, and maybe some more than others. I listen to my dad complain a lot about his own father, and then giggle to myself because the very things he complains about define who my dad is too.

One night in DC while Jenny and I were walking up U Street, we were talking about this and about whether we'd like to be like our parents or not. I thought about it and said, "If I ever have kids, I would hope I could be half as good a mother as my mom is." And it's true. The thought of children terrify me because how the hell am I supposed to be as wonderful as my mom? She always seemed to know exactly what to do and exactly what to say. Even now, she just knows.

There are photos and videos of Na and me when we were babies, dressed up in various outfits and playing with various toys. As a stay-at-home mom, my mother spent a lot of time making sure we knew we were loved and cared for. Whenever we went out to restaurants, she always held our hands and reminded us to be polite. Whenever we went out shopping, she kept our eye on us and made sure we were well-behaved.

And when I think about it, Na and I never misbehaved in public the way some children nowadays do. We never ran around with complete disregard for other people. We never screamed and cried and threw things. We never shouted and demanded things or attention. When other children would do that, Mom used to lean really close to us and say in Cantonese, "See how misbehaved that child is? I'm happy you're not like that." We would be happy too because we made Mommy happy.

Na and I weren't always model children inside the home, I know this for a fact. There'd be times Mom would yell at us, but looking back, we kind of deserved it. We were brats sometimes, as most kids are, and Mom was always so patient until she couldn't be patient any longer.

That's the thing: my mother is the most patient person in the entire world. How does a person get to be so patient, I wonder? My dad and his parents are a handful, but she never complained and never refused to care for them. Even now, when we go shopping with the grandparents, she lets them take their time, and asks questions like, "Is there anything else?" or "How about this aisle?" She always reminds us, "I'm not in a hurry," when we apologize profusely for being so indecisive.

For the 30-plus years of their marriage, my mother tended to my dad as if he were a child--not in a condescending, patronizing way, but because she was born to be a mother, it seems. (And it doesn't help that my dad is incredibly impatient.) My dad's irregular work schedule prevented him from having a steady adulthood, but my mother never complained. She made lunch or dinner for him every day so he could take to work, and she still does his laundry when she can. In the mornings, when he wakes up at 4 a.m. to get ready to leave the house, she wakes up too and makes coffee and oatmeal, then slides back into bed. My dad is never late because my mom makes sure all of the things he needs is sitting at the table, ready to go. And then when he gets off of work and calls home to let her know he's coming, she starts making dinner and times it perfectly so it's ready when he pulls into the garage.

I wrote a lot about Mom in my Personal Essay workshop, and in every meeting after every story of how my mom loved me despite our pain to watch all of my hair fall out, Amy always noted how wonderful my mom is. "Traci has an amazing mother," she said on the day we were asked to bring in photos of people in our memoirs. "She is incredible."

Being so far from home has always made me sad. This is the fifth year I'll have missed out on Mother's Day. It's a fifth year of missed birthdays and Thanksgivings and so much more. I try not to think about it too much, but it certainly is a depressing price to pay for being a workaholic.

At Kim's wedding, summer 2010.

Happy Mother's Day, world. And to my mommy, the--in my very biased, very humble opinion--best one there is.

Fill-in-the-Blank Friday: Good Morning, Starshine

Friday, April 27, 2012 / 8:46 AM

'For Now, Dick Clark...So Long'

Wednesday, April 18, 2012 / 6:38 PM

The best part of New Year's Eve as a child was staying up til midnight and drinking Martinelli's cider from plastic champagne glasses.

I don't remember at what age Mom let us finally stay up all night, but boy, was it an occasion. Mom painted my fingernails for the first time with a sparkly, pink polish, and we got ice cream too. The television in the living room was on to ABC and we would watch in awe at the thousands of people in Times Square throwing confetti and cheering as the camera panned over them. The night looked fun, and Dick Clark was there to emcee it all: the bands, the interviews, the look back at the highlights of the year.

The next year, Na and I decided to host our own New Year's Eve special at the stairwell landing in our house. We spent weeks preparing it: choosing music from our favorite cassettes and "auditioning" Beanie Babies and Barbie dolls. Dad would take out an old camcorder that didn't work anymore and set it up for us to use before he left for work that night, and after dinner and showers, we would begin our show. I don't remember how many years we did this, but we always had impeccable timing because, right before midnight, we would rush to the living room and join Mom on the couch with our plastic flutes, pick up the cordless phone to call Dad at work, and get ready to toast to the new year.

Even as we got older and stopped our faux New Year's Eve specials, and even for the New Year's Eves I spent away from home, we always made sure we were in front of the TV before the Times Square Ball dropped, ready to listen to Dick Clark countdown with the crowd: "10...9...8..."

When Clark suffered a stroke and didn't host in 2004, we still watched, but with heavy hearts. It wasn't the same. Something felt weird about kissing each other on the cheek without also seeing him kiss his wife.

Earlier today, I had just got back to my desk from a coffee run when an update on my Twitter feed caught my eye: people were saying that TMZ was reporting Dick Clark's deaths. A few minutes later, it was confirmed, and I was listening to Martin Bashir announce, with sadness, "The legendary entertainer and producer, Dick Clark, has died."

As the obit reel rolled and I texted my mom the news, I thought back to those nights spent as a child on the carpeted stairs of my home, reading index cards as if I were Dick Clark and counting down what Na and I thought were highlights of the year, and dreaming about the day I might get to see the Times Square Ball in person.

Every morning now, as I walk to work, I peek over at Times Square and the crowd of tourists all looking upwards with their cameras and phones in hand, and I know the six-year-old me with my sparkly pink nails and plastic flute of Martinelli's would be really excited.

Dick Clark brought music, diversity, optimism into American homes for decades. Of his incredible American Bandstand, he said, "It's hard to explain how a silly little dance show with a guy playing records and kids dancing could have any significance."

Oh, but it did. That's the thing about legends, about icons and heroes: they inspire, they excite, and they leave a lasting impression on culture and the society that they will one day leave.