Dear Blogger (aka Blogspot),
We've been together for awhile. I started blogging with you back in 2001 when you were the cool one to hang with. You offered me flexibility with design, allowing me to customize my own templates using HTML, unlike those others, like LiveJournal and Xanga (Oh goodness! Remember them? We used to laugh at them so much!).
You were good to me. You saw me through my angst of high school, my confusion of college, and my overall development into the woman I am today. I've probably shared more with you than I'd like to admit. Those posts are pretty embarrassing, aren't they? I suppose it's a necessary component of that growth I mentioned earlier.
But, I've changed. Perhaps it's my 20-something desire for constant change, that even just creating a new blog within Blogger isn't enough. I need a new domain name.
Already, the transition with Wordpress has been hard. I've debated moving my stuff in with him, but a part of me feels like I need to keep my life with you archived with you. It just doesn't seem right. Is that weird? I was hoping he'd make it easier for me to have that spiffy, magazine-style design that you seem incapable of, but he's not. But, I think it's going to be worth the effort.
I'm sorry I can't stay with you and try to make these changes with you.
It's probably best for the both of us that I just move on while we can both find better partners for the future.
Love always,
t
P.S. You can reach me at http://lotsix.wordpress.com in case you ever want to connect again. I'll miss you.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Friday, November 6, 2009
Where One Means All
The shooting at Fort Hood has been claiming the airwaves and the pages of the newspapers, and rightfully so. It's a tragedy, plain and simple. Innocent people were killed and injured and it rocked the lives of countless others.
From the beginning, there has been a lot of misinformation and speculation about what was happening behind the gates of Fort Hood -- first there was one shooter, then many, then only one, then he was dead and then miraculously alive again. As the military remains tight-lipped about the accused, the victims and pretty much the whole situation, the media pundits will continue their speculating and misinforming. They will speculate about his motives-- try to put his life together through a series of paper applications and documents to understand who he is and what he is about. They'll talk about his ethnic identity, Middle Eastern (Jordanian/Palestinian to be specific), his possible religious beliefs, his legal case against being shipped off...
And what will it all accomplish?
Countless mosques called in for heightened security, with a few already having received threats. Community organizations have already prepped and released their statements, distancing themselves from the individual, while trying to convince the country of Arab-American's loyalty and commitment to the United States.
That, I suppose, is the big difference between being White and being Not-White.
Being Not-White means that when someone within your community screws up, you are looked upon with a bit of extra scrutiny. Being Not-White means that when a Korean-American kid loses it and shoots his classmates, an entire NATION formally apologizes.
Being Not-White means that when someone, who may or may not even be of your faith but has a name that makes it seem as though he might be, screws up, buildings have to go into lockdown and your life, 1,500 miles away, is disrupted.
Being Not-White means someone, who looks clean-cut and respectable, has to come out in front of the news camera and apologize-but-not-apologize and remind people that the actions of one person in no way reflects those of an entire community.
Being Not-White means you, who are so removed from the entire situation, by distance, by faith, by life, will have to have a well-prepared statement about what happened, because you too are being judged in that moment.
While I hope that this situation will be treated in the context of what it is-- a soldier, for whatever reason, lost it and shot his fellow soldiers-- and that all the communities of Not-White people around the country can rest easily and not think about what might happen to them because of him.
From the beginning, there has been a lot of misinformation and speculation about what was happening behind the gates of Fort Hood -- first there was one shooter, then many, then only one, then he was dead and then miraculously alive again. As the military remains tight-lipped about the accused, the victims and pretty much the whole situation, the media pundits will continue their speculating and misinforming. They will speculate about his motives-- try to put his life together through a series of paper applications and documents to understand who he is and what he is about. They'll talk about his ethnic identity, Middle Eastern (Jordanian/Palestinian to be specific), his possible religious beliefs, his legal case against being shipped off...
And what will it all accomplish?
Countless mosques called in for heightened security, with a few already having received threats. Community organizations have already prepped and released their statements, distancing themselves from the individual, while trying to convince the country of Arab-American's loyalty and commitment to the United States.
That, I suppose, is the big difference between being White and being Not-White.
Being Not-White means that when someone within your community screws up, you are looked upon with a bit of extra scrutiny. Being Not-White means that when a Korean-American kid loses it and shoots his classmates, an entire NATION formally apologizes.
Being Not-White means that when someone, who may or may not even be of your faith but has a name that makes it seem as though he might be, screws up, buildings have to go into lockdown and your life, 1,500 miles away, is disrupted.
Being Not-White means someone, who looks clean-cut and respectable, has to come out in front of the news camera and apologize-but-not-apologize and remind people that the actions of one person in no way reflects those of an entire community.
Being Not-White means you, who are so removed from the entire situation, by distance, by faith, by life, will have to have a well-prepared statement about what happened, because you too are being judged in that moment.
While I hope that this situation will be treated in the context of what it is-- a soldier, for whatever reason, lost it and shot his fellow soldiers-- and that all the communities of Not-White people around the country can rest easily and not think about what might happen to them because of him.
Monday, August 24, 2009
A-polly-ologies
I realize that my posts have been:
1) Few and far in between;
2) Completely random in content; and
3) Rather sporadic in terms of quality
I've been mulling over a whole different blog in my head, but lack the time or motivation to make it happen. I've been debating moving over to WordPress, but I feel a certain amount of loyalty to Blogspot after all these years. Basically, if I had my way, I'd have a complete website, with entries separated topically, so people who come hear hoping for some amazing, political insight doesn't have to read about my mini-life crises.
That being said, man... oh man... I have been eating A LOT. I don't think I've ever cleared a plate of food in the last ten years. I know that this is sad given the state of food in the world, but it's because I usually have a small appetite and can't finish most meals.
Yesterday, however, was different. Crispy waffle + 2 eggs + sausage patty, all gone before you could 'gee willikers'! It's like I'm going through puberty all over again and eating my way through it.
Then I ate again an hour later.
I wonder where all of it is going...
1) Few and far in between;
2) Completely random in content; and
3) Rather sporadic in terms of quality
I've been mulling over a whole different blog in my head, but lack the time or motivation to make it happen. I've been debating moving over to WordPress, but I feel a certain amount of loyalty to Blogspot after all these years. Basically, if I had my way, I'd have a complete website, with entries separated topically, so people who come hear hoping for some amazing, political insight doesn't have to read about my mini-life crises.
That being said, man... oh man... I have been eating A LOT. I don't think I've ever cleared a plate of food in the last ten years. I know that this is sad given the state of food in the world, but it's because I usually have a small appetite and can't finish most meals.
Yesterday, however, was different. Crispy waffle + 2 eggs + sausage patty, all gone before you could 'gee willikers'! It's like I'm going through puberty all over again and eating my way through it.
Then I ate again an hour later.
I wonder where all of it is going...
Thursday, August 20, 2009
one year
During my annual eye exam, my optometrist asked, "So, what's been new?" I thought for a moment and responded with a, "Not much."
The response wasn't so much a passive aggressive way of telling my optometrist to cut the chit-chat; rather, I couldn't think of any tremendous shifts in my life that was worth noting (she, on the other hand and just recently become a homeowner, so that's pretty exciting).
Time has had a strange way of eluding me lately. I step into work, look up from my desk and realize that it's already lunchtime. I start the week on Monday and before I know it, it's Thursday and I'm thinking about how to spend my weekend. While some would consider such huge lapses in time to be a good thing (time flies!), it's a little bit unnerving because I don't know where that flying time is going.
Thinking back on this past year, a lot, in fact, has happened. I met my maternal grandmother for the first time. I went back to Korea for the first time in over 20 years. I got promoted at work. I watched my brother become an engaged man. I watched a friend get married to a wonderful woman. I fell into a wonderful relationship and fell out of one. I went on two vacations with best friends. I've been meeting interesting and fantastic new people on a regular basis. I'm strengthening old friendships that I want to last a lifetime.
But at the same time, it feels like nothing has happened at all. Everything has been happening at such a gradual rate that it doesn't feel like it's happening at all. Perhaps this is the lull of adulthood -- moving from day to day with a certain level of satisfaction, but no big thrill. Or maybe this is just my life... who knows?
As I'm becoming more conscious of my body (working out has introduced to me muscle groups in my body that I never knew in my entire 24 years of life!), I'm also becoming more aware of my life in general. A little less monotonous work, a little more sporadic and spontaneous play.
Here's to another year.
The response wasn't so much a passive aggressive way of telling my optometrist to cut the chit-chat; rather, I couldn't think of any tremendous shifts in my life that was worth noting (she, on the other hand and just recently become a homeowner, so that's pretty exciting).
Time has had a strange way of eluding me lately. I step into work, look up from my desk and realize that it's already lunchtime. I start the week on Monday and before I know it, it's Thursday and I'm thinking about how to spend my weekend. While some would consider such huge lapses in time to be a good thing (time flies!), it's a little bit unnerving because I don't know where that flying time is going.
Thinking back on this past year, a lot, in fact, has happened. I met my maternal grandmother for the first time. I went back to Korea for the first time in over 20 years. I got promoted at work. I watched my brother become an engaged man. I watched a friend get married to a wonderful woman. I fell into a wonderful relationship and fell out of one. I went on two vacations with best friends. I've been meeting interesting and fantastic new people on a regular basis. I'm strengthening old friendships that I want to last a lifetime.
But at the same time, it feels like nothing has happened at all. Everything has been happening at such a gradual rate that it doesn't feel like it's happening at all. Perhaps this is the lull of adulthood -- moving from day to day with a certain level of satisfaction, but no big thrill. Or maybe this is just my life... who knows?
As I'm becoming more conscious of my body (working out has introduced to me muscle groups in my body that I never knew in my entire 24 years of life!), I'm also becoming more aware of my life in general. A little less monotonous work, a little more sporadic and spontaneous play.
Here's to another year.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
I'm waiting for a rage that isn't coming. You would think I would feel angry.
Instead it's just utter heartbreak. That deep, empty-hole-in-the-soul, kind of heartbreak. The kind caused by a type of disappointment that will never be recovered or repaired.
After a year of participating in a public leadership fellowship and a year at the service of students, appearing as the shining example of democratic leadership, I find myself struggling to believe in something that just continues to disappoint me.
All these years I have been taught to believe in a system of beliefs that says that the minority is protected, that the collective opinion will somehow resolve itself and equalize everything, that wrongs will find a way to be corrected. Yet, all I keep seeing is act after act of this democratic public that does everything it can to oppress the minority and to perpetuate any inequities that can be exploited.
Someone needs to show me, and I mean really show me, what has changed in all these decades. Slums are still starving people to death, in the shadows of wealth and capital. Anyone who is different is still being forced to hide, pretend, and suffer a silent shame. Color still determines who receives help and who doesn't.
I'm not angry.
I can't feel the anger anymore. After years of pretending that I wasn't disappointed and pretending things will be better, I've learned to suppress whatever feelings I have.
I'm tired of patience-- of holding in frustration, of waiting until the next day for things to improve. Patience didn't get anyone anywhere. The impatient-- the ones who would stay up all night looking for an answer, the ones who hungered for something more than what was given to them-- they are the ones who succeed and the ones who shape the world.
Maybe if we, the silenced, the oppressed, the separate-but-maybe-not-quite-equal, stop being patient we will actually get somewhere.
Instead it's just utter heartbreak. That deep, empty-hole-in-the-soul, kind of heartbreak. The kind caused by a type of disappointment that will never be recovered or repaired.
After a year of participating in a public leadership fellowship and a year at the service of students, appearing as the shining example of democratic leadership, I find myself struggling to believe in something that just continues to disappoint me.
All these years I have been taught to believe in a system of beliefs that says that the minority is protected, that the collective opinion will somehow resolve itself and equalize everything, that wrongs will find a way to be corrected. Yet, all I keep seeing is act after act of this democratic public that does everything it can to oppress the minority and to perpetuate any inequities that can be exploited.
Someone needs to show me, and I mean really show me, what has changed in all these decades. Slums are still starving people to death, in the shadows of wealth and capital. Anyone who is different is still being forced to hide, pretend, and suffer a silent shame. Color still determines who receives help and who doesn't.
I'm not angry.
I can't feel the anger anymore. After years of pretending that I wasn't disappointed and pretending things will be better, I've learned to suppress whatever feelings I have.
I'm tired of patience-- of holding in frustration, of waiting until the next day for things to improve. Patience didn't get anyone anywhere. The impatient-- the ones who would stay up all night looking for an answer, the ones who hungered for something more than what was given to them-- they are the ones who succeed and the ones who shape the world.
Maybe if we, the silenced, the oppressed, the separate-but-maybe-not-quite-equal, stop being patient we will actually get somewhere.
Monday, May 18, 2009
Daydreaming about Dreams
(I'm going to completely disregard the fact that I haven't written here in about a lifetime or more and proceed as though I have been a very diligent and up-to-date individual...)
I woke up this morning from one of those dreams that kind of lingers on your consciousness for that extra minute between sleeping and fully waking. I woke up taking in a lungful of air, catching my breath from that moment of... something.
How to best re-tell this?
After a long and involved dream, involving close friends and acquaintances and tattoos and going clubbing, and living in a mess of a house, I open the door and find myself in the 1950s, in the bedroom of a teenage boy. I find that I have been transformed to a 1950s girl, wearing the typical "Pleasantville" type full skirt with cashmere sweater set. I don't recognize the boy, but I know that I know him. We are friends.
My heart beats as though we could be more than that.
The door to the bedroom is closed, but we are still nervous. His parents are hovering nearby and we are both aware of the unusual nature of our privacy and we respect it. I take off my cardigan and carefully place it on the desk, making sure that it doesn't wrinkle. I'm in a short sleeved sweater top, standing by the window, looking out the window. I don't know if we're even speaking. Suddenly, we turn to each other and it happens.
A kiss.
The only kind of kiss you can have as a shy teenager-- one filled with desire and love and passion that has no other outlet than a kiss. There is no groping, no pushing to take it one step further-- it's just that all-consuming kiss.
Suddenly he stops, hearing soft footsteps approaching his door. We separate and catch our breaths just in time as his father opens the door. Finding nothing suspicious, he moves on, leaving us alone again. The boy sits in a desk chair, his eyes still blazing.
I take another breath and we are together again and we stop for the briefest moment to look at each and I think, "God, am I in love?"
I gasp for air, as I feel the butterflies escaping my stomach and I wake up...
I woke up feeling nostalgic for that feeling. I miss that feeling-- that kiss that leads nowhere else but that kiss... a kiss that's enough. I hate the introduction of sex to adult relationships. It ruins that kiss.
I woke up this morning from one of those dreams that kind of lingers on your consciousness for that extra minute between sleeping and fully waking. I woke up taking in a lungful of air, catching my breath from that moment of... something.
How to best re-tell this?
After a long and involved dream, involving close friends and acquaintances and tattoos and going clubbing, and living in a mess of a house, I open the door and find myself in the 1950s, in the bedroom of a teenage boy. I find that I have been transformed to a 1950s girl, wearing the typical "Pleasantville" type full skirt with cashmere sweater set. I don't recognize the boy, but I know that I know him. We are friends.
My heart beats as though we could be more than that.
The door to the bedroom is closed, but we are still nervous. His parents are hovering nearby and we are both aware of the unusual nature of our privacy and we respect it. I take off my cardigan and carefully place it on the desk, making sure that it doesn't wrinkle. I'm in a short sleeved sweater top, standing by the window, looking out the window. I don't know if we're even speaking. Suddenly, we turn to each other and it happens.
A kiss.
The only kind of kiss you can have as a shy teenager-- one filled with desire and love and passion that has no other outlet than a kiss. There is no groping, no pushing to take it one step further-- it's just that all-consuming kiss.
Suddenly he stops, hearing soft footsteps approaching his door. We separate and catch our breaths just in time as his father opens the door. Finding nothing suspicious, he moves on, leaving us alone again. The boy sits in a desk chair, his eyes still blazing.
I take another breath and we are together again and we stop for the briefest moment to look at each and I think, "God, am I in love?"
I gasp for air, as I feel the butterflies escaping my stomach and I wake up...
I woke up feeling nostalgic for that feeling. I miss that feeling-- that kiss that leads nowhere else but that kiss... a kiss that's enough. I hate the introduction of sex to adult relationships. It ruins that kiss.
Friday, March 27, 2009
When I'm sick...
I really start craving my dad's chicken porridge.
Simple, but takes a good part of the day to make properly, with only a whole chicken, rice, and a little ginseng and Chinese dates for good measure (and their medicinal properties). He takes the time to shred the chicken for me after it's all stewed together and the rice is perfectly soft, choosing only the white breast meat because I don't like dark meat that much. A little salt and it's warm perfection for my belly.
I've been feeling rather ill this week and am fighting the urge to go whining to my dad to take care of me.
Simple, but takes a good part of the day to make properly, with only a whole chicken, rice, and a little ginseng and Chinese dates for good measure (and their medicinal properties). He takes the time to shred the chicken for me after it's all stewed together and the rice is perfectly soft, choosing only the white breast meat because I don't like dark meat that much. A little salt and it's warm perfection for my belly.
I've been feeling rather ill this week and am fighting the urge to go whining to my dad to take care of me.
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