Primary Colors

Having lived in New England for over a dozen years, I have come to know white people quite well. I have figured out what annoys me about them and what I appreciate about them. White people are well represented in my closest of friends, role models, and heroes and I have very few uncertainties about them. Yet after all these years, there is still that one remaining fear I have not conquered, that one place in town I have yet to step foot in:

According to Roommate Amy (not to be confused with me), the (white) owner's name is Tom, hence Uncle Tom. But considering that Harriet Beecher Stowe was raised in this town and wrote her book here, there is no doubt what the name is referring to. The place scares me just a little, and I was pretty glad to find it closed when we tried to go on Friday.

Speaking of colors, post-church Sunday brunch was again the place for some enlightening discourse on race. And because Brianna can only see the world in black and white (she judges by a palm test), we all had to be labeled as such. Most of the Asians at the table were stuck with the white label but apparently, I was special.

Brian: So, according to the palm test, she's white?

Moi: Why can't I be Asian? Why do I have to be black or white!?

Brianna: Oh no, she's not white. She's just light skinned.

Brianna, sensitive arbiter on all things black and white, then engaged Brian in a lengthy debate on the use of the word 'hot.' Tim and Brian had very exact specifications on hotness for girls and guys (really, I can't think of one conversation together when we don't talk about the CSU boys). According to Brianna, the label of 'hot' is a "white people thing" because black people don't use hot. Black people say 'fine.'

Brian: What about 'drop it like it's hot?'

Brianna: Drop it like it's hot just means that you're dropping it like it's hot.

And that, of course, explains everything.

Bean Me Up, Scotty

Highlights from my 26-hour stay in Boston:

Patties! Glorious Jamaican patties.

Creamed corn (straight up, disgusting but surprisingly delicious). Chicken wing. General Tsau. And other unhealthy foods.

Perhaps leaving my interview earlier than I was supposed to.

Stealing a shirt.

Making great impressions on important alum:

Alum: (reaching hand out to shake) Nice to meet you.

Moi: Thank you.

(later)

Alum: Were you born in this country?

Moi: Yes. Yes. I was born... no wait, I'm sorry. I don't know why I said that. I was not born in the States.

(even later)

Alum: ... a study on DES, I'm sure Susan has talked about it in her classes...

Moi: ... um... I'm not sure. Maybe... oh, wait, wait, YES! Yes, she did.

Nut So Fast

I am performing at a coffeehouse tomorrow night. Jenny, who contacted me about performing, gave me a run down of the night and who was going on when. She also told me that she was sorry that she had put my name on the advertisements without confirming with me if I was really performing, and wanted to know if it was ok. Then I got an email today, sent to the entire campus, advertising all the acts. It went something like this:

Munny & Jonah. Peiser. BOKA. And Others.

I am Others. I am the only other I know of at this point.

Jenny et al have been playing a new game as of late. It's a twist on the classic Rock, Paper, Scissors called "Shaez, nut, and epi-pen." But the beauty of the game is that someone always plays nut and someone always plays Shez. Thus Shaez loses every single round. It's quite marvelous, really.

A similar riff on the game is a series of "Who would win" battles. Who would win in a fight? Shaez, or a scrawny little girl... with a nut? Who would win in a fight? Shaez, or a furry little bunny... with a nut? The same questions apply to half of a nut, one quarter of a nut, one eighth, sixteenth, et cetera. The possibilities are literally endless and endlessly satisfying.

The Short List

A list of my heroes:

Gak!!

Crime fighers in Bat and Spider costumes.

Paul Farmer.

In Selec Memoriam

By all accounts (that is, all of my accounts), it was a swell weekend. Beautiful weather. Tea with prof (outside of the soc/anthro department!). Toe dipping in gelid waters. Dance show. Ursus Verses' "Circle of Life." Three game sweep. Natasha Bedingfield's "I Want to Have Your Babies." Korean barbeque. It was all so full of fun and friends that I didn't even miss missing the killer Ninja Turtles party of the 9th floor.

Ok- LIE- who wouldn't be sorry to miss that party? Each quad was decorated to a theme- sewer, streets, etc., there were pizza boxes everywhere- and they had Turtle masks to give out! (Sigh) If only it wasn't populated by underclassmen...

Even accounting for that regret, however, I enjoyed myself. And finished to my readings. Rewrote a chapter. Sent in an application. I was pretty tickled with my weekend until this morning. Everything now is pretty much in the crappers. I tried to access a TimeSelect article from NYTimes and found myself blocked. The Bo's trial subscription for TimeSelect had, after 6 months, run out. I can no longer access the archives or read Op-Ed pieces with a simple click, as I had grown so used to doing the past six months. A whole section of the papers is now off limits to me. I am now just another one in the ignorant, Select-less masses. The world seems to have a little less color now than it did just 12 hours ago. A little less caring. And a lot more selective.

O Henry

You may not believe it, but I actually try to restrain my nerdity when I go about my every day tasks. Surrounded by people who are much, much smarter than I am and know much more about the world, it's silly trying to sound like a know-it-all, and not very cool either. I am a mini-nerd in a pool of nerds, and mostly I downplay the fact that I like learning.

Sometimes though, it just slips out.

Like last night, signing my overpriced CD, Taylor Mali asked if it was the anniversary of the Columbine attacks. The few of us milling around (Prof. Watterson, us three Poeting groupies who waited for him to sign our stuff, and the education/English girls that brought him here- I think as Poeting we like to believe we know Mali better, we are better stalkers of him online, appreciate his works more, but ultimately, they brought him here and we didn't) muttered our agreements, then I noted that the day before was the anniversary of Paul Revere's ride.

The room sort of went silent after that.

"Well, you know, 'on the eighteenth of April, in seventy five, hardly a man is now alive, who remembers that famous day and year.' " I sort of expected Watterson to jump in with some Longfellow analysis, or take over the lines. But he didn't. Silence rang. Hoping to make it all sound more normal, I added, "It was the eighteenth yesterday, right?"

I could have sworn I heard crickets chirp when finally, Tony said, "Yeah, I guess."

And all this time, Mali was squinting at me, a smirk not quite there on his lips.

"Is that from Longfellow's 'Paul Revere's Ride?' You memorized Longfellow's poem?"

"Yeah? What?" I scoffed, trying to shrug it off. But it wasn't working. "Unlike some people, I paid attention in history class, ok?"

"I was fantasizing."

Yes, he was. And wrote a very funny, very Bowdoin, and very explicit poem about it, too.

Words I Wish I Could Have Written

Since I'm by now known as the liberal heathen of BCF (didn't help that I skipped tonight for Taylor Mali), thought I'd include this poem that I heard tonight.

It was performed by Mali, but he got it from Shappy, whose clip I had once included here. Shappy has ridiculous delivery, full of sound effects, heavy breathing, and erratic pacing. The topic and analogies are so overdone, but he puts a nice spin on it, or he did when he spoke it at least, I hope it comes through for you:

George Bush
Please stop the war
Because I hate it
I hate the war
I hate all wars
Except for Star Wars
Which totally RULES!
Like a dictator rules
Which is what you are, George
A dick-tater
You are evil-like Darth Vader
But you don't look as cool as Darth Vader
He wore a black mask-like death
Which is what you are, George
Death
You wear a mask to hide your evil
Only it is not as cool and shiny as Darth Vader's
It is chipped and dented
Like the Millennium Falcon
Han Solo used to drive the Millennium Falcon
Until Boba Fett turned him in to Jabba the Hut
for a bounty
Jabba the Hutt is a fat, slimy businessman who lives
in a cave
Like Dick Cheney
Jabba the Hutt surrounded himself with bounty hunters
and evil robots and naked alien chicks
Just like you and Dick Cheney
George Bush doesn't care about Sand People!
And I hate to ruin the whole Star Wars Trilogy for you
George but in the end-the evil empire is toppled!
And although I bet you are thinking I am talking about
Iraq, I'm actually talking about YOU and your
administration, George!
The rebels win, George!
Those stupid peace-loving rebels WIN!
And you can appoint as many Jar Jar Binks want in the
senate but it's not gonna stop the rebels from
WINNING!
We got Yoda on our side, bitch!
All you got is some smelly old man in a robe who kills
people-like your dad!
Which is why I love Star Wars
But not wars in General... Grievous?

Day by Day

At the end of a phone interview today, the interviewer told me that I should not be upset if I get rejected in a couple of weeks. I don't think that's supposed to happen at the end of an interview.

But today was a good day.

I was summoned to a one-on-one talk on Biblical values on life, presumably because of some crazy liberal pro-choice tendencies I never even uttered.

Still, today was a good day.

My stomach felt empty/sick for most of the day. Chris did not do his readings; I noticed, yet he still engaged actively in the class discussion. The Band Man signed an email 'Despondent.' Had excellent run-ins with Megan, Alex, Creeps, Joe, and a host of others. And most important of all, I spent a few hours of the day with a poet hero of mine. By the end of the night, he didn't have to ask me for my name, but took my CD and just started writing. He gave me a prescription for my hip hop hands. I walked out of his hilarious performance, after joking around with him and just catching up with Jonique and Tony, two poets that keep me motivated on campus, and I realized, walking in this night, that I had a sweatshirt on and it was not cold. Today was a good day.

Yet the Sides Are Two

Graduation is but a month away, but with an honors thesis, a job search, school, work, and everything else piling up, not to mention the deep nostalgia about to kick in any day now, I don't really have the time to look forward to the end of the school, nor does an end to the Bo' look particularly enticing. Except for one thing.

Every day we get closer to leaving is another day less that I have to make a fool of myself on campus.

This morning, I locked myself out of the study room I had checked out in the main library. I thought I had left the door ajar, and now as I type in this same room, I cannot seem to figure out how to lock the door behind me, but this morning, it locked swiftly. I could see the key through the glass window, just lying on the table, but there was no way I could reach it. I was locked outside and the key was inside. I had to sheepishly go downstairs and ask the librarians for a spare key. There was lots of commotion and asking fellow librarians what to do with me. Then a girl had to walk me upstairs and open the door for me- because, I suppose, they didn't want to entrust another key into my care.

Another day down. One more less opportunity for foolishness.

ps. Totally sat next to Taylor Mali for lunch. On a scale of one to Saul Williams, with Michael Brown (who I met in Edinburgh) about a four, he's a good eight or so. I meant to tell him that his poem 'Labeling Keys' was one of my favorite poems. I think I ended up telling him it is my favorite. Ain't no matter. He's going to perform it tonight just because I mentioned it.

Ask Not

I am in lab for Advanced Organic Chemistry right now and the students are working on their final project. It's week one of a three week process and I wish that they would stop asking me questions, because being the final project, it seems kind of important. And frankly, I haven't taken the class in two years and I don't know what layer they should take out. I just let them talk at me with their problems and ask everything back to them. (Usually though, I start with the blank look and "wait, what are you doing? Why?") When that fails and they ask me more questions, a "yes?" usually does the trick. Now, if they wanted to know the proper protocol for spilled aluminum chloride? That I can help with. But if they should add methylene chloride to the product or do another wash? Those are questions are too important to be directed toward me. I just sit here to collect the check.

Addendum: Boy just came up to me and asked me what to do if he got something on his arms. I believe he's the same boy of the aluminum chloride fame.

"Do you know what it is?"

"Um, I don't know. This white stuff, see?" (Points to white forearms)

"Does it hurt? Actually, you should probably just wash that off. You should always wash that off no matter what."

Somehow, this boy reminds me of the young me.

Some Day Soon

Some day soon, the rain will cease. Honors will be finished. And perhaps, I will have a job. In the meantime, check it, another toilet to add to my collection. A black one!

Airplanes from the Postal Museum, a surprisingly fun and kid friendly museum. You can get a postcard and postage then send it for just 24 cents here. It's the best kept secret in tourist D.C.

I don't really remember why the planes were at the museum, except to look cool. I didn't read a lot of plaques. But I really dug the mail crime exhibits. Those were cool.

Honors Page Count

Chapter 1: 15

Chapter 2: 29

Chapter 3: 27

Chapter 4: 18

Chapter 5 (Conclusion): Non-existent

Total: 89.

Many more to be added and taken out, expanded and compressed, in the dwindling days to come.

Advisors: Really, don't worry about the conclusion. When you reach that point, the conclusion pretty much writes itself.

Sonia: No, that's crap. They told me that, too. Actually, you write the conclusion. They don't.

My Day at the Zoo

Outside, it's raining and snowing again. But right now, I'd rather not dwell on that. I'd like to look back on my Friday spent in sunny D.C. It was windy at times, but definitely dry and sunny, so I went to the zoo to see the giant pandas.

Being there felt just like going home. The 'asia trail' totally reminded me of the foot path I used to take to the textiles factory in Sri Lanka, where, along the way, we'd see fishing cats, clouded leopords, and of course, giant pandas.

For awhile, this was all I could see of the panda:

But then it started moving to let us know that it wasn't dead. It never got very close, though, thanks to the eighth grade panda hecklers beside me. What kind of person heckles a panda?

This was a different panda, but it was just as shy. Sometimes, I think of how my life would be different if I had a giant panda of my own.

In completely unrelated news, our newly arrived senior class sweatshirts seem to look good on everyone but me. The hood so envelopes my head that whenever I put it on, I can't quite see the world before me and I sort of look like a klansman.

DC Comics

Remember how I went to DC a few weeks ago and found an emergency phone without a phone? Seems to be the story all over the Washington's great city. This was one of several I spotted at the zoo:

The zoos were also apparently devoid of animals. They were all being maintained somewhere. I spent an hour there and saw exactly one type of animal. Granted, it was the best type of animal on God's good earth other than yours truly, but still, the trip seemed empty.

POURQUOI?!

Pardon my French. The question that I have for the neighboring boys is so pregnant with meaning that I felt it necessary to say it in a different tongue, that extends the word, and thus its questioning, into more than one syllable. And so today, because it's more fun to say and at the same time more subversive, being the language of un-patriots and all, I give you an angry letter in Franglais.

Cheris Garçons,

Je haven't taken French in years, so mon Francais may be off, mais, allow me to ask you a question: POURQUOI, MON FILS, POURQUOI?!?! Êtes-vous fou?! Êtes-vous stupide?! Êtes-vous sourd (this one means deaf, I looked it up)? Comment est-ce que c'est possible que vous avez the worst music taste in the world!?

You really stepped up the ridiculousness this weekend. When you left a note last night, when none of us were around, to apologize for the hour of loud music and promise that all your little hockey friends would be gone by 8:30pm, we found it endearing, cute, and slightly unnecessary. But when you started blasting music at 2 o'clock in the morning, those feelings soon vanished. And when you repeated the loud blasting of music, this time at a decibel so loud that surely you must not be able to hear anymore, and again late into the night, we are officially declaring our stance on you has shifted from mild annoyance to full-on, blood thirsty rage. Of all the music you could blast in the world, boys, why techno!? Why must you blast it as if it's Metallica (pardon the dated reference, I'm tired, laisse-moi)!? Pourquoi, mon dieu, permettez-vous ceci?! I do not pretend to have a sophisticated music sense, or know a lot about our great and varied musical culture, but I speak with absolute certainty when I say that your taste is crap, even in your selection among the techno genre. Your parents need to own up to their debts to society.

Also- where did the half dozen bags of trash suddenly come from? And must you put it in our hallway?

À bientôt.

No on Techno

de la Creme

I boarded a plane today. It was delayed because of snow. The man next to me had apparently never been to New England in spring. "Snow in April!" He kept saying. "Can you believe it!? Does this happen often?" "It's actually not that big a deal, sir." Then later, the plane landed in D.C., and now the concept of snow is so foreign that my mind simply cannot imagine it, have no grasp of what it might look or feel like, not on such a clear and comfortable evening such as this. It's dry here, too. Incredibly dry.

I haven't flown in about 8 months and since that time, I had adjusted to life with civil liberties and forgotten what it was like to constantly have everything packed, hand over my documents in obedience to whoever that asked, and worry about following the rules of the airport. Which is exactly why I got my hair gel, face wash, toothpaste, lip shimmer, and travel shampoo that I didn't even know I still had, all taken away from me and tossed in the trash. We are at war, people. The security alert status is on Orange. Liquids and creams are still banned in carry-ons. I had forgotten about that. And the checking people, they just asked me if I had liquids. I handed them my water bottle and kept moving. Moved through quite a few checkers until at last, my bag was pulled out because it looked fishy. The lady showed me all my contraband and told me that I could keep the little ones if I have a ziploc bag. Do I have one?

No. Apparently, they had given them out. But she wasn't about to give me one.

"Do you want me to throw these away?" She asked.

"Do I have a choice?"

"No. Have a nice day."

And there went my nice day.

Correction

It has just occurred to me that I do not live west of the Mississippi. I am to the east. And I meant the fartiest far east of the Mississippi on Saturday, not west.

Update: I talked to Nic about the smell and while Taneisha, who was also there, concurred that it smelled farty, Nic didn't think so. He attributed the odour to "old people smell," as there really were a lot of old people there. "It's the smell of death on them."

He Who Smelt It

I haven't updated in awhile. Mostly because my life has been a mess. And an uninteresting mess at that. It will probably continue this way for the days to come. When I tried to take a study break on Saturday to attend a jazz show and escape all the madness, we ended up sitting by the fartiest farts West of the Mississippi. I wanted to make a joke about it, or at least ask Nic if he smelt it too since he sat next to me, but thought it'd be awkward if it was him who dealt it. Turns out, it wasn't. The smell persisted long after he left and all along I kept hoping no one would think it was me and wondering who had the audacity to fart through an hour long jazz performance. Do you know how hard it is to be classy and cultured when it smells like fart all around you? Not very easy.

Later that night, we had an extensive discussion on flatulence during SuperSnack, which concluded when Mac announced that if I could invent the breath mint equivalent for farts, he would pay very good money for it and possibly trade his liver for the device. We also discussed the fact that if TimmyCakes ever gave Mac his liver, Mac would probably stop whining about "not clotting" and "hemophilia" but TimmyCakes might die. Frankly, I'm surprised that Tim hasn't yet offered his liver.

The light in the midst of the busyness and sleep deprivation, however, is the discovery of a new love: The C-store recently started selling Szechuan Peppers Pringles Select Rice Crisps. They sound nasty. The packaging is pretentious. And the price is a complete rip-off. But they are delicious. Not suitable for sharing (that Sesame just eats it all). And already sold out at the C-store. So delicious that I would trade no less than two fingers for a lifetime supply. In fact, the only way I am motivated to get through each day and finish my work is actually the thought of being able to get through another day to go to the C-store and see the crisps restocked.

Side Note

Dusters:
I'm trading one BP alum for another and bumping you off the sidelines. Those mad paint skillz are simply too amazing. The Midwest hasn't been so impressive lately. You may work your way back, pending good behavior.

All Others:
Apparently, my subconscious thinks it's funny to watch me freak out. It's been having a blast making that happen this week. Twice this week now, I have marched throughout campus in absolute panic, looking for misplaced items. On Wednesday, it was the hat that was in my hood. Today, it was the cellphone in my chest pocket. Both times, I invested about twenty minutes into climbing stairs and some frantic retracing of steps, and both times, I found my items when I gave up in resignation, only to discover them on my person the whole time. It's not funny, Mind! I do not have time for your antics.

Fanning for Formosa

As the youngest, and thus automatically the smallest, least well read, and least Taiwanese member of my family, I know that with each MLB season of American League East I watch, I get a little more New England and a little less Taiwanese. I know that in a few months, I will be missing this place (the Bo') like no other, and that New England is much more of what I know than anywhere else I've been. I know that when I go back to Taiwan, as familiar as everything feels, and as welcome as all the sights and stores and sounds are, I can not stand there alone. I have no peers there, only family friends and relatives who I'm not tight with. But whatever. Even as it is increasingly foreign, it is home. And on nights like this, when there is yet another snow storm in April and the work is piling on, my mind is wandering to other parts of the world. Sometimes, the Wayback takes me to the convenience stores of Eddie Bert, to taxi rides in Chinar, or to a church basement in Dorchester. Tonight, it is longing for Taiwan.

Nightmarket vendor in Taipei. Fried salty chicken from stands like this will definitely be on my "should I be persecuted for the gospel and put to death" last supper list.

From my grandfather's apartment in Tainan, in southern Taiwan. This street is lined with restaurants that thrive on the local university population.

Casual breakfast at eatery in Tainan. I love Taiwanese breakfast food. Much bettar than raisin bran. And definitely much better than the lima bean porridge they made me drink in Chinar. Or those freaking lamb noodles. WHO SERVES LAMB FOR BREAKFAST!?

A couple of blocks away, a pretentious end to an overpriced, but ultimately excellent meal with a very nicely done New Zealand shank in a new steakhouse. With its crazy prices and stiff starched napkins, it probably won't last long in the neighborhood, but boy was it tasty.

Desperate Times: An Addendum

The College has sent out about ten emails on the snowstorm since I woke up this morning, and I have read every single one of them with glee. A new favorite just came in from the science library.

Hatch, the science library so often overshadowed by the main one, and so often scorned by the majority campus as a place for only the most intense (though not me, no, the Hatch computer lab has a special spot in my heart, with a desk that is informally recognized by many as 'mine'), is being opportunistic in this snowstorm, using the main library's misfortunes (no power, forced to close) to garner attention for itself. Like the ugly duckling seeking everyone's approval, like that friend you knew in high school that just tried too hard to impress the cool kids, Hatch is announcing that even though the main and music libraries are closed, the science one is open, with power, heat, and wireless access for all. Ah, inter-library rivalries: I love it.

Desperate Times

We have a snow day!

This is my first snow day in about five years. And will probably be the last snow day I will ever have. I shall celebrate the momentous occasion by continuing to write papers and occasionally, and by occasionally I mean once every 7-9 minutes, stopping to procrastinate.

The snowfall isn't by any means record breaking, but the road crews are having trouble keeping up, the Hannaford parking lot is covered in snow. I thought at first, that only my award ceremony in Augusta would be cancelled, but who knew that the power system at the Bo' is absolutely incapable of handling emergencies? With power on the fritz and electricity missing all over campus (and the library, which is actually quite sad for me because I really needed some books and articles), they had no choice but to cancel all classes (and warn students to stay away from pine trees and power lines- both very volatile and tall things).

The cancellation of classes today brings the total number of days I have classes this week to a whopping total of one. I would be deliriously happy about that if I wasn't working on so many papers at once.

No-No Nose Game

I remember back then when Hideo Nomo pitched for the Red Sox. Back when he was still wicked good, he pitched a no-hitter in his tenure with the Sox. The next day, the sports section of the Globe ran the headline "No-No Nomo."

Today's entry has nothing to do with baseball, however, but everything to do with the CSU boys. It is well known within BCF, the Bo's Christian Fellowship, that the lads of the Catholic Student Union are much more handsome than the boys of BCF. This isn't the delusions of some silly schoolgirl crush, no, this is near-fact and well recognized and commented on by the guys, not the girls, of BCF.

A couple of days ago, Eve cooked dinner for a few of us from both BCF and CSU. Right when we were about to start, Mike, senior CSU member, suggested that, since we were in my flat, I should say grace. I was a. shamed by the fact that I had not thought of saying grace and b. indignant that I had to be the one blessing everyone's food when I had already opened my doors for the event. So, I proposed the next logical solution.

I shouted: "Grace! Nose game!"

Immediately, every BCF'er in the room put their index fingers on the nose while the CSU lads just smiled and refrained. It wasn't that they didn't understand the game. Oh, they knew the nose all right. But they apparently felt it "wrong" and "sacrilegious" to play the nose game when it came to something as important as talking to God, thus making all of us look like quite possibly the jerkiest jerks this world has ever known. It's a good thing that we believe in salvation through grace and not works.

But man, better looking and holier? Not even JP II had such a blessed combination.

Heavy Heart

 

Roommate Amy (not to be confused with me): Thank you. I love it when you pantomime heaviness.

(Th picture is a weight from distant Chinese cousin's scale at her flour-and-oil-shop. They still weigh everything with weights. I think this piece says it's 10kg. But it seems a bit small.)

When Two Become One

The Bo's student digest. Every time it comes into my inbox, I take the chance to procrastinate and read it. It's one more example of just how small the Bo' is. It's a community big enough that there are still strangers to all of us, but small enough that we would ask for people to come to our events, post inside jokes, or have the decency to report any found items that a needy soul might be seeking. I especially love it when both 'lost silver flip phone' and 'found flip phone that is silver' are posted in the same issue, when 'found camera' is posted right next to 'lost Pentax camera', or when one person is selling a black fleece just as another is looking for one. Times like those make me think that the world is going to be all right. That one boy will get his phone back. The girl's pictures are safe. And that other girl is going to make a killing on her stolen fleece.