“After great pain, a formal feeling comes.”

I went for a walk yesterday.

The roses were black;

The skies gray.

 

Then I saw trust falls of child’s play:

A tender touch.

I had to get away.

 

I went for a walk yesterday.

Born again on blood red snow;

There is nothing left to say.

What Chicago means to me.

I walked into the gym, expecting droves of people crowding the reception area, as they waited for the quarterly staff meeting to start.

To my surprise, it was sparse. Ha, I thought to myself. Maybe I was early. Or maybe I was late, and the meeting had already started.

I walked to the front desk, where two of my coworkers were manning the fort. Graham, I worked with every Monday morning. We seldom talked to each other, though, because by “morning” I meant 5.30am, and that is too damn early for anyone to be alive and talking to each other. The other was Kate, with whom I worked last quarter and haven’t seen since… well, today.

Graham barely looked up as I walked by, but I detected a hint of surprise in Kate’s smile as she greeted me. What was I doing there? But wait, why are you so surprised?

Going into the office, I saw Clint, my supervisor, sitting at his desk as usual. I was about to clock in, but first, I asked him where the meeting is supposed to be.

He stared up at me in surprise. What meeting?

Ah, great. I had just showed up to a meeting that wasn’t about to take place till Friday. It was Tuesday.

I smiled awkwardly and walked out of the gym.

I got on my bike, about to head home. But the weather was nice, for December at least, and I really wasn’t looking forward to studying. So I changed my mind, and headed to the lakefill instead.

The lakefill is a lake within a lake. Northwestern reclaimed the land from Lake Michigan about 40 years ago. The reclaimed land surrounds a small body of water, which flows into Lake Michigan.
I’ve been going to the lakeshore a lot lately. When my problems seem too big, or when I start to feel trapped by the life I am now leading, I steer my bike to the lakefill, and take a quick ride along the shore, all the while staring across the blue water into the horizon.

Today I decide to get off my bike and sit on the rocks for a bit.

I can see Chicago in the horizon, if I look south. The towering height that is Sears Tower rises above the other tiny skyscapers. Blinking lights shine across the eight miles or so that separate the city and Evanston. To my left – that is, east – there is nothingness. An expanse of blue water, silently waving and lapping against the rocks. The sky, which is only two shades darker than the water. And then, nothing.

I went to see Chicago’s mayor, Rahm Emanuel, talk the other day. Of the things he said, one thing resonated with me the most. He spoke of how he wanted the impoverished, underprivileged children in the poorer part of the city, to look downtown, at the skyscapers, the lights, the opportunities, and see themselves there one day. He spoke of how he wanted them to know that they, too, had a chance, could, and would, make it one day.

And looking into the horizon at the Chicago skyline, I think to myself, maybe that’s why I like being here so much. I’ve always liked the ocean, granted. But being at the lakefill gives me a sense of peace and hope. The quiet crash of the water against the shore, the bright lights up ahead, the sunset behind the bald trees that line Lakeshore Drive. It calms me, knowing there are three million people living in that city, each having their own trials and tribulations; each living, each loving, each with their families, lovers, and dogs; each with their joys and heartbreaks; each with their hopes and dreams, each a slave or master of Life. It reminds me of the exact same hopes and knowledge that Mayor Rahm Emanuel wanted the Chicagoan kids to have.

Above me, a plane silently makes its way into the sunset. I think of the people on that plane. Where are they going to? Are they worried about where they’re going to end up? Do they worry at all?

And do we not, at some point in our lives, ask ourselves the same questions?

I look at Chicago again. Who would’ve thought that I would end up here today? Certainly not me. Definitely not the thirteen year old me. Attending college, even in my own country, would’ve been a far-off dream for my thirteen year old self.

But I dreamed that dream. And I dreamt beyond. I looked at America on a map, and I told myself, that’s where I’m going someday. It was a far-off dream, but I knew that deep in my heart I would make it. Someday.

And here I am, sitting on a purple-painted rock and staring at Chicago.

And suddenly, my problems don’t seem all that significant anymore.

I am dwarfed by the immensity of it all.

Remembrance

Leaves falling;

Father, you are leaving.

Bildungsroman in 500 words.

I remember when I just got to college. I had just traveled 5000 miles, from my small town in Malaysia, all the way to Chicagoland. I was excited. Overwhelmed. Maybe a little scared. It was all so new, you know? The people, the places. People drove on the wrong side of the road (it definitely wasn’t right). Alright, sorry, sorry. Puntastic. There I go again. But I digress. I remember walking out of O’Hare at 6am, jetlagged and fucking tired, but so relieved that I made it. So happy. Wondering what the next few months would bring.

I remember Good Life by OneRepublic was pretty popular then. The song certainly resonated with me. I mean, “Woke up in London yesterday/Found myself in the city near Picadilly/Don’t really know how I got here”? That song might as well have been written for an international student going to college for the very first time.

Looking back, I’m not sure if I can say that it was the good life. For a while in fall quarter, fitting in was rather hard. Coming from a different socioeconomic background from most other students, I still feel that way sometimes. And then there was this whole new culture that I had to adapt to, instantly. People were more individualistic. It wasn’t a bad thing. Just… different, for someone who grew up in a collectivist culture.

And then there was the whole issue of who I wanted to be. It’s still something I’m struggling with, but things are clearer now. It’s been said before, and I’ll say it again. College is so different from high school. Things that I were good at – suddenly, they were a lot harder. And things that I thought I was just average at – they turn out to be what I enjoy most.

But I speak Italian now (rudimentary, yes, but I now speak 4 languages, because fuck you that’s why). I know a little bit more about LGBT issues. I know a little bit more about Arabian Nights. I know a little bit more about 20th century American literature.

And friends. I’ve made some. I’ve lost some. Earlier today, I had a quick chat with one of my friends back home. But it was effortless. Easy. Words just flowed. And that’s when you know you have something worth keeping. When you can not speak for months and months, and the conversation still flows like nothing ever happened in between. Maybe the friendships I’ve made here will be the same. Maybe not. And who knows? Isn’t that the beauty of life?

I’ve always been quite independent. Kind of had to be. But I had a lot more to learn. Coming here, alone, I’ve learned lots. I’ve had only $4 in my bank account. I’ve bounced back from that. Shit happens. But then you just get the fuck over it.

So you see, it wasn’t entirely a good life. But it wasn’t too shabby, either. It was a journey of self-discovery. A journey of growth. Of change, and new perspectives. Yes, maybe I’ve taken off my rose-tinted glasses, but things don’t look so bad without them.

Goodbye, freshman year. It’s been a good one. 🙂

When you say nothing at all.

Many people either think I’m a mystery. Just can’t figure out who I am.  I do not blame them.

Or they think I am the simplest person to figure out. Sarcastic. Couldn’t care less. Party girl. Hopeless. I do not blame them.

Labels. So easy to put on a person, aren’t they? It helps us easily define people. Everything’s easier when we know exactly who people are. No complicated personalities to figure out. No heavy baggage. No crazy issues. Just a simple label. There’s all there is.

I take these labels. I take them as they are, applied to me, even if they are not true. I take them, even if people who barely know me tell me that I am those things. Yes. I am.

But I am not. I look like it. I act like it. Hell, I am it, except for that one piece of me that says, knows, that I am not. That it is all a lie. That it is all a mask. Like Banner and his Other. “You see, I am always angry.” That’s the secret.

And that’s all there is to it.

Rain.

It’s raining outside. The party is dead.

She walks to her dorm. I walk to mine. It’s a mile away, but it feels like a thousand.

The rain falls steadily on the ground. It starts to soak through my fleece jacket. My skirt is soaking wet.

I stare at my feet. The diamonds glint in the dark. I see them moving against the ground. Step. Another step. Pitter, patter. Flip, flop.

The water starts to soak my flats. I suddenly get worried that the diamonds will fall off. How absurd.

Oh look, it’s the Garrett Seminary parking lot. What an honor, to have a parking lot named after you.

A man on a bike slows down beside me. “Need a ride?”

I am amused. How would that work? Do I ride on your shoulders? “No, thanks.”

He shrugs. Okay. “Stay dry.”

Oh, yeah, my thin jacket is completely dry right now.

But thank you for taking the time to care, anonymous stranger.

Because sometimes it feels like nobody cares.

Because it definitely felt that way, walking home alone in the rain.

Heard Fast Car at a party…

…and had this feeling that I should finally post this up. For the world to see.

“See I remember we were driving; driving in your car
The speed so fast I felt like I was drunk
And I had a feeling that I belonged
I had a feeling that I could be someone; be someone.”
– Fast Car, Tracy Chapman

My father used to listen to the radio right before he went to sleep. He would set it on snooze mode, for it to turn off after an hour. He loved the oldies – Elvis, Beatles, Simon & Garfunkel. Night after night, he would drift off to sleep listening to these tunes; and as he did, so did I.

Amid all these gems, there was a particular song which stood out to me: Tracy Chapman’s Fast Car. I don’t know if it was the easy rhythm or her unique voice that caught my attention. Maybe it was the underlying melancholy of the melody and the lyrics – deep emotions that my ten-year old self couldn’t consciously comprehend, but which might have resonated subconsciously.

Either way, years passed before I heard that song again. Dad passed away, and my mother took to listening to her collection of Cliff Richard’s music, which she said reminded her of Dad. And strangely enough, either by chance or by fate, I never heard that song playing again, though Mom still occasionally listened to the radio.

I’m nineteen now. It could have been seven years, maybe more, since I’ve heard that song. I’ve put my past, my childhood behind me. But one night, while at a friend’s house in Seattle, I was suddenly inspired to listen to the song. It was the middle of the night and my friends were almost asleep. I have no idea what made me do it – but I did it anyway: I grabbed my laptop, ran out to the living room, and looked up the song.

It felt good to hear it again. I felt kind of… happy, actually. But as I listened, it occurred to me that although I’ve heard the song so many times in my childhood, I don’t actually know the words. So I looked it up, and out came a tale of generational poverty, big dreams and unfulfilled hopes.

And my past came rushing back.

“You got a fast car / I want a ticket to anywhere.”

When I was younger, I used to spend a lot of time dreaming about getting out. No, not just out of the house, or away from my parents, but about leaving my lower middle-class situation. We got by – it wasn’t as if I had to constantly worry about my next meal – but money was tight. Mom worked hard, and so did Dad. But there was never enough – never enough to pay off all the debts, never enough for anything other than the necessities.

“You see my old man’s got a problem / He lives with the bottle that’s the way it is.”

The problem was that even though the money my parents brought in would’ve been more than enough for a comfortable existence, Dad had a gambling habit, which he developed during the last few years of his life. He disappeared for days at a time – you knew he would be at the casino if he just got his paycheck.

“My mama went off and left him / She wanted more from life than he could give.”

His disappearing acts frustrated Mom. I’m not sure which was worse: his absence, or the tense arguments that would erupt on his return. He knew that it wasn’t fair to lose not only his, but Mom’s hard-earned money, so recklessly, but he did it anyway. Remarkably, Mom never left. Maybe I played a part, but I think it was the memories of happy days gone by – the days when Dad was still loving and uncorrupted by the taint of gambling – that made her stay. And I cherish her for that.

“I know things will get better / You’ll find work and I’ll get promoted.”

My childhood years were largely unhappy toward the end. Yet, I harbored this dream of improving my life. I wanted to go to college. I wanted to study in America. We didn’t have the money, though. I probably wouldn’t even have went to a local college. I knew that the only way that would ever happen was if I made it happen myself.

Things are better now. I studied hard, I got a scholarship, and here I am in Northwestern. Dad’s passing left Mom and me with a small but helpful inheritance, so our financial situation is slightly better now. I think Mom still misses Dad, but she tries to not let it show. I do too, especially when the days are gloomy, just like they were when he died.

There are still many things left to improve. I’m still only just a student, and there is no guarantee that I won’t end up like the narrator in Chapman’s song, stuck in poverty with an alcoholic husband, despite her hopes to the contrary.

“City lights lay out before us / And your arm felt nice wrapped ’round my shoulder / And I had a feeling that I belonged.”

But that night in Seattle, I had a feeling that I could be someone.

In life the good and bad they come and go.

Selena Gomez says she wasted a year on her ex-boyfriend. Normally, I wouldn’t give two f**ks. But I don’t think you ever waste time on relationships, good or bad. They teach you things that you wouldn’t have known if you weren’t in that relationship. They build character; they make you stronger. For better or for worse, they change you somehow, and you’re a little bit different from the person you once were. Sure, it could go both ways – a relationship can scar you for life, it can leave deep wounds that nobody and nothing can heal. We all know that nothing in life is ever always fine and dandy. But whether your relationships hurt you, or fulfill you, I think there’s always something you can take away from them. There’s always something to learn. Without such experiences, you’d be an empty shell of a human. And in that sense, it’s never a waste.

Roots.

I deleted my old (and emotional) blog on Xanga and started this one with the intention of being less personal. I visioned this blog as a collection of sorts – a conglomeration of things I found interesting, things I’m passionate about, things that amuse me.

These days, though, I’ve come to realize that my thoughts and musings are also part of who I am. Not just music. Not just photos I find interesting. Not just viral internet memes (my Sad Keanu post is still my most visited page to date; it’s rather sad). I feel like I need to share more than I usually do, which is usually nothing. Hence, the past few relatively personal posts. I’m not quite past my denial stage, but I’m working on it!

But back to the roots tonight: music. I was grudgingly working on my lab proposal when I started to closely listen to Earlimart’s Happy Alone. Old song, yes, but I’ve never actually looked at the lyrics before – which is quite surprising since I’m a lyric person, actually…. So I took a look. And there’s just so much depth in there.

Judge for yourself.

“Would it be fair to say that you’re in love with love?
And is that enough?”

It’s a sort of relationship many people have been in before, just in varying degrees of intensity. It’s when two people are in it for love – and not necessarily for the other person. Perhaps they were in love…. but they’ve certainly grown apart, and they don’t know if they love each other anymore, or if they could possibly be happy alone. It feels wrong, but “even the stopped clock on the wall is right two times a day”. In the end, one of them decides to let go, because the relationship is dead, because it’s exhausting. Even though it hurts.

Did I mention the song has a beautiful melody too?

Oh the demons come, they can subside.

Friday night was spent in my room, nursing a cup of hot chocolate and watching Yes Man again. That scene when he coaxes a suicidal man off a ledge is just comical and beautiful at the same time. How is that possible? But anyway, yes, you heard me right – I turned down a Snow Pants or No Pants party (complete with free condoms) to watch Jim Carrey make faces at his Harry Potter-loving boss, Norm. When I had finally stopped crying and smiling and listening to repeats of Third Eye Blind’s Jumper, I started reading The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society, which sent me crying and smiling again with its heartrending accounts of World War II experiences and warm chemistry between characters. I may or may not be exaggerating about the crying and smiling. It had been a long day and I was incredibly tired, but I didn’t go to sleep till 3am.

I also had a good chat with my history professor yesterday. Imagine sitting in a quaint little room, furnished with shelves that covered floor to ceiling, laden with thick, esoteric books about the medieval Middle East. Then imagine this erudite, aged professor (who has an Arabic name to boot!) pulling out a copy of The Compact Edition of The Oxford English Dictionary and showing you how to read it with a magnifying glass, because the words are too small. I had not used an actual dictionary in years, but it was enough to make me want to buy a copy of that book there and then. We talked about life in college in general, and he proceeded to tell me that chemists are generally arrogant people since there are only a select few who can do chemistry. In all probability it was in jest, but it certainly made me feel a little better about last quarter’s Chemistry grade. It was all someone could have pictured about college.

Today I spent almost two hours having lunch with a friend at a newly-opened crêperie in town. Neither of us knew it was new – it was a place we randomly saw and randomly went into, but it turned out to be a good choice. We then spent the afternoon studying in a café. We don’t really talk – we sit there, engrossed in our own work, classical music playing in the background. But it’s nice to just be there with somebody you know. It’s becoming a sort of a routine lately, but I can’t say I don’t appreciate it.

By now, you’re probably scratching your head in confusion, wondering if there’s even a point to these anecdotes. Actually, yes, there is.

Also yesterday, a representative of a religious group came into my room. She was doing a survey and wanted to know where I found meaning in life. My immediate answer was “the little things”. She then told me that she found meaning in her personal connection to God. I couldn’t relate, and that got me thinking.

All these little things – spending Friday night with me, myself, and I, doing exactly what I wanted to do; connecting with people; taking time over a meal – give me a sense of fulfillment. They make me feel a lot more connected to the world, and to myself. I like to think that if I can find meaning in the little things, then maybe someday, I will see the bigger picture. In Yes Man, Carl is forced to say “yes” to every opportunity that presents itself, and though this brings him many positive experiences, his girlfriend breaks up with him, deciding that she could not be with someone who was obliged to say “yes”, no matter his true feelings. But Carl eventually finds out that the whole idea was to open his mind to possibilities. He sees the bigger picture. I don’t know what the bigger picture is, but knowing that I am able to find joy and fulfillment in seemingly ordinary experiences gives me hope that I’ll eventually see it. Kind of like a jigsaw puzzle.

It makes me happy to think about it.