Waiting at the Bus Stop for The 12

Every morning, I ride the bus to work. And more and more, I realize that everyone else was just waiting with me ... at the bus stop and life.

Really, my life has just been waiting at the bus stop. If right now you are thinking, "Well, you could be doing a whole lot more with your life than waiting, Elaine," then you should think again -- oh, and stop being so freak'n arrogant because you -- you are waiting, too. We are all waiting for something nice to happen to us, hoping that what we do while we wait will help speed up the process a little. Much like those that pound on the button for the crosswalk signal -- as if hitting the button harder and more frequently will produce instant miracles. If you ask them what they're doing, chances are that "I'm trying to get the crosswalk signal on so that I can cross the damn street!" will be your answer. Gratifying, eh?

Life is like this: you stand at the bus stop and hope for the next bus that shows up to be the one you've been waiting for -- maybe the 12 that goes to the Tigard Transit Center if you were me, or the 99 that gets you to your happy place, or that 57 that will give you a ride to a loving relationship.

Along the way, you might have gotten on the wrong bus a couple of times ... or many more. You know, like the absolute disasterous relationships, or the blunder career choice, or the wrong crowd of friends and silly decisions that got you in so so so much trouble back in high school and college. But you know, along the way, you probably have seen some scenery and made some friends on that bus some of us could never imagine. Heck, you might even figure out what life means on one of these joy rides.

But ultimately, you've gotta get off if it's the wrong bus. So you wait again, at the bus stop, and maybe entertain yourself with something while you're waiting: maybe you might study the sun's position, or read some left over newspapers or talk to a fellow bus rider who might teach you a thing or two -- sounds a lot like school, huh? Well, that's really what school is; it's something you do while you wait 'til you're ready -- or 'til the bus is ready to come to you.

Oh, the 12. It's the 12! It's what you've always been waiting for! Well, you get on, and you better not be looking back for a more comfortable or a faster ride because none of it matters anymore. If you are thinking to yourself, "Man, I really could have been that or gone there instead and be happier," then I can pretty much guarantee that you're on the wrong bus, and you'll be off in the next 5 minutes.

I can tell you that because I know this secret: what you could have been instead of what you are now never existed. I can tell you that because I have a story of my own. See, a great deal of many people have told me that I could be such and such a big shot at blankity blank department or company if I could keep at it. If I could stay focused and baggage-free, I could even go around the world to make something of myself -- even make something of the world! All I had to do was to stay focused, stay single, and stay perfect.

I know, it sounds tempting. But the fact of the matter is I saw the 12, I knew I wanted to get on it because it will lead me to Happyville. The 21 would have as well -- you know, the international express to the UN or something? But now that I am on the 12, I know this is the right bus, and the international express 21 to the UN becomes obsolete. The 12 led me to a home, a family, a wonderful other half, happiness .... The 12 was the right bus, you see. I know because I don't miss waiting for the 21. When you don't miss waiting for something else, you know you are happy with what you've got, and what you've got is right for you.

Well, if you ride the bus as much as I do and don't have the ride all figured out, I suppose life is just gonna get boring.

Coffee Shop Etude in A Minor

There is something unfetteringly romantic about coffee shops. Maybe it's all the Nora Ephron movies I've seen, or the romantic jazz I'm listening to at Starbucks right now. But there just is something special about hiding in a corner and peering out to watch all the people coming in, approach the counter with indecision, walking up to the line with slight hesitation or resolution, waiting expectantly for the anticipated cup of coffee, a trophy after much inner debate. After sprinkling ornaments of spices, cocoa powder or half-and-half, step through the door with seemingly more direction than they did before arriving moments ago.

And here I am, sitting in my own corner next to the window to allow some rays of reality to keep me awake, with my New York Times and the companionship of a notebook and pen, watching, memorizing, imagining, disappearing. I am part of the decor, melting in with dainty chairs and tables, painted walls and wall art and cries of "Venti non-fat mocha" and "Would you like your receipt".

Sometimes I would wait for someone to notice me. No, not becdause I am an eager flirt, but because I want to see who would notice my quiet little corner of universe. A small burst of excitement would go off inside when someone makes eye contact. My smile might bloom in return if someone smiles at me ... but that does not happen too often, either because they are too involved with listening to the voices of their own thoughts, or I too invisible. For this reason, the ones that do, I consider somehow special in a whimsical, "coffee shop romantic" kind of way. Sometimes a hope (or just a bout of caffine high) might surface that they are doing exactly what i am doing -- just watching snippets of life fly by in the morning ....

If each person is a story, then all of our stories had just came across and met for a moment here at Starbucks this morning. We all made a difference in each other's lives with a touch, or a hello, a thank you, good day, or an eye contact, a smile, a conversation, or something distinct that spark imagination -- even happiness, albeit temporary.

Diasporically Profound

Something about the Virginia Tech shootings disturbed me. No, not really that 33 people lost their lives -- however, I do offer my condolences, and not matter what happens, the sanctity of life should be upheld. It's Cho, who is now known only as "the gunman" or "the shooter" or "the South Korean immigrant" -- which, strangely enough, his immigrant status has been repeatedly mentioned (when you repeat it enough, you stress the point).

They said that Cho had been picked on and laughed at, due to this accent and strange demeanor ... his differences. You know, that very well could have been me, as well as so many others that came before and after us.

Even though it is no excuse for killing, I know how it felt. I know how it must have felt for him to be picked on, not because of how he dressed or how geeky he was, but because of his skin color and accent. It's one thing to be picked on because you're skinny or nerdy or bad at sports or zitty on the face -- you're at least on the same page with everyone (even though it might not feel that way). But it's another when you're picked on because of your place of origin or accent or other cultural differences, as if you are fundamentally different, a different species.

Being part of a diaspora can make you lose faith in humanity sometimes. If you're lucky, you'd probably turn out like me: no one really picks on you, and you are quick enough to know when to shut up, when to talk and how to minimize unnecessary exposure. You learn not to create trouble, but you learn to preserve who you are by being ... quiet. When you do get picked on, you learn to shrug it off (something Cho obviously didn't master). Basically, you learn to be invisible. Once you get to a certain "safe" distance away from being a FOB (fresh off the boat), you learn to either find people who are just like you and build your community from there, or you depart from you learn to depart from that clique -- sometimes roots -- and become "white-washed". It's all about survival and community/idientity-building. And, again, obviously, Cho didn't get to that point ... very unfortunately. It's like being homeless. And you know what they say about homeless people: they are the most dangerous people on earth (re: diaspora, identity politics and Islamic jihad).

Unfortunately, while making fun of Cho meant so little to the bullies, the cruelty did more than lingering to Cho. While the killings are sickening, it's also nauseating for the fact that a small gesture of friendliness and kindness -- of humanity -- when it was most needed could have made a huge difference.

Rodney King was not the first to say, "Why can't we all just get along?" He won't be the last.

I am just sad about all of this. I have no words for this. It's so very profound to me because it touches me deeply.

From Here to There

What could I possibly do or not do to make this life of mine better -- more exciting, more fulfilling, more positive, more meaningful?

For the Sake of Understanding

Africa.

I don't know whether my fascination with the continent is an enduring passion or pure exotic curiosity -- the type that, after indulgences of reading about the mass killings and famines, life can just go back to normal, to more Britney Spears and Anna Nicole's baby, to my own degree of separation. Am I devoting my free time to reading about this tumultuous continent because it really gives me hope to know at least someone cared enough to write about it, and someone -- like me -- has enough faith in humanity to read about it. Yes, faith, or denial, refusing to believe that, perhaps, the libraries of books written on the subject of injustices done to Africa and its different peoples is just a way for people who stood idle to give themselves redemption. And the readers, just waiting to be redeemed.

Today, I met Jimmy when I was reading my book on Rwanda's genocide. I had seen him numerous times on campus -- he hides out where I do every morning. Everything about him screams "AFRICA!" to me: his bold facial features, rounded eyes that seem to be a touch too big for his face, white teeth that seem brighter than they are against his espresso colored lips, and his smile -- his very cool and self-assured smile that seems almost secretive, reluctant to expose too much. That, to me, spells Africa.

As it turned out, Jimmy is from Nigeria.

I thought that from my reading and research, I would be able to speak with him with more ease than others; I prided myself with my hard work. But when he said Nigeria, and I had to think for a moment to mentally locate Nigeria on the continent map, I saw that trace of "understanding" in his eyes. And by "understanding", I mean, "Well, it's Nigeria. She probably wouldn't know." But I do; I really do. I really tried to learn about this continent, about the people, about their history, culture, their joys and, well, ... sufferings.

Nigeria. I wondered what he had seen in his lifetime. I wondered why he had come to Oregon. I wondered what he thought about his country and the rest of the African countries. I wondered about his outlook on the future. After all, we are but imaginings of ourselves and each other.

But all of a sudden, I realized that I was imagining who he is based on what I have learned from books -- books written by Western authors, books that only speak of Africa's worst moments. And what have I imagined him as? A downtrodden African refugee whose family had just been slaughtered in genocidal warfare? What did I expect? A Nigerian who is poor, hungry and cholrea-striken because his village has contaminated water supplies? And here I see a healthy, motivated, focused and, of all things, well-to-do Nigerian in front of me, and I am surprised that he is nothing like what I have been learning about in books. I did not know what to expect. Normally, when you speak with someone from your own surroundings, you can anticipate what they are saying before they even say it. You understand what silence means. You understand what a certain smile means. You understand what asking for your phone number means. But not in this case. His reservations, his shielding smile, his pauses, his "uhs" and "ums", ... I had no idea what he was trying to -- moreover, trying NOT to -- convey.

I was shocked. I was behaving so ignorantly, just the opposite of what I have been taught not to do in my international studies classes, in which I had spent 4 years. I felt like all of a sudden, everything that I strived to work towards (and one of those things being not be stereotypical) started to fade in my mind. They all seem to be false, destroyed not so much by truth, but by reality, falling off not bit by bit, but shattered at an instant.

For so long, I wondered about all these bad things that have happened and continue to happen in other countries -- poverty, war, and other things -- and now, I just realized that, certainly, these other countries have problems (huge problems!), but the most poisonous of all is the tumor inside of us, as "the powers of the world", that had made us numb to other people's plights.

In opposing terms like "they" and "us", "they" sure have problems, but the main problem lies with "us". And this morning, the problem lies with me.

It's so convenient to just identify those in the African continent and other countries with their worst moments in history, but I am almost certain that no one truly wants to be remembered and defined by the lowest points in their lives, instead by things that have not made CNN Headline News, yet so defines every human being's life in more ways than we give credit.

But to disregard that is so simple and easy. Simple, because it only has one category: "those sad bastards". Easy, because there is no analysis involved when there is only that. So now, disenfranchised peoples around the world became "those inferior but used, abused and miserable people over there". Simplicity and ease certainly provide convenient distance.

And today, I found myself on the other end of that distance. Jimmy requested to exchange numbers, another gesture that I do not fully understand in this context. I gave him my number anyway, and left wondering and my previous understandings of the world fade as I tried to understand more.

Comment on Root Cause

Also, a note on poverty:

A friend told me he believes that poverty is the root cause of things like genocide, which I am currently reading about.

It would be entirely absurd for me or anyone to deny that poverty has anything to do with the current state of the world. But it would be rather naive of us to underestimate the influence of factors other than poverty.

Poverty is relative. If you have nothing to compare to, while you might accept that life is hard, you would not realize that you are poor. Poverty isn't a natural disaster, like earthquakes or tsunamis. In order for poverty to exist, something must happen to make the comparison take place, either exist as a visible neighbor (and from there, neighborhood dramas ...) or as a force that robs.

Rule of thumb: if you're jealous and greedy, you'll fight. If you've been robbed not just of all your riches but also your dignity and history, you'll fight and do more and much worse.

People commit genocides and other crimes not just because they're poor. Crimes of the poor are crimes with the intent of primal survival. Crimes of the desperate are crimes of something else -- I haven't figured that out yet.

The Design of Everyday Things

I am thoroughly annoyed right now.

I am annoyed about the stupid contraption that I have to use as a multi-line phone. See, whenever a call comes in, on the screen shows a blinking triangle/arrow next to the line that the call is on. Whenever a call is on hold, the screen also shows a brlinking triangle/arrow next to the line that the call is held on for indication.

Now, this also means the phone system is using the SAME symbol to show calls coming in and calls being held.

The only difference these blinking triangles have is that they blink at a different rhythm, so to distinguish each other from a call held or a call coming in.

Imagine 4 phone calls coming in at a time. You're on the phone with one, and the rest keep ringing. You phone the first one on hold, and get to the second one. Then the third one, and the fourth. And more keep coming in. Think about it. Pretty soon, you are just relying on the blinking symbols to tell which ones you put on hold, which ones are incoming, and what you should do accordingly.

You are relying on the same blinking triangles that are just blinking at different rhythms. Right. When everyone wants to speak to someone at the office at once, what time do you have to figure out the triangles' blinking rhythms??

Can't the company just make the triangles different colors? Or just use varying shapes to indicate different things? The makers of this phone are either cheap or stupid.

See, because of these people's displeasing quality, I fucked up this morning.

There are so many things that we use in our everyday life that we put up with. So, when people say you're stupid for not understanding how to use something, just before you start to feel bad, think again.

10 Things I Love About Me

10 Things I Love About Me (a MySpace tag)

The rules are: Once you have been tagged, you have to write a blog with 10 weird random things, facts, or habits about yourself. At the end, you choose 5 people to be tagged, list their names, and why you chose them. Don't forget to leave a comment that says 'you are tagged' on their profile and tell them to read your latest blog. ENJOY!!!

Let me muster up the courage to confess. Hold on.

[inhale]

Ok, here it is:

1) My spine is rotated and bent to one side, which affects my hips because now they're out of alignment, too.

2) I moved to Oregon when I was 12. Now, unless I am really tired or something, I don't have an accent (alledgedly). I can do that because I used to listen to the radio a whole bunch.

3) I can type about 70 words per minute with very few errors.

4) I used to talk to myself. No, not just "Oh, Elaine, you're so silly." I literally spoke out loud to myself what I had in my mind. Now that I have Brian, I just tell him everything.

And of course, I write.

5) I got published at the age of 17.

6) I can't drive.

7) I never believed in Santa Claus.

8) I used to swim in grade school -- and I was pretty good at it -- but I don't even remember how to swim anymore.

9) A day of thinking can get me more worn out than after I have climbed Smith Rock, hiked up Monkey Face, canoed for hours in the Marina, rafting for hours (plus water fights) all in 3 days (plus staying up late at night).

10) I have a fascination about Africa that I can't completely comprehend.

I tag:
1) Annie -- coz I haven't heard from her in a while;
2) Nora -- coz she's gonna have a baby;
3) Giovanni -- coz I miss him;
4) Mary -- coz she needs the distraction;
5) Del -- coz I know he actually reads my blogs.

Genocidal Tendancies

I'm at work. I'm supposedly reading this book called, "We wish to inform you that tomorrow we will be killed ith our families". It's about the Rwandan genocide more than a decade ago. I started this book a long time ago, but never got through it. Now, I'm starting it again, and I still can't get through it, even though it's eloquently written. I can only read a little of it at a time.

It's hard for me to explain what it is, even though "it" is probably similar to what most other readers of this book have in mind: HOW COULD THIS HAVE HAPPENED? What possessed the killers to, well, literally chop through towns and cities?

Very few of us are ok with accepting that human beings in this day and age are capable of doing such things, even though things like this are pretty much happening every minute in some way or form. We -- or I -- have a hard time taking this surreal horror in because it's simply uncomfortable to the extreme.

I can't help but to ask: It's the 21st century, and people are still slaughtering each other as if a virus had taken over their brains? Absurd.

Maybe many of the Western countries at the time asked the same question and remarked it as "absurd" the same way as I did, a word that they (and we all) used to conveniently allowed them to ignore the situation. But to beckon to such terror that the victims faced as "out of date" and a "virus" seems to be dismissing such sickening genocidal tendancies as nothing more than an epidemic occurs only in "backward" places that are clearly not running on the time we mark as the 21st century. The dismissal only leads to avoidance of the real issue, which is the fact that genocides exist in the world we have created at this day and age. Dismissal will only lead us to ignore genocides, and they will happen again and again ... much like what happened in Rwanda in 1994.

But with my snail pace of going through this book, I can understand why it is easier to close the book and check out MySpace instead. Because it is never pleasant or easy to face up to that dark little shadow inside that can identify with the killers, the part of you that you wonder whether it is empathy or an unknown evil within you that, with the right calling, can one day consume your conscience like it did in Rwanda. And perhaps it is this unknown that is the most fearful.

Maybe this is why I am reading this book -- to shed light on that unknown, so that, even if the answer isn't empathy, but it is an evil that resides within me, at least I would know, at least I would understand, at least, if I were to become evil, I would know what is happening and maybe do something about it.

Perhaps this is a microscopic view of what communities and societies should do. To uncover the shameful. To disturb the disturbing. To understand the apparently unknowable and to imagine the unimaginable ... all in order to shed light on the dark, which could be our future.

To turn darkness into hope.

Maybe my endeavor to go through with this book has more meaning than just a pastime after all.

More Thoughts on Genocidal Tendancies

I'm at work. I'm supposedly reading this book called, "We wish to inform you that tomorrow we will be killed ith our families". It's about the Rwandan genocide more than a decade ago. I started this book a long time ago, but never got through it. Now, I'm starting it again, and I still can't get through it, even though it's eloquently written. I can only read a little of it at a time.

It's hard for me to explain what it is, even though "it" is probably similar to what most other readers of this book have in mind: HOW COULD THIS HAVE HAPPENED? What possessed the killers to, well, literally chop through towns and cities?

Very few of us are ok with accepting that human beings in this day and age are capable of doing such things, even though things like this are pretty much happening every minute in some way or form. We -- or I -- have a hard time taking this surreal horror in because it's simply uncomfortable to the extreme.

I can't help but to ask: It's the 21st century, and people are still slaughtering each other as if a virus had taken over their brains? Absurd.

Maybe many of the Western countries at the time asked the same question and remarked it as "absurd" the same way as I did, a word that they (and we all) used to conveniently allowed them to ignore the situation. But to beckon to such terror that the victims faced as "out of date" and a "virus" seems to be dismissing such sickening genocidal tendancies as nothing more than an epidemic occurs only in "backward" places that are clearly not running on the time we mark as the 21st century. The dismissal only leads to avoidance of the real issue, which is the fact that genocides exist in the world we have created at this day and age. Dismissal will only lead us to ignore genocides, and they will happen again and again ... much like what happened in Rwanda in 1994.

But with my snail pace of going through this book, I can understand why it is easier to close the book and check out MySpace instead. Because it is never pleasant or easy to face up to that dark little shadow inside that can identify with the killers, the part of you that you wonder whether it is empathy or an unknown evil within you that, with the right calling, can one day consume your conscience like it did in Rwanda. And perhaps it is this unknown that is the most fearful.

Maybe this is why I am reading this book -- to shed light on that unknown, so that, even if the answer isn't empathy, but it is an evil that resides within me, at least I would know, at least I would understand, at least, if I were to become evil, I would know what is happening and maybe do something about it.

Perhaps this is a microscopic view of what communities and societies should do. To uncover the shameful. To disturb the disturbing. To understand the apparently unknowable and to imagine the unimaginable ... all in order to shed light on the dark, which could be our future.

To turn darkness into hope.

Maybe my endeavor to go through with this book has more meaning than just a pastime after all.

Edumacation

I learned quite a few new things today.

Amongst everything, I just realized that the potato was first cultivated by South American Indians in 8000 BC and later introduced into Europe in 16th century.

Taiwan started getting populated around the same time.

The largest city in 9000 BC was in Iraq, with a whopping population of 150.

The first flute discovered was in China in 7000 BC.

Isn't this neat? I'm glad I have a job that has nothing to do with ... anything! When I get bored, I just look through the internet for awesome trivia that I otherwise would not have known.

That Much

I thought about Dune today when I read Del's hilarious message on Brian's profile. It was a cool Sci-Fi TV movie, but what really hit me today was the fact that the main character's wife was willing to step down and be a concubine so that he could take a princess for a wife -- knowing that the marriage with the princess must be consumated in one fashion or another.

It suddenly struck me that it would kill me if Brian was to have sex with another person, voluntarily or forced. No, not just getting shot in the heart and then I'll recover, but getting shot in the heart and I'll die. That's how much he means to me. I asked myself what I would do if my last boyfriend were to leave me. My answer was I'd be angry, and I'd be ok. It didn't matter as much. Now, it's different, as if I've been magically transformed, as if we've been fused together, he is a part of me. He means that much to me.