Welcome to Preposterous?!

May 23rd, 2011 § 0 comments § permalink

Welcome to Preposterous?! – a storytelling community about love and the American Dream, re-imagined. It’s the first project of the Youth for the American Dream network. Drawing from our lives, we tell stories about how we practice and struggle with a different kind of love. This love, which nurtures our empathy and freedom, is at the heart of how we create meaning, build relationships, imagine a better society, and pursue our American Dreams. So, if you please, read us, question us, enlighten us, share us, and email us. Want more? Take a Short Date with Us.

What's Your American Dream?

Woo-ing My Books

August 25th, 2011 § 0 comments § permalink

Amidst this self-rejection, there was one thing I was confident about: my studies. During this time in my life , school was extremely easy. If I concentrated enough, I always thought, “I can figure this out.” Even the most tedious long division problems were interesting to me once I dove into them.
Some nights I opened up my Miriam-Webster Children’s dictionary, reading and memorizing new words on my bed, on top of its plastic white race-car frame, under dim light. I always had questions: What else was there? What does this mean?

And I cherished the feeling of completion. “I’ll go to sleep after I finish the entire “A” chapter,” I once told myself. Of course, I fell asleep on the page after the first hundred words, leaving a pool of drool that soaked the page and stained my cheek.

My Mind

July 19th, 2011 § 0 comments § permalink

Back in front of my computer. “You weren’t even there!” My mom yelled at me. Her words reflected the confusion of “What is going on?” In Junior high, I wasn’t included. In these major life decisions, my parents didn’t understand me. I didn’t understand me.

I rejected myself. My mind spewed insults at me hourly.

In elementary school, I was passionately playing handball, sweating rain, proud of my ability to smash the ball to the backcourt. Suddenly, some white kid walked by and pulled at the side of his eyes so that they became slits. “Ching-chong, Ching-chong.” And he ran away, laughing. A drive-by shooting. The side of my palm hit the rubber ball, which bounced pathetically three times before it stopped and pooped next to the wall. I messed up my black magic.

“Need I say more?” My mind laughed at me from its torn loveseat, eating pie with its hands. For some reason, my mind fed on rejection.

My head down, I walked to the end of the handball line that streamed to the volleyball courts. Hurt, I sliced away the wires of empathy wrapped tenderly around my heart. At school, no one cared about me. After recess, my clothes smelly and drenched with sweat, a girl asked me if I could borrow a crayon. “Why doesn’t she have her own?” I wondered.

“No, sorry.” I said, not looking up from my masterpiece: a landscape of cumulus clouds and a bright red sunset blanketing the fracas between flying pirate ships and merfolk riding dolphins shooting swordfish arrows.

» Read the rest of this entry «

Lincoln-Moody Apartments

July 15th, 2011 § 0 comments § permalink

Maybe. Perhaps what I do to others is a reflection of what I do to myself.

It was a grey, cloudy day. In junior high, I lived in the equally gray Lincoln-Moody apartments with a living room, two bedrooms, and a greasy, plastic kitchen. Next to the living room was a strained black screen with broken-in holes weary from accidental kicks. After pulling on the plastic beads that hung next to the white drywall, the rectangle plastic blinds clacked open, but they often stuck. I had to tug with both of my hands to reveal a small cement square fenced by wooden planks. I called this my backyard. There, we had a nondescript plant that sat in an orange clay pot. The plant and my mom smoked together; the plant waved gently in the wind while my mom squatted on her legs, butt gently touching the cement, perfectly balanced, her slender cigarette lodged between her index and middle fingers.

» Read the rest of this entry «

What a Shitty Family

July 12th, 2011 § 0 comments § permalink

I recalled the story.

“What a shitty family.” The words flew to my mom with sharp venom. I recalled her silent expression, her disappointment; I imagined and, maybe even wanted, that venom biting into her heart.

I didn’t kick my mom in the shins. But perhaps the distinction between physical and emotional pain is illusory. As my words entered her ear, the sting of stress hormones and neurotransmitters rushed through her brain, making her body react in certain ways.

“You’re hurting my stomach.” My mom remarked to me in high school, after our fights. Sometimes I was rebelling, reaffirming my teenage freedom. Mostly, I was stressed and depressed about school, beating myself up. My mom’s slightest mistakes ignited my fury. “You threw away my math homework I left on the kitchen table?” I yelled three weeks later, realizing I needed it to study for my test.

After these episodes, she grabbed my right wrist and lay my hand on a swelling above her bellybutton. Shit, what is that? I thought to myself. Ulcer? I suddenly saw her on a hospital bed, her eyes closed, with my hand clasped into hers, both resting on her belly. I should consider somatoform, the link between the mind and the body’s pain, every time I express violent thoughts and feelings to others.

I shook my head. It’s not that easy. “She deserved it,” my mind kept justifying, “She deserved it.”

Why?

» Read the rest of this entry «

From Love to Violence

July 5th, 2011 § 0 comments § permalink

“Real Love is caring about the happiness of another person without any thought for what we might get for ourselves.” (Reallove.com). Others talked about it as an “unlimited way of being” (TheLoveFoundation.com). Souls, spirituality, the journey for truth, unlimited way of being, and all of this other new-agey stuff went over my head.

My last tab.  It was MLK Jr.’s Nobel Prize acceptance speech. Reading it, I felt refreshed by his lush and dramatic prose. Two paragraphs struck me.

“I accept this award today with an abiding faith in America and an audacious faith in the future of mankind. I refuse to accept despair as the final response to the ambiguities of history. I refuse to accept the idea that the “isness” of man’s present nature makes him morally incapable of reaching up for the eternal “oughtness” that forever confronts him. I refuse to accept the idea that man is mere flotsom and jetsom in the river of life, unable to influence the unfolding events, which surround him. I refuse to accept the view that mankind is so tragically bound to the starless midnight of racism and war that the bright daybreak of peace and brotherhood can never become a reality.” (MLK 1964, Nobelprize.org)

I’m not going to lie and say that the paragraph completely transformed my perspective as soon as I read it. But it summoned a magically floating silver bell that rang in the dark chaos of my mind. The little bell reminded me, through its jangly morse code, the first thing I overlooked in love. Me.

» Read the rest of this entry «

Googling

June 28th, 2011 § 0 comments § permalink

That sense of unease grew larger when everyone did indeed stop talking. My mom frowned, even looked sad. I finally spoke up.

“Oh-ma.” I said. “What are you thinking?”

“It’s okay Daniel. Just eat your dinner.”

“I didn’t mean it like that.” I said. But, I still couldn’t bring myself to say the magic word: sorry.

“Just eat.” Her refusal to engage made me angry again.

“I’m sorry, oh-ma.” I spitted out. But I nearly choked on my apology because I didn’t know how much I meant it. So, I finished my dinner, put away my plate, and went to my room, to do some thinking.

I’m a self-talker by birth. I’ve had many arguments with myself, which is a killer disadvantage when you’re trying to ask out girls. But asking a few questions helps me step back from the situation and open up my heart to some answers I don’t want to hear.

» Read the rest of this entry «

Christmas

June 21st, 2011 § 0 comments § permalink

It was Thursday in early February, my first meal home. A steaming pot of tofu soup sat in the middle of our glass dining table, surrounded by a side of roasted fish, a plate of white, sticky rice, and a glorious, glorious garlic, onion, and pepper-infested kimchi pile – a combination that would drive a date away wide-eyed in gaping horror. This really happens. I have had experience with this. And I may share it. One day. So never, ever stop reading Preposterous?!

However, what I appreciated the most at home was not the food, but the cleanliness. In a cheap restaurant in Kochi, India, I once ordered masala dosa, a dish akin to a spongy, rice tortilla filled with curried potatoes. Out of habit, I excused myself to the restroom to wash my hands. While spacing out, I turned on the faucet, which squeaked and pissed out a tiny stream of water. I barely rinsed my fingertips when I made eye contact with a cockroach sitting next to the cold-water tap. I shrieked, jumped up, and, with my hands up and flailing, immediately left the restroom. In my dreams, I still remember the roach smiling handsomely at me.  So, clean restrooms. I appreciate them.

» Read the rest of this entry «

The Lightbulb Moments

June 21st, 2011 § 0 comments § permalink

I am, and always have been, A#1. A high achiever. An oldest child, who was speaking in full sentences by 18 months (and has rarely stopped since!), I have held myself and others to the highest of standards for as long as I can remember.

By age nine, I was a relentless perfectionist who insisted that my parents quiz me again and again before upcoming tests. And although Mom and Dad had high expectations for me and my achievements, this demand for rigor was usually self-inflicted.

And it “worked”. Except for one “Voldemort” of a B in the 4th grade (i.e. that of which we do not speak :) ) by the end of elementary school I was a straight-A girl who happily defined her success by academic achievement.

girls

(I’m the one in the blue polka dots)

» Read the rest of this entry «

The Purpose of My Posts

May 23rd, 2011 § 1 comment § permalink

Time.

Over dinner about two months ago, my mom, with a big smile on her face, asked me when I was going to Boston.

“In August, I think.” I said, in between mouthfuls of rice-wrapped seaweed. I felt the seaweed stuck on my front teeth. “I’m actually not sure how housing even works yet.” I tried to swipe it out with my tongue, but failed.

“And it’s how long again?” She asked immediately. I paused a bit to take a napkin to wipe the seaweed of my teeth. I’m an elegant eater.

“Five or six years, depending on how much I can overcome procrastination, fear, confusion, and depression.” I said those words nonchalantly. I’m pretty sure my mom didn’t know what I meant exactly either. But that happens a lot.

My mom’s eyes suddenly got red, and she put her hands on her face. She stood up quickly, and ran into the restroom. I could hear her loud sniffs.

I smiled. Not because it was funny or that I wanted my mom to cry. It was one of those bittersweet smiles, that fuzzy, paralyzing feeling that my mom really loves me, that maybe I shouldn’t be smiling, and that I’m not sure what to do next.

» Read the rest of this entry «

« Older Entries