Writing Assignment

Last fall, I took a children's book writing class. The first assignment was to write a letter to yourself at a younger age. I just came across my letter to my 12-year old self:

Dear Vincent,

You don’t have to read the whole thing if you don’t want to. You don’t have to read this all at once. I’m hoping you do but you don’t have to.

This is going to sound weird but sometimes it is OK to lie. Just like people, there are “good lies” and “bad lies.” A “good lie” would be when someone gives you a present and you really wanted something else, but you say you like it anyway because you don’t want to hurt their feelings. A “bad lie” is when you say you have something you don’t because you think it is going to make you more friends.

Don’t try to impress people. Your friends are your friends because they like you, not the things you have or who you want them to think you are. That’s the other thing. You’re not a bad person, so I don’t understand why you need to be someone else. Don’t. You are going to hurt more people than you can live with because you weren’t honest.

Try this: Get yourself a marble notebook, the kind that Mommy buys every August to get you ready for school. Then get yourself a pen or pencil, something you like to write with. Always keep the two together. Always keep the two hidden in a spot that only you can remember. Write down the bad lies you want to tell in the notebook instead of telling them to people. It’s like making up stories just like the stories you read or watch on TV. Use the notebook for your thoughts, dreams, and the things that scare you. It might feel strange and be hard at first, but I think you’re really going to get to like it.

You’re 12 now. Twenty plus – almost 30 – years from now I don’t want to be sitting here writing this letter.

His Fifteen Minutes

I didn't want to talk about it. There are enough people talking about it. Analyzing it. Thirty-three people dead. Murdered without reason. "Without reason." Senseless. That's what makes the situation all the more tragic, all the more depressing. Sad. There was no reason for it. It was just spleen. Everyone involved was collateral damage to his rage.

They're dead. He's dead. What did it prove? Why? As disturbing, sad, and painful as these days are, the human heart is a very resilient organ. The survivors and the friends and families of the deceased will move on. Live. And cope with the tragedy and loss. He will become a statistic. His fifteen minutes will fade and he will become a statistic.

So what was the point?

The senselessness of it all is what upsets me most. Do I ever want to be able to understand something like this?

The cynic in me asks: Where will you be? What will you be doing? when this happens again?

The imagined enemy. I remember reading Notes from Underground, where the narrator speaks of a great offense that the alleged offender is completely unaware of. The narrator imagines conflict where it is only coincidence. The narrator needs conflict to justify living, so he dramaticizes an accidental bump in a crowd into the greatest injustice and insult.

I am infuriated by the killer's insistance of "victimization." He takes no responsibility for his actions (including his own suicide). He hid behind the persona, Ishmael Ax. Being victimized (perceived or not) does not justify victimizing others. Revenge makes for a nice story vehicle but is ineffective as a solution to any real world problems.

My First Book

The Rice Daddies blog recently held a writing contest that asked parents to reflect upon a favorite book from their childhood or one they have read to their child(ren). I missed the contest but it got me thinking about my favorite books from childhood.

Actually, I don't remember the title or the author of the book that had the greatest impact on me. It was the first book I read by myself. It was about a boy who was made fun of or felt awkward because of his big hands. The story ends with the boy using his big hands to play football, where his hands help him become an excellent receiver. He no longer felt awkward about his hands, now that his large hands served a purpose.

This book had a big impact on me because up until then I was choosing books that were beyond my reading level and only "pretending" to read them. I don't know why I did that. I guess, I thought it would make me look smart.

The second most important book from my childhood would have to be Tales of the Fourth Grade Nothing by Judy Blume. I remember my elementary school teacher reading it to my class. I read it myself recently and realized that my teacher had skipped some of the more perceivably controversial sections of the book (or at least I don't remember her reading those parts of the book). What I remember most about the book was that it was "contemporary," set in then modern times in the same city I was growing up in. I think I felt a "connection." It was a story about a boy a little older than me, growing up in the same city as me.

Up until then reading had consisted of fairy tales, furry animals in human clothes, and SRA cards (SRAs were the bain of my existance in elementary school. Basically, it was an hour of silence where you completed reading comprehension activities printed on little color-coded cards).

Tales of the Fourth Grade Nothing is set in New York City's upper West side (or East side, I don't remember) near Central Park. The narrator, Peter, lives in a small apartment in Manhattan with his mother, father, and baby brother, Fudge (who antagonizes Peter and his parents with his seemingly innocent antics). It is because of Fudge that their father has lost an important account and is on the verge of losing another. It is because of Fudge that their mother is so frazzled all the time. And it is because of Fudge that Peter feels so much like a "nothing." The story climaxes when Fudge swallows Peter's turtle (which is funny because I didn't realize that those little Chinatown turtles were available back then). I am sure that you have already guessed the ending. Everything turns out well. Fudge lives and Peter for a brief period in time sees the positives of having a little brother. Peter gets a new puppy (something too large for Fudge to swallow) and it seems his parents have set stricter boundaries for Fudge.

Is.It.Me?Space.Com

I have a profile. I have Friends. I have even been Added and have asked to be Added. So why do I feel like something's missing? Why do I feel like I'm doing something wrong?

I have friends who can get on a plane or a train and end the journey having met a new acquaintance. Nobody talks to me when I am traveling. I never meet anyone. My wife moved into my apartment shortly after we met. I had been living in the same neighborhood for five years and only said hello to the fellow in the pizza parlor, the husband and wife at the video store, and the cashier at the supermarket. Within a week she was friendly with most of the neighborhood (including the severe looking guys at the Italian Club on the corner).

Networking itself is confusing to me? I know that it happens - that it is supposed to happen. I know it is routine and ordinary. But it seems so insincere to admit that you do it or that you are good at it. At least it does to me. It could be just the idealist in me. The part of me who wants to meet people for the thrill of meeting new people and not for the purpose of my own professional advancement.

Networking. It sounds so calculated.

I set up a MySpace account after reading an article about it in Blender? Or Spin? Or Rolling Stone? I don't remember which. It was a short article where the subject matter was more interesting than the writing. The article was about how MySpace is changing the way music is being marketed. It talked about how bands were using MySpace to connect with fans and promote their shows and CDs. I have actually become a fan of some of the bands that have sent me MySpace friend requests. Tilly and the Wall, Tiny Masters of Today, and Ruby Throat (Katie Jane Garside's project) to name a few.

I recently set up a Face Book profile. I guess now that MySpace can be considered mainstream, technophiles are looking for other virtual networking alternatives. My youngest sister introduced Face Book to me. She says it's "cooler" than MySpace. I can't tell the difference. MySpace has better customization options but Face Book has much less spam.

Gung Hay Fat Choy!

JinXes

When I was young (maybe 10, maybe 7), my grandmother ran through the house shaking a rope of bells. My sister and I followed excitedly behind her with our dog, who barked throughout the commotion. My grandmother said she was chasing out demons. Decades later, I reminded my grandmother of it. She denied ever doing it.

My grandmother died a devout Christian. There was only one devil and one God. She did not believe in demons and kitchen gods anymore. These beings were relegated to folklore and superstition.  

Drugstore Cowboy is one of my favorite movies. Not only because William S. Burroughs is in it. He was my creative inspiration for many years. I regret not going to see him when I had the chance. He died months later. And not only because Matt Dillion was great in it. Up until then I had only known him from Rumblefish. I never saw the Outsiders. But because the Matt Dillion's character was severely superstitious, which caused tension with the gang his character was the boss of.  "Never put your hat on your bed..."

I am selectively superstitious. I don't stand chopsticks up in a bowl of rice. I cut my hair the week before the New Year and not the week after. I also don't sweep or vacuum New Year's day or the day after (to be on the safe side). I believe in ghosts and have had moments of Deja Vu. I tell myself that they are the result of anxiety, restlessness, exhaustion, and stress. I'm not very convincing.

My wife announced she was pregnant with our son the Saturday after 9/11. My wife and I waited the three months before telling anyone outside of our family. When we announced it to our friends, my coworkers wanted to celebrate but I said, No. I was afraid that bad karma from 9/11 would harm him in some way. I didn't want a big deal made. I didn't want to attract any bad luck.

Recently, our youngest son had an operation. It was a common and simple procedure. The doctors seemed confident and everyone we spoke to whose children had the same operation said it was a simple operation. My son's operation would have been simple, if he did not have an ear infection, a cough, and severe cold. It also turns out that there was a minor complication with the procedure itself. It took longer than the surgeon expected.

Everything worked out fine. He is recovering nicely on all counts (the cough and cold, the ear infection, and the operation). My wife and I were both stressed out during the weeks leading up to the operation. I refused to speak too much about it. I was afraid that speaking about it too often would jinx the operation. I wrote a brief email message to friends asking for their well wishes but that was about it. I was uncomfortable giving out any details - even to family.

Waxy Poetic

It used to pour out of me. It used to be a state of mind. I used to be able to take in a situation and churn it out as "poetry." I was so passionate about it then. I actually enjoyed the challenge of putting sounds and rhythms together. I used to have something to say.

Then it all changed. I changed. It got hard. It got too challenging. I got bored. I was reading the same words over and over again. It became more about who I was with than what I was saying. And when that happened I didn't have anything meaningful to say anymore.

Now, it's been a long time. I finally took an online creative writing course. My wife has been very supportive of my writing again. I tell her she doesn't understand the time involved. The class started out OK. I enjoyed reading what other's were working on and I enjoyed receiving criticism on my piece, but there wasn't enough time and slowly but surely I stopped turning in the weekly assignments and I really only did what I always end up doing, reediting the same portion of text over and over again. I got stuck in the same place I had when I first dropped the piece.

I made a decision when our first son was born. I decided that our being together then the three of us, now the four, was the most important thing for me. I still dream of getting that first book out and I think that maybe someday I will. But for right now, spending time with my wife and my boys is what I want most.

Right now, I am still my kids' hero. They still enjoy spending time with them. I don't remember spending time with my father when I was young. I think maybe I just forgot. I remember my mother taking my sister and I shopping a lot. I think most times it was just me. My sister spent time with my father. It is important to me that my kids remember spending time with me.

Right now, my job is still enjoyable. I feel like I am learning again. The challenges are stimulating and not just frustrating (though it seems I have been catapulted into a more tremulous and polarized arena). I daydream about earning a living as a fiction writer and poet, but doubt I would be able to earn what I do now. Practical things are important now (health insurance, regular paychecks, etc.)

Nine Lives Frisky

Are you an animal lover? Do you have pets? The Chinese aren't big on the pets-n-baby scenario. I like to tell friends and co-workers what some of the members in my wife's and my extended family said to us when we announced we were going to have a baby.

One of the comments was (loosely translated):

"Now, that you are going to be parents, it's time to grow up and get rid of your pets. The dog is cute so you could probably sell him but you should probably just put the cats to sleep..."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing and just bit my tongue through the rest of how inhaling or ingesting cat hair causes cancer.

My poor cats. They were to blame for everything from the common cold to the path to Armageddon. Our dog caused human blight as well but not to the degree that our cats did. I was not always a cat lover. I did not have a cat when I was growing up. We went through several dogs and fish. It was not until the summer after my freshman year in college when I owned my first cat. Rain. It was a tiny black kitten that a friend had brought over. I didn't want to come back to the City, so I was renting the first floor of a house with friends under the guise of finding a job. I spent most of the summer hanging out, smoking, and drinking. The cat ran away when I came home to NYC for a month to earn some money.

My next cat experience was through my first real girlfriend. She was actually the first woman I would say I was in love with. With a few exceptions my wife reminds me a lot of my first real girlfriend. My girlfriend was White, my wife is Vietnamese. My first real girlfriend loved cats, my wife loves dogs. My first real girlfriend and I might still be together now, if I weren't so emotionally retarded then. I had a lot of strong opinions then. I've since learned that 2+2 doesn't always equal 4 (though the sum may be similar). My first real girlfriend lived at home with nine cats. For Christmas, a year into our relationship, I went and adopted a cat. He was a Maine Coon Cat. His name was "Spike."

My first real girlfriend and I broke up. I was unemployed and couldn't pay the rent anymore. After a night of drinking by myself, I decided I had lost. It was time to move back home to my father's house. My father forbade me from bringing Spike home and my first real ex-girlfriend couldn't take him either. I think one of her roommates was allergic. Spike went to a nice security guard who worked the plaza where the Fotomat store I used to work in was. I meet him in the street and handed him the cat. It was a warm day. The sun was out. It might have been spring. I don't remember. People were having brunch, so it must have been a Sunday.

It was painful. I was in a daze. It didn't seem real. I have him tattooed to my arm. It was my second tattoo.

A friend of mine helped me load all of my stuff into a van and we drove all night. That same friend also helped me move into my first apartment in NYC. I got our current cat, Squat, shortly after. He was a stray that wandered the Brooklyn neighborhood where I lived. He was a runt (though you couldn't tell it now). He been badly beaten up in a cat fight. It costs a whole month's rent to get him fixed and patched up.

We got our second cat, our first New Year's living in Manhattan. She was a tiny white kitten my wife named Tomoko. She and Squat have been members of our family since.

Rediscovering Anime

I have been rediscovering my love of anime. I was a big fan in the 90’s after college. I went to see Urotsukidoji and Akira at midnight showings at the Angelica in New York City. I bought my first series – Bubblegum Crisis – from a then fledgling anime distributor, Animego in North Carolina. My sister got me hooked on the ongoing love-hate hijinx of the innocent Lum and her lecherous fiancée, Ataru in Urusei Yatsura. I watched Ranma ½ on snowy videotapes dubbed in Cantonese.

My crowning achievement during this period was the discovery of Arcadia of My Youth on video, starring Captain Harlock from my own youth. My sister and I used to strain to watch adventures of Captain Harlock: Space Pirate on our tiny TV from the days of rabbit-ears. The show played on UHF. Anyone old enough to remember UHF understands my sister’s and my deep dedication to the show.

Then everything just seemed so stale.

Just like that it seemed that the anime writers were borrowing unabashedly from each other’s storylines. And the drawing… Let’s just say that it became increasingly difficult to tell one supporting character from another. Sometimes the only way to tell the male characters from the female characters was by how bouncy and robust their bosoms were.

Then Pokemon came and I wanted no part of it.

Last year or the year before, I was flipping channels and caught an episode of Samurai Champloo on Cartoon Network’s Adult Swim. It was different with its quirky sense of humor and engaging characters. I am not going to say that the underlying premise driving the story was original but will say the three main characters and the interaction between them was too rich to be ignored. They were very “human” characters to me, so they were very interesting to me. There was a level of sophistication to the characters that had been lacking from the shows that circulated in the late 90’s into 2000. Later on I learned that Samurai Champloo was created by the same person who created Cowboy Bebop (a favorite my sister introduced me to), Shinichiro Watanabe.

Because it was on right after, I also became a fan of Paranoia Agent. Though I can’t say that I like the way it ended, the getting there was really interesting. It reminded me of the old X Files with Mulder and Scully. There were was a subtly twisted sense of humor at play in some of the episodes that made the entire series appealing. My only wish is that its creator would have taken more care with its ending. The culmination of the series was the usual big all encompassing tidal wave of goo and destruction. It was sort of like the writer just got tired of writing and needed an “And then she died” ending.

I would have liked to have seen the series end via subtle circumstances. Where the characters concerned came to their dramatic conclusions ignored by the general populace. That seemed to be the theme of the series: daily personal dramas. Only in the story these dramas were enhanced by supernatural activity. In comparing Samurai Champloo and Paranoia Agent (I’m doing so because I watched them at the same time), the former had a better ending, while the latter had a more interesting story premise.

After both series concluded, there was nothing again, until Bleach and Trinity Blood. But, while I enjoy both, I can’t say that I feel the same anticipation I felt in the midst of a Samurai Champloo or Paranoia Agent episode.

And now there is Gunslinger Girl and Basilisk on IFC. The coolness and subtlety of Gunslinger Girl reminds me of Paranoia Agent. My sister has already warned me that it is a short series lasting only 13 episodes. I told her that it didn’t matter as long it ends well.

What I Do

My goal after college was to sell the film rights and go out in a blaze of glory.

Things didn't happen that way...

I mean I would like to think I found minor (if ever so minor) success as a poet and writer in the 90's back in New York after college. But in hindsight I spent more time drinking and smoking and trying to get laid than actually at my keyboard dishing out deep thoughts. I might still be stuck in that rut if a series of bad personal decisions hadn't brought my life to a crossroads.

I had left a good job as a Program Associate at a not-for-profit that taught Constitutional Law through role-play. The kids would do the workbook exercises with their teacher and conclude with a Supreme Court trial, where they played judges, defendants, and plaintiffs. I was only there maybe a year, possibly two, when I made my first mistake - I chased a paycheck from the then New York City Board of Ed.

All through grad school, the job fairs, and the new teacher orientations, I was told that male teachers - especially those of "color" - were needed in the city system. I was lied to. And I was stupid. I quit my job before I found another. The director at the time even offered me a raise to stay. I was an idiot. The city didn't need me and after two grueling years, I found myself "asked to resign" and working third shift in the publishing department of a brokerage firm. I screwed this up too.

I don't remember how long I was there? It wasn't long. I was answering phones in the publishing department of a brokerage firm. I was a glorified receptionist but the people were nice and the pay was good. I left because I wanted to pursue a "career." I ended up in ad sales for one of those free community papers. Not the career I was hoping for. Not the career I kept.

I didn’t last a year at the newspaper. Having worked in ad sales, I have a newfound respect for salespeople – especially door-to-door salespeople. The degradation and rejection are at times unbearable. I was smart this time around. I waited until I had a job before quitting the sales job. I didn’t really quit though. They would have fired me sooner or later. The day I went in to give my two weeks notice, they had fired my boss. I gave my two weeks and was told not to bother showing up tomorrow. So I didn’t.

And that is how I ended up at my current job. As of today, I’ve been at this job for eight years going on nine. I am relatively happy where I am. It pays well, I like my coworkers, and I like the job itself. While there are still other things I would prefer to do to make my living, in terms of employment, this is as good as it has gotten for me so far.