I'm at my parents' house watching "A Christmas Story" for the umpteenth time. TBS has a marathon every Christmas Eve, and I can't seem to stay away. It's like my panda addiction. For those of you who don't know "A Christmas Story," here's a summary.
Merry Christmas, Happy Channukah, Happy Holidays, Peace to everyone!
Saturday, December 24, 2005
Sunday, December 18, 2005
a house full of cheer
Karen and I hosted a holiday housewarming party last night. Many friends joined us for great food and great company. Thanks to all for a wonderful housewarming. We are lucky to have so many friends.
Tuesday, December 06, 2005
rock zero at Caren's Pickin' Party
Rock Zero had its first public performance at our teacher Caren's annual holiday party last Saturday. Caren invited all of her students to her home and everyone played holiday songs together. Then we all had the opportunity to play a song for the group. It was a supportive and festive atmosphere.
Everyone did a great job, and I had a blast.
Sunday, December 04, 2005
Jane 1 Bloodsucker 1
I was terrorized by a mosquito at 3am last night. I awoke to a buzzing in my ear and a burning sensation in my bottom lip. The bastard had bitten me in the lip and was circling for more! I feel so helpless when I'm trying to sleep and there's a mosquito in the room. I turned my light on, hoping to spot and kill the sucker. No such luck. I turned the light off and tried to go back to sleep. Two more hours, two more flyby's. Meanwhile, my bottom lip swelled to twice its normal size.
By morning, the swelling had gone down a little, but I still felt like Bubba from "Forrest Gump". I am happy to report, however, that just before I left the house to go see "Harry Potter," I spotted the mosquito on my wardrobe box and killed it. The bright red blood that was left on the box and my hand was undoubtedly mine. Jerk.
By morning, the swelling had gone down a little, but I still felt like Bubba from "Forrest Gump". I am happy to report, however, that just before I left the house to go see "Harry Potter," I spotted the mosquito on my wardrobe box and killed it. The bright red blood that was left on the box and my hand was undoubtedly mine. Jerk.
Sunday, November 27, 2005
one reason why I left teaching: "Kids Gone Wild"
The New York Times Week in Review has a great article that examines some of the reasons for kids' bad behavior. I often felt like I was the first adult ever to have said "No" to some of the students I taught.
Thursday, November 24, 2005
giving thanks
I'm at my parents' house taking a break from dinner prep. I spent an hour or so prepping 1.5 pounds of brussel sprouts. There were some weird things growing on the leaves, so I think I pulled about half of the outer layers off. We will be having a traditional turkey dinner with family, a few of my parents' friends, and a couple of Korean grad students who are studying at a local institution.
It's been a tough year for me, but I have plenty to be thankful for, including the following:
Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!
It's been a tough year for me, but I have plenty to be thankful for, including the following:
- my family - I am lucky to have a large extended family.
- my friends - I don't get to see many of them very often, but they are always in my thoughts. (Come on, people! Hurry up and get a Mac and an iSight already! I need more friends on my buddy list.)
- my job - I am fortunate to work on interesting projects in a place with people whom I respect and like.
Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!
Sunday, November 20, 2005
wake up call from my APC
This morning, I was woken up by my APC, the device that keeps my computers safe and happy during power surges and outages. I guess the power was coming in and out because the APC would turn on for one second intervals periodically. It's kind of spooking me out, but maybe if I ignore it, it'll go away. ;-)
I am embarrassed to report that I am going to be about two weeks late turning in my final essay. I missed the final class because of a business trip. In the last 2.5 weeks, I've been out of town 12 days. I am just now getting to revising my last draft. My final draft looks like it's going to be significantly different from the previous drafts; I feel like I'm writing a whole new essay.
I have a couple of blog posts that I haven't finished writing. One is about the people I met during my trip back home from Washington, DC. I plan to catch up over the holiday.
I am embarrassed to report that I am going to be about two weeks late turning in my final essay. I missed the final class because of a business trip. In the last 2.5 weeks, I've been out of town 12 days. I am just now getting to revising my last draft. My final draft looks like it's going to be significantly different from the previous drafts; I feel like I'm writing a whole new essay.
I have a couple of blog posts that I haven't finished writing. One is about the people I met during my trip back home from Washington, DC. I plan to catch up over the holiday.
Sunday, November 06, 2005
discombobulated
My internal clock is confused and has responded to jet lag in the wrong direction. I am in Virginia for a conference, and last night I fell asleep at 9pm. This morning I woke up at 4:30am, and I don't think I'll be able to go back to sleep. My body seems to be 3 hours ahead of itself instead of 3 hours behind, which is the way eastward jet lag usually works.
I need to work on my personal essay. It is going to undergo serious revamping. My writing teacher gave me some great ideas to play around with last week. I am sad that I will miss the last class because of this conference.
I need to work on my personal essay. It is going to undergo serious revamping. My writing teacher gave me some great ideas to play around with last week. I am sad that I will miss the last class because of this conference.
Tuesday, November 01, 2005
personal essay - version 4
Sudden death overtime. What a shocking image: sudden death. Both teams play until one scores and terminates the game. For some, it marks the end of a collegiate career. For me, it was the death of a part of me that I’m still trying to find a replacement for. As with many games, it all comes down to a single moment. All the preparation and hard work and training boil down to a single moment…and regardless of the outcome, it is etched into my memory.
I had never imagined that I’d play varsity sports in college. I had been a valued member of my high school teams, but I knew my limitations. In the early nineties, my high school was the kind of place where a kid with no previous experience in a sport could try out for the JV team and play. With hard work and dedication, one could make up for the lack of summer sports camps and private lessons. I was neither the fastest nor the strongest player on my teams, but I played with the passion and intensity of an Olympian.
One thing I remember clearly from my first day of field hockey try-outs is watching a senior, varsity player pushing the ball across the grass field. This was just part of a warm-up routine. But as she pushed the ball with eyes looking forward, arms holding the stick in perfect position, and legs moving at top speed, it seemed as though the ball were accelerating along a fixed track. Coming from the West Coast, where field hockey is virtually non-existent, I had never witnessed anyone control the ball the way that these players did. My own attempts at ball handling looked clumsy by comparison. If I didn’t keep my eyes glued to the ball, I’d overrun it and have to backtrack to retrieve it. I gave my best effort during the training drills, and the words of praise that one of the juniors gave me during a defensive drill offered me hope. Running to the top of the 16-yard circle from the end line when it was my turn to go out, watching the offense develop and come towards me, going in for the tackle, and then getting back in line when the play was over…. The focus and energy that were required during these drills grounded me in something familiar from my past life. For at least two hours a day, I knew exactly what I was supposed to do, and that was comforting.
At the end of the second day of tryouts, I was walking back to the field house with the varsity goalkeeper. I don’t remember how the subject came up, but I ended up telling her about my experience playing 30 minutes of a game as the goalkeeper for my high school team when the regular goalie, who was a boarding student, took off at halftime to catch a plane home. Next thing I knew, the varsity goalie looked over to the head coach, started waving one arm in the air, and yelled, “Hey, Chris! This one’s played goal before!” I didn’t know it then, but that moment marked the beginning of the most formative experience of my college years.
Memories of my first weeks as the JV goalie return to me as snapshots – many of them comic as I fumbled with my new position. Getting my goalie equipment on and off was a challenge in and of itself, at first. There were so many buckles, and one day my teammate used the opportunity to sneak up behind me and empty a water bottle over my head after practice. She escaped easily as I sat on the ground struggling to free myself from a legguard so I could go after her.
My first real instruction in goalkeeping began the week before our first away game – about three weeks into the season. The varsity goalie was going to have to miss the game because of the law school admissions test. Williams and Trinity were big rivals in field hockey, and our varsity coach’s attempts to reschedule the game had failed. The varsity goalie worked with me and a volunteer from the varsity team in the days leading up to the contest. I remember two important lessons from that week. First, when trying to close the gap between me and an approaching attacker, move in baby steps. Second, and more important, field hockey goalies hold their stick in their right hand. (Having watched more ice hockey than field hockey, I thought that I was supposed to hold the stick in my left hand. I never questioned the deep purple bruises that I had developed from stopping shots with my unpadded right glove instead of the inch-thick left.)
If the walk up the hill on the second day of tryouts marked the beginning, then the Trinity game created the identity that I would develop over my college career. I was giddy with excitement at going on my very first collegiate road trip – and as an athlete, no less. The morning bus ride through the Berkshire mountains at the peak of the fall foliage season was every leaf-peeper’s dream. When we arrived at Trinity, I could not stop grinning as we walked past the expertly manicured fields bordered by brick buildings whose age was given away by the thick carpet of ivy growing up the sides.
The varsity coach had not decided who she was going to put in the goal. Later in my career, she would tell me that she and the assistant coach, who actually warmed us up for that game, decided that I looked more comfortable than the varsity player who had also suited up, so they went with me. During that warm-up, the former First Team All-American assistant coach drove the ball straight into my shin, leaving me momentarily on the ground clenching my teeth and clutching my right leg. How that ball always managed to find the gap between my pads baffled me.
In the final team huddle before the start of the game, the coach told me that I would be starting. I remember thinking, “Oh my God.” Minutes into the start of the game, a questionable call by the referee gave Trinity a corner (similar to a corner kick in soccer), and they got off a quick shot on goal. I did the splits in an attempt to make the save, but the ball was just out of my reach. Fortunately, the senior sweeper was in perfect position to stop the shot on the goal line. As her brother would say after the game, the expression on her face resembled “a squirrel who had just found a nut.”
The score remained tied at 0-0 for most of the game until one of our juniors scored. We had the lead 1-0 and the sweeper ran over, grabbed the bars of my face mask, looked me straight in the eye and said, “Jane, we are not going to lose this game.”
We did not lose that game to Trinity. The score ended 1-0, and the post-game celebration was a blur of cheering and hugging that left me dazed and high on adrenaline and endorphins. In a single athletic contest, I had acquired an instant identity and an instant family.
I finished my inaugural season playing JV games and accompanying the varsity team as their backup goalie. The next season, I beat out the first-year recruit and started for the varsity team, but I felt far from confident. What did I really know about being a varsity goalie? The Trinity game could have been a fluke. Now, it was trial by fire on a daily basis. Luck can play and does play and important role in what happens in sports, but discipline and training are what sports are all about.
As I settled into my new role, I developed a routine. I arrived at the field before any of my teammates did and took a warm-up lap or two. Then I’d stretch. Then I’d start putting my gear on. Right shinguard, left shinguard. Right kicker, left kicker. Right legguard, left legguard. And so on from bottom up until I put on my helmet and gloves. It was very important for me to go through my pre-game ritual. The solitude gave me the opportunity to center my thoughts and focus on the game or practice ahead. It was my job to protect our goal during games. I took that responsibility seriously, and this meant that in practices, it was not only my job to develop my own goaltending skills, but it was also my duty to help my teammates hone their offensive and defensive skills by making it extremely difficult for them to score on me. I forced them to earn every point that they got. I made them better, and they, in turn, made me better. This is the meaning of teamwork.
Between the Trinity game and my final collegiate game, my teams enjoyed an undefeated regular season and three straight appearances in the NCAA Division III tournament. I devoted my heart and soul to my team, and I was rewarded with close friendships with my coach and teammates and recognition for my accomplishments on the field. Although much of what happened was the result of luck as much of effort and I should be thankful, I’m still left with a profound sense of loss.
In my final collegiate game against Lebanon Valley College in the 1996 NCAA quarterfinals, four years of training and preparation came down to a single decision. After regulation, we were tied 1-1, so we went into 7-on-7 sudden death overtime. Only seven players per side were allowed on the field, so the field was more open and the gameplay faster. A Lebanon Valley player managed to get open and take a shot from the right side of the circle. I saw the shot and made the split-second decision to do the splits instead of diving for the ball. My left leg lunged out to meet the ball, but it sailed past the tip of my toes. The sound of the ball striking the metal baseboard of the goalcage signaled the end of my season and career.
I had never imagined that I’d play varsity sports in college. I had been a valued member of my high school teams, but I knew my limitations. In the early nineties, my high school was the kind of place where a kid with no previous experience in a sport could try out for the JV team and play. With hard work and dedication, one could make up for the lack of summer sports camps and private lessons. I was neither the fastest nor the strongest player on my teams, but I played with the passion and intensity of an Olympian.
One thing I remember clearly from my first day of field hockey try-outs is watching a senior, varsity player pushing the ball across the grass field. This was just part of a warm-up routine. But as she pushed the ball with eyes looking forward, arms holding the stick in perfect position, and legs moving at top speed, it seemed as though the ball were accelerating along a fixed track. Coming from the West Coast, where field hockey is virtually non-existent, I had never witnessed anyone control the ball the way that these players did. My own attempts at ball handling looked clumsy by comparison. If I didn’t keep my eyes glued to the ball, I’d overrun it and have to backtrack to retrieve it. I gave my best effort during the training drills, and the words of praise that one of the juniors gave me during a defensive drill offered me hope. Running to the top of the 16-yard circle from the end line when it was my turn to go out, watching the offense develop and come towards me, going in for the tackle, and then getting back in line when the play was over…. The focus and energy that were required during these drills grounded me in something familiar from my past life. For at least two hours a day, I knew exactly what I was supposed to do, and that was comforting.
At the end of the second day of tryouts, I was walking back to the field house with the varsity goalkeeper. I don’t remember how the subject came up, but I ended up telling her about my experience playing 30 minutes of a game as the goalkeeper for my high school team when the regular goalie, who was a boarding student, took off at halftime to catch a plane home. Next thing I knew, the varsity goalie looked over to the head coach, started waving one arm in the air, and yelled, “Hey, Chris! This one’s played goal before!” I didn’t know it then, but that moment marked the beginning of the most formative experience of my college years.
Memories of my first weeks as the JV goalie return to me as snapshots – many of them comic as I fumbled with my new position. Getting my goalie equipment on and off was a challenge in and of itself, at first. There were so many buckles, and one day my teammate used the opportunity to sneak up behind me and empty a water bottle over my head after practice. She escaped easily as I sat on the ground struggling to free myself from a legguard so I could go after her.
My first real instruction in goalkeeping began the week before our first away game – about three weeks into the season. The varsity goalie was going to have to miss the game because of the law school admissions test. Williams and Trinity were big rivals in field hockey, and our varsity coach’s attempts to reschedule the game had failed. The varsity goalie worked with me and a volunteer from the varsity team in the days leading up to the contest. I remember two important lessons from that week. First, when trying to close the gap between me and an approaching attacker, move in baby steps. Second, and more important, field hockey goalies hold their stick in their right hand. (Having watched more ice hockey than field hockey, I thought that I was supposed to hold the stick in my left hand. I never questioned the deep purple bruises that I had developed from stopping shots with my unpadded right glove instead of the inch-thick left.)
If the walk up the hill on the second day of tryouts marked the beginning, then the Trinity game created the identity that I would develop over my college career. I was giddy with excitement at going on my very first collegiate road trip – and as an athlete, no less. The morning bus ride through the Berkshire mountains at the peak of the fall foliage season was every leaf-peeper’s dream. When we arrived at Trinity, I could not stop grinning as we walked past the expertly manicured fields bordered by brick buildings whose age was given away by the thick carpet of ivy growing up the sides.
The varsity coach had not decided who she was going to put in the goal. Later in my career, she would tell me that she and the assistant coach, who actually warmed us up for that game, decided that I looked more comfortable than the varsity player who had also suited up, so they went with me. During that warm-up, the former First Team All-American assistant coach drove the ball straight into my shin, leaving me momentarily on the ground clenching my teeth and clutching my right leg. How that ball always managed to find the gap between my pads baffled me.
In the final team huddle before the start of the game, the coach told me that I would be starting. I remember thinking, “Oh my God.” Minutes into the start of the game, a questionable call by the referee gave Trinity a corner (similar to a corner kick in soccer), and they got off a quick shot on goal. I did the splits in an attempt to make the save, but the ball was just out of my reach. Fortunately, the senior sweeper was in perfect position to stop the shot on the goal line. As her brother would say after the game, the expression on her face resembled “a squirrel who had just found a nut.”
The score remained tied at 0-0 for most of the game until one of our juniors scored. We had the lead 1-0 and the sweeper ran over, grabbed the bars of my face mask, looked me straight in the eye and said, “Jane, we are not going to lose this game.”
We did not lose that game to Trinity. The score ended 1-0, and the post-game celebration was a blur of cheering and hugging that left me dazed and high on adrenaline and endorphins. In a single athletic contest, I had acquired an instant identity and an instant family.
I finished my inaugural season playing JV games and accompanying the varsity team as their backup goalie. The next season, I beat out the first-year recruit and started for the varsity team, but I felt far from confident. What did I really know about being a varsity goalie? The Trinity game could have been a fluke. Now, it was trial by fire on a daily basis. Luck can play and does play and important role in what happens in sports, but discipline and training are what sports are all about.
As I settled into my new role, I developed a routine. I arrived at the field before any of my teammates did and took a warm-up lap or two. Then I’d stretch. Then I’d start putting my gear on. Right shinguard, left shinguard. Right kicker, left kicker. Right legguard, left legguard. And so on from bottom up until I put on my helmet and gloves. It was very important for me to go through my pre-game ritual. The solitude gave me the opportunity to center my thoughts and focus on the game or practice ahead. It was my job to protect our goal during games. I took that responsibility seriously, and this meant that in practices, it was not only my job to develop my own goaltending skills, but it was also my duty to help my teammates hone their offensive and defensive skills by making it extremely difficult for them to score on me. I forced them to earn every point that they got. I made them better, and they, in turn, made me better. This is the meaning of teamwork.
Between the Trinity game and my final collegiate game, my teams enjoyed an undefeated regular season and three straight appearances in the NCAA Division III tournament. I devoted my heart and soul to my team, and I was rewarded with close friendships with my coach and teammates and recognition for my accomplishments on the field. Although much of what happened was the result of luck as much of effort and I should be thankful, I’m still left with a profound sense of loss.
In my final collegiate game against Lebanon Valley College in the 1996 NCAA quarterfinals, four years of training and preparation came down to a single decision. After regulation, we were tied 1-1, so we went into 7-on-7 sudden death overtime. Only seven players per side were allowed on the field, so the field was more open and the gameplay faster. A Lebanon Valley player managed to get open and take a shot from the right side of the circle. I saw the shot and made the split-second decision to do the splits instead of diving for the ball. My left leg lunged out to meet the ball, but it sailed past the tip of my toes. The sound of the ball striking the metal baseboard of the goalcage signaled the end of my season and career.
Monday, October 24, 2005
a day for sanity
I took a day off work today in order to keep myself from going crazy. Sometimes I get stuck in a rut and have a hard time keeping negative thoughts from consuming me. I thought that a day just for me might help. It did. I escaped the fog and cold and headed to my old neighborhood up in Marin. I started by exchanging a CO2 canister for my aquarium and getting an oil change for my car. Then I headed to Trader Joe's to pick up lunch for a picnic at Pheonix Lake. I sat on a bench by my favorite fishing spot and ate, read, edited an essay, and tried to take a nap. The sun felt warm against my back and I enjoyed the sense of solitude. Encroaching shade and a cool breeze convinced me to leave that spot and walk around the lake. My last stop for the day was a Border's bookstore.
Wednesday, October 19, 2005
personal essay - version 2 (but probably more like a 1.1)
Sudden death overtime. What a shocking image: sudden death. Both teams play until one scores and terminates the other’s season. For some, it marks the end of a collegiate career. For me, it was the death of a part of me that I’m still trying to find a replacement for. [end of more than just a season. Do I describe final scene here or at end?]
I had never imagined that I’d play varsity sports in college. I had been a valued member of my high school teams, but I knew my limitations. In the early nineties, my high school was the kind of place where a kid with no previous experience in a sport could try out for the JV team and play. With hard work and dedication, one could make up for the lack of summer sports camps and private lessons.
In the ninth grade, I tried my hand at basketball. I fell in love with the sport, but the level of my commitment overshadowed my level of talent. The next winter, after agonizing for weeks, I decided not to play basketball my sophomore year because I was worried about being able to juggle my demanding academic schedule and basketball. I did not want to shortchange either, so I switched to field hockey. Field hockey had a shorter season and it looked interesting.
[Falling in love with the sport.]
In my first days at Williams College, I cried often, but secretly. One afternoon, I retreated to the 4th floor bathroom of my dormitory, sat on the cold, tile floor, and wept alone. I had not expected the effect that moving 3,000 miles away from home would have on my 18-year-old self. An intense sadness hit me as soon as I turned away from my father at the boarding gate at SFO. [I knew somehow that I was at the end of something. Was it “easy” to let go at this point? Why does it seem like it was easier than now?] Of course, I couldn’t let him see me cry, so I held it together until I was safely buckled in my seat. Even then, I tried not to let my emotions show. I knew that I was going through an adjustment period, but understanding with my head did not comfort my heart.
On the East Coast, it turned out that the two sports I had enjoyed the most in high school, volleyball and field hockey, competed during the same season: Fall. [Describe fall in the Berkshires?] After determining that I probably wouldn’t be able to compete with the volleyball recruits, I decided to try out for the field hockey team, which fielded both junior varsity and varsity teams. Volleyball only had varsity. I thought my chances of making a team were better with hockey. I did not care about varsity status. I just wanted to play.
The only thing I remember clearly from my first day out on the field is my sense of awe at the stick skills of the varsity players. Coming from the West Coast, where field hockey is virtually non-existent, I had never witnessed anyone maneuver and manipulate the ball the way that these women did. [Describe Kelly Faucher pushing ball at top speed.] I gave my best effort during the training drills, and the words of praise that one of the juniors offered me gave me hope. The focus and energy that were required during tryouts grounded me in something familiar from my past life. For at least two hours a day, I knew exactly what I was supposed to do, and that was comforting.
At the end of the second day of tryouts, I was walking back to the field house with the varsity goal keeper. I don’t remember how the subject came up, but I ended up telling her about my experience playing 30 minutes of a game as the goalkeeper for my high school team when the regular goalie, who was a boarding student, took off at halftime to catch a plane home. Next thing I knew, the varsity goalie looked over to the head coach, started waving one arm in the air, and yelled, “Hey, Chris! This one’s played goal before!” I didn’t know it then, but that moment marked the beginning of the most formative experience of my college years.
I don’t remember many details from my first weeks as the JV goalie. I do remember the friends that I made.
Fumbling with my new role. Asking for help – sort of. Comical moments – holding stick in wrong hand.
First away game at trinity. Wonder and awe. In that instant, I found the identity that I would assume and cultivate for the following four years.
Relationships and a sense of belonging
Developing a philosophy of goalkeeping
Duty and sacrifice
Lessons learned and what this experience meant to me
Team and sport as a microcosm of life: the benefits and dangers of viewing it this way.
Issues of identity: shaping it, losing it
Mourning the loss of identity. Not letting go gracefully.
Still searching?
I had never imagined that I’d play varsity sports in college. I had been a valued member of my high school teams, but I knew my limitations. In the early nineties, my high school was the kind of place where a kid with no previous experience in a sport could try out for the JV team and play. With hard work and dedication, one could make up for the lack of summer sports camps and private lessons.
In the ninth grade, I tried my hand at basketball. I fell in love with the sport, but the level of my commitment overshadowed my level of talent. The next winter, after agonizing for weeks, I decided not to play basketball my sophomore year because I was worried about being able to juggle my demanding academic schedule and basketball. I did not want to shortchange either, so I switched to field hockey. Field hockey had a shorter season and it looked interesting.
[Falling in love with the sport.]
In my first days at Williams College, I cried often, but secretly. One afternoon, I retreated to the 4th floor bathroom of my dormitory, sat on the cold, tile floor, and wept alone. I had not expected the effect that moving 3,000 miles away from home would have on my 18-year-old self. An intense sadness hit me as soon as I turned away from my father at the boarding gate at SFO. [I knew somehow that I was at the end of something. Was it “easy” to let go at this point? Why does it seem like it was easier than now?] Of course, I couldn’t let him see me cry, so I held it together until I was safely buckled in my seat. Even then, I tried not to let my emotions show. I knew that I was going through an adjustment period, but understanding with my head did not comfort my heart.
On the East Coast, it turned out that the two sports I had enjoyed the most in high school, volleyball and field hockey, competed during the same season: Fall. [Describe fall in the Berkshires?] After determining that I probably wouldn’t be able to compete with the volleyball recruits, I decided to try out for the field hockey team, which fielded both junior varsity and varsity teams. Volleyball only had varsity. I thought my chances of making a team were better with hockey. I did not care about varsity status. I just wanted to play.
The only thing I remember clearly from my first day out on the field is my sense of awe at the stick skills of the varsity players. Coming from the West Coast, where field hockey is virtually non-existent, I had never witnessed anyone maneuver and manipulate the ball the way that these women did. [Describe Kelly Faucher pushing ball at top speed.] I gave my best effort during the training drills, and the words of praise that one of the juniors offered me gave me hope. The focus and energy that were required during tryouts grounded me in something familiar from my past life. For at least two hours a day, I knew exactly what I was supposed to do, and that was comforting.
At the end of the second day of tryouts, I was walking back to the field house with the varsity goal keeper. I don’t remember how the subject came up, but I ended up telling her about my experience playing 30 minutes of a game as the goalkeeper for my high school team when the regular goalie, who was a boarding student, took off at halftime to catch a plane home. Next thing I knew, the varsity goalie looked over to the head coach, started waving one arm in the air, and yelled, “Hey, Chris! This one’s played goal before!” I didn’t know it then, but that moment marked the beginning of the most formative experience of my college years.
I don’t remember many details from my first weeks as the JV goalie. I do remember the friends that I made.
Fumbling with my new role. Asking for help – sort of. Comical moments – holding stick in wrong hand.
First away game at trinity. Wonder and awe. In that instant, I found the identity that I would assume and cultivate for the following four years.
Relationships and a sense of belonging
Developing a philosophy of goalkeeping
Duty and sacrifice
Lessons learned and what this experience meant to me
Team and sport as a microcosm of life: the benefits and dangers of viewing it this way.
Issues of identity: shaping it, losing it
Mourning the loss of identity. Not letting go gracefully.
Still searching?
the zone
Yesterday, I hit the perfect ratio of coffee to muffin to water and had an ultra-productive day. No jitters, just total concentration. I was in the zone.
Saturday, October 15, 2005
the return of calluses
My friends Kim and Denise and I are the founding members of rock zero, and we had our first lesson last week. I am thrilled to be playing in a band and taking music lessons again. Having a teacher makes a big difference. After one lesson, I already feel like I'm moving off the plateau I've been stuck on for the last four years.
personal essay - rough draft
Sudden death overtime. What a shocking image: sudden death. Both teams play until one scores and terminates the other’s season – and for some of us, our collegiate athletic careers.
I had never imagined that I’d play varsity sports in college. I had been a valued member of my high school teams, but I knew my limitations. In the early nineties, my high school was the kind of place where a kid with no previous experience in a sport could try out for the JV team and play. With hard work and dedication, one could make up for the lack of summer sports camps and private lessons.
In my first days at Williams College, I cried often, but secretly. One afternoon, I retreated to the 4th floor bathroom of my dormitory, sat on the cold, tile floor, and bawled my eyes out. I had not expected the effect that moving 3,000 miles away from home would have on my 18-year-old self. An intense sadness hit me as soon as I turned away from my father at the boarding gate at SFO. Of course, I couldn’t let him see me cry, so I held it together until I was safely buckled in my seat. Even then, I tried not to let my emotions show. I knew that I was going through an adjustment period, but understanding with my head did not comfort my heart.
On the East Coast, it turned out that the two sports I had enjoyed the most in high school, volleyball and field hockey, competed during the same season: Fall. After determining that I probably wouldn’t be able to compete with the volleyball recruits, I decided to try out for the field hockey team, which fielded both junior varsity and varsity teams. I did not care about varsity status. I just wanted to play.
The only thing I remember clearly from my first day out on the field is my sense of awe at the stick skills of the varsity players. Coming from the West Coast, where field hockey is virtually non-existent, I had never witnessed anyone maneuver and manipulate the ball the way that these women did. I gave my best effort during the training drills, and the words of praise that one of the juniors offered me gave me hope. The focus and energy that were required during tryouts grounded me in something familiar from my past life. For at least two hours a day, I knew exactly what I was supposed to do, and that was comforting.
At the end of the second day of tryouts, I was walking back to the field house with the varsity goal keeper. I don’t remember how the subject came up, but I ended up telling her about my experience playing 30 minutes of a game as the goalkeeper for my high school team when the regular goalie, who was a boarding student, took off at halftime to catch a plane home. Next thing I know, the varsity goalie looks over to the head coach, starts waving one arm in the air, and yells, “Hey, Chris! This one’s played goal before!” I didn’t know it then, but that moment marked the beginning of the most formative experience of my college years.
----------------------------
First away game at trinity. Wonder and awe.
Relationships and a sense of belonging
Developing a philosophy of goalkeeping
Fear and courage
Duty and sacrifice
Lessons learned and what this experience meant to me
Team and sport as a microcosm of life: the benefits and dangers of viewing it this way.
Issues of identity: shaping it, losing it
I had never imagined that I’d play varsity sports in college. I had been a valued member of my high school teams, but I knew my limitations. In the early nineties, my high school was the kind of place where a kid with no previous experience in a sport could try out for the JV team and play. With hard work and dedication, one could make up for the lack of summer sports camps and private lessons.
In my first days at Williams College, I cried often, but secretly. One afternoon, I retreated to the 4th floor bathroom of my dormitory, sat on the cold, tile floor, and bawled my eyes out. I had not expected the effect that moving 3,000 miles away from home would have on my 18-year-old self. An intense sadness hit me as soon as I turned away from my father at the boarding gate at SFO. Of course, I couldn’t let him see me cry, so I held it together until I was safely buckled in my seat. Even then, I tried not to let my emotions show. I knew that I was going through an adjustment period, but understanding with my head did not comfort my heart.
On the East Coast, it turned out that the two sports I had enjoyed the most in high school, volleyball and field hockey, competed during the same season: Fall. After determining that I probably wouldn’t be able to compete with the volleyball recruits, I decided to try out for the field hockey team, which fielded both junior varsity and varsity teams. I did not care about varsity status. I just wanted to play.
The only thing I remember clearly from my first day out on the field is my sense of awe at the stick skills of the varsity players. Coming from the West Coast, where field hockey is virtually non-existent, I had never witnessed anyone maneuver and manipulate the ball the way that these women did. I gave my best effort during the training drills, and the words of praise that one of the juniors offered me gave me hope. The focus and energy that were required during tryouts grounded me in something familiar from my past life. For at least two hours a day, I knew exactly what I was supposed to do, and that was comforting.
At the end of the second day of tryouts, I was walking back to the field house with the varsity goal keeper. I don’t remember how the subject came up, but I ended up telling her about my experience playing 30 minutes of a game as the goalkeeper for my high school team when the regular goalie, who was a boarding student, took off at halftime to catch a plane home. Next thing I know, the varsity goalie looks over to the head coach, starts waving one arm in the air, and yells, “Hey, Chris! This one’s played goal before!” I didn’t know it then, but that moment marked the beginning of the most formative experience of my college years.
----------------------------
First away game at trinity. Wonder and awe.
Relationships and a sense of belonging
Developing a philosophy of goalkeeping
Fear and courage
Duty and sacrifice
Lessons learned and what this experience meant to me
Team and sport as a microcosm of life: the benefits and dangers of viewing it this way.
Issues of identity: shaping it, losing it
Sunday, October 09, 2005
sad computer :(
My iMac is a little sick. It keeps getting hung up on a blue screen during startup. I've tried all sorts of things, but nothing has worked. Poor thing. I am archive and installing the operating system now. I hope it fixes the problem. Of course, my 3-year AppleCare contract expired two weeks ago. How did it know?
Friday, October 07, 2005
in-class exercise: write about your hair
My hair is dark brown, fine, and straight. Compared to the thickness of my sister's hair, I might as well be balding. Her ponytail holders break under the strain of corralling her locks; I can wrap mine around my ponytail three times to her two.
It always bothered me when people said that I had black hair, even when they expressed it as a compliment. "Oh, I love your black hair." I associated black hair with Asian stereotype. Calling my hair black showed that you weren't paying attention or looking closely or that you couldn't be bothered to notice details. To you I was "Asian." I had black hair.
My hair has gone through its share of trauma. In the fourth grade, I longed for short, wavy hair, so my mom took me to a hairdresser in Myung-dong. I had hair down to my waist when I went in. I began to get nervous as more and more workers fumbled with the curlers in my hair. The chemicals were making me nauseous, so that made all the buzzing even harder to deal with.
After they took the curlers out and fixed my hair up, I understood why they had made such a fuss. They had overpermed my hair. I now looked like the Cabbage Patch Kid dolls that were at the height of their popularity. In the taxi line, two men argued whether I was a boy or a girl.
There are several other perm disaster stories in my life, but by and large I never felt shame about the color of my hair. My sister -- three years my junior -- had a different experience growing up. I did not know this at the time, but when she was a kid, she wished that she had blonde hair. When I first heard this, I was surprised and confused. Why did she think this? And why didn't I want the same thing?
There are personality differences, but I think the real reason is because the four years we spent in Korea hit me at just the right point. I was seven to eleven years of age. My sister was three to seven. Being surrounded by Korean people, all of whom have dark hair, established dark hair as the norm for me. My sister's comparable age period was spent in the US. What a shock it must have been to live in a new city and go to a new school. From seven to eleven, I was surrounded by Korean people and Korean images. From seven to eleven, she was surrounded by the American media, where everyone is white and beautiful. In her mind, white became equivalent to beautiful. She began to wish she were white.
It always bothered me when people said that I had black hair, even when they expressed it as a compliment. "Oh, I love your black hair." I associated black hair with Asian stereotype. Calling my hair black showed that you weren't paying attention or looking closely or that you couldn't be bothered to notice details. To you I was "Asian." I had black hair.
My hair has gone through its share of trauma. In the fourth grade, I longed for short, wavy hair, so my mom took me to a hairdresser in Myung-dong. I had hair down to my waist when I went in. I began to get nervous as more and more workers fumbled with the curlers in my hair. The chemicals were making me nauseous, so that made all the buzzing even harder to deal with.
After they took the curlers out and fixed my hair up, I understood why they had made such a fuss. They had overpermed my hair. I now looked like the Cabbage Patch Kid dolls that were at the height of their popularity. In the taxi line, two men argued whether I was a boy or a girl.
There are several other perm disaster stories in my life, but by and large I never felt shame about the color of my hair. My sister -- three years my junior -- had a different experience growing up. I did not know this at the time, but when she was a kid, she wished that she had blonde hair. When I first heard this, I was surprised and confused. Why did she think this? And why didn't I want the same thing?
There are personality differences, but I think the real reason is because the four years we spent in Korea hit me at just the right point. I was seven to eleven years of age. My sister was three to seven. Being surrounded by Korean people, all of whom have dark hair, established dark hair as the norm for me. My sister's comparable age period was spent in the US. What a shock it must have been to live in a new city and go to a new school. From seven to eleven, I was surrounded by Korean people and Korean images. From seven to eleven, she was surrounded by the American media, where everyone is white and beautiful. In her mind, white became equivalent to beautiful. She began to wish she were white.
Thursday, October 06, 2005
possibilities
I am at work now, reading user studies about how faculty use digital materials in their research and teaching. The more I learn about technology and digital libraries, the more excited I get about the possibilities of using technology in education. There are many, many obstacles to overcome in order to have a successful experience, but imagining what could be is making me happy.
Tuesday, October 04, 2005
untitled memoir - version 2
Middle school – sixth grade. I had just returned to the U.S. the previous summer after living in Korea for four years. I had an insulated, pink Mickey Mouse lunch tote that was made in Japan, bought in Korea. It had a large compartment for rice and two smaller containers for banchan. Its Asian pedigree meant that all parts stacked perfectly; a clever, sliding compartment in the bottom hid a folding spoon. Usually, I bought lunch at the school cafeteria, but Mom had packed lunch for me that day. Mom's a great cook. I carried my Mickey Mouse lunch box proudly to school.
Lunchtime – sitting on the concrete stairs behind the library, peers surrounding me. I unpack my lunch carefully, setting the smaller containers next to me on the step. I felt very civilized with my chopsticks, white rice, and banchan. Compared to the aluminum tray of uniformly heated, sometimes unidentifiable food that I normally bought, my home-cooked meal was a treat to be savored.
As I was about to begin dining, I felt the eyes of my peers. They looked at my meal: white rice and a few banchan – I don't remember all the different types. Suddenly, someone yells, "Eww. What's that?" pointing to the tiny anchovies that my mom had fried and prepared. Their bodies had become translucent after contact with the hot oil, and the soy sauce and sugar had given them the color of caramel. Each individual anchovy – less than a centimeter long – was punctuated by two black dots, each the size of a period.
"Are you eating fish eyes? That's gross."
By now a small crowd had gathered. They proceeded to make fun of my meal and me, pointing, laughing, making faces. I felt helpless. I wanted to stand up and tell them how great my mom's cooking was, how tasty Korean food was… how stupid they were. I said nothing. Tears welled up in my eyes as I remembered how late my mom had stayed up the previous night to make that meal, how much work and care had gone into those crispy fish. I felt so degraded and alone. Sensing that no more drama was forthcoming, the crowd dispersed.
My best friend Jessica, a fellow Army brat, saw me and rushed over. She asked me what was wrong. In halted words, I tried to explain what had happened. I was crying so hard that my words didn't come out correctly. I don't know how much she really understood, but as far as she was concerned, all she needed to know was who had made me cry.
"Do you want me to beat them up for you?"
I shook my head.
I was so sad that I couldn't enjoy what my mom had worked so hard to prepare. For her, making those anchovies was probably no big deal; she could probably prepare them with her eyes closed with one arm tied behind her back. For me, however, that lunch represented all the sacrifices my mom had made for me and my sister. She had come to the U.S. after marrying my dad, leaving behind all her family and friends – everything she knew – back in Korea. I cannot fathom what both my mom and dad had to face in adopting a new culture and language. My dad learned English in the Army. Mom took ESL classes while I was in middle school.
How dare those jerks attack my mom. How I wanted to defend and protect her. Nineteen years later, I am still trying to process what happened and what it all means. Perhaps it is guilt that lingers and won’t let me forget.
As I get older, I am beginning to appreciate my mom and dad as real people with their own dreams, emotions, and problems. Are they happy with how their lives have turned out? What incidents shaped who they are? Until now, I could only frame my thinking and understanding of my parents from my perspective. They did not exist outside the context of me and my sister. Now, I want them to stand alone. I want to know their history, who they are. I’m not sure why. Is it because understanding them will help me understand more about our family and about me? Possibly.
Lunchtime – sitting on the concrete stairs behind the library, peers surrounding me. I unpack my lunch carefully, setting the smaller containers next to me on the step. I felt very civilized with my chopsticks, white rice, and banchan. Compared to the aluminum tray of uniformly heated, sometimes unidentifiable food that I normally bought, my home-cooked meal was a treat to be savored.
As I was about to begin dining, I felt the eyes of my peers. They looked at my meal: white rice and a few banchan – I don't remember all the different types. Suddenly, someone yells, "Eww. What's that?" pointing to the tiny anchovies that my mom had fried and prepared. Their bodies had become translucent after contact with the hot oil, and the soy sauce and sugar had given them the color of caramel. Each individual anchovy – less than a centimeter long – was punctuated by two black dots, each the size of a period.
"Are you eating fish eyes? That's gross."
By now a small crowd had gathered. They proceeded to make fun of my meal and me, pointing, laughing, making faces. I felt helpless. I wanted to stand up and tell them how great my mom's cooking was, how tasty Korean food was… how stupid they were. I said nothing. Tears welled up in my eyes as I remembered how late my mom had stayed up the previous night to make that meal, how much work and care had gone into those crispy fish. I felt so degraded and alone. Sensing that no more drama was forthcoming, the crowd dispersed.
My best friend Jessica, a fellow Army brat, saw me and rushed over. She asked me what was wrong. In halted words, I tried to explain what had happened. I was crying so hard that my words didn't come out correctly. I don't know how much she really understood, but as far as she was concerned, all she needed to know was who had made me cry.
"Do you want me to beat them up for you?"
I shook my head.
I was so sad that I couldn't enjoy what my mom had worked so hard to prepare. For her, making those anchovies was probably no big deal; she could probably prepare them with her eyes closed with one arm tied behind her back. For me, however, that lunch represented all the sacrifices my mom had made for me and my sister. She had come to the U.S. after marrying my dad, leaving behind all her family and friends – everything she knew – back in Korea. I cannot fathom what both my mom and dad had to face in adopting a new culture and language. My dad learned English in the Army. Mom took ESL classes while I was in middle school.
How dare those jerks attack my mom. How I wanted to defend and protect her. Nineteen years later, I am still trying to process what happened and what it all means. Perhaps it is guilt that lingers and won’t let me forget.
As I get older, I am beginning to appreciate my mom and dad as real people with their own dreams, emotions, and problems. Are they happy with how their lives have turned out? What incidents shaped who they are? Until now, I could only frame my thinking and understanding of my parents from my perspective. They did not exist outside the context of me and my sister. Now, I want them to stand alone. I want to know their history, who they are. I’m not sure why. Is it because understanding them will help me understand more about our family and about me? Possibly.
Monday, October 03, 2005
scary DIY tech
I just replaced the battery in my iPAQ. Yikes! If I hadn't found instructions on the Web, I would have been screwed. How did people get information before the Internet? I don't think going to my neighborhood library would have helped.
Even with instructions, the replacement process was nerve-wracking. I was afraid that I was going to break something. Right now, my PDA is charging. I guess I won't know until morning whether it's okay or not.
I think I used to be a better tinkerer when I was a kid. I remember breaking many watches. One was a Wile E. Coyote watch with a green, (p)leather band. Wile E. Coyote's arms were the hour- and minute- hands. I wish I still had that one, as well as my Hello Kitty watch. Sometime between childhood and now, I became less tolerant of risk and failure. I've written about this before, but I think that it's a theme that I will have to revisit in more depth.
Even with instructions, the replacement process was nerve-wracking. I was afraid that I was going to break something. Right now, my PDA is charging. I guess I won't know until morning whether it's okay or not.
I think I used to be a better tinkerer when I was a kid. I remember breaking many watches. One was a Wile E. Coyote watch with a green, (p)leather band. Wile E. Coyote's arms were the hour- and minute- hands. I wish I still had that one, as well as my Hello Kitty watch. Sometime between childhood and now, I became less tolerant of risk and failure. I've written about this before, but I think that it's a theme that I will have to revisit in more depth.
Saturday, October 01, 2005
1 October 2005 sunset
I went for a short walk on the beach this evening. I tried to get a shot of snowy plovers, but they're way too fast. These shorebirds were amenable to being photographed, though.
Friday, September 30, 2005
road trip in utah
I just returned from the Open Education Conference in Logan, Utah. Viewing fall foliage was a treat.
Wednesday, September 28, 2005
untitled memoir - version 1
Middle school – sixth grade. I had just returned to the U.S. the previous summer after living in Korea for four years. I had an insulated, pink Mickey Mouse lunch tote that was made in Japan, bought in Korea. It had a large compartment for rice and two smaller containers for banchan . Its Asian pedigree meant that all parts stacked perfectly; a clever, sliding compartment in the bottom hid a folding spoon. Usually, I bought lunch at the school cafeteria, but Mom had packed lunch for me that day. Mom's a great cook. I carried my Mickey Mouse lunch box proudly to school.
Lunchtime – sitting on the concrete stairs behind the library, peers surrounding me. I unpack my lunch carefully, setting the smaller containers next to me on the step. I felt very civilized with my chopsticks, white rice, and banchan. Compared to the aluminum tray of uniformly heated, sometimes unidentifiable food that I normally bought, my home-cooked meal was a treat to be savored.
As I was about to begin dining, I felt the eyes of my peers. They looked at my meal: white rice and a few banchan – I don't remember all the different types. Suddenly, someone yells, "Eww. What's that?" pointing to the tiny anchovies that my mom had fried and prepared. Their bodies had become translucent after contact with the hot oil, and the soy sauce and sugar had given them the color of caramel. Each individual anchovy – less than a centimeter long – was punctuated by two black dots, both the size of a period.
"Are you eating fish eyes? That's gross."
By now a small crowd had gathered. They proceeded to make fun of my meal and me, pointing, laughing, making faces. I suddenly felt helpless. I wanted to stand up and tell them how great my mom's cooking was, how tasty Korean food was… how stupid they were. I said nothing. Tears welled up in my eyes as I remembered how late my mom had stayed up the previous night to make that meal, how much work and care had gone into those crispy fish. I felt so degraded and alone. Satisfied, the crowd dispersed.
My best friend Jessica, a fellow Army brat, saw me and rushed over. She asked me what was wrong. In halted words, I tried to explain what had happened. I was crying so hard that my words didn't come out correctly. I don't know how much she really understood, but as far as she was concerned, all she needed to know was who had made me cry.
"Do you want me to beat them up for you?"
I shook my head.
I was so sad that I couldn't enjoy what my mom had worked so hard to prepare. For her, making those anchovies was probably no big deal; she could probably prepare them with her eyes closed with one arm tied behind her back. For me, however, that lunch represented all the sacrifices my mom had made for me and my sister. She had come to the U.S. after marrying my dad, leaving behind all her family and friends – everything she knew – back in Korea. I cannot fathom what both my mom and dad had to face in adopting a new culture and language. My dad learned English in the Army. Mom took ESL classes while I was in middle school.
As I get older, I am beginning to appreciate my mom and dad as real people with their own dreams, emotions, and problems. Are they happy with how their lives have turned out? Remembering the lunch box incident still makes me sad not because of the bullies, but because of the emotions it invokes concerning my parents and my relationship with them.
Lunchtime – sitting on the concrete stairs behind the library, peers surrounding me. I unpack my lunch carefully, setting the smaller containers next to me on the step. I felt very civilized with my chopsticks, white rice, and banchan. Compared to the aluminum tray of uniformly heated, sometimes unidentifiable food that I normally bought, my home-cooked meal was a treat to be savored.
As I was about to begin dining, I felt the eyes of my peers. They looked at my meal: white rice and a few banchan – I don't remember all the different types. Suddenly, someone yells, "Eww. What's that?" pointing to the tiny anchovies that my mom had fried and prepared. Their bodies had become translucent after contact with the hot oil, and the soy sauce and sugar had given them the color of caramel. Each individual anchovy – less than a centimeter long – was punctuated by two black dots, both the size of a period.
"Are you eating fish eyes? That's gross."
By now a small crowd had gathered. They proceeded to make fun of my meal and me, pointing, laughing, making faces. I suddenly felt helpless. I wanted to stand up and tell them how great my mom's cooking was, how tasty Korean food was… how stupid they were. I said nothing. Tears welled up in my eyes as I remembered how late my mom had stayed up the previous night to make that meal, how much work and care had gone into those crispy fish. I felt so degraded and alone. Satisfied, the crowd dispersed.
My best friend Jessica, a fellow Army brat, saw me and rushed over. She asked me what was wrong. In halted words, I tried to explain what had happened. I was crying so hard that my words didn't come out correctly. I don't know how much she really understood, but as far as she was concerned, all she needed to know was who had made me cry.
"Do you want me to beat them up for you?"
I shook my head.
I was so sad that I couldn't enjoy what my mom had worked so hard to prepare. For her, making those anchovies was probably no big deal; she could probably prepare them with her eyes closed with one arm tied behind her back. For me, however, that lunch represented all the sacrifices my mom had made for me and my sister. She had come to the U.S. after marrying my dad, leaving behind all her family and friends – everything she knew – back in Korea. I cannot fathom what both my mom and dad had to face in adopting a new culture and language. My dad learned English in the Army. Mom took ESL classes while I was in middle school.
As I get older, I am beginning to appreciate my mom and dad as real people with their own dreams, emotions, and problems. Are they happy with how their lives have turned out? Remembering the lunch box incident still makes me sad not because of the bullies, but because of the emotions it invokes concerning my parents and my relationship with them.
Sunday, September 25, 2005
my assessment logo
I created this graphic to represent the integration of assessment and design. You may begin with either and spend as much or as little time as you want in that loop before moving to the other loop. The main idea is to recognize that assessment and design are part of a unified development philosophy. One cannot exist without the other.
Wednesday, September 21, 2005
untitled portrait
On most summer days, fog blankets the Outer Sunset district of San Francisco. Accompanied by wind and heavy with droplets, it can chill to the bone anyone foolish enough to walk on Ocean Beach without a thick coat and a winter hat. This was not one of those days. Hanging low in the sky, the sun cast everything it touched in an amber light. Elongated shadows mirrored the movements of their originators. The surf furled and unfurled, reaching for the shoes and pant-cuffs of passers-by who evaded a potentially soggy walk home with a quick side step. Their four-legged companions cared nothing for remaining dry and dignified.
Down the shore, near dunes draped in drought-resistant flora, a matrix of white figures stood at attention. Had someone collected sand dollars and propped them up in the sand like tombstones? What were the darker, larger figures that stood next to them? Craning my neck slightly, I squinted. Then I walked – slowly – thinking that one more step would satisfy my curiosity and allow me to continue the brisk walk that I had planned. A quick glance down to avoid tripping over an unseen obstacle instead revealed knitted patterns of tracks stamped into the sand. Bigger footprints mingled with millions of small ones, creating an expansive landscape of ridges and shadows in miniature.
What had appeared to be orderly and inanimate at a distance transformed into a vibrant and active scene as my pace slowed to a crawl. I was a cat sneaking up on its prey, legs stopping mid-stride if it sensed that it may have been detected. I spent the next fifteen minutes observing the little shore birds that I had stumbled upon, staying motionless hoping they'd come closer. I dismissed the urge to run through the flock and scatter the birds in a torrent of wings and feathers.
Taken as a whole, the flock seemed to flow like water from one place to another. It was as though the birds were connected by an invisible network of Slinkies. If one took the lead and moved, its neighbors were either pushed or pulled into maintaining their relative positions. When a larger bird decided to land in their midst, it resulted in an avian ripple effect: concentric circles of little birds radiating from the big bird. While the birds’ collective movement inspires awe, each individual’s movement makes me laugh. Watching their legs press up and down faster than a sewing machine needle invokes memories of watching the Road Runner blaze past Wile E. Coyote on Saturday mornings.
My reward for waiting patiently for them to get closer was hearing their voices. The sound of the surf drowns out their incessant chirping unless you are close enough to feel like you are eavesdropping on a private conversation in a crowded restaurant. Satisfied, I left and looked forward to our next encounter.
Down the shore, near dunes draped in drought-resistant flora, a matrix of white figures stood at attention. Had someone collected sand dollars and propped them up in the sand like tombstones? What were the darker, larger figures that stood next to them? Craning my neck slightly, I squinted. Then I walked – slowly – thinking that one more step would satisfy my curiosity and allow me to continue the brisk walk that I had planned. A quick glance down to avoid tripping over an unseen obstacle instead revealed knitted patterns of tracks stamped into the sand. Bigger footprints mingled with millions of small ones, creating an expansive landscape of ridges and shadows in miniature.
What had appeared to be orderly and inanimate at a distance transformed into a vibrant and active scene as my pace slowed to a crawl. I was a cat sneaking up on its prey, legs stopping mid-stride if it sensed that it may have been detected. I spent the next fifteen minutes observing the little shore birds that I had stumbled upon, staying motionless hoping they'd come closer. I dismissed the urge to run through the flock and scatter the birds in a torrent of wings and feathers.
Taken as a whole, the flock seemed to flow like water from one place to another. It was as though the birds were connected by an invisible network of Slinkies. If one took the lead and moved, its neighbors were either pushed or pulled into maintaining their relative positions. When a larger bird decided to land in their midst, it resulted in an avian ripple effect: concentric circles of little birds radiating from the big bird. While the birds’ collective movement inspires awe, each individual’s movement makes me laugh. Watching their legs press up and down faster than a sewing machine needle invokes memories of watching the Road Runner blaze past Wile E. Coyote on Saturday mornings.
My reward for waiting patiently for them to get closer was hearing their voices. The sound of the surf drowns out their incessant chirping unless you are close enough to feel like you are eavesdropping on a private conversation in a crowded restaurant. Satisfied, I left and looked forward to our next encounter.
Tuesday, September 20, 2005
school lunch exercise
I was not prepared for today's class. I turned in an unfinished draft of my portrait, and I didn't do all the readings. Between the work trip to Chico and the family trip to LA, I didn't have the time or energy to put the necessary effort into my writing. I feel bad about that.
Still, I tried to participate as much as I could in the discussions without being dishonest or wasting anyone's time. Our in-class assignment was to write about a school lunch, preferably one we had brought from home. As soon as our teacher finished his sentence, I knew what I wanted to write about. This was in stark contrast to my experience with our first in-class exercise. I spent the first third of that period wracking my brain for something to write about.
This time, I wrote quickly, trying to capture all the snippets of ideas and memories that were flying out of my head. I didn't do a lot of editing on what ended up on my page. I post this first draft here; I'll be working on it for next class.
*********************
Middle school - sixth grade. I had just returned to the U.S. the previous summer after living in Korea for four years. I had an insulated, pink Mickey Mouse lunch "box" that was made in Japan, bought in Korea. Mom had packed lunch for me that day. Mom's a great cook. I took it proudly to school.
Lunchtime - sitting on the concrete stairs behind the library. Peers surrounding me. They looked at my meal: white rice and a few banchan. I don't remember all the different types. Suddenly, someone yells, "Eww. What's that?" pointing to the tiny anchovies - less than a centimeter long - that my mom had fried and prepared. Their bodies had become translucent after contact with the hot oil.
"Are you eating fish eyes? That's gross."
By now a small crowd had gathered. They proceeded to make fun of my meal and me. I suddenly felt helpless. I wanted to stand up and tell them how great my mom's cooking was, how tasty Korean food was...how stupid they were. Of course, I said nothing. Tears welled up in my eyes as I remembered how late my mom had stayed up the previous night to make that meal, how much work and care had gone into those crispy fish. I felt so degraded and alone. Satisfied, the crowd dispersed.
My best friend Jessica, a fellow Army brat, saw me and rushed over. She asked me what was wrong. In halted words, I tried to explain what had happened. I was crying so hard that my words didn't come out correctly. I don't know how much she really understood, but as far as she was concerned, all she needed to know was who had made me cry.
"Do you want me to beat them up for you?"
I shook my head.
I was so sad that I couldn't enjoy what my mom had worked so hard to prepare. Remembering this incident still makes me sad - not because of the bullies, but because of the emotions it invokes concerning my mom and my relationship with her.
*********************
I read this aloud in class. It was my first time volunteering to read, and I was scared. The emotions are still so real for me and it's so personal. My voice shook a bit, and I forgot to breathe as I often do when I'm nervous. Trying to squeeze out the last few words of a sentence when you don't have air left in your lungs is extremely difficult. My classmates and my teacher were supportive and gracious in their comments. They were very encouraging, and I am looking forward to my task for this week.
Still, I tried to participate as much as I could in the discussions without being dishonest or wasting anyone's time. Our in-class assignment was to write about a school lunch, preferably one we had brought from home. As soon as our teacher finished his sentence, I knew what I wanted to write about. This was in stark contrast to my experience with our first in-class exercise. I spent the first third of that period wracking my brain for something to write about.
This time, I wrote quickly, trying to capture all the snippets of ideas and memories that were flying out of my head. I didn't do a lot of editing on what ended up on my page. I post this first draft here; I'll be working on it for next class.
*********************
Middle school - sixth grade. I had just returned to the U.S. the previous summer after living in Korea for four years. I had an insulated, pink Mickey Mouse lunch "box" that was made in Japan, bought in Korea. Mom had packed lunch for me that day. Mom's a great cook. I took it proudly to school.
Lunchtime - sitting on the concrete stairs behind the library. Peers surrounding me. They looked at my meal: white rice and a few banchan. I don't remember all the different types. Suddenly, someone yells, "Eww. What's that?" pointing to the tiny anchovies - less than a centimeter long - that my mom had fried and prepared. Their bodies had become translucent after contact with the hot oil.
"Are you eating fish eyes? That's gross."
By now a small crowd had gathered. They proceeded to make fun of my meal and me. I suddenly felt helpless. I wanted to stand up and tell them how great my mom's cooking was, how tasty Korean food was...how stupid they were. Of course, I said nothing. Tears welled up in my eyes as I remembered how late my mom had stayed up the previous night to make that meal, how much work and care had gone into those crispy fish. I felt so degraded and alone. Satisfied, the crowd dispersed.
My best friend Jessica, a fellow Army brat, saw me and rushed over. She asked me what was wrong. In halted words, I tried to explain what had happened. I was crying so hard that my words didn't come out correctly. I don't know how much she really understood, but as far as she was concerned, all she needed to know was who had made me cry.
"Do you want me to beat them up for you?"
I shook my head.
I was so sad that I couldn't enjoy what my mom had worked so hard to prepare. Remembering this incident still makes me sad - not because of the bullies, but because of the emotions it invokes concerning my mom and my relationship with her.
*********************
I read this aloud in class. It was my first time volunteering to read, and I was scared. The emotions are still so real for me and it's so personal. My voice shook a bit, and I forgot to breathe as I often do when I'm nervous. Trying to squeeze out the last few words of a sentence when you don't have air left in your lungs is extremely difficult. My classmates and my teacher were supportive and gracious in their comments. They were very encouraging, and I am looking forward to my task for this week.
Wednesday, September 14, 2005
warts and all
I am writing from a beautiful hotel in downtown Chico, California. Last night I attended the second meeting of the creative nonfiction workshop that I am taking through UC Extension. We began with a discussion of two portraits. Then we exchanged our own with a partner. Mary Roach, bestselling author of Stiff: The Curious Life of Cadavers treated us with anecdotes and advice about writing.
As I explained last week, I am posting my writing assignments on my blog in order to open myself up to constructive criticism and to try to accept the notion that it's okay not to be successful on the first try of anything. I am not perfect, no one expects me to be, and that's fine. Maybe if I keep chanting that, I'll start to believe it. In any case, here's my first draft of a portrait -- warts and all.
*********************
On most summer days, fog blankets the Outer Sunset district of San Francisco. Accompanied by wind and heavy with droplets, it can chill to the bone anyone foolish enough to walk on Ocean Beach without a thick coat and a winter hat. Fortunately, this was not one of those days. Hanging low in the sky, the sun cast everything it touched in an amber light. Elongated shadows mirrored the movements of their originators. The surf furled and unfurled, reaching for the shoes and pants cuffs of passers-by who evaded a potentially soggy walk home with a quick side step. The four-legged varieties cared nothing for remaining dry and dignified.
Down the shore, near dunes draped in drought-resistant flora, neatly arranged white figures dotted the landscape. Had someone collected sand dollars and propped them up in the sand like tombstones? What were the darker, larger figures that stood next to them? Curiosity drew me toward the formation. Suddenly, I noticed the rich, knitted patterns of bird tracks stamped into the sand. Bigger footprints mingled with millions of small ones. At that moment, I regretted leaving my camera at home. With the sun positioned low on the horizon, the lighting would have been perfect for a close-up shot. How many others had missed their chance at a prize-winning photograph that day?
What had appeared to be orderly and inanimate at a distance transformed into a vibrant and active scene. Captivated by the flock of little shore birds that I had stumbled upon, I spent the next fifteen minutes observing them, staying motionless in hopes that they'd come closer. I didn't know what they were, but I had crossed paths – literally – with one of them before. In our first encounter, I stalked one of them for a while without even knowing it. Because their bodies are brownish except for their white undersides, they blend into the sand unless you're looking at them from the front or sides.
When I walk on the beach, I often find myself walking in the tracks left by the trucks of beach patrol. Perhaps my legs gravitate toward those machine-made tracks because it’s easier to walk in them. Or perhaps I am just a conformist who must stay within the lines. In any case, one day I noticed that another had walked the same tracks before me. Nothing had yet marred the freshly created prints; I was the destroyer-to-be. Looking ahead, I noticed movement away from me. I could only confirm the nearly invisible artist’s existence by the tracks it created in its immediate wake.
What I love about these birds is the way that they move. Their feet move incredibly fast when they're walking, yet their heads stay very still. It invokes memories of watching the Road Runner blaze past Wile E. Coyote on Saturday mornings. Observing the flock, I was struck by the way the birds’ collective movement reminded me of water. Taken as a whole, the flock seemed to flow from one place to another. When a larger bird decided to land in their midst, it resulted in an avian ripple effect: little birds moving away from the big bird in concentric circles.
As I explained last week, I am posting my writing assignments on my blog in order to open myself up to constructive criticism and to try to accept the notion that it's okay not to be successful on the first try of anything. I am not perfect, no one expects me to be, and that's fine. Maybe if I keep chanting that, I'll start to believe it. In any case, here's my first draft of a portrait -- warts and all.
*********************
On most summer days, fog blankets the Outer Sunset district of San Francisco. Accompanied by wind and heavy with droplets, it can chill to the bone anyone foolish enough to walk on Ocean Beach without a thick coat and a winter hat. Fortunately, this was not one of those days. Hanging low in the sky, the sun cast everything it touched in an amber light. Elongated shadows mirrored the movements of their originators. The surf furled and unfurled, reaching for the shoes and pants cuffs of passers-by who evaded a potentially soggy walk home with a quick side step. The four-legged varieties cared nothing for remaining dry and dignified.
Down the shore, near dunes draped in drought-resistant flora, neatly arranged white figures dotted the landscape. Had someone collected sand dollars and propped them up in the sand like tombstones? What were the darker, larger figures that stood next to them? Curiosity drew me toward the formation. Suddenly, I noticed the rich, knitted patterns of bird tracks stamped into the sand. Bigger footprints mingled with millions of small ones. At that moment, I regretted leaving my camera at home. With the sun positioned low on the horizon, the lighting would have been perfect for a close-up shot. How many others had missed their chance at a prize-winning photograph that day?
What had appeared to be orderly and inanimate at a distance transformed into a vibrant and active scene. Captivated by the flock of little shore birds that I had stumbled upon, I spent the next fifteen minutes observing them, staying motionless in hopes that they'd come closer. I didn't know what they were, but I had crossed paths – literally – with one of them before. In our first encounter, I stalked one of them for a while without even knowing it. Because their bodies are brownish except for their white undersides, they blend into the sand unless you're looking at them from the front or sides.
When I walk on the beach, I often find myself walking in the tracks left by the trucks of beach patrol. Perhaps my legs gravitate toward those machine-made tracks because it’s easier to walk in them. Or perhaps I am just a conformist who must stay within the lines. In any case, one day I noticed that another had walked the same tracks before me. Nothing had yet marred the freshly created prints; I was the destroyer-to-be. Looking ahead, I noticed movement away from me. I could only confirm the nearly invisible artist’s existence by the tracks it created in its immediate wake.
What I love about these birds is the way that they move. Their feet move incredibly fast when they're walking, yet their heads stay very still. It invokes memories of watching the Road Runner blaze past Wile E. Coyote on Saturday mornings. Observing the flock, I was struck by the way the birds’ collective movement reminded me of water. Taken as a whole, the flock seemed to flow from one place to another. When a larger bird decided to land in their midst, it resulted in an avian ripple effect: little birds moving away from the big bird in concentric circles.
Monday, September 12, 2005
good as gold
I spent Sunday with an old buddy from college. She has been out of the country for most of the last two-and-a-half years, so we haven't had many opportunities to hang out together. Some friendships are based strictly on proximity. These relationships usually wither and die when one party moves away. True friendships can withstand distance, periods of silence, and differences of opinion. I don't have a large circle of friends, but the ones I do have are as good as gold.
Tuesday, September 06, 2005
so the tale begins...
Thanks, Raymond, for your well-wishes!
The creative nonfiction workshop that I am taking is off to a great start. I am looking forward to our readings, and I feel like I've already gotten some pointers that will help improve my writing.
Our first in-class exercise required us to draft a portrait. I had a terrible time trying to decide what to write about. I was too shy to read mine aloud in class, but in the interest of learning to take risks and put myself out there, I post it here.
*********************
Tim always greets people in the proper way. He bows and says, "Ahn nyung ha seh yo?" That's typically the most he'll offer voluntarily. Whenever I see him, he offers the same greeting that he gives all adults. We are cousins, but I am older than he is; in Korean culture, that makes a difference.
Tim usually doesn't speak much unless someone asks him a question. He doesn't give verbal indications of his emotions or state of mind. My sister and I try to engage him in conversation; we are getting better at finding topics that interest him enough to carry on a short discussion. My aunt says that she can tell that he likes hanging out with us because she's seen the shy smile that escapes when he's having a good time.
The creative nonfiction workshop that I am taking is off to a great start. I am looking forward to our readings, and I feel like I've already gotten some pointers that will help improve my writing.
Our first in-class exercise required us to draft a portrait. I had a terrible time trying to decide what to write about. I was too shy to read mine aloud in class, but in the interest of learning to take risks and put myself out there, I post it here.
*********************
Tim always greets people in the proper way. He bows and says, "Ahn nyung ha seh yo?" That's typically the most he'll offer voluntarily. Whenever I see him, he offers the same greeting that he gives all adults. We are cousins, but I am older than he is; in Korean culture, that makes a difference.
Tim usually doesn't speak much unless someone asks him a question. He doesn't give verbal indications of his emotions or state of mind. My sister and I try to engage him in conversation; we are getting better at finding topics that interest him enough to carry on a short discussion. My aunt says that she can tell that he likes hanging out with us because she's seen the shy smile that escapes when he's having a good time.
Monday, September 05, 2005
summer begins
I woke up this morning to sunlight streaming through my window. In my neighborhood, that's a big deal. Before I brewed a cup of coffee for myself, I opened all the windows in the house. It's amazing how much weather influences my mood. Hopefully, this is the beginning of "Indian Summer" in these parts.
Thursday, September 01, 2005
the problem with perfectionism
One word: paralysis. I can point to many instances where the fear of making a mistake affected the decisions I made in my life. Some of them are fairly innocuous - for example, my reluctance to write or draw in nice, new notebooks for fear of messing them up with frivolous marks. I used to tear out pages from diaries if I thought that the entries were stupid. I wish I still had a record of those thoughts.
Sometimes I shy away from taking on certain responsibilities or tasks because I'm afraid of the repercussions of failure. Part of this stems from the fact that I had to take on a good deal of responsibility as a young kid. I think this is pretty common among first-generation immigrant families. When the best English speaker in the family is a kid, what else can a family do except ask the kid to represent the family when English is required?
I am not really a risk-taker. That might surprise some people, because when the situation has required it, I have stepped up to the plate. I guess that goes with being ultra-responsible. Sometimes I wish that I could be wild and crazy and throw caution to the wind. Somehow, I just don't think it's in my nature.
Sometimes I shy away from taking on certain responsibilities or tasks because I'm afraid of the repercussions of failure. Part of this stems from the fact that I had to take on a good deal of responsibility as a young kid. I think this is pretty common among first-generation immigrant families. When the best English speaker in the family is a kid, what else can a family do except ask the kid to represent the family when English is required?
I am not really a risk-taker. That might surprise some people, because when the situation has required it, I have stepped up to the plate. I guess that goes with being ultra-responsible. Sometimes I wish that I could be wild and crazy and throw caution to the wind. Somehow, I just don't think it's in my nature.
Tuesday, August 30, 2005
telling stories
Next week, I start a creative nonfiction writing course. I am looking forward to the opportunity to improve my storytelling skills because I have come to believe that all forms of communication involve narrative components.
Monday, August 29, 2005
wasted evening
I am really hating Quicken 2006 for the Mac right now. Two hours down the tubes trying to set up my stupid checking account. Their User Guide and Help section were both useless.
Saturday, August 27, 2005
snowy plovers
Today was an absolutely gorgeous day at Ocean Beach. I went for a walk on the beach in the early evening and found myself drawn to what looked like a bunch of neatly arranged white rocks in the distance. Or maybe someone was having fun collecting sand dollars and propping them up in the sand. As I walked toward the formation, I noticed the bird tracks in the sand. Bigger footprints were interspersed among the thousands of small ones. At that moment, I regretted leaving my camera at home. With the sun positioned low in the sky, the lighting would have been perfect for a close-up shot of the tracks.
I spent the next fifteen minutes observing the flock of little shore birds, staying motionless in hopes that they'd come closer. I didn't know what they were, but I had seen a few of them before. Their bodies are brownish except for their white bellies, so it's difficult to see them unless you're looking at them from the front or sides. In my previous sighting, I was walking behind one of them for a while without even knowing it. What I love about them is the way that they move. Their feet move so fast when they're walking, yet their heads stay very still. It's absolutely mesmerizing.
Watching the flock, I was struck by the way their collective movement reminded me of water. Taken as a whole, the flock seemed to flow from one place to another. When a larger bird decided to land in their midst, it resulted in an avian ripple effect: little birds moving away from the big bird in concentric circles. My reward for waiting patiently for them to get closer was hearing how noisy they were. The sound of the surf drowns out their chirping unless you're pretty close. I wonder what they were saying to each other.
I spent the next fifteen minutes observing the flock of little shore birds, staying motionless in hopes that they'd come closer. I didn't know what they were, but I had seen a few of them before. Their bodies are brownish except for their white bellies, so it's difficult to see them unless you're looking at them from the front or sides. In my previous sighting, I was walking behind one of them for a while without even knowing it. What I love about them is the way that they move. Their feet move so fast when they're walking, yet their heads stay very still. It's absolutely mesmerizing.
Watching the flock, I was struck by the way their collective movement reminded me of water. Taken as a whole, the flock seemed to flow from one place to another. When a larger bird decided to land in their midst, it resulted in an avian ripple effect: little birds moving away from the big bird in concentric circles. My reward for waiting patiently for them to get closer was hearing how noisy they were. The sound of the surf drowns out their chirping unless you're pretty close. I wonder what they were saying to each other.
Friday, August 26, 2005
almost there
About six weeks ago on the second day of my family reunion in Hawaii, I came down with a fever and a cough. I thought it was the flu. One miserable week later, I came back to California, went to the doctor, and found out I had walking pneumonia. Who the hell gets pneumonia in the middle of summer in Hawaii? The next few weeks weren't great, either, but it was kind of neat spending so much time in my new house.
Getting that sick really made me appreciate how great it is when I am well. I'm not 100% yet, but I'm getting there.
Getting that sick really made me appreciate how great it is when I am well. I'm not 100% yet, but I'm getting there.
Thursday, August 25, 2005
food coma-induced mutterings
This is the second night in a row that friends have invited me over for dinner. Both nights featured great meals with even better company. The one drawback is that I am too tired to write when I get home. If BART had wifi I could post entries during my daily commute. Then again, there's nothing stopping me from using pen and paper. Now, what was I saying before about disciplined writing?
Tuesday, August 23, 2005
misplaced modifier reveals truth
During the Press Gaggle with Trent Duffy yesterday, Duffy stated that one of the ways to fight the war on terror is by
"giving law enforcement the tools to protect us from terrorism like the Patriot Act." [emphasis mine]
While I don't think that's what he meant, I do agree that the Patriot Act is a threat to our civil liberties.
"giving law enforcement the tools to protect us from terrorism like the Patriot Act." [emphasis mine]
While I don't think that's what he meant, I do agree that the Patriot Act is a threat to our civil liberties.
Monday, August 22, 2005
"It's not the happy little world that you might think."
Yes, it's true. Keeping an aquarium is not for the faint-hearted. My friend and I were discussing his new setup and he said, "Oh, I never told you what happened to the other shrimp." Uh-oh, I thought. It turns out that the last batch of poor little red shrimp were eaten alive by the bigger shrimp that were already in his aquarium. Apparently, it was some kind of crustacean turf battle. Of course, earlier in the year the big shrimp population had been decimated by an especially vicious puffer we liked to call "Fang." Fang got his name after he chipped one of his two front teeth on a block of frozen bloodworms. Despite his small size (1.5 inches on a good day), he sported quite the attitude. Fang was exiled to a local fish store after his murderous rampage. Unfortunately, the image of Fang plucking the legs off one of his victims still lingers in my memory.
I have my own stories of death and destruction, most notably the Chrismas Day Massacre of 2003. (Or perhaps it was 2002.) In any case, that is a tale for another day.
I have my own stories of death and destruction, most notably the Chrismas Day Massacre of 2003. (Or perhaps it was 2002.) In any case, that is a tale for another day.
Sunday, August 21, 2005
paying for procrastination
I am working on something that I should have finished earlier.
When will I learn?
When will I learn?
Saturday, August 20, 2005
food art
Karen made this lemon curd tart for our friends' party. Not only was it delicious, it was just so pretty that I had to post a picture of it. The tart is topped with raspberries, blackberries, strawberries, blueberries, and kiwis.
Friday, August 19, 2005
I want to be a superhero
When I was a kid, I used to fantasize about being a secret agent - a good guy who went on missions to defend the world against the bad guys. In recent years, The Lord of the Rings trilogy and select screen adaptations of comic books have satisfied my appetite for epic tales of good versus evil. Unfortunately, I often end up despairing at the state of the world after watching these kinds of movies. A few months ago, after I watched Batman Begins, I was finally able to articulate why I feel this way. It's because in the real world, superheros like the ones that we watch and read about don't exist. However, there are definitely real people who are as twisted and depraved as the villians we love to hate on the silver screen. Furthermore, in reality, justice is hard to come by and rarely is there a tidy, happy ending. I guess that's why I have to keep watching TV shows (like Alias) and movies where the good guys kick the bad guys' asses.... So I can pretend - just for a moment - that all is right in the world.
Thursday, August 18, 2005
Day Two
I realized last night that the original title of my blog, Desultory Ramblings, is redundant. Desultory is one of my favorite words. It describes something that skips around. For example, a desultory conversation is one that jumps from topic to topic. I was introduced to this term in my high school Latin class. Juxtaposition, which means being placed side by side, is another word that I love. Maybe I'll rename my blog Desultory Juxtapositions. It's a strange pairing of words, but it might end up describing this blog pretty well.
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
maintaining privacy
This isn't my first blog. My first blog still exists, but it is woefully neglected. I guess I've abandoned it. I feel kind of guilty about that, but I have to admit that getting a fresh start feels good. One of the reasons that my first blog failed (or I failed my first blog) is because I couldn't answer the privacy question: how much do I want reveal about myself, my views? Even now, I don't think I have the definitive answer to this question, but I feel more confident about being able to express my ideas in a public medium while maintaining my privacy.
Some of you may be wondering, if maintaining privacy is so important, then why blog? That's a good question. I guess I have things I want to say, and I want an opportunity to be heard. It will take a while for me to develop my voice, and I may be the only one who ends up reading what I write. If that's what happens, then so be it. If nothing else, developing the practice of writing will be good for me.
Some of you may be wondering, if maintaining privacy is so important, then why blog? That's a good question. I guess I have things I want to say, and I want an opportunity to be heard. It will take a while for me to develop my voice, and I may be the only one who ends up reading what I write. If that's what happens, then so be it. If nothing else, developing the practice of writing will be good for me.
Day One
Hmm....Could this be the start of yet another soon-to-be-abandoned blog that no one will read? Hopefully not. I'm not as concerned about others not reading it as I am about my own commitment to writing it.
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