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?
Wednesday, October 19, 2005
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.
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