December 29, 2011

An Open Letter To My Facebook Friends

Dear Facebook Friends:

Hi.  How is everyone doing?

I’m writing this letter to all of you, my 645 closest, bestest, most wonderful friends in the world.  For some of you, I still don’t remember who you are, but I’m sure we shared an unmistakable bond that led us to become Facebook friends in the first place.  Bret, are you the guy from the “Honky Tonk Badonkadonk” bar?  If so, please confirm.  Chris, I think I threw up in your car once.  I’m sorry.  And lastly, Miguel… I do not know you, but you are my only friend named Miguel, so you are staying.  Yay, FRIENDS!

Now that we’re nearing the end of 2011, I feel that I should pull a Hilary Duff and “come clean”1 about my utter failure on Facebook this year.  I’ve been a terrible Facebook friend to most of you, and you don’t deserve that.  You deserve more.  Much more.  Especially you, Miguel.  So, I am writing to apologize to everyone that I have virtually neglected this year.  In particular, I deeply regret the following:

MISSING BIRTHDAYS

I apologize to all my friends whose birthdays I’ve missed this year.  I know that you were just waiting for me to post a thoughtful message on your wall, indicating to you that a) I was on Facebook that day, and b)… Well, that I was on Facebook that day.  So for all the walls I didn’t write on, the birthdays I didn’t acknowledge, and the friendships I inevitably ruined, this is what I would have written:  “Happy birthday!!”   See?  There.  The double exclamation mark is what really sells it, telling you that I was truly excited, that I was pumped, that I knew it wasn’t just an ordinary day, but the actual anniversary of your birth!

(Of course, for my fundamentalist Christian/anti-abortion friends, you know that life begins way before birth.  So, please give me the date of your conception so I can wish you a Happy Conceptionday! instead.  Yay, LIFE!!)

NOT COMMENTING ON YOUR MOMENTOUS LIFE OCCASIONS RE: BABIES/MARRIAGES/ENGAGEMENTS

To all my friends who got engaged, married, or knocked up this year, here is my heartfelt message: “Sooooo happy for you!!!”  And really, I am happy, thrilled, over the moon, jumping for joy, doing heel clicks down the street, shouting to the sky, arms wide, eyes closed, big grin, feeling all rainbows and butterflies and sun and smiles, so freaking happy for your happiness and blah blah blah get a room.  So of course, I won’t write that your new fiancé is, at best, a 3 to your 7.  And I won’t mention that your new baby’s limbs look like overcooked sausage links strewn together on a human body. And I certainly won’t tell you that your new wife’s nickname in college was Slutney McFetus.  Instead, I will look through the 150 photos of your atrocious sausage baby spitting up in a onesie and be soooooo happy for you.  Yay, ACQUIRING DEPENDENTS AND THEREFORE TAX BREAKS!

UN-TAGGING MYSELF IN PHOTOS

I feel terrible when I un-tag myself from photos.  I know that it took you not an insignificant amount of time2 to save, upload, and tag these photos.  I know that your intentions were only good.  And I know that you didn’t mean to include this horrid picture of me and publicize it for everyone to see.

I realize that yes, I probably look like this (fat face) most of the time, and yes, I shouldn’t care that my 645 best friends see me like this (fat face), because they will love me no matter what I look like (fat face).  However, you may have underestimated my incredible vanity and desire to have an acceptable photo for the news if I’m ever sensationally murdered.  So, the delusional perfectionist inside me demands a picture-perfect, scrubbed-clean, virtual representation of myself which will ensure that the news outlets make my headline, “Friendly, Respectable Woman Brutally Killed” and not, “Half-Naked Asian Chick Bites It”. So that is why I un-tag myself in most photos: it’s not you, it’s me.  Me and TMZ.  Yay, NORTH KOREAN-STYLE CENSORSHIP!

GENERAL STALKING

Finally, I just want to issue a blanket apology for generally being a creep on Facebook.  I don’t like to admit it, but I have spent countless hours ghosting around like some kind of internet predator, checking people out, going through photo albums, looking up friends I haven’t talked to in years and trying to catch up on their lives without actually interacting with them at all.  It is shameful, embarrassing, and cowardly, and I can only take solace in the hope that everyone else does it too.3  But if you must know some of my observations from such stalking (really, sociological research), these are my takeaways:

  1. Most everyone is getting fat.
  2. My friends from elementary school have either gotten pregnant or arrested.
  3. Everyone who drives a nice car has a picture of their car on Facebook.
  4. People who have a profile picture of themselves in a bathing suit are terrorists.
  5. 60% of my friends have developed bone spurs or know someone who has.

So, this is it.  My dear Facebook friends, lovers, colleagues, and randoms (that’s you, Miguel!) I have enjoyed all the time we did not spend together in 2011.  Let’s make sure to keep this up in 2012.

Love,

T

———————-
1.This is a reference to the 2004 Hilary Duff single “Come Clean” because I assume this is where the phrase “come clean” originated from.
2. I apologize for the double negative, but the time it takes to tag photos isn’t really a significant amount of time… it’s sort of between not insignificant and time it takes to eat a Chipotle burrito.
3. You guys do this, right?

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November 20, 2011

This Hard Knock Life

Growing up, I had two life goals.  The first was to own a half-dog, half-monkey that I would call a “donkey” (pronounced “dunky”).  The second was to become a Grammy-winning, multiplatinum rap star.  Needless to say, I have failed on both accounts, rendering my life, so far, an abject failure.  But while my dream of owning a donkey may be a biological impossibility, my rap dream lives on.  So for all you record execs out there, reach for a tissue box — This is my story.

I. LI’L GANGSTA

In 1997, I bought the cassette tape of the album No Way Out by Puff Daddy and the Family.  It was the first piece of music that I had ever owned, which made it all the more special. Despite its explicit content, the album spoke exclusively to the sensibilities of Asians with money-grubbing tunes (“It’s All About the Benjamins”), internationalist flavor (“Been Around the World”), and slow, lispy talkers (Mase, who became my personal favorite member of the Family).  It was also an added bonus that when Mase rapped about “living in tenements”, “tenements” sounded an awful lot like “Tiananmen,” which I used when arguing with my Chinese parents over the artistic merits of what they believed was devil music.

Despite my parents’ objections, I started secretly collecting tapes (and later CDs) of rappers like Mase, B.I.G., Tupac, Jay-Z, and yes, even Ja Rule.  I printed out lyrics and kept them in a 101 Dalmations folder, trying to cover my rap obsession as innocuously as I could.  I began going to Barnes and Noble just to read The Source magazine.  For my eighth-grade art project, I did a pencil drawing of Tupac.  In music class, I played a censored version of Juvenile’s “Back That Azz Up” as my contribution to the list of the “best songs of all-time” (the other nominees included a crapload of Beatles/Stones/Elvis nonsense).

I spent most of my time, however, just huddling with my Walkman (and later, Sony Discman).  I practiced rapping, channeling my no-good, big-tyme, gangsta self (rap name, Li’L T, with capital letters exactly like tHaT).  Sure, I was a twelve-year old Asian girl from the suburbs who had never been shot at, but I had faithful dreams of rap stardom.  I wasn’t trying to be nobody’s hero — I just wanted to be heard.1

II. THE DISILLUSIONING REALITY

On December 11, 1997, I wrote a letter to the editors of NBA Inside Stuff in which I asked them to put me in touch with Penny Hardaway, Stephon Marbury, and Grant Hill.  I thought that once I developed a correspondence with my favorite basketball players 2, I could ask them to join my new rap venture, tentatively called The Chop Suey Bunch.  My solo act as Li’L T was going nowhere: I’d already penned a handful of songs, but I was getting very little traction outside of middle school.  Thankfully, I’d become socially aware enough to understand that awkward-Asian-girl-rapping was never going to become a phenomenon, so I had to find a worthy performer to “spit my rhymes” (if I couldn’t rap, I had to make up for it with ghetto-talk).

Thus, I turned my attention towards recruiting performers to lend me their street cred.  They would be the ones to perform my songs, go on tour, and wear balloon pants in a strobe-light-filled music video.  And honestly, who wouldn’t want to rap to these lyrics?

(The following are verses from actual raps I wrote. Keep in mind I was 12 or 13, and obviously really weird. Special thanks to my dad for keeping these embarrassing computer files in a folder labeled “Teresa Raps”.)

JOE SHMOE
I look in my fridge / It’s really kind of gross
Mold is growing on the bread / Like the kind on my toes
Oh there is a squeak / I know it’s a mouse
They’re always in the fridge / And all around my house
I hear a huge snort / Sounds like a person I know
But it’s really my dog / His name is Joe Shmoe

THIS WORLD
I was born in Indiana / On May 26th I came out screaming
Everyone was happy / Everyone was beaming
‘Cause I came into the world
‘Cause I came into the world
Everyone was happy
‘Cause I came into the world

As you can see, I had immense talent (and ego, as evidenced by “This World”).  But after months of waiting, I never heard back from NBA Inside Stuff, or any of the other would-be performers (Chris Rock, Shaq, and the editors of The Source) I reached out to.  Their implicit rejection was disheartening.  It was also a wake-up call.

III. NO WAY OUT

By the summer of 1999, my rap dreams were pretty much over.  I’d just started high school, Mase had gone into retirement, and a cutie-white-boy band called N’Sync had become my new obsession.  My experiment with rap looked merely like a passing phase, allowing my parents to finally exhale.

They should have known, though, that weird teenage phases never die.  And that’s what’s great about phases–much like rap in the 90s, they embody the naivete of youth, encouraging our older, wiser selves to reconnect with our silly young dalliances.  So even though I failed to achieve commercial success as a hip-hop star, now, more than ten years later, I still have an eerie recall of late-90s rap lyrics.  And at times, I’ve even been able to use this talent for good.  One night at a bar in Boston, after perfectly reciting the lyrics to Jay-Z’s “Can I Get A”, I finally got the words I had longed to hear: “Hey girl, you are STREET!” 3

You best believe it, son.

IV. COMEBACK?

For those who may still be doubting my rap abilitiez, I just want to leave you with this final song, dated January 8, 1997.  As of today, I’m still unsigned by the major record labels, but I know it won’t be long.

PETS
I have a cat named Carrot-Top / Also a fish named Fanny
My lizard’s name is Lizard / And also a rabbit named Granny
My parrot is named Bubba / My snake’s name is Spence
My pig’s name is Hamburger Bun / I got a frog for eighty cents

And just a note: I didn’t have any pets growing up.  See, now that shows the breadth of my creativity.

Li’L T out.

—————–

1. This is a quote from Puff Daddy’s “It’s All About the Benjamins”, which includes one of my favorite lines of all-time: “Tryin’ to get my hands on some Grants like Horace.”  Classic. 
2. Don’t judge me for liking Stephon Marbury. He was good once.
3. Fine, this was said by a white guy, but it still counts, right?

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October 4, 2011

Occupying Wall Street

It’s Monday, July 10, 2006, and I’m wearing a dark suit and pantyhose, standing in a sea of dark suits, all nervous and fidgety.  It’s the first time I’ve worn something from the Misses section at TJ Maxx, and it feels like a personal milestone.  Goodbye, Juniors, with your bedazzled t-shirts and l.e.i. jeans with patches on them: I’m a suit n’ pantyhose woman now.  And why wouldn’t I be, here, in midtown Manhattan, standing in the marbled lobby of a $40 billion company on the first day of my summer internship, the first job to pay me more than minimum wage, the first place where I’ve spent a whopping $89 on a suit jacket to still look like a street urchin in a Brooks Brothers catalog.  I’ve made it, Ma, I’ve made it!

As our group of eighty-or-so interns is herded into the auditorium for orientation, we pass through sleek elevator banks hidden by translucent glass panels, the ultimate markers of lobby opulence.  I never thought I’d end up in this kind of fancy place; in fact, my almost-Marxist teenage self would’ve totally pooh-poohed it: “Ugh, so corporate.  Gross.”  But now, sitting in a plush leather chair, facing a gourmet spread, I’m thoroughly ready to drink the hoity corporate Kool-Aid: drink it, guzzle it, pour it into an IV bag and take it intravenously, whatever.  All I know is that I have just one goal now: do well this summer and get a full-time offer, ‘cause this is where I want to be.  Maybe, just maybe, I could work here for the rest of my life.

“Hello, summer analysts,” the HR rep says. “Welcome to Lehman Brothers.”

HILARITY ENSUES

My mom always says that you don’t know what you like until you try it.  This is her rationale for why “trying out” Wall Street would be a good idea (although this doesn’t seem to extend to drugs, skydiving, or black guys).  In truth, I’m totally up for it.  All my friends are working in banks, so Wall Street sort of becomes our white-collar pregnancy pact.  We get the chance to live in New York, make money, and piss it away like spoiled-rotten socialites–what could be better?  Plus, there’s a certain prestige that comes with working on the Street: If you manage to land an internship at one of the big investment banks, you earn 50 douche points for Gryffindor, and everyone at Harvard wants to be Head Douche.

So that’s how I end up at Lehman: eager, young, impressionable, and in search of shits and giggles.

After our week-long orientation, I’m placed in the Equity Research group, reporting to a man who is the spitting image of Mr. Bean (perhaps with less charm).  His second-in-command, and the guy who is in charge of dealing with me, is a big, rotund, former offensive lineman who I call Diabetes, but not to his face.  While they’re nice, well-mannered, aromatic men, I get the feeling that despite my best efforts, giggles will be hard to come by.

Once I start the job, Mr. Bean and Diabetes have this crazy notion that I’m actually interested in what they do.  So they regale me with stories about free cash flows and outsize valuations and setting appropriate price targets for the stocks they cover.  Diabetes gives me a stack of research reports to read, which I use to create a little fort in my cubicle to play Berlin Wall (“Left hand, tear down this wall of annual reports!” “Okay, right hand!” *Crash.* And that’s the end of the game).  I find ways to amuse myself, because while Lehman might have a lot of money (in 2006), it’s severely lacking in personality.  At one point I try to joke around with Mr. Bean: “You’re such a lucky guy, getting to play around with all these models.”  Blank stare.  “Like, financial models.”  Blank stare.  “It was a joke.”  Curt nod.  “Okay, if you need me, I’ll be at my desk, trying to draw a pterodactyl in Windows Paint.”

I have a feeling this will be a long summer.

DEPRESSION HITS

As the weeks go by, I start to understand why bankers have such a high suicide rate.  The job is a depressing combination of number crunching and Powerpoint presentations.  Sometimes the highlight of my day is doing extensive data entry.  Other times, I get the privilege of formatting a chart.  I’m beginning to think that my job can be filled by a seventh-grader with basic typing skills and a knack for bar graphs.

Soon I realize that I can get by with minimal effort as long as I present something that already confirms Mr. Bean’s hypothesis: “You were right again, the lagged NASDAQ index is a better indicator for revenue trades.”  This strategy seems to work well, especially when combined with my flowery new finance vocab.  Still, even though I’m barely working, often eating, and most likely napping in the handicapped stall with the bench in it, I’m in the office past 9 pm every night.  Because despite the Wall Street stranglehold on words like “optimization” and “efficiency”, the mantra of “face time” rules over them all.*

In my last week at Lehman, I’m given an offer to return full-time.  At the start of the summer, I would’ve been ecstatic.  Now, I’m not so sure.  Diabetes takes me out to lunch to discuss “my future at the company.”  His argument is a good one: it’s a great offer, at a prestigious company, in the best city in the world.  But I have spent the last eight weeks painstakingly manufacturing fun in a job I hate.  I know now that no gourmet spread will be able to sway me.

So, I decline my offer.  Two years later, Lehman declares bankruptcy.  I guess it was a good decision.

SHITS AND GIGGLES

I never foresaw the economic crisis that would lead to Lehman’s demise.  As much as I like to think that I psychically predicted this, I simply left because I didn’t enjoy the work.  And since that summer, I’ve been detached from the turmoil that’s surrounded Wall Street.  I can sympathize with both the protestors and the good people I used to work for.  Ultimately, though, I hope that both sides can see that we’re in this slog together: We need our banks to efficiently allocate capital, and we need an informed public to keep it in check. We need enthusiastic young people to work hard and kick out those caught napping in the bathroom.

But no matter how much we compromise, everyone—people and institutions—must recognize the human fallacy that can be the source of our problems: it’s much harder to take a stand on your own, and it’s much easier to blindly follow the crowd.  That’s how I ended up shoveling shrimp cocktails into a TJ Maxx power suit, and that’s how our country got stuck in this current financial mess.

When I was at Lehman, our group published a 100-page research report in August 2006.  In the report, we predicted that one of the stocks we covered would be trading at $32 by next year, based on our sophisticated (financial) models.  Diabetes had wondered if we were being too bullish, so Mr. Bean asked me to compare our target to that of the other banks.  After a thorough Bloomberg inquiry, I found that we were right in line with the Street: all the other big firms (Fidelity, Moody’s, Merrill, etc.) were giving targets within spitting distance of $32.  So we went with it, confident that we were in the ballpark.  Make little ripples, not waves, they say.  All these smart people can’t be wrong, right?

A year later, the purported $32 stock was at $3.

Oops.

————————

*Also, in most big banks, if you work past 8 pm, you can order dinner. If you work past 9, you can get a black car to take you home. So if you’re already there at 7:30, why not stick it out for another half-hour and get some food out of it? Resourcefulness.

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September 20, 2011

To All The Single Old Maids

One of the benefits of living in Los Angeles is that I’m constantly bombarded by thought-provoking intellectual discourse.1 And so it happened this weekend that I came across two women at Starbucks whose conversation blew my mind.

Woman #1: Do you think I’m an old maid?
Woman #2: No, not at all!
Woman #1: I think I am.
Woman #2: Honey, you’re so not there yet.
Woman #1: I don’t know, I feel like I am.
Woman #2: You’re totally not.

Keep in mind that Woman #1 had probably just turned 22 (she was wearing knee-high boots with shorts and stretched out “uh huh” into three syllables).  At this point, Woman #2 deftly latte-swerved2 into a fascinating new topic (yoga!) and they abandoned the old maid talk. But it got me thinking: At what point do you go from being a single woman to being an old maid? What’s the lady to hag cutoff age?  And then: Jesus Christ, am I an old maid?  Wait–Why am I even thinking about this?  Why is anyone thinking about this?

Other than psychopaths, single women are probably the craziest, most irrational people in the whole world.  Our incessant desperation appears to stem entirely from our pathetic role in history:  Years ago, it was a lot easier to know whether you were packing up your hoo-ha for good.  Back in the olde days (when people added an “e” to “old” and my ancestors were building your railroads), everyone hooked up so young.  Once a girl hit double-digits, she was hiking up her petticoat and courting her cousin.  If a chick wasn’t married by 18, she was relegated to spinsterhood or thrown into a river (my ancestors).  But as we moved into the 20th century, it seems that the hag cutoff age was pushed back.  Feminists tried to suppress the entire “old maid” paradigm, because hey, women don’t need men!  We can vote now!

But of course, that’s not true.3  And so the “old maid” label persevered, bandied upon any husband-less, child-less woman with an unexplored crevasse and shriveled-up fallopian tubes.

Nowadays, the whole spinster exemplar has almost become chic.  The new-age old maid has evolved far past the cat-loving, never-been-kissed spinster of old(e).  While there are still classic examples (Susan Boyle, Susan B. Anthony, Suddenly Susan, and every other woman named Susan), there are now “career women” old maids (Condi Rice), “hot but mean” old maids (Ann Coulter), and “probably lesbian” old maids (Diane Keaton).  The old maid has become the equivalent of the expired cheese puff that you find between your couch cushions: revolting, yes, but somewhat endearing at the same time.

So back to the original question: When does a single woman become an old maid?  I don’t know.  It now seems anti-feminist to even think about such a thing.  So, I want to make a declaration, for all the single ladies out there who are so freaking worried about their descent into sad-sack spinsterhood: Girls, STOP FREAKING OUT. That thing that you want so desperately–to get married and then half-get divorced?–It will happen one day.  And if it doesn’t, well… kill yourself.4  But for now, just know that you should not have to put an expiration date on your happiness.  You should not have to settle.  Stop counting down the days to some imaginary deadline*, and just enjoy your life.  Besides, if Jennifer Aniston could be called an old maid, then we’re all screwed anyway.

*By the way, it’s probably, like, 37.

———–

1 – If intellectual discourse was limited to only the weather, the gym, and new vegan restaurants.

2 – Latte-swerving is a fabulous conversation-avoidance technique honed in Los Angeles in which you switch topics by making a comment about your coffee. “Oh my God, I just burned my tongue on this coffee. Woo! That hurts! Anyway, enough about global warming, let’s talk about the gym!”  It’s brilliant.

3 – Women totally need men. We need men to kill things, like spiders.

4 – Do not do this unless you are Ann Coulter.

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August 9, 2011

A White Man’s Guide to Dating Asian Girls

“A White man seeks Asian woman not for her immense beauty or intellect, but for her tiny cooter.” – Confucius 1

Hey, white guys. You probably know by now that having an Asian girlfriend is a rite of passage for all white men. “Date an Asian chick” has become akin to “Go skydiving” or “Live in New York” in the veritable white guy bucket list.  Of course, dating an Asian girl is very different from dating your typical Nancy or Betty 2.  So, in order to snag yourself a little pre-op Mulan, I present to you a White Man’s Guide to Dating Asian Girls.

STEP ONE: Finding an Asian

Asian girls typically hang out at one of three places: the mall, the library, or Pinkberry. When you get there, look around: the best Asian girl to pick up will be the one wearing a hoodie and heels (there is always one).  When you approach her, ask for the time. As she takes out her phone to tell you, you should make a nice comment about her phone flair (Asian girls always have some bedazzled jank hanging off their phones, like a cartoon duck or a jade tiger). And with that, you’re in.  Asian girls will go on a date with anyone if she can tell a cutesy story about it later: “And then, after he saw my Keroppi keychain, he asked me out at Pinkberry! Pinkberry!”

STEP TWO: The First Date

It doesn’t matter where you take an Asian girl on a first date (as long as it isn’t Wendy’s 3). You can impress her by simply sticking to the following topics of conversation: food, fashion, and making fun of other Asians (“So, did your friends just stay in and do math problems all night? They are so bad!”).  If, by the end of the night, she giggles into her napkin/hand fan, you’ve got yourself a second date.  However, no matter what you do, don’t step on the yellow-fever land mine that is acknowledging the Asian fetish.  Yes, we all implicitly know what’s going on here–Why else did America go to war in two Asian countries4 last century?–But don’t say it out loud. Us girls all like to pretend that we’re your first Far East foray.

STEP THREE: The Relationship

If you get to the point now where you want to date an Asian girl (like… really date her), you better understand where she’s coming from. Given our immigrant roots, most Asian girls endure a latent insecurity about everything from our boobs to our patriotism (both things that are just slightly there).  We never quite think we’ve assimilated into American society… and sometimes, we’re right.5  So, as her white, Jewish (80% of the time), totally-secure-and-normal boyfriend, you better be prepared for when your girlfriend mistakes “Soup or salad” for “Super salad” (“Yes, I want the super salad! What is wrong with this Sizzler waiter?!”).  And since Asians have eyes like gravy boats, her crying jags are bound to extend late into the night.  Just FYI.

STEP FOUR: Locking it Down

If you’ve made it this far, then you know all the dirty secrets of dating an Asian girl. You know we hate animals.  You know we pretend to love drinking, even though we turn into full-blown red-faced injuns when we do. Oh yeah, and you know we are racists. Your saintly self just goes with it.  But how can you tell if she feels the same way? Well, you know you’re “in” if your girlfriend takes you home to meet her parents. In Asian cultures, meeting the parents is practically an engagement. Asians don’t let people meet their parents, ever.  (I’m pretty sure I told all my friends in high school that I was an orphan.) But once you’ve broken the seal, you better put a ring on it within 5-7 business days. If you don’t, then you risk alienating the parents. They’ll start asking questions. Getting involved. Calling you at work. Once you’ve met the parents, in Asian cultures, you are now part of the family. And they own you. So just man up and fucking 6 do it.

Lastly, you should know that in Chinese wedding traditions, the groom pays for the wedding. Therefore, my parents want me to marry a Chinese guy and my brother to marry a white girl. It’s just good fiscal policy.

FINAL THOUGHTS: A Bit of Encouragement

Yes, some of this sounds terrible.  But, having an Asian wife does have its perks. Even if you’re uglier than Pau Gasol, your half-Asian children will be adorable.  Plus, you’ll get to be the peacekeeper (and favorite parent) while your wife turns into an evil-witch Tiger Mom. Finally, if you’re ever attacked by a pie-wielding assailant, your Asian wife will be sure to leap out of her chair and protect you, even if you totally deserve it. Because even though we may be high-maintenance and needy, Asians are nothing if not loyal… Well, except for the 1/4 of us that was in Tiger Woods.

———————

1. Confucius probably did not say this.

2. These names are so white that they went out of style years ago. Do you know anyone under 30 named Nancy or Betty? Neither do I.

3. Yes, someone took me on a first date to Wendy’s. I know what you’re wondering… Chicken nuggets and a baked potato.

4. Counting only the Korean War and the Vietnam War. I would’ve mentioned Japan had we not nuked the place.

5. My parents started learning English by watching Braves games on TBS, so I grew up loving the Braves tomahawk chop. I would do it everywhere… which unfortunately, out of context, looks very much like a Hitler salute. Assimilation fail.

6. I just started a new job and I’ve learned that “fucking” is the best adverb to use when trying to make an emphatic point. So there.

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April 13, 2011

Why Women Hate Sports

All women hate sports.

OK, this is not entirely true.  “All” women do not hate sports, just as “all” men do not love sports, just as “All That” was not all that “all that” (in fact, it was mediocre programming at best).  But, as a writer, I must make sweeping generalizations to stir up fake controversy and drive enraged traffic to this site.1 So, I stand by my claim: ALL WOMEN HATE SPORTS…with a few clarifying points:

  • When I say “all women”, I’m referring mostly to the following female groups: those who get bedazzled manicures, those who know how to bake a pie, and those who own more than two cats.  These groups are mutually exclusive.2
  • When I say “sports”, I’m referring to the three professional sports that the average American male watches most: Baseball, football, and basketball.  Hockey doesn’t count, because it is ruled by Canadians and all women have a soft spot for Canadians because of Bryan Adams.
  • When I say “hate”, I really mean it, guys.  Women do not tolerate sports.  They actively hate sports with an overwhelming rage equivalent to missing a sample sale.  It’s that serious.

So now that that’s out of the way, let’s get to it: Why do women hate sports?  Is it a feminist repudiation against a misogynistic society that unfairly celebrates a jock culture?  No.  It’s actually far simpler than that.  There are  four clear-cut reasons why women hate sports.  If we understand these reasons, then perhaps we can save sports for women.

Jealousy. This is not where I say that women hate sports because they’d rather be spending time with their man.  Don’t flatter yourself, guys.  Women don’t want to spend more time with men. Instead, the thing women are most envious about is how much men actually care about sports.  If Cavs fans in Cleveland were asked to choose between keeping their wives or bringing LeBron James back, how many guys would leave their wives?  ALL OF THEM.  Men can rattle off facts about the Cowboys’ winning percentage on the road, but they can’t remember the date of their anniversary.  They can tell you the name of the Cubs’ fifth starter, but they can’t recall the name of their middle child.  To women, it often seems like men are programmed to cry only at a funeral, a birth of a child, or the aftermath of Game 7 (oh, and Toy Story 3, unless they are robots).  Men care about sports in ways that defy logic: They will develop a routine (the Red Sox will win if I sit on the left side of the couch, but not the right side).  They will chant in unison.  They will scream at the television.  And they will grow a playoff beard.  (And it’s always a disgusting one.)

Obesity. How do you watch a sporting event?  Sometimes sitting down.  Sometimes standing up.  Either way, you’re getting fat.  Yes, it’s ironic that sport inspires men to gouge themselves on beer and nachos, thus turning them into flabby masses that do not resemble the heroes they so admire on the field (unless they are a fan of CC Sabathia).  If we didn’t have sports, would men actually stress-eat a bucket of chicken wings every Sunday?  Hopefully not.  Our sports-watching culture has led to a corpulent male population chock-full of beer-bellied dudes and Type 2 diabetes.  Women, at least, have a good excuse for getting fat (We carry your children, dammit! Let us have our whoopee pies!).  Men have no such excuse.  The reason men are fat is because of sports.  And women hate them for it.

Cheaters. It’s hard for women to like professional athletes because 99% of pro athletes are adulterous cheaters.  Well, that might be an exaggeration… 98% of pro athletes are cheaters, and women hate men who are unfaithful.  Women classify cheaters in the same category of “shitty man” that includes murderers, rapists, and wife-beaters.  On the other hand, male fans have the moral fortitude of a perforated sponge.  Men will forgive their fellow shitty man as long as he delivers in the clutch, but women will never, ever, ever forget that the guy cheated on his pregnant wife.  Sorry, Tiger.  Unfortunately, our sports heroes of today (Kobe, Favre, A-Rod) are all veritable, no-good, douchebag cheaters.  Throw in a Rape-lisberger and a heartbroken Eva Longoria, and women will turn their backs on pro athletes.  All it takes is one bad apple taking pictures of his junk with a cameraphone, and no women will root for this lot of shitty men.

Crotch Grabbers. There is only one thing that women hate more than cheaters, and this is watching men grab their own crotches.  In an average baseball game, crotchshots are shown almost as often as something interesting happening (finally… a single…).  Come on.  Does an extra mini-appendage really need that much maintenance?  Players — we know that you are a man.  You don’t have to prove it to us. And since you have millions of dollars, perhaps you could invest in some medication for your below-the-belt ailments.  Athletes should only be playing with one ball, thank you very much, and that ball should be made of leather.

So, to Roger Goodell, Bud Selig, David Stern, and all men out there, if you want to convince women to like sports, please take the following advice: (1) Players: Soap.  Use it down there.  (2) Owners: Discourage your players from marriage.  Women will put up with philanderers (this is why women still love George Clooney), but they will not put up with cheaters.  (3) Fans: Lay off the dip.  You’re getting fat.  And even though it sounds terrible now, just consider two words: veggie platter. (4) Boyfriends, Husbands, and Fathers: Care about your women as if they were on your fantasy team.  And if that doesn’t work, well, then just trade us. Please.

1. This crappy, “gotcha” headline is an ode to other articles that make ridiculous sweeping generalizations of entire peoples: “Why You’re Not Married” or “Why Chinese Mothers Are Superior“.

2. I estimate that these three groups make up close to 60% of all women.  But “60% of women hate sports” is not a good headline.

NB: I love sports.  But I do hate crotch grabs.

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April 12, 2011

The Only Thing We Have to Fear… is Everything

“The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.” – Franklin Delano Roosevelt, 1933 Inaugural Address1

I’m always amused by parents who keep their children on a leash.  I used to think that treating a child like a German shepherd was only appropriate in crowded, pedophile-rich places (subway stations, Times Square, Montana2), where one could easily lose a kid in the throng.  But just the other day, I saw a father calmly walking his toddler son in Target. Target! (It wasn’t even a busy Target.)  The kid kept trying to run off to the toy section, only to be bungee-boomeranged back to his dad.  It was actually rather funny to watch a guy play paddle ball with his son… except it was with his son.  However, when I mentioned the absurdity of the scene to my mom on the phone, she immediately leapt to the father’s defense: “If parents don’t keep an eye on their children nowadays, the child will get kidnapped.”  She went on to list several examples from Dateline in which un-leashed children were snatched away from their negligent parents.

(Thankfully, I never had to suffer the indignity of a leash.  I merely have memories of my parents telling me to stay close unless I wanted to be abducted and sold to a Nike shoe factory.  When I got older and questioned the likelihood of this ever happening, my mom was adamant. “They want Asian children because of your tiny fingers.  For the laces.”)

My parents were great at manipulating fear as a weapon.  After all, fear is entirely a product of nurture.3 I grew up fearing almost everything: snakes, spiders, roller coasters, big dogs, strangers, light poles, peas, the deep end of the pool, my own closet… I feared it all.  If you asked my parents, this was a good thing.  They would say it’s better to be fearful than cavalier.  Fear makes you more cautious, and caution makes you less likely to end up dead or with a venereal disease.  If it were up to them, they would encourage all parents to subliminally inculcate fears in their children like this:

Age 6: “Yes, the boogie man is real, and he chops off children’s heads.  The good thing is, he’ll only chop off your head if you don’t eat your vegetables.”

Age 13: “Yes, ninjas are real, and they will attack you in your sleep.  The good thing is, they’ll only attack you if you’ve been drinking or smoking.”

Age 16: “Yes, there really is a serial killer running around town.  And he will kill us unless you take out the trash. So do it already!”

Thankfully I managed to avoid permanent scarring, outgrowing most of my fears as I got older.  But the funny thing is, my parents kept theirs.  Even now, my mom always offers warnings about grave dangers that are immediate threats to my life.  Her long list of “Things to avoid” includes: the beach (tsunamis), the sun (cancer), left turns (inevitable car accidents), men with tattoos (you will get attacked and go into a coma), baseball games (you will get attacked and go into a coma), and drinking bottled water that’s been left in the car (you will die).

Since now I’m living 3,000 miles away in California, her worries have intensified: I’m almost certainly going to encounter a life-threatening earthquake, wildfire, mudslide, or errant Botox injection.  Scumbag LA agents and managers will eat me up and spit me out.  The Hollywood sign will tumble down and leave me trapped in my apartment, forcing me to eat my own arm to survive.  The only thing that could possibly keep me safe out here is marriage. Marriage (and grandchildren) will save me from all such ills.

My mom maintains that her concerns are just the normal fears of all parents.  And I suppose she’s justified, in some way.  After all, parenthood is cruel: having a child is like planting a seed and watching it grow for 18 years into a big, tall tree… and then having the tree ripped out and hurled across the country, fending off wood chippers and paper plants along the way.  So I can understand the anxieties of those parents who put leashes on their kids and who hound you about getting a first aid kit with flares for your car… at least you know they care.

And truth be told, there is a value to keeping a healthy dose of fear alive, reminding us of our own mortality, encouraging us to optimize the time we have on this earth, pushing us to live life to the fullest… because, like my mom4 says, we’re all just hanging on by a thread… a thread that may be contaminated with leftover radiation from Japan.

___

1. With apologies to Frankie D, WHAT WERE YOU TALKING ABOUT?  Sure, your speech went a long way in lifting post-Depression spirits, but if we really think about it, you essentially said the equivalent of: “The only thing we have to celebrate is celebration itself,” or “The only thing we have to eat is food itself.”  Okaa-ay. Worst famous quote ever.

2. Montana is the state with the highest number of registered sex offenders per capita, according to the sex offender registry. Go Montana!

3. Actually, let me rephrase that: surplus fear is entirely a product of nurture. Naturally, all human beings are predisposed to certain baseline fears that threaten our survival, like hurricanes, sharks, and other things that we name professional sports teams after. It’s nurture that separates the notoriously fearful (like Chicken Little) from the notoriously fearless (like Chuck Norris).

4. And Nostradamus. And the Mayans. 2012, baby!… I am terrified.

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March 16, 2011

Growing Up Asian

“Do you… speeaaaak… English?” – Pizza Hut waitress, 1990

It was in kindergarten when I first learned I was Asian.  Sure, there had always been signs–I was nearsighted, loved rice, and caused an unfortunate tricycle accident at age 3–but I’d always just assumed it was typical of American families to speak two languages at home and get insulted by employees at Pizza Hut.

It all changed when I arrived at KinderCare, a veritable child’s paradise full of apple sauce, alphabet books, and… other kids.  While I had certainly seen other children before, I’d never seen so many in the same place, all looking somewhat different.  One intrepid boy finally gathered the courage to welcome the new alien in their midst, coming up to me and saying, quite eloquently, “Ching chang ching chong choo.”  Ever the clever linguist, I responded by smacking him on the head with a Tonka truck.  I had to sit in time-out for the rest of the day.

Despite my crude introduction to ethnicity, I never thought much about being Chinese… mostly because there weren’t any other Chinese people around.  Growing up, there was only one other Asian girl in our elementary school, Lisa. The fact that we had rhyming names made it a lot easier to mix us up, even though she was Vietnamese and stood a foot taller than me.   When her family moved to California in the fifth grade, my mother celebrated – now that we were the only Asians left in the school, she didn’t have to introduce herself at parent-teacher conferences anymore. Everyone knew she was Teresa’s mom.

Of course, assimilating into American culture wasn’t always easy.  When our Pizza Hut waitress found out we did speak English, she proceeded to ask if we celebrated Christmas too.  But the cultural learning went both ways. When I was twelve, I accompanied a friend to Mass.  I had never been inside a church before, so I had no idea what to expect.  “Don’t worry,” my friend whispered. “Just do everything I do.”  So I bowed, I prayed, and I followed her up to the altar where I proceeded to grab the cookie out of the priest’s hand.  It was not very good.  Only later did I find out that I had just spit out the body of Christ.  Suffice to say, that was the first and only time I’ve taken Communion.

WHERE ARE YOU REALLY FROM?

I don’t know how many times I’ve been asked, “Where are you from?” followed by, “No, where are you really from?”  I usually say I’m from Boston, but I’m really from Indiana, where I was born.  And even though I look like I could regale you with stories of Confucius, I’m probably better equipped to tell tales of my adventures to Dairy Queen.  Of course, no one asks me about that.

There are certain expectations that come with being Asian.  We are good at math.  We are socially awkward.  We know kung fu.  We are terrible drivers.  All these stereotypes are interrelated–We are good at math mostly because our Tiger Mothers read calculus textbooks to us instead of Goodnight Moon.  This, in turn, ensures that we are poorly socialized and ostracized by our classmates, so we do kung fu (usually in a cave) to cope with our loneliness.  After honing our kung fu skills to master gravity, flying from rooftop to rooftop, we recognize the banality of on-the-ground transportation. Thus, we never properly learn how to drive.

Obviously, these are mostly harmless stereotypes.  But the uglier stereotypes of Asians–that we are cheap, bigoted, and cold-hearted–are not necessarily true either.

This winter, our family took a trip to Taiwan to visit my grandparents.  In Taiwan, the first thing we did was go to Costco, to buy a gift for a family friend’s engagement party… which is being cost-effective, not cheap.  In Costco, we passed by a huge display of Black Man’s Toothpaste, the best-selling brand in Taiwan… which is reverential, not racist.  When we arrived at the hotel for the engagement party, we were greeted by a beautiful ice sculpture, which prompted my dad to say, confused, “What does L-O-V-E mean?” …which means that Asians have daddy issues too, just like everyone else.

FINDING MAURY

For some reason, men love Asian women.  All types of men… but mostly white guys.  As an Asian woman, I often wonder why. Perhaps it’s the allure of an exotic beauty. Or the promise of attractive, half-Asian children. Or it’s the fact that our feet are the size of normal people’s hands.

Today, it’s no longer just white guys who do the picking.  Asian women actively pursue non-Asian men too.  Every woman wants to find a Maury Povich to their Connie Chung.  This leaves me feeling bad for Asian men, who are often left with just their engineering prowess and no one to wrap their skinny arms around.

At the same time, it’s not all roses for Asian women either.  We have to deal with the freaks, the pervs, the tools, and the fetishists.  We have to answer questions like “Where are you really from?” which inevitably just makes the guy sound like he’s marking countries off a map.  And we also have to appease our parents and grandparents, because if we’re not married with kids by 30, our eggs will shrivel up and the bloodline will die with us.

I’m just glad that I have a brother.

TOTAL WORLD DOMINATION

Even with all the stereotypes, the William Hung references, and the occasional ignorant Pizza Hut employee, there are advantages to being Asian in America.  Since people can’t tell Asians apart, we can sneak into bars with other Asians’ IDs, find a stunt double to sit in for us at work, and get away with murder (good luck picking the perp in that all-Asian lineup).  Asian kids rarely get kidnapped (high-profile, baby kidnapping is mainly a Caucasian sport), and we don’t have to worry that much about identity theft–Unless another Asian has jacked our credit cards, the cashier would probably find something suspicious: “But you don’t look like the type who’d have three consecutive vowels in your last name…”  Thus, being Asian affords us peace of mind.

Of course, the one downside to being Asian is that it gets tiring to keep up the peace signs/bunny ears for every photograph we take.  But in spite of that, Asians in America have come a long way, and we haven’t peaked yet.  So watch out for us, because we’re taking over. After all, with our squinty eyes, straight hair, and aversion to sunlight, we’re pretty similar to vampires… and vampires are really “in” now.

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March 2, 2011

So, What’s Harvard Like?

I’ve stolen from several of my previous postings in an attempt to answer a question that I’m often asked about…

SO, WHAT’S HARVARD LIKE?

A Crap Factory

Back in 2003, a college interviewer asked me what my favorite movie was. In any other circumstance, the answer would have been easy: Miss Congeniality, a story about an undercover cop-turned beauty queen who saves Miss Rhode Island from exploding onstage as William Shatner  serenades the crowd. A true classic, in my opinion. However, in that moment, I reckoned that Miss Congeniality would be about as well-received as an outbreak of genital herpes.  A Beautiful Mind, I decided, was a safer bet. It’s my favorite movie, I told the interviewer, because it depicts how Nash overcame the psychological struggle within himself to bring about one of the most important mathematical theorems of our time.

And on that load of crap, I got myself into Harvard.

Defusing The H-Bomb

One of my mom’s favorite Asian soap operas is called “Love Story in Harvard.”  I watched the first episode with her, which featured two graduate students arriving in Cambridge.  They find that Harvard is every bit the torture chamber that they expected.  The students don’t sleep.  They don’t eat.  They spend all their waking hours poring over their thousand-page textbooks.  Upon the eve of a big test, one student starts crying and screaming bloody murder. 

That’s the outside perception of what Harvard students are like.  We’re essentially sleep-deprived, bookworm zombies with limited social skills and poor hygiene habits.  (Some of that is not far from the truth.)

Because of this, alumni like to talk about the best way to “drop the H-bomb,” which is telling people that you went to Harvard (eg. was part of the zombie clan).  The H-bomb is referred to as such because of its cataclysmic result, no matter the initial intention.  When you tell people that you went to Harvard, you get one of three reactions: awe, indifference, or “fight me.”

1.      Awe: “Wow! What was it like?  Do you really have Quidditch matches on Sundays?  You’re like a genius, aren’t you?”

2.      Indifference: “I heard they have good popcorn chicken.”

3.      Fight Me: “So what did you get on your SATs?  That’s not that impressive.  I heard there’s a lot of grade inflation there.  Did your parents go there?  Are they super rich?  Your grandfather donated a statue, didn’t he?  Whatever, I make more money than you.”

When I first arrived at Harvard in 2003, I was squarely in the first camp.  I was in awe of the place.  Save for the severely narcissistic, many Harvard freshmen come in believing that they were the admissions mistake.  I certainly felt like one.  I wasn’t the high school valedictorian, I didn’t have a perfect score on my SATs, and I had no unique talents, like playing the obokano.  The only reason I felt somewhat legit was that my grandparents hadn’t donated a statue.  At least I couldn’t be accused of being a legacy admit.

For some students, the question of “How did they get in?” was immediately answered.  One of my freshman roommates, Bella*, could speak five languages and was from Albania.  Don was a junior Olympian skier.   And Vinny won $25,000 on Jeopardy in high school and could recite the capitals of all the countries in the world.  But for the rest of us who could barely point out Albania on a map, we were mired in our admissions-mistake insecurity.

The night we threw burning boxes into the Charles

However, after a few weeks on campus, I began to see Harvard differently.  Yes, it was a place of high-achieving, intelligent people… but there were exceptions. There were people who were IQ-smart, but socially incapable of talking about anything but quantum physics.  There were people who received terrific grades, but did so as a result of studying all day and night.  And then there were people who were so clearly admissions mistakes that they simply gave up trying to prove otherwise, and spent most of their time doing coke at the Fly and ice-luging goldfish.

To be in awe of Harvard, the institution, was understandable… but as for us humble members of the student body?  The overachievers, the bookworms, the “How did they get in?” mysteries?  Well, we were just plain lucky (and good at lying about movies).

When asked to describe my experience at Harvard, there is one incident that always comes to mind.  A few weeks into my first semester, I was having lunch in the freshman dining hall when I overheard someone earnestly describing a night out with some prudent strippers: “They let us get real close, but we couldn’t touch them… it’s like they were asymptotes.”

I’m not even being hyperbolic.  True story.

Korean Soap Operas Had Nothing on Us

There were certainly moments of my Harvard experience that rivaled the drama of the Korean soap.  One night, I awoke to a loud, bloodcurdling scream from my multilingual roommate, Bella.  Something we quickly learned about Bella was that not only did she have a talent for languages, but she had a particular affinity for four-letter words.

“FUCK,” she screamed, “FUCK-FUCK-FUCK-FUCK-FUCK!”

“Bella, what happened?”  I peeked out of my bedroom.  It was 2 in the morning, but Bella and Kendra, my other roommate, were still studying at their desks in the common room.

“Oh my God,” Bella exclaimed, “I’m FUCKED.  I’m so fucked.  Oh my God…”  She started crying.

“Bella, what’s wrong?”  I was genuinely concerned: did a scholarship get revoked?  Did a payment not go through?  What would elicit such a strong reaction?

“I got lotteried out of a class!”  Bella sobbed, “I’m so SCREWED.”

Street performer with a fire hat in Harvard Square

Some background: when I was at Harvard, we had to fulfill “CORE” requirements in areas outside of our concentration.  So for example, English majors would have to take a Quantitative Reasoning (QR) CORE course, to fulfill their math requirement.  CORE courses were typically a joke: one QR course was called “Counting People.” Another was called, “The Magic of Numbers.” Naturally, these CORE courses were always oversubscribed, mostly because they were so ridiculously easy (at least for anyone who could count).  Thus, some CORE classes were lottery-only; juniors and seniors received preference, while freshmen were frequently lotteried out.  But even if you were lotteried out of a course, you could always take it in a later semester.  You only needed to fulfill your CORE requirements before graduation.

“Seriously, Bella?”  It was 2 AM, and I was now pissed that I had been woken up because of this.

“What am I going to do?  I was planning on taking ‘The Magic of Numbers’ this semester!  Oh my God, my entire schedule is ruined!”  Bella was still sobbing, unaware that Kendra and I were completely unsympathetic.

“Uh, how about take a separate class, and then take Magic Numbers next semester?”

“I can’t take another class!  I haven’t sat in on any other classes!  Oh my God, I am so FUCKED!”

It took another hour to calm Bella down, and to convince her that she was not seriously fucked if she just took a different class.

Nights like these were rare, but they did happen at Harvard.

Another time, Bella and Kendra got into a huge argument about a class that they were taking together.  The professor had assigned a paper, and apparently they had discussed what they would write about with each other.  Somehow, each had gotten the impression that the other had stolen their original idea.  They both came to me, crying, and accusing the other of “stealing their thesis.”  Never mind that this was an assignment where all two hundred students probably had the same “thesis” for this paper… But Bella and Kendra didn’t speak to each other for the rest of the semester.

At most colleges, people fight over stealing boyfriends.  At Harvard, the ultimate sin is stealing theses.  These are dramas fitting for soap operas like “Love Story in Harvard.”

Crème de la Crème

At Harvard, there was never a dearth of stimulating conversation.  Even though there was a distinct liberal, do-good slant at Harvard, we were all undeniably snooty.  In a place where jocks complained about asymptotic strippers, we reveled in our seemingly superior intellectuality.  Just by virtue of being at Harvard, we convinced ourselves that we were the smartest, most accomplished, and best-looking scholars and future leaders of America… the crème de la crème.

This was not considered “classy”

There were all types of snooty, from grunge snooty to Upper East Side snooty.  There were artists who flocked together in their rebellion and harangued the world of conformists and sellouts. There were well-heeled suits and pearl-wearing debutantes-to-be who hosted chardonnay parties and talked about dollar cost averaging. Beat poetry coexisted with popped collars; debates about Burma with tirades about taxes.

Snootiness was commonplace, whether it was intentional or not.  One friend used to speak in only grammatically correct sentences, leading her to use phrases like, “Flo-Rida, whom I love…”  Another friend enjoyed abusing telephone operators when asked to spell out letters over the phone: “It’s ‘M’ as in Mary, ‘A’ as in Apple, and ‘P’ as in Pterodactyl.”

But at the same time, the intellectualism of the institution overwhelmed us.  After all, we were living in a world where Harvard had drawn the line between “high” culture and “low” culture.   We were supposed to value the New Yorker over Us Weekly, Italian wines over Franzia, and opera over Oprah.  Classical music and Jane Austen were culturally superior to Justin Timberlake and Agatha Christie.  There were entire departments dedicated to the study of Greek and Roman civilizations, and only a few sociology classes focused on modern culture.  Pop culture was considered so foreign and extraneous that it was relegated to the field of anthropological studies: along with Zulu tribesmen, Charlie Sheen is simply a curious human phenomenon.

It was quasi-sacrilegious to admit that one enjoyed reading undeep, unanalytical, unintellectual publications like InTouch Weekly, filled with uncompoundable compound words.  At Harvard, you could get away with being a Marxist, but it was something else to admit that you were an avid O-Town fan.  Miss Congeniality was not the same as A Beautiful Mind.

It’s no surprise, then, that GQ named Harvard the fourth-douchiest American university.  We were only beaten by Princeton, Duke, and Brown, which was first.  Of course, as this link circulated around our Harvard circle like wildfire, someone had to make the snooty, douchy comment: “I suppose this is the only list on which Brown will be #1 ahead of Harvard.”

Where My $150,000 Went

During my senior year of college, a relative asked me: “So now that you’re almost graduating, what’s the most interesting thing you’ve learned from Harvard?”

The yard

It seemed like an innocuous question, but I knew that there was an already-implied $150,000 answer, thanks to Good Will Hunting (”You wasted $150,000 on an education you coulda got for $1.50 in late fees at the public library”). The best response to this kind of inquiry would involve something uber-academic and arcane, like “vector spaces” or the neurobiology of whales, with some Plato thrown in for good measure. Given my studies in Economics, Psychology, and Government, I tried to recall the most exotic facets of the social sciences. But at that moment, just a few months away from graduation, I could barely remember what I learned about convergence theorems, double-blind studies, or legal proceedings in the United States. I may have read Plato in my “Issues in Ethics” class freshman year, but I’d forgotten all of his issues. And I certainly couldn’t talk about whale brains.

I dutifully recited some boring tenets of basic economic theory, and my relatives seemed satisfied.

Two years after graduation, I went back to Harvard for a visit. Just walking around the Yard brought back memories from the streets of the Cambridge. As a freshman, I once walked into the Crate and Barrel on Mass Ave and asked for directions… to Mass Ave. On Saturday, as an elderly alum, I expertly weaved through the crowds and reminisced about the days when the campus was mine, when the memories were happening. And now that I’m a few years older, ostensibly wiser, and wholly entrenched in the “real world”, I can finally admit to what I learned (and retained) at Harvard:

I learned that Harvard students are the best and the brightest in the world at avoiding solicitors outside the Science Center. I learned how to make the perfect spiral on my fro-yo cone after years of trial-and-error (and a couple spills). I learned to dodge tourists like a running back, and not to rub the foot of the John Harvard statue.

With my $150,000 education, I know now that a naked run in the brisk midnight air is the key to surviving ensuing exams. I know that one shouldn’t venture into the Sanskrit section of Widener unless she want to see that same nudeness in full light. I know that it’s “ec”, not “econ,” and “gov,” not “political science.” I know that if you remove the “i” from “assistance” you have the labels on our blue light emergency phone stations.  Because even at Harvard, a pole that says “Ass stance” is funny.

So, what’s the most interesting thing I’ve learned from Harvard? It’s that these insights came far more rapidly than my recall of the Solow model. It’s that these learnings have taken priority in the annals of my tiny whale brain. It’s that these memories–from the dorms, from the tailgates, from the Kong–have replaced Adam Smith. It may not sound like the typical Harvard admissions pitch, but it’s definitely something you can’t get for $1.50 in late charges at the public library.

* All names changed to protect me from getting sued when these people become big shots and I’m still starving as a struggling writer.

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February 16, 2011

On Writers

Writers are special people. Except for the fortunate few who can afford to live on a farm in the Netherlands and write 19th century pastoral poetry, most writers aim to please. That is, we write to sell. And writing to sell means being commercial. And being commercial means selling out. And selling out means not being a “real” writer who composes lovely haikus on milking Holsteins, but being a craphole writer who turns to Wikipedia to research Dutch cows and who seeks external validation in the form of dollar bills. Preferably big dollar bills. If we’re lucky, Hamiltons.

As writers, this is the source of all our issues.

The brain of a writer contains a huge tropical storm of garbage, sprinkled with a few tiny nuggets of treasure. Not unlike high-functioning schizophrenics, writers spend countless hours mining their own psyche for bits of inspiration. Sometimes the writer’s mind can yield great things. Most times, however, it’s just a repository for shameless self-indulgence. For example, a sampling of my random thoughts from today: “I just don’t get eyebrows. It’s like an island of hair on my face.” / “Stop staring at the fridge: you just ate two steaks an hour ago.” / “How much do egg donations go for these days? How many months of rent is that?” / “Why can’t human beings have three separate holes, two for waste and one solely for reproduction?” / “Who will ever love me???” / “Fine, go treat yourself to some ice cream.”

Some might think I’m crazy, but I ain’t.  I’m just a writer. And most writers are a little crazy. A little eccentric. A little smelly.  We fancy ourselves to be high-minded, beret-wearing hipsters who create Art & Culture, complete with a showy vocabulary and a penchant for the Ironic (and unnecessary capitals).  But really, we’re just hiding from the truth. And the truth is, most of the time, we believe that we are terrible writers. We believe that we create literary fecal matter that would be better served lining horse stalls than being read or performed by anyone other than our immediate family puppets. Writers are nothing if not neurotic. We’re flighty, we’re flaky, we’re strange, and we enjoy wallowing in our many insecurities.

Writers always worry about whether we’re being smart enough/profound enough/funny enough for an audience that will never be wholly satisfied. We slave over word choice and act breaks and storylines that may seem insignificant to everyone else but which causes us devastating internal turmoil and despair. We edit and re-edit.  We second-guess our second guesses. We frequently pull avada kedavras on our computers in stylistically-imbalanced fits of rage. CTRL-A-Delete. CTRL-A-Delete. CTRL-A-Delete.  And in addition to churning out daily doses of horsewallpaper, writers find numerous ways to procrastinate.  Whether it be cigarettes, alcohol, armed robbery, or gummy vitamins (my personal preference), all writers must find a vice upon which to blame all their troubles if things do go awry.

But then one day, amidst the haze of smoke, drugs, guns, and folic acid, something amazing happens. The cloud of mediocrity floats away, taking with it the banal dialogue and the unnecessary plot twists. The sky opens up. The story becomes strangely clear.  Suddenly we’re left with something that, despite all its previously-ulcer-inducing pockmarks, actually seems… good. And we truly believe, that after all this time, after all we’ve been through, we’ve finally managed to produce something that could be considered great — nay, brilliant.

And then we wake up the next morning, and we think that it’s crap again. CTRL-A-Delete.

Such is the life of a writer.

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