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Reflective Prompts

2008-12-10T11:04:00.001-08:00

1. What are your plans as a writer (how do you expect to use writing in your future)?
With what I have planned with my life so far, I would have to write for a pretty long time. Up until the start of the semester, most of my serious writing was specifically intended as scholarly works. But now, since I've had this class, I'm willing to venture into more personal and reflective works. Hopefully I can hone in on this and someday be published.

2. Describe any changes in your writing style
Writing scholarly works is quite different from writing creative nonfiction. Before the class I never really had a style as far as this kind of writing. But I think I've developed a very personal and casual style.

3. Describe any changes in your writing process
I've always done simultaneous editing on writing. Whatever I type is something thats already been thought through. However, after class, I've learned that sometimes, its quite useful to just write it all out, regardless of form and style.

4. Describe any changes in your attitude toward/interest in/understanding of writing in general, and CNF in particular.
I've warmed up to CNF.

5. What have you learned about yourself as a writer?
I learned I can move past just being a scholarly writer and actually write more personal works.

6. What features of your writing do you feel are most important for you to work on?
I need to focus. I just need to focus a lot more.

Running on "Empty" (somewhat revised)

2008-12-08T16:00:00.000-08:00

For the last four years, give or take a few months, a big chunk of my time has been spent stuck sitting on the ever-menacing plastic with which college classroom desk-chairs are made. Fine, not all classroom chairs I’ve encountered in college were plastic. Some were metal and others were made from wood. Nevertheless, the fact of the matter is, I’ve had my behind on one of these desk-chairs for a long time. It’s an incredible feat really, given that I’ve only lived for a little over twenty-one years. I’m not going to do the math for you on that one, I’m an historian by training and I don’t do those things. Trust me; you wouldn’t want me to anyway. I don’t even remember the first time I actually encountered such four-legged entities. All I know is that it wasn’t even in the same country; you can only imagine the variety of desk chairs I’ve sat on.

I finished high school in the Philippines, the land of Pansit, Lechon, and about eighty million Hispanic-Asians. Trust me; had I placed a picture of myself with this essay, you’d see what I mean. With the risk of going mildly off-topic, the explanation for all of this confusion is that the Philippines is a hodgepodge of Chinese, Malay, and Spanish cultures, hence my Asian features and a very Spanish name. For us back in the Philippines, college was the obvious next step after you graduate high school, none of that taking a year off scenario that some “western” kids go through. But unlike some of the people I knew, I was quite looking forward to college. I had gotten tired and bored with the seemingly endless torture of high school. It was the same old subjects every day with mind-numbing intensity. My only respite being the mandatory school, and government sanctioned, military training that high-school students had to go through in the Philippines. At least then we got to move around and, at times, shout orders. I couldn’t wait for a change of environment.

The two years of college I spent in the Philippines was full of ups and downs, overflowing with experiences, some I would like to forget, others I’d treasure forever. I incurred the wrath of my parents’ anger several times for things I should not have done, like smoking, drinking, staying out late. There was a time when I came home staggering through the door with one shoe on and somebody else’s shirt. You can only imagine what my father said to me that night. Well you have to. I can’t remember much of that night. I also did some things of questionable legality (at least under Philippine law), some of which my parents learned of and I was punished accordingly. On the other hand, there were good things about those two years. I met some of my most significant friends in those two years, people that I can count on, trust my life with. I also learned to love someone (or at least I think so) and I learned what kind of person I was looking for in my life (kind of). I also learned to appreciate people for who they are and not for what people say they are. In essence, I grew up in those two years, more than anyone could ever imagine.

On the advent of my junior year, I moved to the United States. To New Jersey actually. Why? I really shouldn’t explain, at least not for now. It would require a whole other essay, a very boring one at that. Let’s just say I moved for the opportunities that were in store for me in the United States. I enrolled myself in a small university, only half-an-hour away from the bustling life and seductive temptations of New York City. The change was incredible, new country, new school, new people. I was forced into a crash course in the American college system of education. Instead of the 24-27 college credits I was used to taking per semester, I was literally only obliged to take 12 credits to maintain a full-time student status. It was incredible! I couldn’t believe all the free time I had. I spent the first month or so of my first American college semester bumming around the town I moved into, walking through parks, hanging out (although by myself). It was fun for a while, having all that time to myself. I lived in my own apartment, paid my own bills (well, not exactly), cooked my own meals. I was my own man, or however much a “man” a college student can be. But things got old pretty quick. It’s though when you’ve got nobody to share it with.

By around October of that fall semester, I found myself an on-campus job. At first it was about the extra cash. Admittedly it didn’t pay much, but eight dollars an hour then wasn’t something you’d scoff at, and at least it was at the university. It also gave me something to do instead of bumming around, which was really becoming like a chore. Soon enough it wasn’t about the money anymore. I got along with my co-workers quite well, perhaps because of my willingness to be at work. They didn’t know that I just couldn’t stand being alone. As funny as it sounds, though my academics kept me busy and intellectually hungry, it was this job that I though of as a safe-haven. I didn’t expect that I would meet the kind of friends I had met years ago back home working for the school rather than in my classes, as was the case in the Philippines.

I never consumed myself in the college life that movies and television glorify. Sure, I’ve enjoyed some of its benefits, like crazy college parties filled with stupid, reckless abandon that would rival any rave. But that was the exception rather than the rule. Sure, I had my fun with friends, crashing at some of their houses (apartments) more out of necessity than convenience. But like I said, it was normally a special event, rather than the norm. I found myself focusing more on my academics, putting more effort and genuine concern into the kind of work of which I could be proud. Maybe it was something about moving out here alone that made me look at things differently. Perhaps it has something to do with all that growing up I did in Manila, perhaps it’s the tangibility of my future has brought me to embrace my current duty. I don’t know exactly. But what I did know were these: I wasn’t bored, I was learning, and I knew this was where I needed to be. This college life is something I know, something I can touch, something I can navigate.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m just like most upperclassmen. I just wanted to finish as soon as I can and to stop paying for the ridiculous tuition fees (or start paying for loans in certain cases). It seemed to me, that the road I traveling seemed so very long. Paper after paper, class after class, semester after semester, it seemed like it would never end. Every time a semester started, I felt like I couldn’t wait for it to finish. But now, I’m at my final semester. I can clearly see my most coveted finish line, with all its promises for the future. The idea of finally living in the real world, finding a real job, moving and living in a real place, is right over that hill. I can smell it, I can almost touch it, all I have to do is reach over. But as I run towards it, with all the energy and excitement I thought I had, I find myself sputtering, stumbling, stopping. All of a sudden, I’m exhausted. There’s an imposing letter “E” flashing on my internal dashboard. I hadn’t noticed that before, I must have been running on low for a while now. It’s a wonder that I can actually type these words on my beaten-up computer and its struggling word processor. But here I am, spewing the last few gasps of coherent thought to who ever might read this. I’m only a few weeks short of finishing this all out. I’m finally leaving college and going for the next step and suddenly and quite inexplicably, I’m stuck.

Its possible that I’ve completely worn myself out. Its been known to happen to people, especially in my generation. Looking back, it hasn’t exactly been an easy four years. I’ve been sleep deprived for about the same amount of time I’ve been in college, averaging a solid four to five hours of sleep per weekday. Some days I get less. You’re not a college student if you’ve never pulled an all-nighter, I’ve had a few of those. I’ve read thousands upon thousands of pages, whether it be historical texts, literature, or the occasional writing manuals that tell me how to write, cite, and record certain things. I’ve written countless pages of material for courses. The quality of work varies from totally made-up from the thinking throne (ie the toilet) to exceptional academic endevours. Within all of this, other things have occurred. I’ve moved several times (moved from a country once, moved from houses twice), lugging my belongings through long trips. I’ve lost a few friends and gained a few others (this too is tiring, let me tell you). I’ve even fallen in love and had my heart broken (and oddly, the latter happened twice). It’s been a crazy four years. But I don’t think that’s it. At least that’s not all of it.

It’s not merely exhaustion that’s led me into this emptiness. I’ve worked through so much more with great fatigue and I don’t believe that I’m in this rut because of it. I’m only 21 crying out loud! I shouldn’t even be in this situation. The only possible explanation is this: It has to be something else. Perhaps it’s the one thing that I haven’t considered yet so far. No, its not a quarter-life crisis. I think John Mayer is just making that up. Maybe I’m just afraid. When I’m done, I’m done. I’ve got nothing familiar to go back to next semester. Everything that I can possibly do in this chapter of my life has been done and I have to move on. Perhaps what scares me most is the fact that I can’t go back. I’m leaving college. I’m leaving the only thing that I’ve been able to touch, control, and navigate for the last four years of my adult life. Frankly, I think that I’m exceedingly afraid of all the things that lie in store for me. I’m afraid of the possibility that I can’t, even with my education, fulfill what my family, friends, and the world, expects of me. Sounds a little melodramatic, right? Well, isn’t it all very likely that I’m just quite horrified by the fact that I have to live a real life? I don’t think that’s melodramatic. I think that I’m a coward.

Publication Venues

2008-12-02T23:24:00.000-08:00

*****

Essay: “STUCK”

Publication: Segue Online Literary Journal

Web Address: www.mid.muohio.edu/segue

Subject Matter: A wide range of literary pieces. The journal strives for an eclectic blend of styles, voices, and subjects, while shying away from genre fiction.

Voice: Intimate and reflective.

Form and Artistry: From Fiction, Poetry and Creative Nonfiction. The journal also has a separate section for Writing on Writing.

Audience: The journal strives to have a wide range of readers though it is primarily based within the university classroom.

Purpose: To collect and put together a compilation of literary works with varying subjects, styles, and purpose.

To Submit: The journal only accepts submissions via the email address provided (segue@muohio.edu). One must send their works as an attachment while using the body email as a cover letter. Essay submissions are limited to one work. Previously published works cannot be accepted including “final drafts” on personal websites or blogs.

Reading Dates: August 1- April 30. response time is about 3-4 months. Journal is published annually in August.

Length: Limited to 5,000 words or less.

Pay: None

Running on "Empty" (Blog 19?)

2008-11-23T21:57:00.000-08:00

Disclaimer: Forgive this work. Its messy, and confusing at times because the focus isn't at all clear until the end, if ever it is clear. Like always, questions, suggestions, grievances, and violent reactions are welcomed.

For the last four years, give or take a few months, a big chunk of my time has been spent stuck sitting on the ever-menacing plastic with which college classroom desk chairs are made. Fine, not all classroom chairs I’ve encountered in college were plastic, some were metal, and others were made from wood. Fact of the matter is, I’ve had my behind on one of these chairs for a long time. It’s an incredible feat really, given that I’ve only lived for a little over twenty-one years. I’m not going to do the math for you on that one, I’m a historian by training and I don’t do those things. Trust me, you wouldn’t want me to anyway. I don’t even remember the first time I actually encountered such four-legged entities. All I know is that it wasn’t even in the same country; you can only imagine the variety of desk chairs I’ve sat on.

I finished high school in the Philippines, the land of Pansit, Lechon, and about eighty million Hispanic-Asians. Trust me, had I placed a picture of myself with this essay, you’d see what I mean. With the risk of going mildly off-topic, the explanation for all of this confusion is that the Philippines is a hodgepodge of Chinese, Malay, and Spanish cultures, hence my Asian features and a very Spanish name. For us back in the Philippines, college was the obvious next step after you graduate high school, none of that taking a year off scenario that some “western” kids go through. But unlike some of the people I knew, I was quite looking forward to college. I had gotten tired and bored with high school. It was the same old subjects every day with mind-numbing intensity. My only respite being the mandatory, school and government sanctioned, military training that high-school students went through in the Philippines. At least then we got to move around and, at times, shout orders. I couldn’t wait for a change of environment.

The two years of college I spent in the Philippines was full of ups and downs, overflowing with experiences, some I would like to forget, others I’d treasure forever. I incurred the wrath of my parents’ anger several times for things I should not have done, like smoking, drinking, staying out late. I also did some things of questionable legality (at least under Philippine law), some of which my parents learned of and was punished accordingly. On the other hand, there were good things about those two years. I met some of my most significant friends in those two years, people that I can count on, trust my life with. I also learned to love someone (or at least I think so) and I learned what kind of person I was looking for in my life (kind of). I also learned to appreciate people for who they are and not for what people say they are. In essence, I grew up in those two years, more than anyone could ever imagine.

On the advent of my junior year, I moved to the United States, to New Jersey to be precise. Why? I really can’t say why, at least for now. It would require a whole other essay, a very boring one at that. Let’s just say I moved for the opportunities that were in store for me in the United States. I enrolled myself in a small university, only half-an-hour away from New York City. The change was incredible, new country, new school, new people. I was forced into a crash course in the American system college education. Instead of the 24-27 college I was used to taking per semester, I was literally only obliged to take 12 credits per semester to maintain a full-time status. It was incredible! I couldn’t believe all the free time I had. I spent the first two months of my first American college semester bumming around the town I moved into, walking through parks, hanging out (although by myself). It was fun for a while, but things got old pretty quick when you’ve got nobody to share it with.

By around October of that fall semester, I found myself an on-campus job. It didn’t pay much, but eight dollars an hour then wasn’t something you’d scoff at, and at least it was at school. I got along with my co-workers quite well, perhaps because of my willingness to be at work. They didn’t know that I just couldn’t stand being alone. As funny as it sounds, though my academics kept me busy and intellectually hungry, it was this job that I though of as a safe-haven. I didn’t expect that I would meet the kind of friends I had met years ago back home working for the school rather than in my classes, as was the case in the Philippines.

I never consumed myself in the college life that movies and television glorify. Sure, I’ve enjoyed some of its benefits, like crazy college parties filled with stupid, reckless abandon that would rival any rave. But that was rather rare for me. Sure, I had my fun with friends, crashing at some of their houses (apartments) more out of necessity than convenience. But now, more than ever, I pride myself with the academic work I’ve put forward. Perhaps it has something to do with all that growing up I did in Manila, perhaps it’s the tangibility of my future has brought me to embrace my current duty. I don’t know. But this life, this college life, from two different worlds, was my sanctuary. Its something I know, something I can navigate.

Now, I’m at my final semester. I can clearly see the seducing finish line, with all its promises for the future. The idea of finally living in the real world, finding a real job, moving and living in a real place, was right over that hill. I could smell it, I could almost touch it. But as I run towards it, with all the energy and excitement I thought I had, I sputtered. I stumbled. I stopped. All of a sudden, I’m exhausted. There’s an imposing letter “E” flashing on my internal dashboard. I hadn’t noticed that before, I must have been running on low for a while now. It’s a wonder that I can actually type these words on my beaten-up computer and its struggling word processor. But here I am, spewing the last few gasps of coherent thought to who ever might read this. I’m only a few weeks short of finishing this all out, finally leaving college and going for the next step and suddenly I’m stuck.

Its possible that I’ve completely exhausted myself. Looking back, it hasn’t exactly been an easy four years. I’ve been sleep deprived for about four years, averaging a solid four to five hours per weekday. Some days I get less. You’re not a college student if you’ve never pulled an all-nighter, I’ve had a few of those. I’ve read thousands upon thousands of pages, whether it be historical texts, literature, or the occasional writing manuals that told me how to write certain things. I’ve written countless pages of material for courses. The quality varied from totally made-up from the thinking throne (ie the toilet) to graduate level works. Within all of this, other things have occurred. I’ve moved several times (moved from a country once, moved from houses twice), lugging my belongings through long trips. I’ve lost a few friends and gained a few others (this too is tiring, let me tell you). I’ve even fallen in love and had my heart broken (the latter happened twice). Its been a crazy four years. But I don’t think that’s it. At least that’s not all of it.

Its not merely exhaustion that’s led me into this emptiness. I’ve worked through so much with great fatigue and I don’t believe that I’m in this rut because of it. It has to be something else. Perhaps it’s the one thing that I haven’t considered so far. Maybe I’m just afraid, afraid of all the things that lie in store for me. Afraid of the promise of a real world. Afraid because, soon enough, I wouldn’t have the safety-net that college provided. Afraid because it’s the soon enough, there’s no turning back.

The Nagging Question of Essay 4 (Blog 18?)

2008-11-19T10:06:00.000-08:00

I've gotten some great suggestions from my fellow colleagues, and I really appreciate them all. I've got several avenues to choose from, and I think all of them are viable essays, not unlike the failed attempt in essay 3. Liz and Nicole suggested to write about getting over this "hump" of getting through this (this being writting another essay, or probbably more about finishing out college). They (i think) they both touched on one of the topics I was seriously thinking of writing about, this whole emptiness and "uninspiredness" after 21 years of life... I think theres something there... i"ll have to write it out.

Angela also provided me with some insight of things I can write about work, school, etc. I was trying to figure out what to write about so I had try it out...

Heres a brief sample, this may or may not be part of the essay:

Where I work there’s a decent sized room that’s hidden from the hustle and bustle of our front office. It never gets contaminated by the drama of irate customers or the numbing sensation of a slow day. It’s a white rectangular room, decorated with marks of countless hours of office-recreation on the walls. Three of its four walls each have a door that leads out to other places, but they really only lead to more work, hence it’s not important. The fourth wall has two large, rectangular windows that make available to those inside the room a view of the incessant flux of the world outside. In spring, the windows are a vehicle for temptation, to go outside and bask in the life that nature brings. In autumn, it echoes the fiery heat of summer through the colors of the soon to be falling leaves, while heralding the coming of winter with its strong, cold breeze. Apart from the doors, the windows, and the single water cooler, the rest of the walls were covered by two rows of lockers. In the middle of the room are three long tables, each with enough space to be actually occupied in all directions. Around these tables are chairs that disappear and reappear in random fashion. There’s nothing extremely inviting about the room, perhaps the only reason for it is its isolation from the drudgery of work. Anytime one’s on break, its in this room you can find them, sitting on a chair, chatting with others, whether they were on the clock or not. It’s a sanctuary of sorts, where deep conversations are often had, regardless of the audience that may or may not walk in through the door. It’s a haven for people who just need to talk, there’s always someone there.

Essay 4 Ideas

2008-11-17T11:20:00.000-08:00

Its nearly the end of the semester and I'm seriously running on fumes by this point. I didn't realize that the semester was gonna be so tough. Senioritis plus paper-intensive classes have driven me crazy. In any case, the reason for the previous explanation is this, I have no idea what to write about. Perhaps I've exhausted all my material, or maybe, I'm just exhausted, period.

Maybe I can write about this entire semester. How I can see the finish line but I'm slowly running out gas.

Perhaps I can write about the CAS lunch room. There are so many things that go on in that room. I have no clue.

Camera

2008-11-16T22:39:00.000-08:00

Disclaimer: I realize that this is somewhat short, but this is where I stopped. I can't seem to squeeze anything out for now. Hopefully this will suffice. In any case, as always, reactions, grievances, and violent reactions are appreciated.

The background shows a grayish lake. The ripples on the water show signs of the passing wind that was blowing that day. It makes the water look like wiggling gelatin. My niece would have liked that. The lake is bordered by grassy banks that were presumably manmade. On the far bank of the lake is small field with trees the mark out its boundaries. Some trees have already shed their leaves, while others still have them, clinging on to their branches. In the foreground is a bench. It occupies the right-half of the photograph. The bench’s edges jump out from the relative grayness of the grass on the ground. On the bench are two figures, one male and one female. They both have white baseball caps on. The woman’s medium length hair pops out of the space between the cap adjustor and the rest of the cap. She has her head turned to the right, as if saying something to her partner. I wonder what it was she said. I’m sure it’s better than what I can think of. The man has his left arm around her. They look content, though I really can’t see their faces. I felt happy when I took the photograph. Perhaps they were happy too. I didn’t ask. How could I? It’s not like I knew them. But that doesn’t really matter. The question I’m dying to answer is this: Why did I take this photograph?

I have a camera. So I take photographs. No, not your typical digital photographs but your archaic, black and white, printed from film, photographs. It’s a tedious task, developing film. There’s a long list of procedures that range from pouring chemicals to washing the film in a special water-flowing canister. It’s almost mundane, perhaps the only thing that keeps me going is the end result, a developed roll of film. The unfurled roll of film would have to spend sometime in a drying cabinet. The wait is almost unbearable, I’m always anxious to see what I was able to immortalize in film. However, enlarging and making prints from the developed film is just as tedious. Gauging how long the enlarger should expose the expensive photographic paper requires so much attention that one can spend a good half hour fiddling with test strips. Even then, there’s no guarantee you’d end up with a print worth keeping. Despite all of these, I keep coming back, even if my hands are dry from all the chemicals I touch, even if my eyes complain every time I move in and out of the dark room. It’s tedious, laborious, and at times frustrating, but I keep coming back, I keep taking photographs.

I realize that this doesn’t answer the question. It didn’t mean to, at least not yet.

Photography is a wonderful media for capturing memories. Family gatherings are never complete without somebody whipping out an old photo album while reminiscing about the good old days. But I rarely take that kind of photos, at least not with my film camera. It’s always been a little bit of an artsy relationship I have with my Nikon FM10. The good ones that come out are better suited in a gallery than in a family album (although I don’t think it should be in a gallery, it’s not good enough, it’s just the kind of photographs I take). Perhaps one may call it art. I call it therapy, but what do I know? In any case, if it is art then maybe the old saying “art imitates life” may be applicable in answering my query. But as I look at the “Bench” photograph, I think, there’s nothing in my life that the whole composition imitates. It is easier for me to conceive that I take photographs, especially the “Bench” kind of photographs, only because I can take such photographs.

However, there might be a whole different “imitation of life” aspect in this photograph. Sure, it’s not an imitation of my life, but who’s to say it can’t be an imitation of a life I want. At the risk of sounding voyeuristic, perhaps I vicariously live off from the photographs that I take. I re-examine the photograph and I find an eerie speck of sadness to the whole composition. Perhaps it’s because of its black and white nature. It’s very possible that the couple themselves were unhappy. Fact of the matter is, under the sweet undertones of a happy couple sitting in the park enjoying an afternoon off, is a tainted view on life.

2008-11-05T10:06:00.000-08:00

Ok. So, like many of our colleagues, I too am not so sure as to what I want to do with this essay just yet. To be frank, I was a little too preoccupied in finishing my final draft for essay 1, but that's not really an excuse. In any case, I was able to write something out that maybe worth something. Then again, that's not for me to judge. So here it is, and please bear with me. Questions, comments, grievances, and violent reactions are appreciated. :)
-Josemaria

I have a camera. I take photographs. No, not your typical digital photographs but your archaic, black and white, printed from film, photographs. It’s a tedious task, developing film here, enlarging them over there, washing prints somewhere else. It doesn’t help that all of this was done with little or no light. But I enjoy it, despite the dry hands that results from all the chemicals I touch. I enjoy it, despite the constant painful vision adjustment that happen when I move in and out of the darkroom. I enjoy it, despite the fact that when I look at my photographs, it’s not always what I want.

The background shows a grayish lake. The ripples on the water show signs of the passing wind that was blowing that day. It makes the water look like wiggling gelatin. My niece would have liked that. The lake is bordered by grassy banks that were presumably manmade. On the far side of the lake is a blur of trees and lamplights that shade and illuminate visitors respectively. In the foreground, on the near bank of the lake is a bench. And on the bench are two figures, one male and female. He has his arm around her, while her she’s directly looking at him. They look lovely. They look like they’re in love. If you think about the picture, it seems like a happy one. What’s sweeter than spending time with your loved one on a nice afternoon in the park? But that’s not the real question. The question I want to answer is this. Why am I taking that photograph?

An Oversized Sweatshirt, A Green Purse, and A pair of Jeans

2008-11-02T23:06:00.001-08:00

She turns the knob and walks through the door, taking sluggish steps towards one of three long tables in the center of the room. Her blue, oversized sweatshirt engulfs her normally thin figure. Tries desperately to push her sleeves up to her elbows but she struggles in vain as it falls back down the moment she moves. She is carrying on her shoulder a large, dark green, multi textured, leather purse with the edges of a laptop protruding from its opening. The laptop is not the only item in her purse. She reaches in and struggles for a second with her purse, only to pull out her simple, grey, cell-phone. She drops her purse on one of the tables and flips her phone open to receive a call. The cell-phone covers almost all her ear except for the little stud earring that glinted for a very brief second. On her other ear was an identical stud. She smiles and starts to talk to the person on the other end of the line. She sits down on one of the chairs and crosses her legs. Her lightly dyed denim jeans look quite used, with frayed pant legs from months of being stepped on by her shoes.

When was this?

2008-10-29T10:07:00.000-07:00

I just realized recently that little kids (let say aged between infancy and perhaps 7 or 8) have no concept of what life was before digital cameras. A friend of mine, whom I share a black and white photography class with, was taking pictures of her niece as part of her assignment and everytime she took a photo, her little niece would go up to her and pull at the camera to reveal the shot. My friend kindly told her that it was a film camera, instead of the digital ones that their relatives would use. The curious little girl then asked her what film was. Isn't that cute? I, on the other hand, quite unlike the little girl, grew up using those cameras that needed film to function.

So where is this going?

Well, when I was in middle school, digital cameras were few and often very, very expensive. So when my friends and I would take pictures and have them developed and printed, it was very hard to share them with everybody. One day, I was killing some time on one of those fancy, online, social networks and saw that an old friend from middle school posted a picture that: a) i don't have a copy of, b)i don't remember where it was taken, and c) i dont remember why it was taken. It was a poorly scanned photo of about 20 of my classmates and I, possibly in a part of sorts. I'm at the very back, holding up another kid about 2 feet taller than he really was. I don't remember why, and frankly, i can't care less. But what i do care about is what ever happened to that kid. I can't remember his name. His last name is Darden, and his twin brother is David. I think his name was Michael. As far as I know, he's in some college in California. Or was it South America? Michael and I were good friends. Our group always hung-out by the basketball courts. Sometimes we played, most times we just sat and watched. We even set up a soaking booth during our "Spring" fair. We offered our "soaking" hitmen services to anyone who'd give us 4,000 Rupiah (Indonesian currency, I went to middle school there) and we'd bust out the giant supersoakers and buckets of muddy water if anyone gave us 8,000. We had good times, me and Michael.

There's a bunch of other kids around us in that picture. There was Fiona who stuck with me through intermediate and advanced spanish. She was one of the nicest and sincerest girl I met when I lived in Indonesia. Then theres Kat Vassar who, when were in 5th grade, was the most tomboy girl you'd ever want to meet. She was mean too. But when we moved to middle school, we became really good friends. And perhaps we still are... not as good as before but we still talk, which is more than I can say about Shereen. I don't even want to know where she went...

This photo confuses me. But I love it. Its like a class picture that really wasnt. It brings back memories, good and bad. But I least I have something to look back to.

What an Old Wallet Held

2008-10-26T20:43:00.000-07:00

As I sat in my room thinking of where to start for this particular blog, I thought that I would never find anything good in here. As I’ve probably explained to many our colleagues, I’ve only been living in the United States for around two and a half years. I haven’t been able to accumulate a lot of interesting things in my closet so I was a little worried that I won’t have much material to write about. Nevertheless, I soldiered on. And to my surprise, after a very brief run through of my closet, I opened my desk drawer and found a very old wallet. Perhaps it’s not the most interesting object to talk about since everyone has an old wallet. But, this particular brown, knock-off, Levi’s wallet held inside it objects that reminded me of my “wild” days back home.

Conveniently hidden in one of the wallet’s pockets, I found several ripped frontsides of cigarette packs with dates and names of places scribbled on them. One of them, the front of what I think was an imported pack of mentholated Marlboro Lights, survived the couple of years being stuck in my old wallet better than the rest. When I initially saw it, I thought of all the times me and my friends would just sit around in one of the conveniently close bar/restaurants in front of our college while we waited for classes to start. We’d buy a pack of cigarettes, share it with any of us who were there, and boom, instant hunger suppressant and conversation starter. It was such a release for us. I’ve quit smoking since I moved here, partially because of its ridiculous costs but mostly because of health reasons. And I promised some of the most important people in my life that I would. But when I look back at smoking, it’s not the nicotine rush I remember. I remember my friends back home, and all the things we did when we were younger.

The date that I scribbled on that particular "frontside" was 10/16/05-10/19/05. Above it was the word “Laguna” and a special smiley face that I drew. It’s a normal smiley face but with its tongue sticking out. It looks like it was going “pbbttt!” complete with spit. “Laguna” is hard to explain, mostly because I can’t retell half of the things that happened there without risking some embarrassment (and perhaps persecution???). However, what I can say is that it was one of the best times of my life. Sure, it included a lot of imbibing of spirits, and smoking cigarette after cigarette, headaches, and broken chairs, it was three days spent with comrades that I still hold close to my heart. We were young and (quite foolishly and naively) had not a single care in the world. All we cared about was having a good time with good friends. Maria and I (yes Maria from my essay was there) coined this term, “Good friends, good times, good vibes.” It sounds cheesy, sort of like something you’d hear as a beer slogan. But it was our slogan for the rest of the year… maybe even the rest of the time I lived in the Philippines.

On Choosing the Essay

2008-10-21T22:09:00.000-07:00

I think I shared this with a few of our colleagues and perhaps some of my friends, nevertheless I will restate it here. I am choosing my first essay and I don't think that it comes as a surprise to anyone. I decided to work on this particular essay partially because it was somewhat well received. However, the real reason behind my choice was actually borne out of the conversation Dr. Chandler and I had about the piece. It made me realize something that I would never have had I not written about it. I also think that it's very important for me to write it out and to accept it. I will have to revise it significantly and thus it might take some time. Nevertheless, I think it would be extremely worth it, at least for me.

Seasons of Change

2008-10-19T19:43:00.000-07:00

Disclaimer: As I was writing this piece, I totally got myself lost. I ended up wanting to write about a particular thing or another and I lost focus. I think this will be evident in my writing so I'm sorry. The end result is something I'm not happy with but its something. Please bear with me on this. Pardon the length as well. As I was reading this over, i realized that maybe this topic was a little to broad. In any case, please don't hesitate to share with me your comments, questions, violent reactions and grievances.

-Jose

Spring

The airport was busy, full of people rushing to and fro, arriving then departing. I looked at their faces longingly, hoping I’d recognize somebody. I’ve traveled enough to know that it’s a misleadingly small world that we live in. This world is so small that the gentleman who sat beside me during our flight happened to be the son of my uncle’s patient (my uncle is a neurologist). It was hard to keep up with the bustle of the airport, and it didn’t help that I just went through an18 hour flight (not counting layovers). I kept looking. But, what once was such a plausible idea, became nothing but a fleeting hypothesis. As I was waiting in front of an eerily motionless baggage carousel, I realized that this was a new world, nothing like what I have known for most of my life.

My parents and I moved into my aunt’s large, suburban, house almost right after our arrival. It wasn’t too insufferable; all we had were the clothes in our luggage, and perhaps some books that I had packed. I slept on a futon in my aunt’s basement/rec-room, while my parents slept in the guest room. The first few weeks was a blur, jet-lag wasn’t very pleasant to me. I’d be asleep in the afternoon, and then be awake during the wee hours of the night. But it did not bother me too much. As I looked outside, with the green leaves and the blossoming flowers of my aunt’s garden, I knew I could start over. This is not to say that I didn’t miss my old life; the friends I made back home were, and still are, an important part of my life. The family I left back home, my brother, my two sisters, my nieces and nephews, were, and still are, in my thoughts always. However, I saw an opportunity here. Other than my parents and certain relatives, nobody knew me here. I could recreate myself. I could make myself anew.

Summer

Summer, in many respects, is a continuation of spring. The trees were alive, swaying in unison with the summer wind. The little squirrels that moved around from tree to tree (sometimes garbage cans to garbage cans) with the same reckless abandon they exhibited months before. Moreover, I was still the same. I was the same 18 year old, filled with excitement and hope, thinking that this massive change would bring about something so profound. I might have been described as naïve, but I felt undeniably strong about a new life. I did not know what to expect, but I couldn’t care, much like the squirrels that ran around.

Part of this change was transferring to a new university. I decided to attend a school that was good 30 minutes away from my aunt’s suburbs. Being that I did not have a car to drive to school, I needed to find a place near my new university. That particular August, I turned 19. I still lived with my aunt, as my apartment was still unfurnished. I remember my mom, my aunt, another aunt, and my cousin going shopping the day I turned 19. They didn’t tell me where they were going when I asked. I didn’t really want to go with them. I was just being nosy. Nevertheless, they came back with a microwave, rice cooker, toaster, coffee maker, and other things that would complete an empty apartment. My aunt had thought that this would be the perfect present for the soon to be “independent” 19 year old. She was right. I tried valiantly to hold back my tears, and for the most part it worked. I moved in to my new apartment shortly afterwards. Things seemed to be moving at the speed of light and the only thing I could think of was the excitement it all brought. In less than six months, I had moved from one country to another, from one university to another, from a house to a one bedroom apartment, and now I was, virtually, on my own.

Autumn

Autumn is, at times, a very confusing season. The often yellow or fiery-colored leaves that mark the arrival of autumn almost always bring awe to those who see them. We admire its beauty no matter the reason behind the change. It is ironic how we only appreciate the beauty of the leaves when they are about to die. As the season progresses, the cold winds of the north start to consume us, the average temperature drops, and things start to die. It is as if nature gives us one last burst of life in the fiery-colored leaves then it takes it away from us by letting them fall.

The semester had started smoothly. I had found the perfect balance between school and taking care of my newfound responsibilities. I enjoyed my classes, although I thought them to be rather easy. I found myself a part time job that I rather enjoyed. I also found myself occupying my time with trying to cook edible food on a stove that, perhaps, was probably older than I am. I had the somewhat empowering responsibility of paying the rent, even though my father would transfer the necessary funds from his account to mine. I felt that I was my own man, at least as much as a partially employed 19 year old can feel. Like the fiery leaves of autumn, I was full of life and passion.

But as the temperature descended, so did I. Week after week of coming home to an empty apartment was becoming unbearable. It didn’t help that my parents, who were still living with my aunt, went back home in November. Coming from a large and close-knit family, I was used to always having somebody at home. When I’d enter the house, one of my siblings would always be plopped on the couch, or doing something in their rooms. Sometimes I’d be welcomed by one of my nieces or nephews, with their nanny trying desperately to catch up behind them. I had none of this here. To make matters worse, I couldn’t find the same support system friend-wise that I had back home. All of a sudden, I was hit with a homesickness that I have never felt before. I tried to placate my emptiness by being busy, but there’s only so much you can do by yourself until you run out of ideas. One particular night, I was watching a sitcom that I would normally pass over under ordinary circumstances. The sitcom was relatively well written and it was witty enough for my attention, at least for that night. Someone in the show had cracked a borderline joke and I found myself laughing hysterically. I was laughing, on my own. As soon as I had realized that, I stopped. I shuddered. I thought for a second that I had lost my mind (or at least starting to). I was as alone as I could ever be and I was terrified. Not because I was afraid of the dangers outside or afraid of the dark. I was terrified merely for the fact that I thought that I was slowly losing the only grip I had on my sanity.

Christmas

Needless to say, with all the troubles of autumn affecting every aspect of my being, the semester did not end to my liking. I had let some of my classes slip through my fingers. Had I continued the way I started the semester, I would have earned the highest marks I’ve ever had. Instead, I received grades that were almost identical to the ones I use to get back home. So much for reinventing myself academically. However, there was a respite to my despair. Even before the semester had started, I had made plans of going home for Christmas. Not only was all my family there, so were my friends. In April, I would never have thought of saying this, but I needed to go home. I needed to recharge. And so I left a snowless December for the warm climates of home. I barely made it home for Christmas, given that I had left on the 23^rd of December for a trip that took a whole day plus the change in time zones. I was home, and all was right in the world, at least for a while. My family welcomed me joyously and lovingly. I was home, I was happy. My family hadn’t changed and what a great relief it was to see that. I couldn’t say the same for my friends. I realized that, in the months that I was away, everyone had moved on. Sure, my friends were very happy to see me. They each professed how much they missed me between toasts of beer, whiskey, or whatever it was we were drinking on a particular night. We spent countless hours catching up and re-catching up with those that I was able to maintain contact through the year. However, in essence, their lives no longer included me. They’ve moved on, I should have too.

Winter

Winter brings no comfort to me, at least not then. I arrived back from home in January, before the spring semester started. I had left my home twice in less than a year. I was heartbroken to say the least. I don’t know what it was that made me come back. Perhaps it was the pressure that I put on myself, being the only one of my siblings able to live here. Perhaps it’s because I have to repay my parents somehow for all the love and support they’ve given me. Nevertheless, here I was in the dead cold of January, and I still had not reestablished my grip on my sanity.

All of this crazy depression started to change. I don’t exactly remember what day or month it was when it started to look up. All I know was that it was incomprehensibly cold. Perhaps it was late January, maybe early February. But what I do remember vividly is the feeling of realization that I felt when I woke up one winter morning. The night before was significantly dead. It hadn’t snowed yet that winter and the leafless trees outside swayed their eerie branches in motion with the cold northern wind. It really wasn’t a lot of swaying, actually. Trees rarely seemed to sway when they are without their leaves. But you could see the pokey branches moving in the wind. I looked outside my window and saw the cold, hard ground. Well, I couldn’t really tell, but I knew it was hard. It didn’t help that the green grass that once brimmed with life had eventually turned brown. The grass was dead. Everything was dead. So I went to sleep, perhaps also, almost dead. I woke up the next morning, thinking it would be just like another dead day, like the dead night that preceded it. I pulled the curtains apart, expecting the same desolate wasteland of a cold winter day that I had left the night before. But instead of this, as I pulled the curtains apart, I was blinded by the whiteness of the outside world. Apparently, it had snowed while I was asleep. It was still snowing when I awoke. The snow covered almost everything. It was like this crystalline blanket had smothered the deadness of the season. For the first time in a long time, I smiled a genuine, spontaneous, smile. For a while, just like it was back home, everything was right in the world.

Spring

The snow melted away and with it went the deadness of winter. Spring started to sneak back in. I have to say, it was nothing like my first spring. My first spring was filled with anticipation, excitement, and hope. I was young and naïve, but it only took one year to change that. Sure, hope is always something I hold on to since without it I might as well be dead. But now, I knew what to expect. I knew what I needed to do. I had to stop living in my past, thinking that I could always go back. But my friends showed me that I couldn’t. I’ve gone a different path. And I can’t be lazy about it like I was my entire first year. I can’t just wait for the change to come to me because it won’t. I shouldn’t just sit there and my world change without me. If I wanted to survive, if I wanted to retain my sanity, if I wanted to grow up, I had to change myself. I had to adapt to this new world because god knows it won’t adapt to me.

Input Output: What do I do?

2008-10-15T11:53:00.000-07:00

Ok. I've read all of the very generous comments and I see a common trend. People want to hear about that time I moved to Indonesia. Well, I feel the same way Camille does, it was so long ago that I wont be able to remember everything so clearly. However, I will eventually write an essay about it but it would need more time. Perhaps one of the later essays? We'll see. In any case, I see what Dan was saying about how coming the moving to the US story is but thats not really the point of my essay. I'm talking about rebirth and a new start. Perhaps I should not mention what country I move to, I think I can pull that off, we'll see. I think I'm pretty set. I know how the structure is gonna be, I just need to figure out the transitions. I still have to refine the particular scenes that I can remember, but they may have to be composite scenes. Don't worry, I'll let you know. PLEASE let me know if theres anything else I can do.

About the Second Essay

2008-10-14T21:20:00.000-07:00

If there was something that changed me significantly, it was moving here to the United States. It’s not like it was the first time I ever moved to a different place. When I was around 10 years old, I moved from my family’s little duplex house in Quezon City, Philippines, and settled in Jakarta, Indonesia. Sure, most of the locals looked almost like the people I saw at home the only differences being that they were predominantly Muslim rather than Christian and that they spoke Bahasa Indonesia rather than some form of Filipino. However, it was attending an impressively diverse international school that really changed me. In fact, the changes it produced in me are still evident today. If anyone’s ever wondered about my accent (or lack thereof), its formation (or lack thereof) came about from how I had to adjust my speech patterns so that my mostly Caucasian teachers would understand me. Nevertheless, this whole moving to Indonesia thing is somewhat of a unique (perhaps obscure) experience therefore it might not reach as broad an audience as I’d want it to. Sure, it would make a fascinating story (maybe) but perhaps it is much more relevant to talk about my move here to the United States since it is, in this day age, quite common to find young immigrants starting anew in America.

During one of the many class discussions we’ve had since we started the semester, we spoke about the different structures of creative nonfiction pieces and one of them definitely caught my eye. Some creative nonfiction pieces were formed using some sort of pattern. I’ve forgotten some of the examples we threw in our discussion but I distinctly remember talking about the possibility of a piece that would work using the changing seasons as a pattern. I think writing about my move, and the subsequent “growing up/rebirth” thing I had to go through after the move in a “seasonal” manner would be quite interesting. I’ve already picked out a few scenes from my experience that could work within the specific seasons. I’m not sure if the whole entire piece would workout but I’ll give it a shot.

BONUS: A little bit of writing for the second essay… it’s really a ROUGH draft this probably won’t even look the same after I do the “final” rough draft.

Winter

I don’t exactly remember what day it was, or what month it was exactly. All I know was that it was incomprehensibly cold. Perhaps it was late January, maybe early February. But what I do remember vividly is the feeling of realization that I felt waking up one cold, winter morning. The night before was significantly dead. It hadn’t snowed yet that winter and leafless (lifeless) trees swayed their eerie branches by virtue of the northern wind. It really wasn’t a lot of swaying. Trees rarely seemed to sway without their leaves. But you could see the pokey branches moving in the wind. Looking outside my window, I can see that the ground was hard. Well, I couldn’t really tell, but I knew it was. It didn’t help that the green grass that had brought me some joy in the spring time had eventually turned brown. It was dead. Everything was dead. So I went to sleep, perhaps, almost dead as well. I woke up the next morning, thinking it would be just like another dead day, like the dead night that preceded it. I pulled the curtains apart, expecting the same desolate wasteland (very dramatic huh?) I had left the night before. But instead of this, as I pulled the curtains apart, I saw white… just white. Apparently, it had snowed while I was asleep. It was still snowing when I awoke. How beautiful it was to see such whiteness covering the deadness of a snowless winter. As I looked on in amazement, and perhaps with a little bit of relief, I couldn’t help but think that the snow was, in fact, erasing away all the deadness and desolation of the previous months. It was giving me a clean slate. It was giving me hope that once the snow melts (metaphorically) spring gives me a new life.

About "A Good Friend"

2008-10-08T09:31:00.001-07:00

Contrary to what my friends believe, writing does not come easy to me. I slave for hours just so I can produce something that doesn't look like some delirious madman's graffiti on the walls of a subway station. So as you can imagine, this little essay was the fruit of a somewhat laborious and insane amount of revision after revision. And if you've read what I've written then you can tell that it really wasn't successful (at least I don't think so). In any case, I do think that there are a few things that worked well in the essay. I was trying to connect with a general audience with my essay and its informal way of retelling perhaps helps that. I also think that by sectioning some of the paragraphs off that it allows the reader to attain an easy grasp of the piece. According to some very generous comments by two of our peers, its easy to relate to my "story" and that leaves me quite relieved (at least somebody felt that it was relevant! Success!).

However, I still think that there's a lot to be done with this piece. I feel like I should only talk about either Andrea or Maria, not both. And Liz brought up a good point about the Scrubs mention in the piece. I need to condense the intro because i don't want to make the essay seem like a piece on how TV shows are real. Basically, I need to use the Scrubs analogy properly as an intro device. I also need to work on presenting Maria and Andrea better. I feel like i haven't said enough about them (or said the right things about them) that can emulate the same things i think about when i think of them (ok i don't know if that sentence made sense but do you see where I'm getting at?)

My second essay is entirely different, I think. It's gonna be patterned essay that will actually go in a circle. I hope that works...

A Good Friend

2008-10-05T21:48:00.000-07:00

Somebody once told me that a successful TV show, whether it is a sit-com, soap opera, or serious drama, is based on how it imitates real life. I was a little skeptical about what that person said but as I thought about it more I somewhat agree with him. Please take note; it’s not about how accurately they imitate the everyday mundane things in life but rather how it portrays real things relative to the people who watch it. In a sense, it’s how well they tell lies to impart to us certain truths. Case in point: I was watching an episode of a particular show (It’s called Scrubs, I think. It was a hospital sit-rom-com) when it suddenly hit me how real this fictional TV series was (at least this particular episode). The episode revolved around the male protagonist’s efforts in attaining the affections of a female coworker that he had befriended. I can’t really remember much of the details except the concluding scenes of the episode. For some reason or the other, the male protagonist fails in his mission and finds himself in what commonly is known as the “friend zone.” The protagonist, with his overactive imagination, daydreams about a room filled of guys who, at one point or another, had feelings for this particular female co-worker. He shudders at the fact that he was there in that room, but the scene suddenly cuts back to reality. The protagonist was standing in front of the coworker. She said something about needing a friend to talk to and, even though he was still reeling from the fact that he’s only a friend, he obliges to her request. As the credits rolled, I just sat there. I knew exactly what he felt. It was real, at least to me.

***

Almost 5 years ago…

Her name was Andrea (not her real name).We met when we were relatively young. We were just college freshmen when i first took notice of her. We had the same classes, the same major, and identical writing instruments (Parker ballpoint pens). But that’s not all we had in common. We both grew up in a country other than our own. We both lived in Singapore (not the real country) for a good part of our youths. In fact, we lived in the same neighborhood, on the same street even (we didn’t find out till college). We were/are “third culture kids,” as the sociologist Ruth Hill Useem would call kids who grew up outside his or her native country. Being as such, we had the same “liberal” world views. We became fast friends. We already knew some of the same people but we also had this wacky ability to make the exact same friends outside of own circles. We hung out often: coffee here, dinner there, party elsewhere. We were inseparable. We’d laugh at secret jokes, we’d nod at secret glances, and we’d cry secret tears. We had such a relationship that the term “friends” would do disservice to it. It didn’t take long till I realized that I have profound feelings for Andrea. At first it was this soft whisper in the back of my head that kept telling me that she’s the one. Soon, it was a screaming raving lunatic in my head that kept yelling she’s the one.

One particular night, after a long day studying Homer, Classical Mythology, and Roman Architecture, my phone rang. It was Andrea. It wasn’t really out of the blue. It was her habit to call me when she had nothing else to do. I picked up. We talked. We talked for hours. We talked about things, different things. And just as we were running out of things to say for the night, I thought maybe I should bring something up. Perhaps I could pacify the raving lunatic inside my head. So I asked her, of our “friendship,” of whether we had something special, something uniquely ours and thus something profound. She said a lot of things and nothing at the same time. I’m sure she hadn’t meant to go around in circles. I’m sure she knew what I was talking about in the questions I had asked. And I'm sure that she was one hundred percent sincere by telling me that I was a great friend. A few days later, the words spoken that night were forgotten. We continued to laugh at secret jokes, nod at secret glances, and cry secret tears, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that it wasn’t the same laugh, nod, or tears anymore.

Around 3 years ago…

Her name was Maria (also, not her real name). She was different. We barely had anything in common. Our family backgrounds are so different that the sharp color contrasts in Caravaggio paintings pale in comparison. The extent of our similarity was that we attended the same college and that we knew some of the same people. She was one of those acquaintances that were best described as “a friend of a friend’s.” We were introduced once and perhaps attended the same social gatherings during my freshman year. It took a while before we started saying hi to each other when we crossed paths. We didn’t have a single class together so these intersections were few and far in between. However, as my college life evolved, so did my niche of friends. The people we both knew eventually became the friends that I spent most of my time with, and therefore she became someone who I saw often. Slowly but surely our familiarity with each other grew. We used to be the only two in our assortment of friends that would smoke Lucky Strike Menthols. We’d share a pack of Luckies almost everyday and our breaks consistently involved the two of us smoking instead of eating (it was much cheaper as a hunger suppressant then than it is now). But our relationship was not only about smoking. She had always come to me for advice. Always asked for what I thought about things, asked me what she should do in certain situations. Perhaps it was something about the way I talked that soothed her. She listened to what I had to say, and, for the most part, acted accordingly. The bulk of what she asked me about was how to interpret the men in her life. Being that she was, by this time, a very good friend, and being that she was, and still is, one of the most beautiful women I have ever come to know, I was more than happy to oblige.

Maria talked to me about everything. Sometimes I laughed, sometimes I cringed, and sometimes I was just plain embarrassed. Soon enough, however, I realized that she didn’t have much luck in men. The men she tended to get involved with were ones that either weren’t serious, or men that didn’t now exactly what it is they want with her. So I consoled her, I wiped her tears away, I made her laugh, I made her smile. During one of these conversations (or several conversations), she asked me why I was always there for her. I said something to the effect of: “I can’t stand to see you cry.” It was true, I couldn’t. She was a wonderful and generous woman that unequivocally deserved the full-hearted love and care of man that will not and cannot hurt her. Then she said one of the most remarkable things I’ve ever heard: “Why do I keep meeting the wrong guy? Why couldn’t they be more like you?” I was taken aback. After a few seconds I decided to take a jab at fate and managed to say something like “Well I’m here aren’t I?” It probably wasn’t the smartest thing I’ve ever said but once it leaves your mouth, it’s out there. She said, “It can’t be you because you’re too good for me. You’re such a good friend; I don’t want to ruin it like that.” Perhaps the conversation didn’t exactly go like this. In fact this could be a combination of a series of conversations we’ve had about the subject. But I was fortunate. My little jab at fate didn’t turn her away from me. If it did anything to our relationship, it made it stronger. She was happy with that and that’s what mattered, even though inside, I was empty as I could ever be.

***

Andrea and Maria weren’t the only ones that could never see past “friends” when it came to me. I could list a few more names but Andrea and Maria were the most significant of these by far. Individually, they are women that I can conceivably settle down with. That, in itself, is saying something about how serious they were for me. Sure, I was in college when I met them but that doesn’t make it null and void. In fact, it’s in college when you learn to feel these things, at least I think so. But the fact of the matter is, I wasn’t him. What was so different about me? Is it because I’m not somebody who might be asked to model for the J. Crew catalogue? Is it because I’m not a surfer, DJ, artist, or whatever stereotype it is that stereotyped women fall for? Is it because I drop everything whenever I thought they were in trouble or needed my shoulder. Is it because I care? I don’t know, I can’t answer that. Only they can, and they care way too much about me to ever let me know the truth. The deal is this: they both wanted what I was; a decent (if not good) guy who’d listen, love, and care but they didn’t want me, specifically. Almost 5 years ago, I loved Andrea. Around 3 years ago, I loved Maria. They too loved me, but not like that.

I would like to think that some of you who are reading this might be thinking that I should just forget about them, that it’s their loss and that I should move on. I appreciate it, really, I do. And for the most part, I have moved on. I’ve dated other people; I’ve even taken a shot at a real “relationship” with someone who I thought I really loved. But there’s one thing that lingers inside my heart (or hypothalamus) that I have no answers for.

I have, over the course of almost 5 years, built strong and lasting relationships with both Andrea and Maria. They are, at least now, good as kin to me, as much as any of my closest and dearest friends would be. However, just as strong as my relationship is with these two, I share almost (but not quite) the same amount of regret over it. The relationships I have with both Andrea and Maria are ones that I profoundly and genuinely treasure but they’re relationships that I had not originally wanted. I could never tell them this because it would hurt them, and I can’t stand for that. But because I can’t stand to see them hurt, I’d rather be the one in pain. It’s rough. And it’s tough. Why? Well because it’s the kind of hurt that doesn’t go away; the kind of chronic pain that doesn’t immobilize you but is sore nonetheless; the kind of wound that isn’t lethal but injures your soul. With the risk of sounding ultra self-seeking, I wanted something else. I needed something else. How does one live in constant and simultaneous love and regret for someone. I don’t know. But I’m alive aren’t I? Or at least I think so. Nevertheless, I can’t burn the bridges I’ve made with Andrea and Maria. I can’t turn my backs on friends, especially the kinds of friends Andrea and Maria are. I can do that because it would go against the very simple morals and values that I live by and if I, even for just a little bit, lose sight of that, I’d lose everything.

"Truthness"

2008-09-30T21:44:00.000-07:00

The “Truth”, as a term, is quite complicated. We’ve all been brought to believe that truth is an absolute fact and thus it is the same in every situation or condition. I remember high school logic class:
T and T = T
F and F = F
T and F = F
…
It drove me crazy! (Does that mean I’m an illogical person? I think not.)A true statement and another true statement, when put together, always generate a true conclusion. Fine, that makes sense. But on the other hand, who decided whether those statements were true? By this virtue, we can ascertain that truth is rather a subjective rather than an objective matter (and thus its definition is also). What could be true to me is not always true to you, and what is true for her is not always true for him. So when asked about what the “truth” is in O’brien’s “How to tell a True War Story” it is rather difficult to provide a concise answer. In any case, my attempt to answer such question is as follows: The “truth” about telling a true war story is that it is most likely untrue. What I just said contradicted itself right? Well I think that was part of the point O’Brien was trying to make. War is full of contradictions, the biggest of which O’Brien explained quite brilliantly:
At its core, perhaps, war is just another word for death, and yet any
soldier will tell you, if he tells the truth, that proximity to death brings
with it a corresponding proximity to life…you’re never more alive than when
you’re almost dead

Because of the contradictions of war and the confusion it brings us as third party viewers, we tend to analyze it to make sense of it. And because we analyze it, it’s no longer a true war story. Why? Because it’s not what the story did to you but what you got from the story. We always come to the conclusion that war was horrible and to justify its horridness, we insert a certain sense of morality to war. But as O’Brien puts it, war isn’t just hell,

...it’s just the half of it, because war is also mystery and terror and adventure
and courage and discovery and holiness and pity and despair and longing and
love. War is nasty; war is fun. War is thrilling; war is drudgery”. War makes
you a man; war makes you dead.

Readings in Relation to Me and future Writings

2008-09-28T22:12:00.000-07:00

I thought hard and long about skipping this particular entry. I thought, “I can’t rank these readings. I can’t even rank my favorite artists, food, or movies, much less these readings.” But I realized that I was spending way too much time thinking about not writing this entry, so I might as well write the entry since I’m doing the thinking anyway. Therefore, the list I’ve got on my head looks a little bit like this:

Bret Lott’s “Toward a Definition of Creative Nonfiction”

Why? Well it’s simple. Lott’s piece made it conceivably possible for me to figure out (or at least give myself an idea of) what creative nonfiction is. Yes, I had my initial ideas of it before I even signed up for the class and some of those are ideas that I still hold to be true about creative nonfiction, but Lott helped me shape what I think of it now. And, as I am inclined to believe, the “here and now” is important to highlight since I do have to write an essay (or three) that could be conceivably be called creative nonfiction in this day and age. I loved his piece because he describes CNF as a moral cause by saying that it is our responsibility to answer to and for our lives. I’d like to that before I am no longer capable of doing so.

Montaigne’s “That Men Should Not Judge”

I will most probably receive a lot of flak from my peers for admitting such a thing but what can I say? I liked Montaigne’s piece because of exactly what it was. It’s an essay. Yes, it may not exactly be called creative nonfiction but you’ve got to love the “try.” Relying on Lott’s word, Montaigne was the first to call his writings “essais.” They were tries, endeavors, attempts to make sense of things, or, in other cases, to prove a point. This whole thing about trying is what I must do to be able to write something of value.

Danticat, Drummond, Schwartz (and maybe Kinkaid)

I’ve grouped these three together because of a particular theme they have in common (at least I think so) in their writings featured in class. The pieces I have read from these authors have a certain element of “revelation” in them as I have blogged about earlier. This same kind of element is something I’d like to incorporate in my writing. There are a few things that I can think about in my life that was something like a revelation. It’s definitely something I would like to explore.

Orwell’s “Shooting an Elephant”

The reason Orwell is ranked fourth as of the moment is because I really couldn’t decide if it had any real impact on me and what I might write about for my essay. But I liked it enough to rank it by itself, separated from the rank below. In any case, what rather liked from Orwell’s piece is the fact that he was straight forward. He had everything lined up to make a point. It was a deliberate criticism of imperialism. This particular one has a lot more gravity since it is something he directly experienced.

Alexie, Oliver, Thiel, Didion

Not that I didn’t like their respective pieces, its just that it really didn’t affect me as much as the others did as far its relation to what I might write about (But what do I know?)

Jo Ann Beard’s “Out There”

I absolutely enjoyed this piece. But I can’t bring myself to emulate it. I need some sense of order and flow in my writing. Yes, Beard may have some kind of order, but it was incredibly incomplete. And I can’t write in “staccato,” its just not my style.

On Revelations: Looking at Drummond and Danticat

2008-09-23T23:46:00.000-07:00

A revelation is a powerful thing. In Jewish, Christian, and Islamic traditions, a revelation often always came from God and, as such, held great power over the person to which it was revealed and the people he or she chose to share it to. During the Enlightenment, when reason was championed as the supreme truth, revelations also held great power since it came into fruition under one’s own capability and intellect. Hundreds of years later, personal revelations such as these hold the same power over us than that with religious themes. It is such not specifically because we as a society have forgotten our religions and replaced them with secular reason but because it holds much more gravity on us as a whole since it can apply to everyone, not just a believer. Laurie Lynn Drummond’s revelation is one such example.

In Drummond’s narrative piece “Alive,” from the get go, we are submerged into her world of thoughts with an opening paragraph that sets the tone. Her writing reads like a Jo Ann Beard piece with its short bursts of sentences, using simple but evocative language to attract and maintain a reader’s attention. Drummond’s piece narrates her experience in Baton Rouge where she was stalked by someone that we can only assume to be the serial killer she mentions in the first paragraph. Her narrative is incredibly fluid even with the short sentences and gives the reader a sense of continuity with the seemingly chronological depiction of events (I don’t think she could have told the story any other way). In the piece, Drummond was quite successful in translating her fear and paranoia into words in a way that would make it easy for the reader to grasp. However, as one reads through the piece, it is a little difficult to ascertain what Drummond’s motives were for writing down her experience. There was no specific declaration of purpose in any of her paragraphs until the last one. In this paragraph, Drummond connects all the pieces of her narrative and completes the thought in her essay when she finally realized her personal revelation:

“And that’s when I finally get, really get, what I have always known.
Alertness, tolerance, compassion, suspicion: none of it matters.
I am vulnerable simply because I am alive.”

By this virtue, Drummond’s “Alive” is also reminiscent of Mimi Schwartz’s “My Father Always Said” since the structure (though Drummond told the story in a more chronological manner) is quite similar. Both Drummond and Schwartz narrated a story by bits and pieces, pieces that, by themselves, could not stand alone. They both wait until the last paragraph (in Schwartz’s case, last segment) to unfurl the purpose of the essay.

In Edwige Danticat’s “Westbury Court,” the same sense of personal revelation is also present, but perhaps in a less explicit way. Danticat’s piece on growing up in 1980’s Brooklyn takes us through a “traumatic” event in her life in which a fire in her apartment building ravaged her neighbor’s apartment across the hall. The fire was a traumatic event Danticat even though she (and her little brother) was not affected directly by the flames. It was traumatic to her even though those who lived in the apartment that caught on fire were not people she knew (she didn’t even know their names) but she had seen the damage that was done. It was traumatic to her even though she didn’t even know the apartment was on fire until firemen smashed through her door because she was too preoccupied (General Hospital). It was a traumatic event for Danticat because she, in her mind, thought that she could have helped those who perished (two you boys) had she not been entranced by the convoluted plot lines of a popular soap opera. Not only was the fire a traumatic experience for Danticat, but it is also marked the beginning of a cycle of tragic (mildly to severe) events in her neighborhood. In a somewhat chronological way, Danticat lists the tragic events that followed the fire (intertwined with somewhat happy memories of the Parent Brothers). During the same year of the fire, she lost two more neighbors, both to disease and violence. They were also burglarized (her father’s camera was stolen; he never took a photo ever again after the event). A man was also shot and killed right across the street from their apartment. Like Schwartz and Drummond, Danticat writes us a loosely connected set of paragraphs that, on its own, would not stand. And like Schwartz and Drummond, Danticat also waits till the end to unfurl to us her purpose. The last few lines of Danticat’s piece reveals to us, though not quite as explicit as Schwartz’s “My Father Always Said” and Drummond’s “Alive”, her purpose for writing the essay. In my somewhat imaginative mind, (maybe less imaginative, more hallucinatory) perhaps Danticat’s purpose was to reveal to us her revelation: Life is a fragile gift that could, in a moments notice, be taken away by fire, gunshot or disease and because it is so, “sometimes, it is too late to say ‘I shouldn’t have.’”

Mimi Schwartz and What her Father Always Said...

2008-09-21T21:52:00.000-07:00

People who lived through (and associate themselves with) a particular past generation carry a sense of how it was in the “good old days.” More often than not, these people are our parents, grandparents, older relatives or even older siblings (my older brother is 18 years older than I). You’ll always catch people like these saying things that put their generation (or decade, in the case of my brother and sisters) in a higher platform than your own. Lines like “it was better then” or “back in the day, it wasn’t as bad” are always thrown around when these particular people talk about the things that are going on in today’s world. To Mimi Schwartz, her father was one of these who came from a past generation. And in the tradition of those from past generations, Schwartz’s father had a favorite saying, “In Rindheim, you didn’t do such things!” The line is clearly a reflection of how things change through time and Mimi Schwartz, at first, did not understand why this was such a big deal for her father. In her essay “My Father Always Said,” Schwartz explains to us how she had come to terms with her father’s constant comments about how different it was in Rindheim, and in the process, she came to understand her family and even herself.

Schwartz’s essay is subtly separated into six sections. The first section serves as an introduction for the piece. It introduced who she was when she was a teenager and who her dad was then (albeit it was just the tip of the iceberg). She also touched on how things were where she grew up (Forest Hills, Queens). She finishes the introduction by explaining to us that the rest of the piece was to be about her first trip to Rindheim with her father and mother.

The second section deals with her initial impressions of Rindheim. She expressively remembers how different the town was to cities like Stuttgart where her mother was from. The section also tells us a little bit of what Schwartz’ father did as a young man in his old town. The rest of the section deals with how different Rindheim has become in 1993 than the Rindheim she remembers in 1953. However, I believe that the point of the section is the comparison that we get between the life of Schwartz’s father as young man and her young life in America.

The third section goes more into the old synagogue that her father had brought Schwartz and her mother to. Schwartz, being a young and curious girl, asked her father if they were going to go inside the temple. Her father explains that the synagogue was merely a shell of its former self as it was “gutted by fire during kristallnacht.” Not knowing what it was, she asked her father and received an answer that she really wasn’t expecting. The section shows us that the teenage version of Schwartz was beginning to understand a little but more of her history and heritage. It also explained the anxiety her father had about visiting certain places in Rindheim (his old house and the synagogue). Despite the fact that her father’s catch phrase was “In Rindheim, you didn’t do such things,” Schwartz’s father had many stories about Rindheim better left untouched. Schwartz’s father left in 1933, before things became really bad in Rindheim. But a lot of Rindheim Jews did not leave until kristallnacht. The idyllic town was certainly not isolated from the evils brought upon by Nazi Germany.

The fourth section was a little less somber than the previous one. The relatively short section deals with Schwartz’s parents as they told her a few stories from their youth. Schwartz reiterates the fact that life in Rindheim was very different for her father than her life in Queens. She marvels at the fact that her father’s school was not separated by age but rather by religion. But she does feel some comfort in knowing that they all got along. She also receives some comfort from the fact that her mother and father did have some fun when they young.

The fifth section sees a return to somberness. The section is about her visit to the Jewish cemetery in which a lot of her relatives were buried. In actuality, the initial purpose of this trip was to visit their relatives rather than visiting Schwartz’s father’s hometown. Schwartz explains that as much as she tried, she couldn’t put faces to the relatives (especially grandparents) she had never met but essentially she also lost. All she could think of were the grandparents she did know, her maternal grandparents (I assume) who lived three blocks away from their house in Queens. Even when the real tragedy and sadness of the cemetery is explained by her father by describing what happened to tante Rosa, teenaged Schwartz thought it to be not so bad since they were people that she did not know (the existence of tante Rosa was only made known to her when they visited the cemetery).

The sixth section ties all the other sections together. In this section, Schwartz explains how she’s finally accepted her father’s signature line, how it gave her a sense of her own history and sense of legitimacy. However, after the trip, she realized that her father had changed. He no longer said his often repeated line; in its place was a happier one that goes “Smile, Smile! You are a lucky girl to be here!” Although she doesn’t say it quite explicitly, the last paragraph of the section explains to us that her father, during their trip, was able to find some sort of closure that let him let go of Rindheim.

Schwartz writes the piece in a rather exquisite manner. It is quite reflective, like most of the creative nonfiction works I have read thus far. But, perhaps, the main difference lies in Schwartz’s ability to write seemingly disconnected (they were in a way disconnected despite it being about the same trip) sections and brining it all together in the end. It’s as if each sections were like separate pieces of colorful beads. By itself, they are pleasant to read but they lack a beginning and an ending and thus it seems like they are floating (perhaps the first section doesn’t suffer so much from this since it was essentially a “beginning”). However, the last section is like the string that goes through the beads and makes the entire ensemble into a necklace (or bracelet). The gaps in between the sections serve like bookends for the several snippets of Schwartz’s memories of her first trip to Rindheim. The gaps are like smaller, plain beads that emphasize the difference between other beads, making them standout.

On Montaigne and Orwell

2008-09-16T21:48:00.000-07:00

Heraclitus, an incredibly smart (and obviously very observant) scholar who lived in the 5^th century BC, once said that “there is nothing permanent except change.” A millennium and half after his death, you don’t have to be a rocket scientist, geophysicist, or Mensa member to realize that Heraclitus’ observation is still true. Everything and everyone, at some point or another, no matter what one does, is subject to change. Creative Nonfiction, like everything else in this world, is also subject to change. In a previous reading, the essayist Bret Lott mentioned that Michel de Montaigne, the 16^th century French statesman and writer, was the forerunner, if not the inventor, of Creative Nonfiction. But after reading Montaigne’s “That Men Should Not Judge of our Happiness till after our Death,” the casual observer might have trouble believing in what Lott said about the Frenchman. If one is only used to contemporary works of creative nonfiction, Montaigne’s piece would seem almost completely alien especially if it was read aloud. However, this disconnect between the works of the “inventor” of creative nonfiction and the works of contemporary CNF authors like Joan Didion and Jamaica Kinkaid, is merely the product of several hundred years of change. Writing styles change, meaning of words also change, even the most rigid conventions of writing eventually change over several hundreds of years. Nonetheless, upon closer inspection, there are several elements of this particular Montaigne piece that has filtered through time. Take for example Montaigne’s rumination halfway through “That Men Should Not Judge.” It is somewhat similar to the kinds of reflection contemporary CNF authors use in their works. Even Bret Lott’s “Toward a Definition of Creative Nonfiction” has some ties to Montaigne’s work. Lott’s use of ancient and not so ancient writers as examples in his work is quite reminiscent of Montaigne’s penchant for quoting and referring to classical writers like Plutarch and Lucretius.

Assuming that we all agree with Lott’s claim that Montaigne is the forerunner of creative nonfiction (I agree with Lott, but what do I know?), it doesn’t take too long for the sound and appearance of creative nonfiction to change (what’s a few hundreds in the grand scheme of things anyway?). By the time George Orwell wrote “Shooting an Elephant” in 1936, creative nonfiction (or personal essays) has changed dramatically. Writing styles changed, meanings of words have changed, and the most rigid conventions of writing have also changed, thus resulting in a very different product. Unlike in the time of Montaigne where personal reflection was thought of as detrimental to the proper style of writing, personal reflection in the 20^th and 21^st century was and is quite common and accepted (at least in essays, never in scholarly works). Orwell’s “Shooting an Elephant” resembles contemporary creative nonfiction in many different ways. Obviously, the element of self-reflection present in this particular work. How can one be more self-reflective than recalling and analyzing one’s past experiences? Also, the tone of the piece is simple but very descriptive, similar to more recent works like Kinkaid’s “Biography of Dress.” Anyone who has read about anti-colonialism in the former British Empire knows that Orwell was one of the staunchest proponents of the movement. In this essay, Orwell uses his personal recollection of an event in his life as a vehicle to share his revelations about evils of tyranny and colonialism much like how Kinkaid used snippets of childhood memories to share who her mother was in relation to her as a two year old.

Kinkaid and Lott: Understanding CNF just a little bit more...

2008-09-14T19:29:00.000-07:00

To anybody else, a simple yellow dress from a person’s childhood would probably not garner more than a few sentences of pleasant but fleeting nostalgia. To Jamaica Kinkaid, her yellow dress deserved an entire essay. Kinkaid’s “Biography of a Dress” is a stirring reflection on a particular event in her childhood that revolved around a yellow, homemade, poplin dress. However, unlike what the title suggests, the essay is not about the dress her mother made for Kinkaid when she was a toddler. Yes, I must concede that there was a lot written about how the dress was made. On the other hand, upon closer inspection, all that talk about the yellow dress merely served as a vehicle for Kinkaid to show us (rather than tell us) a particular part of her childhood and how she remembers her mother. In fact, as I finished reading the essay, I got the notion that the story was more about who her mother was in relation to her rather than what the yellow dress was in relation to a two year old. Kinkaid goes on and shows us how she, as a two year old, thought of what was going on around her. By doing so, Kinkaid deliberately shows us who her mother was as well. What makes this essay different from what I have read earlier (Didion, Alexie, and Beard) is precisely that, it wasn’t about what happened in her past but rather who she was in the past. Yes, this theme is somewhat reminiscent in Jo Ann Beard’s “Out There” but Kinkaid’s explanation of who her mother was in relation to her (and in effect, who she was in relation to her mother) takes it to a whole other level.

***

More often than not, when a writer writes about the definition of a term, their intent is to carry you from Point A (the question, the term) to Point B (the answer, the definition) in a precise and concise manner. Bret Lott doesn’t do that. What he does is nudge you (push sounds a little too violent) from Point A to wherever you decide to go to between Point B and Point Z. Perhaps I tried to milk the analogy a little bit too much there but I would like to believe that I’ve made my point. Lott’s essay “Toward a Definition of Creative Nonfiction” is exactly what the title tells us it is. Lott gives us several possible definitions that he gathered by reflecting on what other writers like Philip Lopate, Derek Kidner and even Michel Montaigne have said about writing such pieces. However, the main point of the essay is Lott’s argument that, as a writer, one owes it to himself or herself to find a definition of CNF simply through experimentation. He explains that “ we can no more understand what creative nonfiction is by trying to define it than we can learn how to ride a bike by looking at a bicycle tire, a set of handle bars, the bicycle chain itself.” (p.270) In essence, we can really only come up with a definition of CNF if we try to write creative nonfiction. There’s no substitute for trying. Nevertheless, despite all of this, the one thing that left an impression in me is Lott’s “last element” in his essay. The reason we write creative nonfiction is because it is “our responsibility as human beings to answer for and to our lives.” (p. 276)

Creative Non-Fiction?

2008-09-08T22:58:00.000-07:00

How does one define “Creative Non-Fiction?” It’s easy to define “Creative”, whether as an adjective or a noun. It is also relatively easy to define “Non-Fiction.” However, putting the two together and treating it as a single term is another story. It becomes a little unwieldy and somehow ambiguous. Unfortunately, “Creative Non-Fiction” can’t be defined as “non-fiction with a creative quality to it.” If there’s one thing I learned in my fairly extensive academic career, you can’t define a word (or a term) by simply repeating it. In situations like these, perhaps the best thing to do is trust an authority in the subject (in this case, my professor) and read works that have been labeled as “Creative Non-Fiction” so as to be able to discern a unique definition for it. After sampling Joan Didion’s inspired piece about keeping notes, Sherman Alexie’s anecdotes on his childhood and the struggles of the younger Native American generation, and Jo Ann Beard’s seemingly chaotic but purposeful narrative of being “Out There”, I was able to define “Creative Non-Fiction” as an exercise in retrospective self-contemplation.

I know what you’re thinking. If it could be summed up in one word, it would be “What?” Don’t worry, I am completely aware that I have just defined a complex term with another complex term and for this I apologize. I find that this is the easiest way to define CNF. Perhaps, if I explain my conclusion, it wouldn’t cause as much confusion as I assume it’s causing right now. The word Retrospect comes from the Latin word retrospectare (which actually comes from two Latin words, spectare and retro) which means to “look back.” The three authors definitely did not have similar styles but they did have at least one thing in common, they were “looking back.” The word Contemplate comes from the Latin contemplari which means to “gaze attentively or observe.” I wouldn’t say that Didion, Alexie and Beard gazed attentively at themselves (is that at all possible?) but all three, while “looking back”, certainly observed who they were at the time in regards to what happened to them. Maybe the way I chose to explain all of this makes the authors sound egotistic and what not, but in reality they aren’t. All their “Retrospective Self-Contemplation” actually serves a greater purpose. It helps us, the readers, critics and eventual pupils of such literary pieces to read, understand, and digest the truths that they have written about. However, this definition of CNF is only one of many correct definitions. CNF does not have to be like Didion’s “On Keeping a Notebook” or like Alexie’s “Superman and Me,” in fact, it doesn’t even have to be an essay at all. Sometimes, all it takes is a simple but eloquent retelling of your summer’s adventures to a friend or two.

Greetings and Salutations...

2008-09-08T11:58:00.000-07:00

Essays and Blogs will be up shorty...