Nightmares

People seem to have cool nightmares...you know, like being abducted by aliens or being attacked by a shark or being chased by monsters or something neat like that. Not me, though. I mean I've had dreams where I wake up in sweats, but it's never been cool like that. I can’t remember what kind of nightmares I had when I was very young, but as far as I can remember, my dumb nightmares have always been about schools.

When I was in college, I had nightmares about being late for finals. Come to think of it, that dream continued even after I graduated for several years…you know, the one where you wake up thinking, "Sh*t, not again!” to realized it’s Sunday and it’s the middle of summer.

Well, I guess for me it was worse because I did miss a final my freshman year. You would think I was a straight "A" student being a teacher and all (and because all Asians are smart); but back in college, I never went to class. (Okay, not never, but rarely.) The lectures were held in buildings a block from the beach in La Jolla (that’s San Diego for those of you unfamiliar with the city) and in the rare occasions I did decide to go to class, I’d have a bikini on underneath my clothes just in case the sun came out.

I was an Economics major back in school, (have no idea, why) and most of my classes were held in buildings across the street from the secret path that led you down to the famous Black’s Beach -- the nudist beach, also the best surfing spot in La Jolla-- where all the cool surfers hung out. I know what you dirty-minded people are thinking, but no, not to watch the naked boys, (only old, fat people got naked) but to watch my friends surf. So except for the cute, nerdy boys I’d befriend for notes, I really didn’t know many people in my classes. (Didn’t help that there were about 500 students in those freshmen classes...)

Anyway, the day before my math final, I spent the day at the beach & went to a late night movie with these cool, older surfer boys I used to hang with who weren’t in school. Because I’d already taken Calculus in high school, didn’t really worry too much about my final; and so the following morning, I had my usual bowl of cereal, biked over to the lecture hall, and strolled into my class finding a seat next to one of those brainiacs with coke bottle glasses. I was a little early, so I looked at all the faces, or should I say, the backs of heads of all the people I’d been missing out on the entire quarter. (UC schools are on a quarter system, not semester.) Man, everyone looks so intense! Look at them all studying their notes...they need to chil-lax.

“So, you never took calculus in high school, huh?” I asked the boy next to me engrossed in his notes.
“Yeah, I did. Why?”
“Just wondering why you are studying so hard. Isn’t this all a review for you?”
The boy stared at me through the coke bottle lenses like I was crazy.
“What are you talking about? This is nothing like calculus. It’s the hardest math I’ve ever had to take in my entire life!”

I saw heads turning from the seats in front of me, and as I looked into their faces, my stomach sank & the heat shot up to my face.
“Is this Math 10A?” I asked in panic.
They all laughed, “No, it’s 193B, Actuarial Mathematics!”
Actuarial Mathematics!? What the h*ll is that!?

I ran out of there, my face flushed, frantically flipping through the schedule of finals. I was in the right lecture hall. Sh*t! Where is everyone!? I knew no one looked familiar & looked really smart, but I thought I didn’t recognized them because I never went to class. I looked at the schedule again, and grabbed a guy walking in. “What day is today?” “Thursday,” he replied.

I looked down at the page to see Math 10B Tu 11:30-12:30.
Unbelievable...I was two days late. (Did I mention I was coerced into joining a sorority in college? This totally was a typical, air-headed sorority move!) And that’s only the beginning of my finals mishaps in college, which I won't get into today.

Well, for the first time in weeks it seems, I didn’t drink last night. Came back from the Opera (Don Giovanni-- an excellent show) quite early around 10:30 or so & made a few phone calls trying to get rid of some food I didn’t want to waste (without any luck) and went to sleep around 11:30.

The phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Miss Lee? It’s the office. It’s 9 o’clock, and we were just wondering where you were. Did you call for a sub?”

I turned my head, looked at my alarm clock & it flashed, 9:02! I jumped out of bed with the phone still in my hand, “OMG Maggie! My alarm didn’t go off! I just woke up! Sh*t, sh*t, sh*t! Sorry…I’ll be there in 15 minutes!” and with that, my adult nightmare of being late for school became a reality today.

It's not who you are...it's what you see.

A few weeks ago, Hasen told me a funny story about taking a bunch of Japanese girls on a week long river trip. (When is his story ever not funny, right? ) Anyway, he said on the final day of the trip, the girls wanted a picture with the guides. So one by one they sat on his lap for a souvenir photo shoot. Well, one of them turned to him & asked, "Which one are you?" He told her he was Hasen, and the girl giggled and said "So sorry. You all look the same. Can't tell you guys apart," with that cute Japanese accent.

Funny, right? Because most Anglos think all Asians look the same. Well, let me tell you something. It really has nothing to do with being Asian or Caucasian. It's not about what you are, but rather, what you see. Or more like what you're used to seeing. I know this from my own personal experience, having lived in an Asian dominant culture as well as an Anglo dominant culture.

I too remember the days when I thought all Anglos looked the same. That was back in elementary school when my parents brought me to the States from South Korea. I remember going home complaining to my mom that the teacher was making me sit next to a boy & he was going to be my buddy for the whole week. (This of course was when I thought all boys had cooties. You know, before they grew facial fuzz, had b.o. & the cracking voice to help me distinguish their gender, before I thought they were hot...go figure.) So poor Sally was dubbed a boy in my virgin eyes (this also was before I could distinguish the boys' names from the girls'), and I spent the first few months of school totally frustrated because everyone looked the same. But eventually, my eyes finally adapted to the Anglo features, and Sally the boy and I became fast friends.

Fast forward a few decades to Salt Lake City, Utah, late April of 2008. I've been here two and a half years, and I have to say, after having lived in cities like Los Angeles, San Francisco, and New York, it was a bit of a culture shock to step off the airplane to see so many blond, blue-eyed white folks. (It's a myth that the Californian surfers are blonds. All the stereotypical California blonds live in Utah.) In fact, it is rare that I go to an event here and run into a fellow Asian or any other "people of color" for that matter. I'm like the token minority friend my friends have here; and seriously, I even forget that I'm Asian sometimes except when I see one staring back at me in the mirror while brushing my teeth. I basically live amongst the whites, and actually don't even think about race or any of that stuff except when my friend Jared says, "Oh look, our Chinese friend has arrived," in his endearing way.

So what's the point of this long-winded background story?

Last Monday, my parents came to visit from LA. My aunt was picking them up from the airport on her way down from Layton. I wasn't expecting them for another hour or so, and was doing the dishes when a car drove up my driveway. I looked out the window to see three short Chinese people getting out of the car. What are these Chinese doing in my driveway? I'm thinking as I turn off the water and walk over to my front door. There are no Asians in my neighborhood!

Well, what d'ya know...the Chinese walking up the stairs to my door were no Chinese at all! They were my parents who flew all the way from California to weed my yard because their daughter (who thought they were just some random Asians walking up to the wrong house) never learned to do yard work. But for reals... I bet you anything, if you went and lived in China for a year or two, you'd all come back thinking all your relatives looked the same.

(And don't judge. Grew up in LA, for Pete's sake. No one works in their yard. That's what gardeners are for...)

American Express

It's not everyday that I rave about a credit card company. Matter of fact, I hate that credit cards make it so easy for people to spend money they don't have. Their ads make it seem as though we should all be striving to live the lifestyle portrayed in them; and unfortunately, too many of us grow up with this strange feeling of entitlement to things we can't afford.

I remember being baffled by parents who come to parent/teacher conferences telling me why they have not been able to work with Johnny at home. We've been unemployed for months, and we're struggling to make ends meet, and just don't have the time or the wherewithal to help Johnny with his school work. This is all the while Johnny comes to school wearing a brand new outfit every day of the week.

I also remember going to the Projects in Brooklyn to tutor struggling kids. Projects, for those of you unfamiliar with the concept, are public housing provided by the government to help families who are impoverished- basically, subsidized housing for the poor. I was always amazed at all the toys they had. I'm talking big screen TV, state of the art stereo system, all the new video games, and over the top, sort of in- your-face, flashy items displayed all around the house.

It's easy to say it's not the credit card, but rather, the people who misuse it. But when you are inundated with images all of your life which promote happiness via spending and acquiring, can you blame any one of us for wanting & purchasing things we can't afford? I mean, I remember credit card companies hounding me to give me cards I should have never gotten. They enticed me with miles for flights...what a great idea! The more I buy, the more miles I get, and closer to that European trip I've always wanted to take. What a concept! They're brilliant! And off I went to Europe at age twenty-one. What, you've never been to Europe? But everyone goes right after college, don't they???

Yeah, I learned my lesson early in my adult life. When my teacher's salary could barely make the minimum payment on my credit card bills and I saw the balance skyrocketing with the crazy interest rates, I knew I was in trouble. It wasn't just me, though. My friends were all going through it, but that didn't help me sleep any better at nights. Finally as I was drowning in debt, I did the unthinkable and asked my parents to bail me out. It was humiliating, embarrassing, and I felt like a loser. I blamed the damn government for not paying teachers enough, but subsequently realized it was my own fault for living the lifestyle of the MTV's Real World cast.

So why am I promoting a credit card company today? Because I just got off the phone with a nice lady at American Express who gave me a credit of $23.89 plus tax for the case of Coronas that fell out of my trunk & shattered all over my driveway. They call it the Buyer's Protection Plan: Eligible purchases made entirely with the Card are protected against theft or accidental damage for 90 days from the date of purchase-at no additional charge. Coverage is good for up to $1,000 per occurrence and $50,000 per Cardmember account per year.

Consumables, like beer, isn't covered, but the lady was sympathetic about the beer situation & happily gave me the credit. If I could've, I would've gone through the phone line to give her a kiss! (I was on my land line.) I said, "I love you! I love American Express! You guys are awesome!" and she laughed. I know... I'm sure American Express has done some sh*tty things like Wal-Mart; but today, they're far down on my sh*t list of big bad corporations. Plus, the great thing about AMEX is that you have to pay off your balance each month so you know not to spend more than you can afford. Hmmm... I wonder if they'd give me some money for promoting them on my blog. I should give them a call...

The Renaissance Woman

Someone called me a "Renaissance Woman" last week. I laughed because in the Renaissance times a Renaissance Woman was supposed to marry well, be loyal to her husband and give birth to boys. She obviously doesn't know me very well & forgets I'm not from Utah.

I think what she meant to say was that I was a Renaissance Man, who unlike the woman, had to be well-educated, or excel in a wide variety of subjects. (It's a prerequisite for being a first grade teacher these days.) I guess in old Italy (around the 1400's) some dude named Leon Battista Alberti said a man can do all things if he will. It basically considered man the center of the universe, limitless in his capacities for development, and led to the notion that men should try to embrace all knowledge and develop their own capacities as fully as possible.

Well, I call it dabbling; or if I had a therapist, he'd probably call it a scheme, an ego driven attention getter, a means to get noticed, especially by my mom who favored or should I say favors my brother. (Yes, sibling rivalry & jealousy, still at this age...pathetic, I know.)

But seriously, I tend to dabble...quite well according to my fans. Unfortunately though, I quite often get bored with it because I obsess over it. I met a guy who climbs, so I bought my gear & climbed walls for a year. I had a photographer friend, so I got a range-finder and took pictures for months. I knew a great artist in San Francisco, so I started painting & making art for a year or two. I met poets in New York, so I wrote poems and recited them in public. (The list goes on...) Most recently, about a year ago, I met a friend who plays music & writes songs, so I bought a guitar & started making up songs. I've subsequently surrounded myself with musicians and even created a Myspace page so I could have my music up in cyberspace.

Well, just last week, I met a blogger...my first ever. I was intrigued, read his stuff (quite good, and really funny), and found that I had met two other bloggers all within a week. Interesting, I thought... Then I remembered what that French-Jewish clairvoyant said to me before I left NYC. "You're with the wrong man. He's a child. You'll not meet your soul mate until you start writing." This, of course, was a deduction on her part after she looked at my hands. She probably thought I like to write after she noticed the bump on my middle finger from never having learned to hold a pencil correctly. (I press way too hard & have a fat callous that never goes away even though the only writing I do these days is sign my name on the credit card receipts. Hmm, that could explain the 115,000 miles on my Delta card.)

So, since it's been over a year since I dumped the "man child" & have yet to meet anyone, perhaps it's time I start writing. So here I go...the modern Renaissance Woman, dabbling again so I can become the Renaissance Woman of the Renaissance times.