Marco? Marco?

I wrote about this sometime before, I’m sure.

There are a lot of quotes–mantras if you will–involving passion, work and life.

Find something you like to do, then get someone to pay you to do it.
Your job is where your passions and world’s needs intersect.

There are a ton more. The phrases are cute, but for someone like me just not helpful. Making the world more complex than it is is a no-no, but surely just finding your “passion” is a little too basic for more than just me–though I envy those who have clear convictions about their lives.*

A classmate said in passing if what I’m doing now isn’t my passion I shouldn’t do it, because I won’t be happy. About the 100th time I’ve heard that one, and to me as a person it’s just not helpful. I mean, I don’t hate what I do. I don’t love it. I won’t say I’m excited everyday to wake up and go to class–which really feels like an 8-5 job instead.

So, passions, where are you? I’ve jumped around for some time now, flailed about and even went fish out of water. I think I’ve committed to the direction I’m going in now, just to see where it leads me. I think I just need to dig around more and more to figure out where the pieces fit. I’ve wondered though, what if they don’t fit? What if they’re not meant to? What if I’m not meant to ever “love” what I do? Would that be alright?

Which leads me to my next thought.

In the mean time, what has helped me out is putting my imagination to a little use. I think about the people who go out to other countries to be missionaries. What if I went to the newsroom as a missionary? I wonder what that would look like. And I wonder what it would look like to always think like that as I jump from job to job. I’ll touch on this last point again at some point.

*Almost hypocritical, because I’m typically the person that hates completely straight paths devoid of adventure and figuring where the next step is, even if backwards.

Backtracking on Intervarsity…

With one day left at Urbana, InterVarsity’s mega missions-conference, I felt like thinking back to my own experiences with IV, inspired of course by reading someone’s impressions about how diverse IV is, both in terms of people and theological background.

I remember when I went to Urbana ‘03. I remember what I felt was the diversity there. I was already in love with the organization at the time, and being there just made me love it more. It probably was the diversity that I loved so much, where so many times we throw in the token nod to another ethnicity or belief just so we could proclaim to the masses that we were “diverse,” that took on a real meaning for me there. I genuinely felt for the first time that God was not just whoever I had imagined him to be in my own world–that someone from another country I had never met could conceive of God differently than I could, and yet they could still be one in the same, without contradiction.

So it’s a little sad that I feel I left college with an extremely sour taste in my mouth whenever I thought of IV. My sophomore year in college was tough, but the core of what I loved about IV was still there. And then somewhere along the line, something changed. It might have been my own circumstances, but for those last two years, I felt the diversity leave. Everything was about “tokens.” There was the token reference to a “Father.” The Spanish song (that was never done well). That gospel-sounding-like-but-not-really song. The feel-good message. And they all felt like tokens. At Urbana, I genuinely felt like people brought all sorts of different backgrounds to the show. Back at home, I felt like we were trying to add bullet points to our resumes for others to come look at.

I assume it doesn’t help that I felt almost entirely rejected from the rest of the group, almost as if every time I brought an issue up people sent me elsewhere. The moment I would push back against anyone for anything I would get hammered back down. And then I’d get the text message that said “I hope you don’t feel too bad about yesterday.” I remember trying to mold myself to the changing times, but my body wouldn’t have it.

So I left.

I tried going back. Several times. I had to walk out all but once. The one time I didn’t people had forgotten who I was.

The whole process of thinking back an writing about it kind of brings up a lot of old grievances and feelings, and quite often I have too make the conscious decision to continually let go of everyone who may have played a role, including myself. I’m glad that if I had the money, I know I’d be willing to support a couple of my friends who are IV staffers, those who have hearts who I know are seeking out after God and God’s kingdom.

I just wish I didn’t have to catch myself before I start telling people what I think about IV. But maybe it’s better this way. Since when was IV supposed to be about itself?

Romantic Winters

As a product of California and its sunny skies and comfortable weather, I have this typical childlike vision of what snow is and what it means: snowball fights, snow angels, friends, fun.

It’s also beautiful, walking around and having little bits of snow float down onto your face.

This is, of course, until the temperature drops another 30 degrees, that soft snow becomes drops of pure cold, and the wind kicks in.

I’m not going to lie, it’s actually kind of fun, trying to figure out how to stay warm and get from one place to the next in as short a time as possible.

But in keeping with my honesty, I’m sure I’ll be over this newfound sense of ‘wow’ towards the weather soon, and will want temperature to go back to the 40s, where it’s nice and warm.

Yes, temperature in the 40s, is warm. I said it.

Give or take a few years

A strange thing happened to me today. I was wandering around Cost Plus World Market (funny thing, only those in the West Coast retain the ‘Cost Plus,’ the ones here are just called ‘World Market.’), and strangely found myself wanting to buy a lot of stuff.

There were these plates, bowls, and all sorts of other kitchenware that I wanted. But I didn’t want them for my home now, I wanted them for my future home. As if I just bought a new apartment/house and wanted to furnish it, finally make a home something of my own for once. I found myself actually trying to picture what went with what, how this bowl would look on a table compared with that bowl.

And then I wandered into the Christmas section, and that took me back, and forward, about 10 years I’d say. I wanted to buy the gingerbread cocoa mix, the caramel apple cookie mix, the winter-shaped pasta. I wanted them because I love all things Christmas yes, but strangely I wanted to be able to take them home and make them, and share them with friends and family.

Family. Since when do I ever think about that–coming home to share something with family?

I walked out of Cost Plus empty handed today. But in a few years, I could see myself walking out with bags full of stuff.

It was weird to consciously feel myself thinking about things like that.

Calling down the thunder

In my book, there’s not much worse than talking down to somebody while masquerading as helping them.

This is especially true if you’re praying.

I mean, how insincere must you be to–after passing a condemning voice of judgment–say, “I’ll be praying that God opens your eyes.”

You just simultaneously slung mud on someone’s face since their eyes are clearly “not open,” and made yourself look oh so holy because you’re praying for said person’s soul. Sick.

I remember once I was at a meeting preparing for a conference we were holding. We were having some issues over how we were going to actually lead the small group sessions, one person, we’ll call him ‘A,’ suggested we do mock groups. Two people, ‘B’ and ‘C,’ adamantly said we just pray about it and be done with it. They argued it’s about our heart, about leaving things in God’s hands. ‘A’ said yes, but we should also take steps of our own to prepare. I’d say they should’ve just started yelling at each other. That would have been better.

But no, they decided to be super implicit about it. That if ‘A’ really had faith he’d just let it go and pray. You could feel everyone else in the room rustling and unsure of whether or not to step in. Then ‘A,’ surprisingly, had the guts to defend himself. You would have thought they would have jumped up and just got into a brawl. That also would have been better. At least they would have admitted their issues.

But no, the group decided to pray and end the meeting. And of course, ‘B’ and ‘C’ raised their hands like the good poster children they just created for everyone to see.

And they prayed that God would show everyone what was really important, that we wouldn’t worry about the things ‘A’ worried about. Well, maybe they didn’t mention ‘A’ by name, but they might as well have.

I wanted to get up and leave. I think if I was in that situation today, I probably would.

It’s dishonest. And to do it in the name of prayer, I don’t even know what to call that.

I Would Pack Up and Quit

if I had the guts and if I knew what else I could do if I came home.

I’m pretty serious. I do not want to be here right now.

One of those days where I have to trust my head and not my heart. Funny, that this would come days after what I just wrote.

Keeping a Compass

I’m considering buying a compass. Just a small  one to keep in my pocket. I suppose it’d be useful for the one time I’ll get lost wandering around the woods of Yosemite, but my main reason would be for symbolic reasons–reminders, rather.

The past few weeks I’ve really started to once again feel the mental toll of getting older. Sometimes I feel like my body is aging too, and that’s more because of my recent lack of exercise than anything else, but being in school and doing a lot of forward looking has made me think of what my own future holds: holding a job, taking care of family, being sure I’m on top of all my responsibilities.

That’s what it is really, being on top of all my responsibilities. Grad school has taken up most of my life, and it’s become a challenge to keep up with not just the rest of my responsibilities, but also the things that I need to keep doing for me to feel alive: talk to family, keep in touch with friends, finding a church, doing a few hobbies here and there.

It’s easy for me to get lost in everything. So much is going on, in such a rapid pace, and so much of it is important to where I’m going in the future. And truth be told, I don’t know if I like where I’m going. Journalism can be a scary place. I’m getting frustrated with interviewing people and talking to random strangers about things I don’t care about. For the first time, I’m wondering why I didn’t take science more seriously–not because I’m Asian and so I must follow that path, but because I read an issue of Popular Science and find myself intrigued and genuinely excited. It doesn’t help that a number of people have dropped out of the program at school. I won’t lie; I’ve considered doing that myself. Many days, it just feels like I’ve made a wrong turn somewhere.

Which is where the compass comes in. For the days where I just don’t know what I’m doing, I try to remember: I do have a direction, and that direction tells me that where  I’m going isn’t a place I’m traveling to for my own desires–that I’m not here studying journalism just because it’s my life long dream, I’m doing this as a service for someone else. Yes, there are days for where I wish I could go back and be a computer programmer, doctor, or a number of other professions. But that ship has sailed, and only comes back for the “what if’s” and regrets of those who missed it.

And so I have to believe that I’m at a place not by my own design, and not for my own good. And I have to believe that I am good at what I’m doing, or I wouldn’t be here.

And I have to believe that what I’m doing will be used for a greater purpose than fulfilling my own lifelong wishes. Because if that’s my goal, I’m sure as hell not fulfilling it now.

Grad School is Like Prison

Let me clarify.

Grad school has become so much of my life, that I feel like my life is school. I’m not trying to excel in some balancing act of life and school, because life more or less doesn’t exist, and what little does exists only inside of school. Eating is for school, sleeping is for school, even reading news is for school.

On paper, I’m supposed to have about 35 hours of class a week. Every day except Tuesday, I start at 9:00 a.m. I end at 4:00 or 5:00pm, with a lunch break in the middle whose length is at my professor’s discretion. Sometimes I need to attend a seminar during lunch, so I have no lunch. It’s like a 9-5 job.

Except there’s also homework. Readings, short assignments, full blown projects. I’ve stayed up till at least 1am the past three nights. Normally that’s not a big deal. But since I have to wake up by 8 in the morning, well sleeping at 1 doesn’t cut it anymore. I usually use a good chunk of my weekends playing catch up.

So it’s a good thing, that at least on some level I’m enjoying what I’m doing. There’s a lot of hoop jumping, a lot of work that I feel is unnecessary or even detrimental, but there’s also stuff that I genuinely find interesting. City council meetings are bad, staged radio shows are good.

But still, my life that I had, all the stuff that’s made me, me, feels like it’s been tossed aside and put on pause. So, an understatement is to say it’s a breath of fresh air when a friend shoots an e-mail, when I talk on the phone with somebody from back home, when I even watch an episode of a TV show. It’s hard to explain why it makes me smile, except to say it reminds me that I still have a life to live outside of school.

I haven’t yet figured out how to fit into my schedule some other things I wish I could do. I have little energy to run, no time to really exercise, and no will to really do any of my hobbies like write. I don’t even have my guitar or a piano. I still haven’t figured out how to do the whole God thing.

The whole process is a mental challenge, usually a forte of mine. This however, is a completely different beast.

Moving on Jet Planes, California is Not America

It’s been a tough, long and busy week. And here comes another one. School is tough and is testing my resolve. Still, I said I’d update, here I finally am.

Last time I mentioned there’s another good thing about uprooting yourself and moving to a new place. Almost eight months ago, I wrote this for a community forum I was volunteering at. This is just before I jumped on a plane to Taiwan.

There are some things you just don’t get used to no matter how many times you do it. In less than seven hours, I’ll be jumping on a plane and leaving the country again for an extended period of time, and like every time before it, I’m starting to feel the goosebumps and shivers crawling up my skin.

Not all nerves mind you; a good chunk of the emotion is in the excitement of an adrenaline filled rush. Exploring a land never seen before, meeting people you only see on TV, living as strangers would live, they’re all things that get my blood pumping. It’s this understanding something foreign in an age of comfort—the modern day adventure, that’s one of my favorite things about these kinds of trips.

The second is similar, but is slightly more pretentious and self-help in nature. Still, after years of experience I can safely say that being uncomfortable is the single most influential factor towards my own personal growth. Maybe it’s because once you’re in a completely foreign land you realize how little you know about the world, and how useless that little bit is anyway. It’s like starting from scratch, learning how other people live their lives, how who they are and where they live constructs their own worldview. It’s humbling, and it’s exactly the right antidote for a time when we feel like we understand everything there is to know about the world.

Not to say that the whole experience isn’t equally fear inducing. All I know about where I’m going is from research or hearsay. I’ve never seen the place with my own eyes. I’ll probably get lost. But I’m confident that the trip will be full of life lessons I may not even know I’ve learned until months after I come home. At the very worst, it will simply be a great traveling experience.

And that’s a better assurance than I could ask for.
In a similar fashion, moving to Chicago has been another chance for me to grow and learn more about the world. Sometimes I feel that California is like a bubble within a larger bubble that is America. I forget that California does not represent all of America, and living somewhere else besides California reminds me of that. Even though I’m not in a completely new culture, I have to stay alert, knowing that I don’t know much about the local way of life, how that might be different from the sunny West.

It’s humbling, and yet another reminder of how little I know.

Social Skills Analysis, Go

Moving and starting from scratch–reinventing yourself–is good for one thing, if nothing else: understanding your own social skills.

I realized I’m a directional kind of guy. For most things in life, I like them to be going somewhere. It doesn’t have to be very fast, and it doesn’t have to get wherever it wants to go anytime soon, it just needs to be moving.

So when I met 30+ of my cohort for the first time last night at a potluck/get-together/party that wouldn’t have been out of place in an undergrad home if they had beer pong, let’s just say I was a little, unsure of what to do. In one room people were chatting. In the next room, people were chatting. And then they were chatting in the kitchen. And the balcony. Oh so much chatting…

I think simply lounging around and rambling about nothing is a great exercise, with friends you already know. It’s a terrible way to meet people, let alone 30+ of them. I suppose this is why I’ve never found the “go to a bar and talk to random people/pick up girls” game very fun: all you do is chat. This might surprise the friends who think I love to talk, which I do. If you want to gauge how much fun I’m having, it’s directly correlated to how many words are coming out of my mouth. But when I meet people, I want to do something. Play games, go to a show, any sort of activity that provides direction. I probably would have even preferred a game of beer pong because it would have been something to do. At the very least a basic, “hey let’s go around and introduce ourselves…”

Of course, part of the issue last night could have been I’m a late comer. Most of the people had met up once or twice before and maybe were already comfortable enough to just sit there and chat. Maybe part of it was I was one of only a few guys and the night felt like a girls’ party.

Strictly as an observation. The three Asian girls who were there (two of which are either American or Canadian) either enjoyed chatting with or made it a point to talk to me. Any other girl who was of a non-Caucasian ethnicity spoke with me. Any Caucasian girl who wasn’t from the South spoke with me. As for the guys, all of them at least said ‘hi’.

I was the only Asian American guy there.

I think it has to do with familiarity. The rest of the girls, like I said, had already met. The fact that I was an Asian American guy at what felt like a girls’ party probably was just on the rest of the long list of unfamiliar things about me. Still, I find it interesting. Food for thought.

Oh, there is at least one more good thing about moving and starting from scratch. I’ll save it for the next post.