Wings

A typical immigrant, I desperately wanted to blend in from day one. One thing that I have not been able to get over is my "accent". In fact, as soon as someone brings up the word, I cringe.

The second time we met, RJ said, "Your speech... I cannot place it."

Smart move not to have said "accent". While my "accent" has been called exotic, unidentifiable, intriguing... (guesses have run the gamut of Scandinavian to vaguely European) instead of feeling unique and flattered, I feel self-conscious and inadequate.

All I ever wanted to was to sound American.

Over the years RJ has assured me that I sound "fine". "You speak clearly," he says. "And well." And I write well. I speak and write well for an immigrant - no, I speak and write better than some native speakers.

But somehow it is not enough. Sometimes, some woman would come on a late night talk show, and I'd point to her and poke RJ, excited and inspired, "That! I wanna sound like her!"

Since I was little it was observed that I had a talent in languages. I picked up foreign words and accents at ease. Mastering grammar in a foreign language was very intuitive for me. Rules could be applied universally. My brother has joked that foreign languages were hard to grasp because they were "meaningless sounds". But it was easy for me to assign meaning both visually and tonally.

Languages fascinate me. Why have this sound mean this particular thing? A group of people had to agree and apply the sounds in daily life. The process is utterly curious. I should've studied linguistics. Then there's Sign Language too which is on another level of fascinating.

But if I am so talented in languages, why can't I master my fucking accent?

I remember watching MTV in Germany that one summer in my early twenties: these German kids being filmed in Germany, and their perfect American accent. I was so jealous.

For years I prided myself in "blending in", or so I thought, among fellow Americans. Then there are betraying moments when I hear a recording of my own voice and I am defeated: that's how I sound?

Riley, one of my closest guy friends at a time - we've confided in each other many personal things, he's cried in front of me over his grandma's death, we've gotten over painful breakups together - at the end of our friendship, before he was moving back to Canada, casually joshed (I forget the context now), "You know, your accent, whatever you call that..."

Boy, if that wasn't one of the most wounded moments of my life. I thought I had "passed". I thought he was my friend.

My accent. Thirty years, this cross I bear.

Yesterday, I read an article in the New York Times Magazine dated July 23, 2017, on a voice coach who helps clients master accents to get (or secure) parts in Hollywood.

The idea is not novel. I've joked that I want a voice coach to "correct" my accent. BTW this it totally the difference between learning a language in a classroom than through immersion, through interaction with native speakers, the way a child learns how to speak. This is why my English will always be hodgepodge and mishmash, whereas this other language which I shall not name (other than my native tongue) I (used to, for over 10 years) speak fluently and without accent, as I was told by native speakers.

One of my best friends, IA, who was an English major and has been an English teacher all her adult life, has attempted to enlighten me with this school of belief that we mustn't label and judge "accents". There is no right or wrong accent in pronouncing the English language insofar as the cultural and historic circumstances make for an organic evolution. She even went so far as to say that grammar falls under the same umbrella of leniency.

No, no, no! I couldn't accept that. Surely there was right and wrong in pronouncing something! There are rules! One of the reasons I love grammar is that there are rules!

In the aforementioned article, the author Ryan Bradley writes about Gillian Anderson, "a rare case of an actor who is naturally bi-accented" due to her upbringing. In the U.K. she sound British; in America, she sounds American.

"It might seem like an act, but it's her personal history, which is exactly what an accent is: an ever-changing assemblage of sounds based on where we've lived, who we've known and our perception of how we should sound based on our surroundings."

I was blown away. It was a revelation. I have also expressed my speech and identity this way: I am everywhere I've lived and all those I've spent time with, and so is my speech. Now I see: it was never "perfectly American", whatever that ideal is, and it never will be.

Perhaps it is time to come to terms with my personal history. And in time, perhaps I can do better - celebrate it.

Flux 2

Recently someone I work with and have befriended asked me, "Do you celebrate Thanksgiving?"

I was hurt. "Yes," I began. "I have lived in the U.S. since age 16..." and continued to explain.

The point is I shouldn't need to explain. An immigrant is constantly having to prove him/herself. If you're not "from here", just how American are you? Are you American enough? Somehow, you learn that you are never American enough.

My friend was probably just not assuming one way or the other. But she could've prefaced her question with "I am not assuming one way or the other", or, better yet, asked instead, "What did you do on Thanksgiving?"

She didn't mean anything by it, I believe. I thought she was a cool person. When you have never been an outsider in your own country, it must be hard to imagine what it is like.

This is the only country I have known and loved. This is the only place I have lived all my adult life. I grew up in a colony with a serious case of identity crisis. I never had a strong sense of where I belonged or who I was. Nationalism is something I have never experienced. This frees me from feeling particularly superior to another race or ethnic background, allowing me to fit right in in America.

And now I don't know America anymore.

I blogged recently that my mother was expressing regret about having sent my brother and me away at a young tender age. It turned my world upside down. If she's questioning her decision, I'm questioning my life. Was it a mistake to have come to America? Was my whole life a mistake?

I don't know how to adult elsewhere. My coworker and I recently pondered this aspect of existentialism: in adulthood, you need to have basic functions. Home is where you know how to pay your utility bill, we concluded.

It is true. A business associate who lived in Oregon for decades moved to Mexico a couple of years ago, to the surprise of a lot of people. It was close to Christmas. Apparently in that town the only option to set up your power is to physically visit a certain government branch in person. But the government was on sabbatical because, hello, Christmas! Them Catholic. Big time. So no power for two weeks. Couldn't cook, had to light candles, no internet. And by the way even if you had internet you couldn't pay your power bill online.

When one is younger one's sense of adventure tends to be stronger (at least true for most people). As one ages, fear sets in. Starting over is fucking scary.

When I was in therapy I was congratulated for having had the courage to leave my ex, move upstate, and go back to school. In hindsight, damn! Being in your early 30's - that is still young.

And yes I am glad I left the guy when I did.

I don't like to dwell on the past. But who is without regret? Even when I advocate against regret because it is a giant waste of time, it is hard not to feel a tinge of bitterness about lost youth. It is true youth is wasted on the young. I thought I had time for mistakes. I thought I'd be beautiful forever.

The more I know, the more I realize I don't know. I just can't deal. A country I used to be so proud to call home. Now I am ever more aware that you don't know who your friends are. Heck, you can't even trust your government to be doing their job to serve the basic rights of its people.

These days it is near impossible to know how to feel about the future. I feel utterly helpless and confused both on a personal level and a cosmic level. I feel like the America we live in today is a nightmare and we can practically hear a time bomb ticking. And it may be an atomic one. Planning seems pointless. Everything seems pointless. Life itself.

Of course, once again, I've been told that needing life to have meaning is an INFJ thing.

Just... one day at a time, I guess. Cuz what else you got?

Quote 265

“... there exists a spot in the mind from which life and death, the real and the imaginary, the past and the future, the high and the low, ... will cease to appear contradictory.”

 ― André Breton

Rot

Only recently I realize sitemeter.com is no more. Apparently July 1, 2017 it officially "retired".

I had the tracker on my blog since day 1. 11 years' worth of visits. And now, poof! Gone. Kind of harsh.

That'll teach you the impermanence of things in life and life itself.

Site Meter is dead, they say. Looks like they started to go downhill circa 2012-2015, depending on whom you ask. There was talk about unethical practice such as stealing customers.

I feel betrayed. So unsettling.

Site Meter is dead. Shouldn't surprise me, since blogs have been dead a while now, too.

My mother recently revealed that at some points in her life, she was working three jobs to save money for the future.

"Before you had us, right?" I asked. I knew that she'd worked hard in her 20's just to save up to get married, have their own home, etc.

"Even after," she replied. "It was going to take a lot to put you through college."

That was a punch in the gut. "That was why I worked so many hours," she continued. "Even in the weekends."

I do recall. But I hadn't realized. I worked three jobs myself in the first quarter of 2016 and was exhausted. Can't imagine doing that on an continuous basis. And I have known women who do, day in and day out, for decades, just to have enough to support their family. I don't know how they do it. I shudder.

To think that for years I thought my mother a workaholic. I thought she enjoyed work more than spending time with us. I resented it.

Many Sundays, her only day off, she'd stay in bed until noon or past it, reluctant to start the day. I thought she was in no hurry to get up to spend time with her own family. I felt slighted.

Little did I know.

For years I struggled to forgive. Turned out there was nothing to forgive. I am an asshole.

Oh, the things that parents don't tell you.

You know what they say, that essentially you marry your parents (if you are "normal", I guess).

RJ has characteristics that are clearly my Dad's. No surprise there. He is artistic, a free spirit, loves nature and science, doesn't believe in convention. I am just now connecting the dots between him and Mom. *gasp*

RJ also is not thrilled to get up in the morning. Like, ever. And I am just now wishing that it wasn't so.

I understand. He has been this way for as long as I have known him. I understand what life can do to crush one's soul. I know better than to wish your spouse would change.

Yet I do find myself wishing that RJ had reasons to get up, things to be psyched about. Joy.

Joy: which I often also lack.

When I visit my parents, I feel like I am getting up for them. Back stateside, there seems no motive. I imagine a partner who may want to rise early, have breakfast, and go hiking (JD would laugh - Asians and their hiking!) and inspire me to do the same.

But I know that one must not look outside of oneself for joy and raison d'etre. It is not up to my partner to lift me. I am responsible for my own damned self.

My. Own. Damned. Self.

Blogs are dead. It is so like me to hang on to the antiquated and expiring.

Good Grief

Recently saw Patton Oswalt's latest standup, content of which had to do with his wife's life and death and his (and his daughter's) coping.

I will say that I never cared much for Oswalt as a comic until this performance. The raw emotions, honesty and pain were just all so relatable.

Great comics have a gift of storytelling that reels the audience in, captivates them, and impresses them in such a way that leaves them never the same again.

The 60 or 90 minutes or whatever it was just flew by. In the end, as any full circle goes, Oswalt parts way with this from Michelle, his late wife:

It's chaos. Be kind.

So concise and powerful, these words resonate. Earlier in the show Oswalt challenges the notion of "Everything happens for a reason". Indeed it doesn't. Life makes no sense.

In college (the second time) my favorite class was in Religious Studies. It was called "Death, Dying" and something. Perhaps the fact that I don't recall the "something" speaks volume. It was the most fascinating class. I've regurgitated this one phrase, "If you don't know how to die, you don't know how to live." I was on this quest of how to live.

I've been called morbid at various points. Fact is there is no point in pretending we'll live on forever. It is silly that death is a taboo topic. OK maybe I am a little obsessed with death. I enjoy wandering through cemeteries, studying graves, imagining the stories behind those extinguished lives. I thought that being close to death would prepare me for it, my own and that of my loved ones.

I've come to realize, though, nothing prepares you for death. And I haven't learned how to live, either.

I have given up on making sense of life. In accepting the senselessness, there is hope for peace.

It's chaos. Be kind.

Marvel

A few months ago I received notification that Taylor had viewed my LinkedIn profile. I was super annoyed.

Why? I asked. He let me go a long time ago. Why bother?

I was reminded of this phrase JD and I used to laugh at in the song "Separate Lives":

You have no right
To ask me how I feel
You have no right
To speak to me so kind

Of course, to speak of entitlement... Too convoluted a subject. Too subjective as well.

I didn't like that I was still allowing this person (or the notion of this person/who he used to be) have power over me.

Truth is Taylor has been a sore spot for years. I have talked to RJ about it. We all have people in our past that haunt us, don't we? They're just... always there.

I really liked me when I was with Taylor. And I really liked us. That high was really difficult to get over. In my mind our time together was like the perfect movie. So many indelible scenes. An illusion, but unsurpassable nonetheless.

Taylor had this luck of having many exes who were obsessed with him and couldn't let go. He had this way of making them feel like the best girl in the world.

The last time I saw him was eight years ago. Seems longer.

Today I receive a note from Taylor via blog comment. He said it was nice that I still thought about him from time to time. And he said that he was dying.

What?! What does one do with that?!! You don't just tell someone you're dying and leave it at that. WTF?

I was in turmoil. So. Many. Questions. Should I ask? How?

"Hug the dog," he said. Did he ever get another dog after Lloyd*? I wondered.

He probably doesn't need to hear from me. But would I not be heartless not to at least try to reach out?

The man is dying, and I am making this about me? Jesus.

Years ago, Taylor was once accused of rape. He would NEVER. I know that all mothers and friends and family of anyone accused of rape (or other crimes) would say this. But I did know him, his core, his mind. He would NEVER.

It was ugly. It changed him. I wanted to know more. The details. Turned out everyone around him wanted to know more. The details.

That might have been the most upset I ever saw him. He said we needed to know the details for us, for gratuitous purposes. He didn't need to retell the story. And thus we were being selfish and inconsiderate.

I have never forgotten those words.

Fast forward to today: Taylor doesn't "have much longer to live". What would I say to him? Do I need to know more, the details, for me? Is it wrong to want to know more?

I texted Taylor at his old number, which turned out not to be his number anymore. Doesn't really surprise me. Must be still escaping stalkers of exes (he moved around and took precautions hiding whereabouts as he had literal stalkers).

Driving home, I pondered, "What would I say?"

I was reminded of the beginning of knowing Taylor. It was such bliss. The sense of being good and part of something good which warmed me to the core and propelled me to love the world as a whole...

And in that instant, I was filled with that love all over again. That greatness of being.

I would say:

Taylor, I have always loved you. And I always will.
Goodbye.



*Not his real name

Awash

I have just returned from my birthplace where my mother, for the first time, expressed regret about having sent my brother and me abroad at such a young age.

"If I were to do it all over again," she said, pain washing over her face. "I wouldn't."

We are 30 years too late. What does one do with that?

I learned this week that Denisse would not be joining us for Thanksgiving, the first time ever. Denisse just got married last December. She and her then fiancé had always come to Thanksgiving dinner at my brother's.

I couldn't deal. Life progresses, people grow. Denisse is finally welcome in Enzo's* family circle. I should be glad. Instead my abandonment issue kicks in. I don't like change. I'll miss her.

And besides, who is going to make green bean casserole?

This while missing my parents like I have never missed them before. I've engendered this theory that all these years I have not allowed myself to miss my parents. I don't think about them much. The disconnect allows me to live my life and let years go by without visiting them. The pain otherwise would be too great to bear.

In the past year or two I have started really identifying with being an INFJ, the "rarest" personality archetype in the Myer-Briggs model. MBTI has fallen out of favor over the years, largely discredited in the psychology industry for being a valid paradigm. It has helped me, however, tremendously. Reading about how INFJ's feel and think makes me understand and accept how I've always felt and thought. And I don't feel so alone anymore.

This and being an HSP, too. Now I don't have to feel apologetic or less.


*Not his real name