The Reality is... (or the Second Boston Massacre)

As I'm starting this entry, there are so many thoughts going through my head that I second-guess myself and think I shouldn't be writing this now. The country is still reeling and investigations are just beginning. Everything I am reading on the internet are somewhat incomplete stories and tidbits of the explosion at the Boston Marathon.

I am taken back to 9/11. When that tragedy happened, I was still in the teaching credential program. It was a normal school day, but it wasn't so normal after watching the replayed events on TV that morning. I started a journal for myself on that very same day: I was angry that so many innocent people died, I was angry that a group of paranoid and cowardly hijackers had to attack America by taking hostages, but I was also angry at myself. I had never felt so ignorant of the world than at that moment. I promised myself that I would pay more attention to the news and politics and global relationships. Although I feel myself more knowledgeable than a decade ago, I still feel that I'm not doing enough or that I still don't know enough.

Earlier today, in the middle of a patriotic celebration to commemorate the start of the American Revolution, the Boston Marathon was ruined by two explosions. The White House called it an "act of terror." And again, I am left with those same feelings I once felt on 9/11. I am angry that so many innocent people are injured and dead; I am angry at the individuals who did this, for they struck at blameless civilians; and I am angry at myself again, because I feel helpless and paranoid and ignorant all over again. As a logical person, I need to control my anger--which I admit, is a strong word. Maybe I am more frustrated, and in my frustration, I entertain ignorant and racist and stereotypical thoughts. This is dangerous, and so I realize that I must let my frustration end as it is and not let it fester unleashed.

In an effort to feel less ignorant, I began to search on Google News and Yahoo! News for any information on the explosions in Boston. There were quite a few personal stories of families finding each other in the chaos, of runners' firsthand accounts of the explosion, of the technical difficulties of cell phones, and of the efforts of policemen and women and emergency services to control the scene. I was interested in reading about the details--who was at fault? When did it happen? How many people were hurt? Where did it exactly happen? What happened afterwards? On the internet, I found a good amount of websites that offered both stories and photos.

I was very hesitant to look at photos. The experience of looking at photos from a current event is entirely different than looking at photos from historical events. This Boston Marathon-Massacre will be a historical event that will be logged in future textbooks and archived on the internet for all time, but right now, it hits too close to home, and the images are too shocking and painful to look at. I have seen captions with warning signs of raw video footage and graphic photos. I saw two photos of a blood-stained streets and sidewalks and that was enough for me. As I skimmed through websites that offered visual representation of details, I began to worry about the amount of pictures and video that made its way to the web for everyone to see.

News is ubiquitous, and so is the internet. We are becoming a very visual community due to slick advertising, Instagram, and companies with visible and popular trademark logos. In our media, which is saturated with either too much reality TV or fantasy films or consumer-made media (aka YouTube), there isn't much context for visuals. Seeing two photos of blood on the ground was depressing and sad enough for me. It hit me deeply that this event just happened at noon, earlier today, and as of this moment, three people died, including a small child. It hit me that, although Boston is on the other side of the coast, this is still America and it happened on my homeland. It hit me that this is the third terrorist event that I have seen in my lifetime. It hit me that we are living in an increasingly volatile world. This is my reality.

I skipped over links that had warning signs "due to their graphic nature." And then I began to think of my students. I honestly have doubts that people younger than me would not hesitate to click and see those photos. In their reality, this tragedy is so far from their own lives. They would view those photos to test their own courage and squeamishness over graphic content. They would empathize for a brief 10 seconds, but be glad that it didn't happen in Southern California. Maybe I am generalizing too quickly, but for a high school student--who has social media to connect with friends, who watches reality TV, who watches fantasy films or romanticized movies with happy endings or America will always win--reality does not set it too deeply with young people unless it is of a very personal nature. Unless some of my students have family in Boston, this historical event is as meaningful as 9/11--too distant to feel its impact.

This second Boston Massacre was reported on Twitter and Facebook alongside credible news agencies. Photos were uploaded independently in all types of media. We are picky about our news sources because we seek objectivity in information, and at the same time, a wealth of photos and news of this event all over the internet can cause such overwhelming confusion because some of the information has no context. We want our information to be free of bias, but raw footage and graphic photos are so unsettling that we can barely construct our own moral parameters to reflect on our own thoughts, our politics, or our feelings. Photos are so instantaneous that we don't have time to think except to just be shocked and disgusted, and then hate the people who did this. Sometimes we are too shocked and disgusted that we can't even sympathize and shrug it off with shallow words: "Oh well."

I am curious to know what my students think. When 9/11 happened, I saw teachers who decided to ignore the event and I saw teachers who watched the news with their kids, but most of those teachers were too afraid to talk about it or did not know how to make live history be a learning moment for kids. I will probably come to that tomorrow morning. I might bring it up or they might bring it up. What will their comments reveal about their feelings? What will their reactions say about their understanding and their ability to empathize? I know that I have to prepare myself not to get angry or frustrated in order to answer their questions and address their confusion.

Right now, my thoughts are with Boston. It was a city I have always wanted to visit, for its wealth in American history. I know that when I visit it in the future, it will be a city changed by this event. But I know Boston will pull through this, just as New York City had, just as Oklahoma City had, just as Honolulu had.

My Car

Recently, I got into a minor car accident. Nothing much: a typical rear-end collision while waiting at the stoplight. As my car jumped forward, I sat in my seat in disbelief and surprise. Thoughts of “Why me?” and “What did I do?” and “Are you serious?” and “Are you kidding me?” and “What the hell?” filled my head and I didn’t know how exactly to process the incident. As the car behind me pulled forward, I immediately thought that he might try to escape. That was what happened at my last rear-end collision: the teenage driver of that car sped away after he carelessly apologized. When he ran off, I began to hate humanity, especially irresponsible teens who drive without licenses.

But not this driver. He pulled up beside me, rolled down his window, and asked if I was all right. I said I was a bit shaken and shocked, and he suggested we pull over to the side of the street. The young man immediately came out of his car and humbly and respectfully apologized. He checked the damage of my car and his car. He apologized so many times and then offered his insurance information. We talked for a brief moment, and he admitted that he wasn’t paying attention. In my gut, I knew he was sincere. After we had exchanged information, I arrived at work and tried to forget about how my day started, but in the back of my head, I kept thinking how much this accident was going to inconvenience me in the next few weeks.

The last time I got into a major accident, I had to make appointments for my car to get it fixed, rent a car and pay out of my own pocket, and make phone calls to adjusters to make sure paperwork was filed. These were hassles. These were extra errands that were added to my day that I did not need to do. But the whole day of this new collision, I wasn’t worried about that. I was worried about the young man who hit me. I knew he was probably feeling guilty. I knew he was a good person, and for some reason, I felt bad if I decided to call up my insurance company and tell them that this good young man was irresponsible. Like a teacher that I am, I did not want to see a good person get into trouble. Initially, I hated all young irresponsible drivers who caused accidents, because they reminded me of that one teenager three years ago who hit my car and then ran off. I promised myself that if an irresponsible driver ever crossed my path, I would THROW HIM TO THE INSURANCE COMPANIES AND FILE POLICE REPORTS!!!

But this driver was nice, he was polite, and he was responsible. I didn’t want to get him in trouble. He would not be the scapegoat for the previous driver who hit me three years ago.

Later in the afternoon, I got a personal call from a woman—the driver’s grandmother. Even she apologized and offered more information as well as reassured me that her grandson was really a good boy. I believed her. We actually had a short conversation and even laughed together. She informed me that she would report the incident with her insurance and she encouraged me to do the same with my company. Then she reassured me that there would be no hard feelings or grudges. She said that this was a lesson her grandson needed, for he shouldn’t have been driving too fast anyway. After I hung up with her, this great weight suddenly lifted from me. Her grandson was in trouble, but not because of me; he had his grandmother and mother to face. He suddenly had more financial responsibilities to be accountable for, and according to his grandmother, he was still feeling guilty about the accident that morning (eight hours earlier). That guilty feeling of getting someone in trouble vanished. Even though my day started with an accident, it ended with comfort and smiles. It is quite unfortunate that I had to meet very nice people in what could have been a potentially litigious scenario.

The next day, I called my insurance company. When the other insurance company called me, they offered a few places to get my car fixed. I took the addresses down, but only recently did I decide to get my car even looked at. Why did it take me so long to even get an estimate?

My car is old. The clear coat is faded, the paint has begun to oxidize, there are dings and scratches everywhere, and recently I found gang tagging written on the dust of my trunk. The hubcaps are all gone. There are hard-water stains everywhere. When my students see my car, they either make fun of me or ask me why I didn’t just go buy a new one.

I don’t like to admit that I’m a materialistic person, but when it comes to my car—I’m very materialistic, maybe even to the point of Seven Deadly Sin status. In fact, I used to be quite vain about my car when it was first new. I washed and cleaned it every weekend. I was careful when driving in parking lots. I bought cute accessories to personalize it. When I got into my first accident, I did not hesitate to call up my insurance and get my car fixed immediately. My perfect car was going to stay perfect. No dents or scratches or mess ever. It was the perfect car for my perfect life.

Over the years, my car has grown with me. For every car payment, I learned financial responsibility. For every ding and scratch, I have learned to accept that my life will also have bumps and troubles. For every engine breakdown and flat tire, I have learned to appreciate my own physical health. For every accident, I have learned to roll with the punches. I have learned many lessons from my car. It may be hunk of junk to some, but to me, this car is a huge part of my life. This is not a car that I can easily throw away just because it’s old. It may even be considered ugly, but it’s mine and it’s still going strong. I am loyal to it because it has been loyal to me. I have had many accidents with this car—and that is not to say that I’m the bad driver--but at each accident that I have been in, I have never been to a hospital. My car took a beating so I didn’t have to. I love my car.

I kept the name of the body shops in my purse for about a week. It took me a while to set up an appointment just to get an estimate. I thought that my car was so old that it would look odd to get a new shiny bumper while the rest of my car was oxidized and faded. That would be like getting four out of five nails done at the salon. That new bumper is going to look odd.

But my car is loyal to me. It deserves a new bumper, even if the color is mismatched from the rest of the body. I drove my car to the body shop and the estimate was over $600. I informed the specialist that the last time I had a bumper replaced, it was only $500. Why was it so expensive, especially for an old model like mine? (Not that I was paying for any of it anyway, but I was still curious.) The specialist said that my car (this particular year and model), although old, is unique—especially its durable bumper frame. There are no “certified replicas” or parts of equal value. They have to order straight from the manufacturer. If the frame is damaged, it has to be replaced and they will have to order the part. If the bumper is still intact, they just have to repair the bumper cover.

I smiled at this bit of information. I got a tough car. I made a good investment. I should be proud of my car.

I have taken my car for granted in the past few years; maybe this accident is to remind me that I should not take my life for granted. People tell me that “it’s only a car” and it was made to stay safe; that that is its function. I don’t want to think of my car simply as an object. It has obviously saved my life plenty of times. The only way to thank my car and show gratitude is to make sure it’s always in tip-top shape, so nothing is too good for my vehicle.

I hope that I won’t have any other accidents—whether the driver is irresponsible or not. I value my life, which only makes me appreciate the durability of my car even more. I hope to keep this car for as long as I can.

Symbol of Your Life

I see it everywhere: marks of individuality, signs of uniqueness, symbols of the "me."

There is a long history of the tattoo; one can even argue that God made the first one for Cain--a symbol that singled him out as a murderer. In ancient Egypt, mummies have been discovered with symbols and signs on their bodies, characters and designs to represent love, honor, respect, even punishment. Tribes from all over the world practice the art of tattooing to mark the men and women of status. Tattoos obviously have had a cultural impact in the world today, which is why I don't find them to be repulsive; tattoos seem part of the norm.

When I was a senior in high school, I secretly wanted a tattoo. But I did not dare reveal this wish because tattoos had such a dubious reputation as "marks of deviance." But the way I saw it, tattoos were a form of storytelling. Whenever I saw one, I would ask what it represented, and certain individuals would proceed to tell me the story of what their insignia meant. Gangsters sported them to show their allegiance, bikers showed off their artistic value, and servicemen collected them as they traveled.

I always thought to myself, "If I ever got a tattoo, what would it be?" I pondered this fantasy all the way through college, but I did not dare enter a tattoo parlor to even browse. Two things stopped me at that time: my future in a professional career and my indecisiveness. At age 20, I knew that some people (future employers, whoever they may be) would not look too kindly at a "mark of deviance." I knew I wanted to be a teacher, but I could not imagine myself wearing long sleeves for most of my life just to cover up a tattoo in the classroom. Besides, tattoos were meant to be shown; what was the point if I covered them most of the time? At age 20, I also knew I had a future that would change and shape who I was. The last thing I wanted was a tattoo that no longer meant anything to me at age thirty or forty; a symbol of regret and idiocy.

Now that I am older, I still ponder that question: "If I ever get a tattoo, what would it be?" I have thought and thought about this, and now I know what I want. I realized that I am comfortable now in my own skin, who I am and what I am and what I will be in the future. I think these symbols (yes, two of them) are apt in my personality and philosophy of life. And I have been thinking about this for the past four months. So what's stopping me?

Commitment.

I am comfortable in my own skin that I like my skin just the way it is: unmarked. As I have jokingly said to friends, a wedding ring can be taken off, but a tattoo is for life. One would even ask, "So why do you even want one now?" I know that there are so many ways a person can express their individuality, and for me, it always through this blog expressing my ideas. But a tattoo is also a way of expressing that I am a person of ideas, and most of all, a person who is multi-faceted. Even a teacher gets tired of being pigeon-holed as a "role model" for the future generation. It may be repulsive and it may be frowned upon, but a "mark of deviance"--may it be a tattoo, the unusual car, the strange knickknacks, the odd haircut or hair color, the piercings, the clothes, the jewelry--allows us to be who we need to be and allows us to be who we are.

A picture is worth a thousand words, and a tattoo symbolizes so much and encompasses so many ideas. In two pictures, my whole life and being is subtly told. I remember my past and where I come from; I remember my purpose in life as I live each day in the present; and I will keep in mind of what the future holds for me whenever I stray from who I really am. It's what we all strive for: remembering who we really are and staying true to ourselves.

Materialism

As my older sister prepares to move back in with my parents, due to an impending divorce, my sisters and I have begun prepping our old rooms to make room for her and her children's belongings. It has been an arduous task because my parents are packrats; they refuse to throw anything away. As my sisters sifted through the garage, we grew frustrated at the old furniture, excessive clothes, and excessive junk that has accumulated from nearly 30 years of living in that house.

In all honesty, even I was guilty. Even though I have moved out of my house years ago, my old room still contains much of my things--mostly books. They are and always will be the bane of moving. I'm good about my clothes--if they don't fit or if I haven't used them, I will donate them. I'm the same with books--if I never liked the book or if it's something I will not miss, I'll donate them to the public library. Yet as a teacher, I acquire more books than I can get rid of.

I now live in an apartment, and I take up about seventy-five percent of the space--mostly through shelving and books and a home office. I do worry that one day I will die and no one will know what to do with my stuff. I don't want that to happen. I wonder about that now as I look at my parents' garage. When I die, I hope the only thing my descendants have to worry about is donating books and clothes and selling my CD collection on Craigslist or eBay.

Last weekend, I carted my books from my old room back up to the apartment. My sister said I should buy more shelves. That's the last thing I want to do: buy more furniture. I was quite envious when the boyfriend said he was able to pack everything he needed in a military-regulated bag. I wish I could do that. If push comes to shove, I wish I could pack up all my clothes into two large suitcases. But that's not easy when I've moved out since 2001. I've acquired furniture that made my life functional and collected knick-knacks that have defined my life. I keep thinking of the day when I will one day move again, and how much of a hassle it is to move and pack up this much stuff. I keep thinking of the day when I will die, and my descendants will probably throw most of my stuff away anyway: to them, it's junk. To me, it's sentimentality and a defined life. I realize my own hypocrisy when it comes to materialistic things. The only difference between me and my parents: I know when to throw stuff out.

Yesterday, I went through my closet. I am going to donate one-third of my clothes. That's a lot of clothes. Just seeing how much more room I have in my closet made me realize how much I don't always need more stuff. I have even rediscovered old clothes that I have forgotten because they were packed away in the depths of storage bins. I feel a great load has been lifted off my back because I got rid of so much stuff. If only going through my home office was just as easy. I spent half a day working through my closet and bedroom, but it takes me days to reorganize my desk and shelves.

If I ever have kids, I hope they have the foresight and enough gumption and deceit to get rid of clothes from when I was thirty. When I retire from my job, I hope new teachers will ransack my classroom for stuff they will need to start their careers. And when I reach my sixties, the goal will be that the garage of my house will still fit two cars (shiny muscle cars of the Dodge or Chevy variety).

Simplify, simplify, simplify.

Anti-Technology

I use technology as a tool. I use technology as a social network. I also use technology to publish this blog. Technology is part of my life--it comes as a computer, a cell phone, and an iPod. It has been part of my life since my father put together a "home brew" PC in 1994. I know what my life was like before computers and internet pervaded my habits and became part of my daily activities.

As Governor Schwarzenegger proposes the "Digital Textbook Initiative" in California, I fear Ray Bradbury's futuristic society of Fahrenheit 451 coming to life. In his book, Bradbury predicts that television will take over society by brainwashing and censorship. Television will be the only form of communication for information--completely regulated by government. Although Bradbury's fear focused on television, television itself is metonymical for technology in our current times. Replace television with Internet, computers, or media; it's all the same. And they're all a deadly combination.

In a sociological sense, the internet has benefited us as well as handicapped us. The benefits are obvious: communication and access to information. It has made the world more globally connected. I have made international penpals through the internet, stayed in touch with relatives and friends across the country, and exchanged ideas with colleagues and professionals in my field. Internet and computers have made my life easier in that sense. But as a teacher, I see a greater handicap: the dehumanization of a new generation.

Seven years ago when I first started teaching, iPods were not yet invented and cell phones were not that prevalent in the classroom. I had students who would listen to me when I lectured and listened to each other when we had discussions. I had students who grew to know each other in the classroom as the year passed. The only problem I had to deal with when it came to writing was "text message" spelling, which was easily corrected because students still knew the differences between all the homophones.

Seven years later, I have seen a great change in the sophomores I teach from the sophomores of 2002. I have to compete for students' attention because they would rather listen to their iPod or send text messages to students in another classroom. When I assign a book to read, they immediately ask if there's a movie version. Their reading skills have declined because they don't recognize how real words are correctly spelled. Homework competes with Myspace and Facebook. And what about the exchange of ideas during class discussion? Forget that. Discussion is an argument because they don't want to learn the rules of engagement. The classroom is one large chatroom and whoever types the fastest is the one who gets the floor. In this case, the one who shouts the loudest dominates. And forget ideas. They would rather gossip about someone's blog or Myspace and then bring that drama to the classroom where it distracts from lessons.

Wikipedia is omniscient.
Google is god.
Youtube is all-seeing.
Myspace is all-knowing.

Yet students are not learning anything useful. Sure, they're learning social skills, but not the kind that will help them in the working world. They know how to start drama through Myspace, but they don't know how to fix it when it invades their waking life. They may know how to blog, but they write incorrectly. And although they have a wealth of information at their fingertips, they don't learn anything. Their writing has deteriorated, they don't absorb ideas, they don't build on what they know, they don't correct their mistakes. The computer will do it all for them. Microsoft Word corrects mistakes (except homophones), Google will find information, cut and paste and plagiarize, and turn it in for a grade. But did they learn anything?

Now our California governor wants to digitalize textbooks. He says it is to save money. As Bradbury wrote, "there's more than one way to burn a book." I'm a concerned teacher. Schools can't afford computers for each student or each classroom. I can teach without a book, but the dynamics of a classroom will change. Students will not pay attention to me if they're browsing the web. Students won't care to socialize or get to know each other if they're glued to the screen. What guarantee will I have that students will read digitalized textbooks anyway? They will still have iTunes playing in the background while chatting with friends while they are supposedly doing homework or research.

Information--from music to academics--is a downloadable megabyte temporarily stored from hard drive to thumb drive or music player. Students don't appreciate the art of CD covers or read liner notes from their favorite artists. They don't turn pages to understand words and ideas, but quickly scroll down for subheadings. They don't take the time to read, to understand, to digest, and most of all, to absorb and appreciate what they have. The Internet is like a shopping center, a place where they can get everything. Download means free, so students view knowledge like they view the latest trends: disposable.

As an English teacher, a teacher of the humanities, it is my job to teach students to understand life, people, and the community. Through literature, I hope to teach sympathy for others outside of their own reality, I hope to expose them to ideas that will build their own and beyond. Through writing, I hope to drive them to action that will change the world. But the way students encapsulate themselves in their own selfish and sheltered lives, they care less about others. Why be humane when Myspace drama is so much more entertaining? Although they are globally connected, why should they care about saving Darfur? They are so connected to technology that they are disconnected from humanity.

Technology is a tool. Just because the Internet stores a bunch of information, it does not mean it is not smart. It does not know right from wrong. It is an objective calculator. Unfortunately, our future generation reflects that: they are not smarter than previous generations even when they have a wealth of knowledge at their fingertips. Although they know right from wrong, they don't care if they are not affected. Their brains are like the computers: storing information when they need it, but deleted afterwards. They don't build on past knowledge; they start over.

Technology is beneficial for our knowledge, but has dehumanized many of us in many ways.

The Mother Card

The Mother Card. Women pull this like some black people pull the "race card" when they don't get their way or don't like what they hear.

I am single. I have no children. I have dedicated myself to my career. This is the choice I have made. This is not to say that I am against marriage or against having children; it is just those options were not part of the path that I have chosen to walk. If they cross my path in the future, I certainly am open to it; but at this point in my life, I am deaf to the biological clock.

In a woman's life, there is a prominent fork in the road: career or motherhood. Men never had that choice because most men don't think the responsibility of care-taking as a career. They were taught to just succeed in their life, mostly through their profession. But women do have to make that choice. If they focus on their career, they postpone motherhood. If they choose motherhood, it's difficult to go back to the working world. If they strive for both, which is possible, neither job is perfect. In the workplace, they will get criticized for not dedicating enough time to their job; and at home, Mommy may not always have time for the family or just seem "too busy" for anything else.

I have chosen to dedicate myself to my profession. I realize the consequence of my choice: delayed marriage, delayed motherhood, or even the possibility of staying single and childless for the rest of my life. I understand the choice I made and I can certainly live with it. I have been criticized that I am a workaholic and that I need "a personal life." I'm not insulted when people say such things, but I do get insulted when another woman says to me, "What will happen when you have kids?" or when they insinuate that having a husband or having children will "cure" me of my workaholism. The women who make these kinds of comments to me are usually the women who try to have both: career and motherhood.

I give praise to the women who actually perfected their half-and-half lifestyle, but from personal observation, I have not seen one woman who has chosen both career and motherhood perfect both aspects of their lives. The women who have children leave school early so they can be with their own kids, so their work suffers. The general complaint from coworkers and students is that those women are unavailable or delay paperwork (i.e. grades and progress reports). When these same women ask for help on how to teach certain things, or ask for tips or suggestions, they also reply that my suggestions or tips are too time-consuming for their lifestyle.

I leave it at that. Like all lesson plans that I give out, teachers need to make it their own and make it fit their personality and style. When I criticize women for their lack of time or dedication to their job, I keep it to myself. I don't openly criticize their life or their children. I will never say to another woman that children got in the way of her career. I realize that if I said anything about it, I am holding them to a standard that I live by, which is not right. Career was my choice. Half-and-half was theirs (and if you ask me, half-assed). I just wish those women would have the same courtesy towards me. They should not assume that I am a workaholic just because I lack a husband or lack children of my own. I do not want their pity because they (mistakenly) think my life is empty without the joy of motherhood.

My life is defined by my choices, not societal expectations that all women should be mothers.

The Age Thing

I am not really self-conscious about my age; after all, it is only a number within my mind. Often, I have been complimented about my age and how I never really look like someone in their thirties. It is also those same compliments that never make me lament about how old I am getting every year. In addition, my occupation, my non-marital status, and my whimsical and noncommital attitudes towards life have always had people guessing my age at around 25-28. I never complained.

I never really thought about how old I am. It is not something I obsess about... until now.

Recently, I have been toying with the idea of teaching abroad. There are times when I miss Japan and the experience I had there: I miss the cultural exchange and history of a new country, the daily intellectual stimulation of working in a different school environment, the interaction with students who have different ideas and experiences, and most of all, the traveling and touring of a local or regional area. In preparation for this venture, I began updating some professional documents. As a seasoned educator, my experience should be a marketable asset; I have so much to offer to any school. I am at the top of my game. Unfortunately, my age is working against me. Of all things, who would have thought that age would become a disadvantage?

Teachers are like cars. We cannot deny that they are needed in our daily lives, but everyone wants the new one. The 2009 model will have built-in GPS, DVD/TV screens, rear camera, satellite radio, MP3/CD player with iPod capabilities; the new model may even parallel park itself. The old 2002 models will have some outdated features like adjustable seats and steering wheel, digital radio, and CD/tape deck. And it does not matter if the 2002 model upgraded on a few things: new rims, new MP3/CD player and digital radio, new paint job, attached GPS and XM Satellite radio... those things don't matter when you look at its mileage: 130,000 miles. It's old. It's outdated.

As I submit résumés and applications for teaching abroad, there are moments when I despair that I am in competition with young graduates. Is there some subliminal message that thirty-year olds should just settle down already? Were we meant to fade into our forties and leave other goals and dreams unfinished? Young teacher graduates and I have so much in common: optimism, energy, open-minds, love for travel, love for teaching, and love for cultural diversity. But my age and experience will set me far off from them... so far off, that I am pushed aside to make way for the youth.

What Would a White Man Do?

I hope my audience does not think I am a racist or a sexist for writing such a title for this entry, but I wanted to expand on what I had previously written four years ago: The Psyche of Asian Submissiveness. In that entry, I reflected on my experience as a submissive Asian person who was too shy to take any iniative at job fairs and so naive to think that I could be a suitable employee anywhere. I was a complete contrast to Caucasian counterparts--individuals who had the ambition and the drive to hunt, not just for a job, but for a suitable employer.

There are days that I still think I am a novice when it comes to navigating through Americanized social mannerisms. And when I say "Americanized," I mean "white ways." It does not matter that I consider myself American and was raised in an American social environment; at the heart of it all, I was raised with Asian mentality and mannerisms. The behavior and the mentality are so innate that I do not even notice how I act unless I come across some other behavior that starkly contrasts to what I know. It is at those particular moments when I find myself asking, "What would a white man do?"

Today I needed an important document from a former professor. I gave him two weeks advance notice that I needed his assistance. I have deadlines coming up, and he has not responded. If he procrastinates any further, I could be losing a golden opportunity that could definitely change my life.

My submissive Asian side tells me that I should passively wait. I had already emailed him once before to remind him. I'm sure that he understands the importance of his assistance in this matter.

But what would a white man do? Would he sit passively and wait? Or would he take some form of action so as not to lose that life-changing golden opportunity? Would he politely ask for his professor's help as a gentle reminder? Or would he assertively request that the professor take some urgent action? Would a white man be bold and audacious to just write up the document and ask the professor to verify it with his stamp of approval? Or would he be breaking social conduct if he did that?

I ask myself: what would a white man do?

Time

"Time is money." This is an expression we have heard many times in the past. Given that we are a society that is paid by the hour, time is measured by the money we earn. We give our time to the companies and businesses that pay us; but with the economy in such decline, and the complexity of modern life so all-consuming, time is precious commodity that should not be measured by dollar signs.

About a month ago, I resigned from my position as a department head. It was a decision I made based on very personal reasons, and I had to tell myself that this was for my own good. It was difficult, at first, to let go of something that I have gotten used to over two years; there was still this inexplicable longing to continue to fight battles and not give up. I think that was the thing that bothered me most: I felt I gave up. Disappointing myself was the worst feeling.

I openly revealed to very few colleagues about my reasons, and they supported my decision that I step away from the responsibilities I once had. In the past two years, I really felt I had given up my blood and sweat for the good of our school. At one point, I called unwanted attention to the department and almost put my head on the chopping block--all because I believed in something. I have sacrificed nearly every free moment to my work--for my students, for the department, for our school, and even for the district. My own life was on hold--relationships failed, friendships on hiatus, hobbies ignored, stories untold. I kept telling myself that I would balance things out eventually, but it never happened.

Unfortunately, it took personal problems to arise to give me that wake up call. It made me rethink about my priorities. I love my work, but devoting 110% of my time to a school that is facing budget cuts and is not paying me enough to fix their problems, made me realize that time is a precious commodity that cannot ever be regained, nor can it be paid back. After pondering this for a week or so, I am now content that I gave up being a leader; my pride will heal and the disappointment will fade. I have gained so much more in the long run: priceless minutes and hours that I finally can call my own.

Since my resignation from department chairman, I have invested more time in actual teaching and getting to know my students. I have brought less work home because I finish most of it at school. Friendships have reformed and I actually have quality time to spend with people. I have read more books in the past month than in the past two years. Now my mind is flooded with linguistic inspiration, and I do not know which story to start writing again. Maybe I will actually start an exercise routine like I had planned over two years ago. There are so many things I can do now. I feel that my life is back in my hands again, even if only a little.

I was never one to measure my job's worth in dollar signs, so I don't really care much about the money, but I do care about my time. That is worth more than money any day.

It's Not Flattery To Me

In the past two weeks, I've been strangely hit on by men. I say "strangely" because I don't really consider myself a magnet for the male eye. Actually, I don't even pay attention if the opposite sex is paying attention to me. A few times in the past, male friends had to tell me that some guys were trying to pick me up because I was too naive to notice anything beyond the "Hey, how you doing?" greeting.

In truth, being picked up on is not something I consider flattery or complimentary. I don't know whether I am being complimented or just being ogled. Other times, harmless questions are an invasion of privacy. Take the two men who tried to hit on me the past two weeks: both have asked, in some indirect and elliptical manner, if I was involved with someone. The cable guy who came to repair the internet asked if I lived alone or with a boyfriend; while a new colleague at work (under the guise of trying to get to know me), asked if spend my freetime with anyone. Then he complimented my body type--whatever!

In both cases, I find it to be an invasion of privacy. Cable guy: you came to fix my internet. I don't care about small talk. New colleague: I don't date coworkers, and neither should you try to use the workplace to pick up anyone else. I believe being hit on or being picked up must be at a place that is appropriate for social gathering--either a bar or a coffee shop or a restaurant. Maybe even in random place that instigates conversation, like a bookstore (not a library) or concert hall. But never while someone is at work or is working. Cable guy should not have asked about my living situation while trying to work on wires around my apartment, and new colleague should not have complimented my body while I was doing inventory. In both situations, I was not in the mood to be hit on. That's the key: I have to be in the mood. Here are other examples of places where I was hit on, and I was actually turned off:

• Library: I was studying for a final, and I was stressed out trying to write a paper. Some dude tried talking to me in Tagalog--which I don't even speak. Then he tried asking for my phone number. I was stressed. I was studying. I wanted a quiet place. No, I was not in the mood.
• Lecture hall at a university: I was waiting for friends. I was drawing, then I was reading. Some guy asked to see my drawing and tried to talk to me. Conversation was going nowhere. It made me uncomfortable. I fled as soon as I spotted my friends.
• Wedding: Weddings are a great place to meet people, but not after the guy reveals he impregnated his history teacher at sixteen years old. As a teacher, I was appalled and disgusted. It not only killed the mood, he gave me the heebeejeebees the rest of the evening.
• In my own home: repairmen should just come and fix whatever they need to fix. Don't try to check me or my place out. In addition, you're not hot when you're all sweaty and dirty.
• At work: I'm too preoccupied with kids and work. Ninety percent of the time, I will not be in the mood to talk about my personal life. The other ten percent, I'm too preoccupied with my students' personal lives.

Not to say that dating a coworker is taboo; as long as people know the differences of personal and professional boundaries. I've known plenty of friends and other coworkers who have met spouses through work. Maybe I would be more open to talk about my personal life outside and off campus, while I'm hanging out with coworkers in a more relaxed setting, but never on campus when other people could be listening or get the wrong message. And I certainly would not want to get anyone else into trouble while they were working.

I have pretty much knocked out all the places where one could be picked up, but there have been ideal places where men have spoken to me in a friendly way and I was engaged in conversation. Although numbers were never exchanged, that's the beauty of it: I never felt like he was ogling me or trying to pick me up. It's nice to just have a conversation and expect nothing out of it:

• CD shop: some guy translated a French title for me and we started talking about traveling.
• bookstore: some guy recommended a vampire novel, so I recommended one for him, too. We had a great conversation about books.
• geek convention: some guy didn't have a camera and asked if I could take a picture of him and the celebrity we were in line to see; we exchanged email addresses, and we're still friends to this day.
• on an airplane (50/50 luck with who you sit next to): the guy who sat next to me was an engineer, and he initiated conversation by saying hello. I asked how planes fly, and in laymen's terms, he talked about lift, air molecules, drag, wing curvature, etc. Physics was my favorite science. Academic nerd talk can be quite stimulating.
• museum: I was in Japan when this happened. An elderly gentlemen offered to take me into the Tokyo National Museum when he saw me heading in, because he could go in free with a guest. With the little English he knew, and the little Japanese I knew, we strolled through the medieval wooden print exhibition and talked about each other's cultures.

In these places, I never felt ogled or threatened. Intellectual conversation certainly helps to move things along. If any of these men asked had asked for my phone number, I would have been inclined to give it. Only one asked for my email, but even then, we turned out be good friends. None of these men asked about my personal life or if I was attached to anyone. Good conversation hooked me in, and I would have talked about anything once I got comfortable. I find it flattering the most when a guy notices I'm smart first, sexy second.

Photographs

An old friend and I recently reconnected after a long dry spell of silence in our friendship. There has been a flood of emails as we reminisce about the time we spent together and laugh over one-liners. In the midst of conversation, we try to seek evidence of shameful moments to share more laughs, and then we remind ourselves that we will look for the photographs and the letters in our parents' homes.

I had the advantage this evening, as I was already at my parents' home for a weekend visit, and immediately retrieved the letters and the photo albums. Even though I am a writer, it is much to my own shame that we did not write more than ten letters between us. I thought having a penpal would be fun, but we didn't really write as much as we emailed each other. Internet was gaining popularity in the mid-90s, and computers suddenly replaced the traditional way of communicating with a penpal. And who thought of keeping emails back then? They are disposal like little memos on a post-it note. The emails are lost now, but the letters I still had were a fun read.

Then there were the photographs. There is something special about them. In fact, there is something special about photos and pictures that were taken and developed the old-fashioned away: by film. Digital photos allow people to perfect and edit pictures as soon as they are taken. People change the composition of a picture before having them printed. Red-eye can be retouched, crooked pictures can be cropped, teeth can be whitened a little more, certain people in the background can be removed--all these tiny things really take away the personality of a picture. It takes away the element of surprise when you open up that envelope and laugh at a candid shot that you did not know existed. Of course, I like the perfect photo, too, but I appreciate a random photo of myself that turned out pretty decent. A perfect photo enhanced through manipulation is just as fake as getting plastic surgery.

So I found this photo of my old friend. It is a decent photo that leaves me with just as much wonder as if I were looking at an archival black and white photo of an historic person from the 1800s. He was still in high school, possibly a freshman or sophomore, and he was standing at the foot of the stairs of his home, next to the banister. He wore his high school uniform, and he had quite an arrogant look on his face. As I look at this picture, I wonder about all the little details that compose this photo. He looked arrogant, but that is only my interpretation. Was he turning his head when someone randomly took that photo? Was that expression accidental? Then there is the strange setting: he stood at the foot of the stairs with both hands on one end of the banister, like he was unsure about whether he was going up or down. The photographer took the photo from the far end of a corridor. It's like my friend almost knew his photo was going to be taken; was he trying to escape the lens or did he reluctantly pose? The corridor itself is interesting... the crown molding on the ceiling, a wrapped painting or mirror (some decorative wall ornament) leaned up against the wall, like they didn't have time to hang it. I still can't tell if my friend stood on a gray or green carpet, but I did notice he took off his shoes and his white socks peeked at the bottom of his dark school uniform. His sleeves were rolled up, too. I can only guess he was trying to relax right after school, but the window behind him was dark, leaving me to wonder if the picture was taken in the evening.

He also sent me another picture of himself: a non-digital photo taken at arm's length with a small 35mm camera. The photo came out slightly blurry, and he even admitted that it was not his most flattering photo. We lacked the technology in the past, but he couldn't edit it or change anything about it. Yet there is an "honest" quality of the picture. He still sent it because it was a decent photo.Nowadays, we delete ugly photos of ourselves, afraid that people will find it and use it against us. We change our features to make ourselves more presentable to the world. We remove the details that will distract others' attention away from us. We want that photo of ourselves to be picture perfect, so no one could ever critique it or wonder about it.

But the mystery of photographs is the allure of looking at them. Taking away the details removes the wonder and curiosity. Taking away the curiosity removes the intrigue. A photo's details provides clues to a story. A photo's flaws, like a blur or a crooked frame, reveals something of raw honesty. And if we keep these flawed photos as opposed to trashing them, it shows our tolerance of mistakes--whatever they may be--and our acceptance of the imperfect that may come in our lives.

A random shot taken in a span of a second suddenly captures a whole life.

Confessions of a Coward Under a False Sense of Bravery

In the Roman Catholic Church, absolution is gained through the act of confessing sins or problems to a priest. The idea is that if Catholics ever expect to get to heaven, they first must let go of their conflicts and burdens, ask for reconciliation from God, and then promise that they will never ever commit those sins again.

Growing up in Catholic household, I participated in this rite several times. There were two ways in which we could go about wiping our souls clean: facing the priest and honestly revealing ourselves and our transgressions as we sit before him, or remaining anonymous by hiding behind a thin partition of intricate woodwork. In the few times I had confessed my sins or let go of my troubled mind, I chose to remain nameless and concealed myself behind that screen.

Forgive me, World, for it has been seventeen years since my last confession. Since that time, I have strayed from my spiritual roots and chose to confess my sins and express my mind through the Internet.

Hmm… I guess not much has changed.

Oscar Wilde wrote, in The Picture of Dorian Gray, "It is the confession, not the priest, that gives us absolution." When we confess, we really just need to let go of our inner conflicts, whatever they may be. Wilde even assumes that confession does not have the religious connotation as it did in the past, for the priest does not absolve us. In today’s technological world, the Internet is the modern day confessional, and the confession ranges from secret sins to blatant rudeness.

When it comes to confession, there are some people who find strength behind an alias. We have this false sense of courage because we tell truths that we would not openly say to a person's face. We say that we are “being honest,” but does it count when we hide behind the screen? There is no honesty when we still hide something. When we discharge our hateful thoughts, proselytize our radical ideas, and eject offensive words, we do not always filter what escapes from our lips. Why filter the words when we have filtered our identity? We sit behind a computer screen and then justify our behavior by lying to ourselves that we have not broken any rules of social decorum.

Many of us--Catholic or not--have chosen this great technology as the vehicle for testimonials, yet continue to hide behind the computer screen or some false identity. We unleash a horde of confessions--sinful or not--because we look for absolution or affirmation from a network of cyberspace strangers. Just like in the Church, we seek for conformity and acceptance with other Catholics; we certainly don't want to burn in hell while everyone else has cleansed their souls to get to heaven; whereas in society, we seek that comfort when we know that there are others "like us." We divulge our opinions and feelings because we hope someone will listen and accept us for who we are. For some, to be accepted by the world or by anyone is simply heaven. The Internet has become the new Church, where everyone worships only themselves and confesses their indiscretions and animosity towards each other.

I begin to wonder how much I have confessed or shared my life on this blog. I do not seek acceptance or absolution, so what am I confessing? What am I sharing to you? Although I've opened up on some personal matters, I feel anonymously safe because I'm behind the screen. For so many of us who have impersonalized blogs, like mine, ones that have very personal thoughts and stories, we are comforted by the fact that we have not stripped to our bare identity and then asked to step out from behind that technological partition. We would be completely naked without our alter-ego and our computer monitor; in essence: we would be facing the priest. That is a frightening prospect: when the world knows of your sins and can put a face to them, the revelation is the apex of vulnerability.

Whether you are a coward or a hero, confessing openly is sharing everything about yourself—all your goodness and your iniquities—and then trusting someone to care and accept you while you're still vulnerable and exposed.

For many of us out there, that's still hard to do.

State of My Affairs

While doing my taxes, I always complain how much money the government takes from my paycheck, and sometimes I still end up paying more on April 15. I don't understand how a teacher--who still spends $1000+ on yearly school supplies (books mostly)--still has to pay. I mean, I practically donate my money back into the classroom, and all I get a $250 deductible. It's true that I don't have any kids of my own to spoil, so my money goes back into my work where I use it for the students anyway. Tax time makes me realize the futility of my job and that it really is a thankless career to the government and to the politicians.


Then I realized this ugly thing about taxes--which has nothing to do with my job. As my brother-in-law breathes a sigh of relief at how easy his taxes are, especially since he's married, I begin to realize that married people have it easy with their finances... and how Christian values have influenced the machinery of economics and government. Married couples--people who have dual income--get less money taken from them, but a single person like myself is squeezed dry like a broken piggy bank. I think that's our government's way of promoting nuclear family values: "Get married, procreate, and we take less money from you because you are ensuring the security of American morality." But if you're single, the government will punish you: "We'll take more money because you are living the hedonistic life and promoting immorality and breaking down family values."

I'm not poor, but when my money is taken from me, I really feel cheated and unappreciated. Not to mention that I feel like that half the year already from the shit I have to deal with from school district bureaucracy. I'm a teacher and unappreciated. I'm single and I'm scolded financially. I live in California, the most progressively backward state in the Union.

Life Is Like an Essay

Life is like the five paragraph essay that I teach in class. I tell my students that their audience will always remember the introduction and the conclusion, so they need to start off strongly and end their essay just as powerfully. And like life, you will be remembered most by how you came into this world and how you leave it.

The introduction is birth: people will remember how you hooked them with your cuteness, your baby feet, and your little fingers. Everyone will start to make plans and dream big things for you. Their goal and their hope is that your life will be free of troubles and imperfections. You didn't define how or what your life would be like. Instead, other people have defined it for you.

The three body paragraphs are benchmarks of life: childhood, adolescence, and adulthood. They are the parts of your life that you struggle with--the construction of your foundation and beliefs, the development of your identity, the improvement and expansion of your independence. Nothing will be perfect as you try to organize these parts of your life. As you rewrite your paragraphs, you keep asking yourself about your goals. Are you struggling to support your own thesis or someone else's? Whatever you decide, this section is where most of the revision takes place. You're never sure if you got it down or not.

Then there is the conclusion. Everyone fumbles over the conclusion. Do we summarize everything we already mentioned in the essay? Do we repeat our main points? How do we close and end gracefully and thoughtfully? What do we want our audience to remember most? What do we want our loved ones to remember of us? The conclusion is accidental, like most of life itself. Sometimes we can end that essay with grace and wit, and everyone will remember the perfection of it that they will forget the errors of your life and forgive you for your faults. But death is unexpected, so that concluding paragraph does not always come out as you had planned. The conclusion's short and abrupt ending does not give the audience the closure that they seek, so it leaves them confused and puzzled.

As they search for answers, they will reread the conclusion and maybe the entire essay all over again, combing over the stages of your life and criticizing your imperfections. They will ask themselves, "What was the thesis in the first place?" and then reread the introduction. They will realize that you never really had one... not your own, anyway.

A conclusion that doesn't give closure, body paragraphs that are not organized, and an introduction that never defines who you are make a weak essay. And that's all you will be remembered for. The conclusion can be that exclamation point that gets everyone to applaud and leave the auditorium with echoes of your accolades, or it can be the ellipsis that confuses everyone to silently boo you off the stage with their disappointment.

No matter how hard you tried or worked on your essay, that conclusion will be the defining paragraph that sings your praises or negates your life.

Rekindle

An old internet friend found me after a six-year absence. It was odd to see an email from him. Through the power of Google, he searched my name and it was linked to the website of the school where I am employed.

I used to depend on the high population of the internet community to remain anonymous, but search engines are suddenly making that impossible. Not that I was trying to avoid him, but it was such a surprise to hear from him. It's an unexpected reunion, and it's such an odd thing that could ever happen in my life: a guy made an active search for me just to tell me that he misses talking to me.

Grief

When I returned to school this past Monday from Spring Break, I was excited to talk about my trip to Japan with my students. Instead, our entire school was stunned when we learned the news of a teacher's untimely death. When I read the email, I held it in and did not bother to tell my students. Part of me did not know how to process the news and my own emotions. Eventually, I broke down during second period where my entire class saw me cry openly. I was no longer in the mood to teach.

Today, there was a short memorial service at the school. So many teachers and students were out to share grief and release white balloons into the sky. Everyone was crying.

How do you continue on with the school day after such a somber and heart-wrenching event? I tried to go on with lessons, but I broke down again, this time in my fifth period class.

I hate losing control of my emotions, especially in front of my students. I don't like showing my vulnerability, I don't like revealing private thoughts and pains, especially. Not to mention that it makes everyone uncomfortable when they don't know how to comfort you or each other. What is a teacher to do when they are still expected to maintain some semblance of normality and console others' agony when they can barely ease their own?

Mental Wellness Day

I'm at that point in the school year where I am reaching a burnout. My fire is dying and I'm always tired. Geek Colleague convinced me that I should take a "mental wellness" day and not go to work. He had to persuade and convince me that I should take a personal day to just de-stress myself. I'm a perfectionist and a control freak when it comes to teaching, so it's hard to let things go and just blow off one day.

But GC was right: a refreshed teacher is more effective and productive than a burnt out teacher who will be moody and snappy at students. So I will enjoy my unofficial three-day weekend.

God, I'm going to hate Monday.

Everything I Know, I Learned from Horses

There are two quotes that come to mind when people ask me what teaching is like. These are also the same quotes I say to myself to make myself feel better when I feel like I'm a lousy teacher.

The first quote: "You can lead a horse to water, but you can't make it drink." No matter how well I try to teach and teach to the best of my capabilities, I still can't make a student want to learn. I can teach them to read, but that doesn't mean they'll understand. I can teach them to write, but that doesn't mean they'll think and have ideas on their own. I can teach them compassion, but that doesn't mean they'll practice it.

The second quote: "... like beating a dead horse." I can pound these lessons over and over and over again... and I'll still get nowhere.

It's depresssing, but at times it can be uplifting. I know it's not my fault if these kids fail. I know that I've done every little thing I possibly can. I've reached my limits. The kids still need to reach theirs.

Ode to My Car… Again

My mother thinks my car is jinxed. When I got into my second accident, she said it was cursed and that we should return it to the dealer. I said that I liked my car and that I was not giving it up. It must have been pride or vanity that made me want to keep it, but after last night’s accident, I’m definitely keeping it.

Four accidents, and you’re probably thinking that my car must be pretty crappy looking by now, but it’s not. Because I drive such long distances, and because I’ve made an investment in paying for this car, I want to make sure that it will always be reliable when I need it. I check it in at the dealership for regular tire rotations and oil changes, and whenever I get into an accident, I’m vain enough to get it fixed--whatever the cost—because I want my car to look nice.

My car looks like crap now, but with its crooked smile (falling front bumper), missing hubcap, and cracked body, I know everything can be replaced and fixed and it will be “perfect” again, like my life. (Hear that, Fate!?). My car knows that I’ll have it nice and pretty. It must also know that I can’t be easily fixed or replaced if I were to get hurt.

If I take care of my car, then it will take care of me. Four accidents and I have been able to walk away without a scratch or even a bruise. Why? Because my car took the beating for me. Do I love my car? Oh, yeah….

I. Ode to My Car

Fate likes to throw things in my path when I think my life is suddenly perfect. My life is not perfect-perfect, but perfect enough that I am always thankful for my blessings and everything else that keeps me functional and my life running smoothly. How do I know my life is perfect? I gauge everything through my car.

As you all know, I love my car. You can even say that I love my car to the point that someone can literally torture me by destroying my car. I would cry if someone were to slash my tires. A little knick on the paint job would tick me off. I get paranoid when any of my sisters drive it. I look at my car with pride when I see it in a parking lot. I love the color. It’s so me. What else can I say?

So, how does my car connect to my perfect life? Here are the ways…

Fate’s First Obstacle: Last December, my life was “perfect.” I had a good job that was flexible with my school schedule; I was in the credential program on my way to being a teacher; I was living with my roommates who are also very good friends of mine; Christmas was coming, and I actually had time and money to shop and buy gift. I felt like I was being a responsible adult because I was independent. Could life get any better? I think not! One morning, I was feeling particularly happy that I decided to go to work early. What happened? I get into a car accident on the way there—less than five blocks from where I was living. It was my very first car accident in the six years that I have been driving. I panicked. I called my mother and father, and I suddenly felt like a child again. Damage to my car: eight-inch crack on the rear bumper.

Although it was the other driver’s fault (he ran a STOP sign when it was my turn), and he paid for the damages of my car, I learned a valuable lesson: how insurance companies worked.

Fate’s Second Obstacle: After that first accident, I got my car fixed. I avoided the intersection where that first accident occurred because I didn’t want anything to happen to my pretty car. My roommates even showed me a shortcut through a back road that had less traffic. It was now the second semester of my credential program, and I continued on with my “perfect” life. I was student-teaching in a great school, I was getting the hang of teaching, I was on top of all the grading I needed to get done, and I just got my car fixed. I had a very resourceful and helpful master-teacher who said I could sleep in one morning because the students had to take a mandatory test, which he had to administer. Could life get any better? I think not! So after sleeping in, I took my time getting ready for work, making sure I had everything. At another intersection, I get into another accident. I didn’t panic, but rather, I repressed the anger.

Again, it was the fault of another driver (he had a suspended driver’s license and no insurance). These are the things I learned:
a) how insurance companies worked when they’re out to get someone
b) how police officers file accident reports
c) how quickly accident scenes are cleared up
d) the little duties that retired volunteer officers actually do

I also learned some things about myself. As I watched the three other drivers of each car be carried away on gurneys and whisked away in ambulances, and while their cars were being towed away from the scene, I realized how lucky I was to still be standing and with my car still functional. Damage to my car: a huge dimple on the left rear quarter panel that wasn’t there before.

Fate’s Third Obstacle: Summer. My younger sister was home from college. We were the only ones living at home with parents. We spent the summer just hanging out, acting goofy, and spending quality time together before she went off to Massachusetts again. I just graduated from the credential program, and I was looking for a teaching job. But my main focus was just finally having time for myself and for my sister. I even got my car fixed from that second accident. After getting my car back, my sister and I decide to go to Los Angeles to shop, hang out, and visit my other sister. Could life get any better? I think not! We were only ten minutes away from our destination when we suddenly come upon an unexpected stop-and-go traffic, and I got involved in a chain reaction accident. Damage to my car: cracked rear bumper and cracked front grill.

According to the investigation, the accident was partially my fault for driving too close to the car in front of me. It was only partial fault because I was rear-ended by someone else who was driving too close behind me. The external things that I learned:
a) how Los Angeles CHP takes a traffic report (UGH!! Don’t get me started!)
b) Los Angeles freeways have no shoulder/emergency lanes (You suck, LA!)
c) how well my Camry withstood the force of an oncoming sports utility vehicle (a big one)
d) how and why my insurance policy will change (damn it!)
e) the possibility of losing my license due to the many accidents I have been in (F**K!)

The internal things I learned:
a) third accident; I feel like a pro.
b) how worried I was for my sister, and how I had to be in control so that she wouldn’t worry.
c) how calm I was, and how in-control I was of my feelings despite my anger and frustration with CHP.
d) how lucky both my sister and I were that day. In fact, I was glad all the drivers and passengers in all the cars involved were okay.

II. When Life Flashes

Fate’s Fourth Obstacle: I’ve noticed that whenever I get my car fixed after an accident, I get into another accident. I decided not to get my car fixed after my third accident. I’ve been driving around town with a broken bumper, but if it keeps me from getting into another accident, I’ll keep it. Besides, it’s very subtle; no one can tell it’s broken unless you press against it. So, how’s my “perfect” life? Well, I got a job. Although there are times when I hate it, there are days when I am happy. It is all a slow process, but I’m bringing less work home, I’m finally thinking happy positive thoughts again, and I’m slowly learning how to balance work and social time. Weekends actually feel like weekends again. I don’t quite have the hang of this job yet, but I’m slowly making progress, and I’m trying to remain optimistic. My friends have been supportive, especially the other first year teachers and my old roommates. Call it cheesy, but it feels like a new outlook on life. Could life get any better? I think not—and you guessed it! I got into another accident.

No other car was involved. It was just me and some huge-f**king-ass debris in the middle of the freeway that I demolished as I tried to avoid it. Whatever the hell that was, I will never know! It looked like some wooden desk or even the wooden frame of a has-been couch! It was just sitting there in the middle of the freeway. As I tried to avoid this thing, I swerved and hit it, demolished it, then I swerved to avoid the center divide. As I tried to straighten my car out, it only spun me out of control across three lanes and landed me in the middle of freeway, broadside to oncoming traffic and facing the center divide. I grabbed the gear and pulled it into reverse and slammed my foot onto the pedal to get out of the way as another SUV and sedan were coming at me. I bumped into the shoulder’s curb as I straightened out in the emergency lane.

My life flashed before me and I almost broke down. I had no control of my car as it spun across the freeway. Oncoming traffic could have slammed into me a dozen times—while I was spinning and even when my car was stopped across the lanes—but it didn’t. As I was flying across the freeway with both my hands gripping the wheel, I suddenly remembered an accident in Los Angeles where a red mustang spun out of control and a white SUV was headed straight for it because it couldn’t stop in time. I didn’t know why I thought of that accident. I tried to remember all the steering techniques that I read about in order to avoid skidding. Was I pressing the brakes or the gas pedal? I only had a split moment to think when I put the car in reverse to avoid oncoming traffic. I don’t even know how I thought of that as I stared at headlights coming at me. I didn’t care when I bumped into the shoulder’s curb and further damaged my car. I only wanted to get out of people’s way. As I turned off the engine, I can remember telling myself that I shouldn’t cry because no one was hurt or involved. I was not the cause of any accident. I should be grateful because I was still alive and in one piece. But I had never been in an accident like that before, and I didn’t know what to do. I called my parents in a panic. When I realized stuff was leaking out of my car, I called a friend to call a tow-truck company. Stupid me for not having the number of a tow truck company handy.

My father and a friend came out to help and to assess the damage of my car. It’s still in one piece, but it’s falling apart: the front bumper is totally damaged, the right hub-cap is gone (my friend found pieces of it in the freeway), the tank that holds the windshield wiper fluid is punctured, and the front right quarter panel and the door is damaged. The car still runs, so I drove it home with my friend following after me. When I got home, I cried--partially for my car, but also because I still couldn't believe what had happened.

What lessons or things have I learned? I don’t know yet. But I can tell you what I am still feeling:
a) shock—because no one else was involved, no one was hurt, and because I miraculously survived.
b) anger—WHAT THE HELL WAS A DESK—OR WHAT HAVE YOU—DOING IN THE MIDDLE OF THE FREEWAY?
c) relief—I’m alive.

So, maybe Fate likes to throw stuff in my way when I get too proud of my accomplishments or too happy with my life. Then again, each of these accidents is bigger than the previous one. This is a sign. I think Fate has something grand in store for me in the future… another accident? Maybe something that might actually hurt me?

III. Anger and Hate

What the f**k was a wooden thinga-ma-jiggie doing in the middle of the freeway? Some asshole was driving down the freeway, doesn’t notice that he dropped a huge wooden frame of something, and keeps on driving? Does he even hear that something was falling off his truck? Does he even check his rearview mirrors to see if anything was sitting in the highway that was left in his wake? Does he think, “Oh, I’ll come by and pick it up later”? Doesn’t he know that leaving a wooden-whatever is hazardous for other drivers?

I am so angry right now. I already deal with some stupid kids, and now I have to deal with stupid drivers on the highway who leave their junk on the road. I’m paranoid because I could lose my license for this—for some idiot’s irresponsibility. My anger and hate can reach far into irrationality, but I don't want to go there and write what I'm REALLY thinking. Damn it!