SETTLE IN . . .

Today is a grey day. The perfect day to filch material from my sister, respond to memories triggered by Chanandaler Bong, and spout a whole bunch of sense and nonsense. Buckle up ...

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ONE TIME (AT BAND CAMP) . . .

Chanandaler Bong speaks hilariously of the time she socked her brother in the nose during a car ride. Which reminds me of the time ... Cheech and I were driving me and my belongings in a mini-U-Haul up to Boston before my first year of law school. Somewhere along I-90, Cheech was picking his nose in the middle of our conversation; I turned my head and stared out the passenger-side window to give him some privacy during his excavation process. I turned back around when I thought a decent amount of time had passed, only to see Cheech flick his booger off the tip of his finger. Before I could duck for cover or offer him a Kleenex, the flicked booger -- A BIG WET BOOGER WITH A HORRIBLY DRY END -- landed on my BARE LEFT ARM. I saw the arc it made as it flew through the air of the U-Haul cab, and it was as if in slow-motion. Though I saw it coming, I could not move away.

And then once it landed, Cheech and I had such a riot laughing at it, sitting on my forearm, that I did not think to remove it for at least another three minutes.

GROSS!

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TEN MORE . . .

Thanks, HaYoung, for another list. I love lists. Gimme more lists!

Ten People I'd Like to Meet (and I assume, have a beer, a coffee, a conversation with), in no particular order ...

1. My paternal grandfather: please tell me about North Korea, about your life, about how much you missed your wife and two sons, that you never ever forgot about them, and that you might have even been curious about the possibility of me.

2. Julia Roberts: please tell me that you really are normal and not snotty, and tell me some cool stories that I promise -- I promise -- I won't tell anyone else.

3. Jimmy Carter: the first American president I can remember from my childhood memories, please tell me about your time in office, your philanthropic work, your faith.

4. Bill and Hillary Clinton: people hate or love you, but I think you are among the smartest people in America and you must give good convo, so please, give me some.

5. Sarah Jessica Parker: please tell me that you'll play me in a biopic of my life.

6. St. Paul: so, uh .... please tell me about your life -- your amazing, faithful, hard, painful, redeemed life.

7. Jane Austen: please tell me how your characters came alive in your mind, how you got it all down on paper, and how witty you are.

8. The doctor who f*cked up my mother during her first C-section: please tell me how I can f*ck you up in return.

9. Laurie, from 8th grade: please tell me what I can say in apology to you for the way and the depth to which I hurt you with that one horrible, wretched comment I made that still rings loudly and clearly in my memory.

10. Any of my faceless blog friends: please tell me ... oh, I dunno. Tell me anything and everything you want to tell me. I'm listening.

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FAST TIMES . . .

(Disclaimer: it took me a really long time to put together my thoughts from last week's experiences into a coherent format. So many thoughts and feelings flowed in and out of me, and I confess that I had to write it all down in Word before transcribing it here. Even so, I feel dissatisfied. I wish that I had better words, better vocabulary, better insight into my own self, so that I could accurately convey and describe and show everything I want to say ... suffice to say that the following experiences were heart-changing.)

I spent nearly all of last Thursday and most of Friday night in the company of high school students. Thursday, Mrs.G invited me to come to her Canadian high school and speak to her two classes of seniors – AP English students preparing their college applications. Between these second and seventh period classes, I sat and gleefully watched Mrs.G teach her other classes, three periods of tenth graders. Friday night, I headed up to Stamford to watch Skater, a high-school junior, in his fall improv-comedy show. Were there ever two experiences so simultaneously joyful and painful?

I have a severely selective memory about my own high school experience. Few incidents stand pronounced in my memory; everything else is a blur. There was that time in the ninth grade, where I – neither popular nor unpopular, but mostly just a music and foreign language nerd – was walking down an empty hallway. Emily, the most popular girl in my grade, headed towards me. Life happened in slow-motion, and it dawned on me that she, for all of her confidence and bravado and security – surely she was secure in her immense popularity? – was avoiding my gaze, shifting uneasily even as she strode towards me, her shoulders back and her arms swinging bravely. I knew that we could pass each other without saying a word. We, two students in a teeny class of 182 students, would walk by each other in this long, empty, looming hallway, without a mutual hello, or even a glance or recognition. And I knew that our acquaintance, as fragile as it was, would be irrevocably injured. So I did it. At the moment she came close enough to hear me, I spoke forth: “Hey, Ems.” Shucks, I even called her by the nickname her closest friends used. My reward for such unprecedented ballsiness? A bright and thankful smile, a comfortable pause, a hello returned. And I resolved never to be bound by social boundaries again.

There was that time in junior year … heck, there was all of junior year. I thought I was a senior. My best friend was a senior and thanks to him, I was smuggled off-campus in the middle of the day in the back of his Jetta, the one in which I learned to drive standard. My best friend’s best guy friends treated me like their little mascot and I was more than happy to help steal the humongous cow statue from the local Ben & Jerry’s, or cajole our Orchestra director into signing fake cut-slips so we could cut class upon class upon class, and sit in his office eating cookies and playing on his computer, or tear up the clutches on their manual-drive cars while zipping around town … as a 14-year old driver with no permit and no adult supervision. I resolved never to play by the rules again, not if it meant sacrificing time with those I loved.

There was that time in senior year when I realized that I just didn’t care. I didn’t care that I was a total grind while my friends played their year away – I was loving my classes and my teachers too much to slack off. I didn’t care that I was a total music geek – singing and piano took over my life and I loved it. I didn’t care that my allowance didn’t enable me to buy the trendiest clothes – I was comfortable every day, and big fat ponytail never hurt anyone. I didn’t care that I was shorter than everyone, younger than everyone, more Asian than everyone around me – I was smart and loud, and that counts for a heck of a lot in most situations. I resolved never to be penned in again.

The past two days, I relived these times, these foundational moments that formed the concrete base of who I am now. I saw reflected in Mrs.G’s kids and in Skater’s friends everything that I had been, had let go of, had grown out of, had held onto for dear life.

Mrs.G’s tenth-graders shuffled into each class, heads bowed, arms laden with humongous binders. (Side note: all the girls carried binders, backpacks, and purses. What’s up with the purses?) Their clothes didn’t really fit all too comfortably; they were trying to hard to be trendy, pretty, handsome, cool. The girls were wearing just a touch too much makeup. The boys were not yet quite clean-complexioned. Awkward growth-spurts abounded. Conversation was not a skill yet acquired, but they were too old for child-like teasing. They had not yet learned to look a person in the eye when speaking or being spoken to. Peer pressure weighed heavier than self-assurance, so questions went unasked, confusion went unaddressed, and homework was bound to go uncompleted, through no fault of Mrs.G. Oh, my heart wrenched to see them thus, and I tried vainly to remember my own sophomore year … in the way I hope these students will, I must have blocked it out of my memory for I can conjure up not a single scene from 10th grade.

The seniors were a complete experiential turnaround. How easy it was for me to forget there was a twelve-year gap between us! They strode into classes with smiles upon their clean faces. Not a stringy hair was in sight. Clothes fit, and bucked any trend; nay, they were dressed as they wanted to be dressed, and nobody cared to say otherwise. (No purses either.) They looked me head-on, this strange woman standing in the front of their class, and nodded or said “hello,” even as curiosity and perhaps even excitement twinkled in their eyes. They chatted with Mrs.G, shot the breeze with each other, exuded confidence and security, however fleeting or fake. These kids knew what was up, and their sophistication was refreshing, not unnerving. I saw in them every single ounce of potential that adults hope to see in teenagers these days, and hearing their stories of accomplishment and responsibility borne lifted my spirits out of 10th-grade despondence. I struggled to remember: was I this capable and competent and attractive as a high-school senior? I dared to hope.

Skater’s friends – mostly girls, from what I could glean from the decibel level of shrieking voices – turned out to support him for his improv-comedy show. First of all, can I just say that I think it’s amazing that his high school even has an improv-comedy troupe. Second of all, Skater is one talented dude. It’s almost disturbing to see how comfortable he is on the stage, but not at all disturbing to see the depth and breadth of his adaptability, impeccable timing and lack of shame or pretense. I noted to myself that I must get his autograph now, before he really makes it big and becomes too busy to come back home to us. But I digress. The high school social event – be that as it may – is such an interesting thing to observe. Everyone wants to be heard. And in the presence of someone as popular and likeable as Skater, everyone – every girl at least – wants to be noticed. From the moment he and his troupe took the stage, the gals in the row in front of his mom and I started screaming and shrieking, nearly bobbing hysterically in their seats: “Skater! I love you! SKAAAATERRRR!” My word … I have vague memories of being like this and being so high-pitched, but I’m still in denial.

I saw how easy it is to be ignored as a teenager. One is not young enough to be coddled, but not old enough to be taken seriously by any great measure. And so it becomes imperative that one is seen socially. One must be visible, pretty, loud, popular, athletic, talented, a good dancer, dashingly witty, strikingly tall, adorably short. Something must set a teenager apart from the rest, so that he or she can be seen and heard and noted. I remember this, this longing to be visible, to be noticed, to be loved. I know I didn’t recognize these impulses in me at the time, but in hindsight – that ever perfect standard of vision – I see how my behavior was dictated by all of these things. To see myself of fifteen years ago reflected just the same in the faces, the body language, the pitch of the voices of teenagers today … it is remarkable how nothing has changed. Everything is the same.

I see also the teenagers at NHF. Three of them have told me in the course of the past year that when they grow up, they want to be just like me. What a burden! (And also … what a joy.) And so, I’ve been asking myself the same question for the past several months, and the loop is running faster and faster in recent days and weeks: what role must I play, CAN I play, in building up these teenagers, causing them to stand-up straight and look people in the eye, encouraging them to lessen the shrieking and increase the intelligent speech, spurring them to right action and thought that benefits more than just themselves, growing them into capable, caring, compassionate, strong adults who can change the course of this world?. I know it’s not incumbent upon only me to do these things. But my heart is so pulled by teenagers lately. I think of all the ways I was saved from myself and saved from being just like everybody else … my potential was channeled and it’s only right that I pay it forward, but how?