"Optimists are simply people who don't have all of the information."
This, apparently, was something a raving, homeless man told one of my classmates on a New York subway. My classmate cited this quote because she will be teaching a course on the psychology of happiness (interestingly enough, eh?) and used this quote on her syllabus. A lot of other people in the class really didn't understand the purpose of the quote.
"Isn't that quote counter-intuitive to the idea of happiness?"
"Doesn't it seem really negative to say that optimists are also dumb?"
Well, no. See, I happened to really enjoy and appreciate this quote because it raises an importance distinction between optimism and happiness, namely that optimism and happiness are not the same thing.
What I've come to discover through both this blog and just by living and coping and trying to understand how I'm feeling and who I am is that being happy is not necessarily exuding unending hope or joy. In fact, I'm happiest when I'm simply satisfied, content, and at peace. As a consequence of satisfaction or contentment or peace, I may feel momentarily giddy that I enjoyed a pleasant book or discussed a great piece of writing or had a really wonderful, long conversation with a friend or had a fun social interaction, but rather extended periods of engaging in stimulating thought and enjoying true, loyal friendships with thoughtful people.
I'd still say that I have long way to go towards total, complete happiness, but I can experience moments of optimism that can raise my mood and can contribute to achieving long-term satisfaction.
See, the thing is, I agree with the crazy, homeless man (I hope this doesn't speak volumes about my own mental state). I agree that unquestioning hopefulness towards the world and a perpetually bright spirit indicates a sort of daftness and an inability (or perhaps even unwillingness?) to examine that which is in front of you. Optimism can be blind to circumstances that are negative. Optimism implies, for me, a sort of non-judgmental stance on the world. I wouldn't say that criticism and judgment necessarily lead to happiness either, but in order to find contentment, distinguishing (and therefore judging) between what's important to you and what isn't, what fits into your set of values and what doesn't, seems absolutely vital.
I feel as though optimism, too, can often lead to a lot of unhappiness. While hope in the face of conflict/loss/depression can be uplifting, it can also eventually lead to a lot of disappointment. After all, there are moments in which you shouldn't be hopeful; that's called delusion. Not that one should strive towards wallowing in never-ending pain, but one should at least face and accept one's reality before finding ways to heal and overcome said reality.
I'm making it sound as though being an optimist is easy (it isn't) and I still strive towards optimism more than pessimism in my own life, but adopting optimism without judgment or thought seems, to me, a destructive approach and one that doesn't contribute towards achieving happiness.
It's funny to me that I feel as though I can logically understand these concepts and this psychology and yet still not wholly apply it to my own life. These reflections, these thoughts are coming from someone who some days still feels overwhelmed with emotion, who still tries to overcome anxiety, sadness, and loneliness, and who still indulgently dialogues with herself about how no one else understands the magnitude of her suffering and other such angst. I can distance myself from such feelings when I want to, but other times it feels all-consuming.
Ultimately, this struggle is part of being - well - human, but here I am still figuring out how I fit in on the spectrum of happy and healthy people. I'm getting there, aren't I?
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Monday, January 26, 2009
Today I Appreciate My Coworker, With Whom I Stole Paper Cups For Tea
At my job, we have a coffee maker, a water heater, and tea bags, but alas, there are no cups. This lack of cups deems all of the aforementioned items completely useless, which is sad. Very sad.
I worked at the same place last year as a writing tutor and it seemed as though our snack bar was significantly more loaded up with cookies, crackers, chips, and other snacking items. Oh, and cups.
So, my coworker, Laila, and I decided it was about darned time we got some cups! With both of us working three hour shifts tonight, we decided caffeine would be an asset to actually, you know, helping us help students write.
Alas, grocery stores are not within easy walking distance from the tutoring center as we work up near the residence halls on campus. However, there's a quick-service cafe ("BruinCafe" otherwise known as "B Caf" to those cool enough to shorten it) right near the dorms that hosts a plethora of paper cups. Surely they'd be willing to give up a couple for the cause of tea?
In a break between sessions, Laila and I make our way down to B Caf (yes, I'm one of those cool enough people to abbreviate BruinCafe as such) and head straight towards the coffee section of the cafe because we figured, you know, coffee cups would be best for hot drinks. Laila bravely asks one of the baristas (is B Caf fancy enough to have baristas? A debatable point for later) for one of the cups, and...
"No. Sorry."
Laila and I look at each other.
"You can't just give us a cup for - um - water?" Laila asks.
The worker, strapped into an unfortuante apron and visor uniform shook her head again.
"No." That was it. Note that we were the only ones in the cafe at this point, staring at the stack of coffee cups waiting, just waiting, for delicious tea to fill them. No one was exactly clamboring for coffee at 6:30 PM, anyway.
We would not let this bureacracy-tied barista stop us from fulfilling our caffeinated dreams, however. Upon exiting, we saw stacks of paper Pepsi cups beside an unattended cash register. We look at each other again and nod. Perfect. Without saying a word, we follow out of B Caf and each swipe one cup from the top of the stack. Empty paper cups in hand, we giggle all the way back to the tutoring center about our stealthy accomplishment. True, we only stole about 5 cents' (if not less) worth of glass - er - plasticware from UCLA, but it still felt like a secret mission and accomplishment in which we could revel and savor the sweet taste of clever victory.
This post is not to endorse stealing, of course. In fact, stealing is bad. However, there's something that inherently bonds people together when they share a secret mission or goal together, even if it's for something as silly as some cups to make some tea.
The only sad part about this story is that the water heater at our tutoring center doesn't work. So, after all of that adventure, we found ourselves still tea-less in the end. However, the adventure was half the fun, anyway, and the conversation with all of the tutor-less coworkers kept us awake enough that the time at work flew by without any yawns or sleepiness.
I worked at the same place last year as a writing tutor and it seemed as though our snack bar was significantly more loaded up with cookies, crackers, chips, and other snacking items. Oh, and cups.
So, my coworker, Laila, and I decided it was about darned time we got some cups! With both of us working three hour shifts tonight, we decided caffeine would be an asset to actually, you know, helping us help students write.
Alas, grocery stores are not within easy walking distance from the tutoring center as we work up near the residence halls on campus. However, there's a quick-service cafe ("BruinCafe" otherwise known as "B Caf" to those cool enough to shorten it) right near the dorms that hosts a plethora of paper cups. Surely they'd be willing to give up a couple for the cause of tea?
In a break between sessions, Laila and I make our way down to B Caf (yes, I'm one of those cool enough people to abbreviate BruinCafe as such) and head straight towards the coffee section of the cafe because we figured, you know, coffee cups would be best for hot drinks. Laila bravely asks one of the baristas (is B Caf fancy enough to have baristas? A debatable point for later) for one of the cups, and...
"No. Sorry."
Laila and I look at each other.
"You can't just give us a cup for - um - water?" Laila asks.
The worker, strapped into an unfortuante apron and visor uniform shook her head again.
"No." That was it. Note that we were the only ones in the cafe at this point, staring at the stack of coffee cups waiting, just waiting, for delicious tea to fill them. No one was exactly clamboring for coffee at 6:30 PM, anyway.
We would not let this bureacracy-tied barista stop us from fulfilling our caffeinated dreams, however. Upon exiting, we saw stacks of paper Pepsi cups beside an unattended cash register. We look at each other again and nod. Perfect. Without saying a word, we follow out of B Caf and each swipe one cup from the top of the stack. Empty paper cups in hand, we giggle all the way back to the tutoring center about our stealthy accomplishment. True, we only stole about 5 cents' (if not less) worth of glass - er - plasticware from UCLA, but it still felt like a secret mission and accomplishment in which we could revel and savor the sweet taste of clever victory.
This post is not to endorse stealing, of course. In fact, stealing is bad. However, there's something that inherently bonds people together when they share a secret mission or goal together, even if it's for something as silly as some cups to make some tea.
The only sad part about this story is that the water heater at our tutoring center doesn't work. So, after all of that adventure, we found ourselves still tea-less in the end. However, the adventure was half the fun, anyway, and the conversation with all of the tutor-less coworkers kept us awake enough that the time at work flew by without any yawns or sleepiness.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Today I Appreciate Not for Tourists
I'm a sucker for novelty, as long as it's not something too dangerous, scary, or emotionally/physically exhausting. Therefore, a guidebook like Not for Tourists is perfect for people like me because I can seek out novelty in the L.A. area and flip through pages of tidy maps that tell me where to go without having to actually really go to any of these places.
That's not to say that I don't want to go to any of these places. Au contraire, I would go to all if I could, but one can only do so much and reading about fun places is half the fun of actually going, right?
See, I was prompted to flip through my NFT guide tonight in an attempt to formulate some late night plans. As a college student, I am supposed to act and find great adventures spontaneously, but that's not really my style. Spontaneity, in my opinion, typically does not emerge at the most convenient times, so relying on it to strike on a Saturday night and magically find something exciting to do seems like a bit of a crapshoot. Besides, I'm a planner in general. I make to-do lists every day. I e-mail party invitations. Yep, I'm that kid.
My age, unfortunately, prevents me from visiting some of Los Angeles's classier nightlife joints, but who knew that there was a restaurant on the Sunset Strip open late with a mechanical bull? Apparently, there are also several karoake joints that stay open until 6:00 A.M. and kitschy beach-themed diners. Cool, right? Imagine what kind of people frequent these places, what faces one could see, and what conversations one could overhear.
Restaurants and clubs are, after all, feature some of the most varied smattering of individuals. Probably not the finest individuals in Hollywood, but at least some characters that provide good stories and insights into - well - who we all are. There's a piece of us in every drunken twenty-something, every gaggle of giggling high schoolers, every forty-year-old couple. Plus, I constantly itch to escape from the college apartment party, the cloistered soirees on someone's mom's old couch with with indistinguishable movie noise coming from the TV.
So, thanks to Not for Tourists for letting me dream about the possibilities to explore and be an active young person in this huge, huge city.
That's not to say that I don't want to go to any of these places. Au contraire, I would go to all if I could, but one can only do so much and reading about fun places is half the fun of actually going, right?
See, I was prompted to flip through my NFT guide tonight in an attempt to formulate some late night plans. As a college student, I am supposed to act and find great adventures spontaneously, but that's not really my style. Spontaneity, in my opinion, typically does not emerge at the most convenient times, so relying on it to strike on a Saturday night and magically find something exciting to do seems like a bit of a crapshoot. Besides, I'm a planner in general. I make to-do lists every day. I e-mail party invitations. Yep, I'm that kid.
My age, unfortunately, prevents me from visiting some of Los Angeles's classier nightlife joints, but who knew that there was a restaurant on the Sunset Strip open late with a mechanical bull? Apparently, there are also several karoake joints that stay open until 6:00 A.M. and kitschy beach-themed diners. Cool, right? Imagine what kind of people frequent these places, what faces one could see, and what conversations one could overhear.
Restaurants and clubs are, after all, feature some of the most varied smattering of individuals. Probably not the finest individuals in Hollywood, but at least some characters that provide good stories and insights into - well - who we all are. There's a piece of us in every drunken twenty-something, every gaggle of giggling high schoolers, every forty-year-old couple. Plus, I constantly itch to escape from the college apartment party, the cloistered soirees on someone's mom's old couch with with indistinguishable movie noise coming from the TV.
So, thanks to Not for Tourists for letting me dream about the possibilities to explore and be an active young person in this huge, huge city.
Friday, January 23, 2009
Today I Appreciate the Girl Who Packed My Dozen Bagels
NOTE: "... Who Packed My Dozen Bagels" is not a sexually euphemistic expression. I realize it looks and sounds that way, but the Noah's Bagels' worker literally put a dozen bagels into a bag for me. Look how nicely I'm avoiding controversy right up front.
To be a true reform, culturally Jewish youth, one must be able to distinguish between a good bagel and a bad bagel. There are many qualifications for this distinction:
1. Bagels must be chewy. A piece of sliced bread from a Sara Lee loaf is not chewy. Your bagel, therefore, should not be the texture of a piece of Sara Lee white bread.
2. Bagels must not crumble. OK, so I know this is a confusing concept as bread crumbles, cookies crumble, cakes crumble, and other grain-like products crumble, but after you eat a bagel, you should not leave behind a single crumb. See textural qualifications above to clarify this non-crumbling characteristic.
3. Bagels should NOT contain blueberries or chocolate chips. I'm sorry if you like sweet bagels, but we simply must agree to disagree. I realize that at many popular bagel chains, these types of bagels are sold to the goyim sweet-toothed masses, but bagels are meant as a savory carrier for a.) cream cheese, b.) lox, or c.) butter.
4. Bagels should not include any of the following: asiago cheese, jalapeno, "pizza" Enough said.
5. Bagels should not be less than 200 calories. If you're on a diet, fine, I'll understand if you eat paper-thin 100-calorie pieces of crumble-bread, but a real bagel is thick and carb-filled.
With these set of stringent guidelines, I can never bring myself to purchase bagels at any old grocery store. The only bagel place that truly succeeds in fulfilling all of these qualifications is Noah's Bagels. Ironically, Noah's "New York Style" Bagels are not actually sold in New York, but I don't really care about its East Coast authenticity. All I really care about is how they taste, how chewy they are, how thick they are, and how many no-frills bagels I can get my hands on.
Anyway, the problem with me and purchasing bagels is that I tend to feel a little bamboozled by the variety of bagel options, in spite of my strict rules and guidelines. This means that picking out a dozen for bagging takes longer than it should for the average bagel purchaser.
I could tell the bagel bagger was confused with me. A sudden desire to switch from a sesame seed to a whole wheat bagel got her flustered and she immediately apologized, muttering that it was her first day. Typically, this annoys me, but today I felt sympathetic and remembered my own first experiences working retail, trying to figure out where different clothes were supposed to be hung on different racks. So, I told her not to worry, that she would be fine. She breathed a huge sigh of relief and smiled and then said that she liked her job, really, but that she was just learning the ropes.
Her positivity was refreshing (in spite of dealing with a rather picky customer like me) and, heck, food service jobs really never are easy.
There was going to be a lot more written here, but the day passed by quickly.
As a small note, I also appreciate the couple at the restaurant I went to this evening that brought their own Ziploc tupperware containers to pack up their leftover food. Sure, it's a little kooky, but they're saving two stryofoam packages from hitting the landfills. So, thank you, geeky couple at the Mexican restaurant.
To be a true reform, culturally Jewish youth, one must be able to distinguish between a good bagel and a bad bagel. There are many qualifications for this distinction:
1. Bagels must be chewy. A piece of sliced bread from a Sara Lee loaf is not chewy. Your bagel, therefore, should not be the texture of a piece of Sara Lee white bread.
2. Bagels must not crumble. OK, so I know this is a confusing concept as bread crumbles, cookies crumble, cakes crumble, and other grain-like products crumble, but after you eat a bagel, you should not leave behind a single crumb. See textural qualifications above to clarify this non-crumbling characteristic.
3. Bagels should NOT contain blueberries or chocolate chips. I'm sorry if you like sweet bagels, but we simply must agree to disagree. I realize that at many popular bagel chains, these types of bagels are sold to the goyim sweet-toothed masses, but bagels are meant as a savory carrier for a.) cream cheese, b.) lox, or c.) butter.
4. Bagels should not include any of the following: asiago cheese, jalapeno, "pizza" Enough said.
5. Bagels should not be less than 200 calories. If you're on a diet, fine, I'll understand if you eat paper-thin 100-calorie pieces of crumble-bread, but a real bagel is thick and carb-filled.
With these set of stringent guidelines, I can never bring myself to purchase bagels at any old grocery store. The only bagel place that truly succeeds in fulfilling all of these qualifications is Noah's Bagels. Ironically, Noah's "New York Style" Bagels are not actually sold in New York, but I don't really care about its East Coast authenticity. All I really care about is how they taste, how chewy they are, how thick they are, and how many no-frills bagels I can get my hands on.
Anyway, the problem with me and purchasing bagels is that I tend to feel a little bamboozled by the variety of bagel options, in spite of my strict rules and guidelines. This means that picking out a dozen for bagging takes longer than it should for the average bagel purchaser.
I could tell the bagel bagger was confused with me. A sudden desire to switch from a sesame seed to a whole wheat bagel got her flustered and she immediately apologized, muttering that it was her first day. Typically, this annoys me, but today I felt sympathetic and remembered my own first experiences working retail, trying to figure out where different clothes were supposed to be hung on different racks. So, I told her not to worry, that she would be fine. She breathed a huge sigh of relief and smiled and then said that she liked her job, really, but that she was just learning the ropes.
Her positivity was refreshing (in spite of dealing with a rather picky customer like me) and, heck, food service jobs really never are easy.
There was going to be a lot more written here, but the day passed by quickly.
As a small note, I also appreciate the couple at the restaurant I went to this evening that brought their own Ziploc tupperware containers to pack up their leftover food. Sure, it's a little kooky, but they're saving two stryofoam packages from hitting the landfills. So, thank you, geeky couple at the Mexican restaurant.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Today I Appreciate the Receptionist at Work
This was a bad day.
Consistently on the verge of weeping/crying (depending on the severity of what little thing bothered me), I'm exhausted. Walking felt strangely automatic today, as if my feet were working for me and I had little control over where they shuffled me. My head felt light, detached from my body, trapped in its own hazy state separate from every other part of me. Everything was - still is - bizarrely muted. Ironically, this distance from everything around me triggered this instinct, this desire to flee. Anything would have been better than that distance I felt, that complete and utter isolation from everything around. Nothing felt close and real and nobody could hug me or kiss me or rub my back and assure me that it was going to be OK.
So I cried in a crowd, too, and it had to be one of the worst feelings, watching everyone pass me content or bored with their own lives when I felt like I was simply drowning in mine.
The receptionist at work noticed, though. I'm a writing tutor and no students signed up to work with me today, so I worked on homework and perused Facebook when I lost focus. I saw our receptionist out of the corner of my eye; he sat down next to me and just asked me:
"Hey, are you OK?"
And that was the only thing I needed to hear. I told him honestly ("no"), but he didn't pry, he didn't try to get at any gossip or emotional trauma. Instead, he just said he hoped I felt better, but not in a passing way. It felt genuine.
So, thank you, Covel Receptionist, for noticing me.
Consistently on the verge of weeping/crying (depending on the severity of what little thing bothered me), I'm exhausted. Walking felt strangely automatic today, as if my feet were working for me and I had little control over where they shuffled me. My head felt light, detached from my body, trapped in its own hazy state separate from every other part of me. Everything was - still is - bizarrely muted. Ironically, this distance from everything around me triggered this instinct, this desire to flee. Anything would have been better than that distance I felt, that complete and utter isolation from everything around. Nothing felt close and real and nobody could hug me or kiss me or rub my back and assure me that it was going to be OK.
So I cried in a crowd, too, and it had to be one of the worst feelings, watching everyone pass me content or bored with their own lives when I felt like I was simply drowning in mine.
The receptionist at work noticed, though. I'm a writing tutor and no students signed up to work with me today, so I worked on homework and perused Facebook when I lost focus. I saw our receptionist out of the corner of my eye; he sat down next to me and just asked me:
"Hey, are you OK?"
And that was the only thing I needed to hear. I told him honestly ("no"), but he didn't pry, he didn't try to get at any gossip or emotional trauma. Instead, he just said he hoped I felt better, but not in a passing way. It felt genuine.
So, thank you, Covel Receptionist, for noticing me.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Today I Appreciate Hearing My Own Words Spoken Back to Me
Inevitably, there is something you wish you never said.
"Neato burrito," for example. Never a phrase I should have uttered. But I've used it. Ow.
Also, why did I think that "chillax" was ever an OK verb? To relax and to chill must remain two separate entities as smushing them together simply feels redundant and stupid.
The same goes for "tight." I find most tight-fitting things rather uncomfortable, which is as far away from "cool" or "great" as possible.
But! Just for the record, despite my Northern Californian roots, I have never seriously used the adjective "hella" (as in, "This blog I'm reading is HELLA tight. You dig? Time to get all hyphy on some literature!") If I have used "hella," it was solely for the purpose of irony.
Anyway, I'm taking a class right now (English 180: "The Art of the Interview," for those of you curious enough to explore it in the future) about - well - interviewing. Currently, I'm transcribing an interview I recently had with a classmate and everyone who has ever transcribed anything knows that it must be the dullest, most tedious, most painfully mind-numbing work one can engage one's self in. Fortunately, I'm a fast typist; an intensive summer of Mavis Beacon typing program (please, someone, tell me you remember Mavis Beacon) led me to believe that anyone who types at less than 100 words per minute is a total typing slacker. So, fortunately, transcribing for me is much less tedious than it would be for a slower typist, but it's still boring work as it's a lot of starting and stopping the recorder (in my case, my new, beautiful, clear-sounding digital recorder. What an improvement from microcassettes!) to make sure everything's been transcribed correctly.
Typically I avoid transcribing anything until the very last minute. It's not the sound of my voice I mind so much (working in radio one summer really beat that out of me), but rather the sound of my laughter, my assurances that something (almost anything) is OK, my apologies for... something (almost anything, it seems) that irk me. I'm annoyed at myself (why do I laugh so much?) or confused (what was I apologizing for?) and I become self-conscious of the way I interact with other people.
However, with this interview, I hear myself sound comfortable. I still laugh too much and I still probably respond with too many supportive "uh-huhs" and "awwws!", but I'm not embarassed by it anymore. In fact, I think I sound natural and cool and (dare I say it?) collected. I felt prepared for this interview and I can hear it in the way that I speak, in my responses, and in my follow-up questions. I felt good when I walked away from the interview, but hearing it back resurges some confidence in my ability, rather than depresses me or makes me feel incompetent or self-conscious. It helped that I was talking with someone with whom I felt fairly comfortable as well and we had a good conversation (which always puts one in a better mood), but... it was comforting to hear myself comfortable. My awkwardness and social consciousness always inhibits me to a certain extent, but it was certainly a relief to know that I can be OK in a conversation. Really.
There is something soothing about knowing how one sounds to others having the opportunity to listen back and see what a particular interaction was like, think about the statements more carefully, and reflect upon the conversation. It's an odd practice, really. In "real life," we don't have moments to just reflect and record what other people say and think, but doing so has taught me something further about what makes simple conversation one of life's greatest joys: curiosity, engagement, and comfort.
"Neato burrito," for example. Never a phrase I should have uttered. But I've used it. Ow.
Also, why did I think that "chillax" was ever an OK verb? To relax and to chill must remain two separate entities as smushing them together simply feels redundant and stupid.
The same goes for "tight." I find most tight-fitting things rather uncomfortable, which is as far away from "cool" or "great" as possible.
But! Just for the record, despite my Northern Californian roots, I have never seriously used the adjective "hella" (as in, "This blog I'm reading is HELLA tight. You dig? Time to get all hyphy on some literature!") If I have used "hella," it was solely for the purpose of irony.
Anyway, I'm taking a class right now (English 180: "The Art of the Interview," for those of you curious enough to explore it in the future) about - well - interviewing. Currently, I'm transcribing an interview I recently had with a classmate and everyone who has ever transcribed anything knows that it must be the dullest, most tedious, most painfully mind-numbing work one can engage one's self in. Fortunately, I'm a fast typist; an intensive summer of Mavis Beacon typing program (please, someone, tell me you remember Mavis Beacon) led me to believe that anyone who types at less than 100 words per minute is a total typing slacker. So, fortunately, transcribing for me is much less tedious than it would be for a slower typist, but it's still boring work as it's a lot of starting and stopping the recorder (in my case, my new, beautiful, clear-sounding digital recorder. What an improvement from microcassettes!) to make sure everything's been transcribed correctly.
Typically I avoid transcribing anything until the very last minute. It's not the sound of my voice I mind so much (working in radio one summer really beat that out of me), but rather the sound of my laughter, my assurances that something (almost anything) is OK, my apologies for... something (almost anything, it seems) that irk me. I'm annoyed at myself (why do I laugh so much?) or confused (what was I apologizing for?) and I become self-conscious of the way I interact with other people.
However, with this interview, I hear myself sound comfortable. I still laugh too much and I still probably respond with too many supportive "uh-huhs" and "awwws!", but I'm not embarassed by it anymore. In fact, I think I sound natural and cool and (dare I say it?) collected. I felt prepared for this interview and I can hear it in the way that I speak, in my responses, and in my follow-up questions. I felt good when I walked away from the interview, but hearing it back resurges some confidence in my ability, rather than depresses me or makes me feel incompetent or self-conscious. It helped that I was talking with someone with whom I felt fairly comfortable as well and we had a good conversation (which always puts one in a better mood), but... it was comforting to hear myself comfortable. My awkwardness and social consciousness always inhibits me to a certain extent, but it was certainly a relief to know that I can be OK in a conversation. Really.
There is something soothing about knowing how one sounds to others having the opportunity to listen back and see what a particular interaction was like, think about the statements more carefully, and reflect upon the conversation. It's an odd practice, really. In "real life," we don't have moments to just reflect and record what other people say and think, but doing so has taught me something further about what makes simple conversation one of life's greatest joys: curiosity, engagement, and comfort.
Monday, January 19, 2009
Today I Appreciate Not Being Thirteen Anymore
I had completely forgotten what thirteen looks like until this weekend. Thirteen is all pink lip gloss, big feet, and braces. Thirteen also involves a lot of squealing, jumping up and down, and lip synching. Thirteen gets awfully tired, awfully quickly, especially if you're not thirteen.
See, it was my cousin's Bat Mitzvah (a Jewish coming-of-age ceremony that girls and boys undergo at... thirteen) this past weekend and as my sister and I entered the temple and saw a huddle of girls clamored together in the back of the synagogue, biting painted fingernails and gripping on to oversized purses, we looked at each other and understood that this was SO MUCH THIRTEEN all in one place.
When I first think of myself at thirteen, I'm actually not all that embarassed. In fact, I'd say most of my memories at thirteen are pretty happy ones. To be a Jewish thirteen-year-old I think makes being thirteen a little bit easier because if you're enrolled in Hebrew school and if you're at least a socially acceptable member of said Hebrew school class, you will be invited to a Bar or Bat Mitzvah at least every other weekend. What this means are constant opportunities to feel accepted and social and to have fun. At what other age does one have any excuse to go to an elaborate birthday party every weekend geared specifically towards your own age group?
Seeing my cousin's friends huddled in the back of the synagogue reminded me of Michelle, Leah, Rebecca, Liat, and me all squished in one row together, whispering about how cute each other's dresses or shoes or make-up looked. We'd try to nab the yamulkes off the boys sitting in front of us (Josh was the only one who minded, but he wore purple sweat pants to Hebrew school every day, so he never really counted). We'd be the loudest singers of the prayers (we knew them all, thanks to meeting for Hebrew school twice a week). We'd all find a way to migrate to the restroom together at steady intervals during the service (because god knows, a two hour or longer service gets pretty boring when you have a party to anticipate and lipstick to reapply). Most of all, however, we'd be the most congratulatory towards the Bar/Bat Mitzvah at the end of each service because we all knew exactly what it was like to sweat on the bima (that is, the pulpit) and crackle out Hebrew prayers that held very little direct relevance or meaning for us. That's not to say that the service itself lacked any value. On the contrary, I felt proud of my accomplishment to read Hebrew, to sing Hebrew, and to become an "adult" in the way that other Jewish women did before me.
What most resonated with me at thirteen about my Bat Miitzvah, however, was that throughout the process, I became a part of a community. At an age where feeling isolated or different was about the worst possible thing that one could be, finding connection, finding unity with others, and most importantly, finding acceptance among my peers was what made my Bat Mitzvah so meaningful.
Of course, longing and yearning for this acceptance was also what made thirteen so painful. I could see it in the faces of the girls at my cousin's Bat Mitzvah. When I went to the bathroom during the service, six of them crowded around the sink, clamoring for views of themselves in the mirror to brush hair, adjust strapless bras, and purse their lips. A skinny girl with ratty, red-dyed hair, heavy black eyeliner, and black fingernails sighed.
"How much longer do you think this is going to be?"
One of the other girls, blonde, heavyset, and stuffed into a short sparkly blue dress shrugged her shoulders.
"I don't know. Do you think we're going to throw candy at the end like at Rachel's Bat Mitzvah?"
The girls at the mirror turn around and start to giggle and titter about candy.
"But you don't even get to eat the candy!" the ratty-hair girl asserts. "I remember, I like, started to eat some of the candy they gave us and then I, like, realized we were supposed to, like, save it and just throw it at her and I was just, like, what the heck? What are you supposed to do with candy if you don't, like, eat it?"
The blonde girl girl nodded and the others followed suit, everyone a little bit too afraid to voice any disagreement or dissent. Ratty girl was outspoken, a leader; no one wanted to try to justify the traditional candy-throwing after a Bar or Bat Mitzvah finishes reading a Torah portion. I remembered stuffing candy into my purse at other Bar or Bat Mitzvahas, saving some to throw, some to eat for later. This was not uncommon.
"God, I'm huuuungry," ratty-hair girl complained again and everyone else giggled.
"It is pretty long," I finally spoke up. The girls grew silent. The ratty-hair girl looked at her friends, looked back at me, and gave me a little nod. How old did I look? Was it totally weird for me to reassure them that services feel a little dull after a certain period of time?
Somehow, I needed some reassurance that I was cool enough, that I could agree, that I could assert my opinion. The insecurities of thirteen struck me again and I realized that with all of my fond memories of adolescence, all of my moments of happiness and belonging were coupled with constant questioning of how I looked, how I acted, and how I was perceived by my peers. I always felt a little on the fat side or a little on the plain side or a little on the nerdy side and never quite centered with Michelle and Leah and Rebecca and Liat. I would never (still don't! Ha!) fall into the camp of popular or totally accepted because I couldn't always be overwhelmingly friendly or bubbly or assertive.
In spite of these concerns, I grew. I changed. Upon entering high school, the rest of my body grew to meet the size of my large, thirteen-year-old feet, and my concerns with appearance, with attitude faded slightly.
At thirteen, it's achingly normal to feel so alone and to feel so lost and confused about one's identity. I apreciate the fact that I can see these other thirteen-year-old girls, smile, and realize that they, too, will grow to find their own identities. While it's exciting to be at the cusp of change, the cusp of adolescence, I'm also grateful that I'm past the point in my life where I'm concerned with those changes.
Thirteen may not seem like an appropriate age to become an adult as there is so much about being thirteen that's so immature, so childlike, and so unbelievably awkward, but it's the right time to emphasize to a girl or boy that no matter how alone or how weird or how unpopular you feel, you have family and friends and people who love and care about you in spite of yourself.
See, it was my cousin's Bat Mitzvah (a Jewish coming-of-age ceremony that girls and boys undergo at... thirteen) this past weekend and as my sister and I entered the temple and saw a huddle of girls clamored together in the back of the synagogue, biting painted fingernails and gripping on to oversized purses, we looked at each other and understood that this was SO MUCH THIRTEEN all in one place.
When I first think of myself at thirteen, I'm actually not all that embarassed. In fact, I'd say most of my memories at thirteen are pretty happy ones. To be a Jewish thirteen-year-old I think makes being thirteen a little bit easier because if you're enrolled in Hebrew school and if you're at least a socially acceptable member of said Hebrew school class, you will be invited to a Bar or Bat Mitzvah at least every other weekend. What this means are constant opportunities to feel accepted and social and to have fun. At what other age does one have any excuse to go to an elaborate birthday party every weekend geared specifically towards your own age group?
Seeing my cousin's friends huddled in the back of the synagogue reminded me of Michelle, Leah, Rebecca, Liat, and me all squished in one row together, whispering about how cute each other's dresses or shoes or make-up looked. We'd try to nab the yamulkes off the boys sitting in front of us (Josh was the only one who minded, but he wore purple sweat pants to Hebrew school every day, so he never really counted). We'd be the loudest singers of the prayers (we knew them all, thanks to meeting for Hebrew school twice a week). We'd all find a way to migrate to the restroom together at steady intervals during the service (because god knows, a two hour or longer service gets pretty boring when you have a party to anticipate and lipstick to reapply). Most of all, however, we'd be the most congratulatory towards the Bar/Bat Mitzvah at the end of each service because we all knew exactly what it was like to sweat on the bima (that is, the pulpit) and crackle out Hebrew prayers that held very little direct relevance or meaning for us. That's not to say that the service itself lacked any value. On the contrary, I felt proud of my accomplishment to read Hebrew, to sing Hebrew, and to become an "adult" in the way that other Jewish women did before me.
What most resonated with me at thirteen about my Bat Miitzvah, however, was that throughout the process, I became a part of a community. At an age where feeling isolated or different was about the worst possible thing that one could be, finding connection, finding unity with others, and most importantly, finding acceptance among my peers was what made my Bat Mitzvah so meaningful.
Of course, longing and yearning for this acceptance was also what made thirteen so painful. I could see it in the faces of the girls at my cousin's Bat Mitzvah. When I went to the bathroom during the service, six of them crowded around the sink, clamoring for views of themselves in the mirror to brush hair, adjust strapless bras, and purse their lips. A skinny girl with ratty, red-dyed hair, heavy black eyeliner, and black fingernails sighed.
"How much longer do you think this is going to be?"
One of the other girls, blonde, heavyset, and stuffed into a short sparkly blue dress shrugged her shoulders.
"I don't know. Do you think we're going to throw candy at the end like at Rachel's Bat Mitzvah?"
The girls at the mirror turn around and start to giggle and titter about candy.
"But you don't even get to eat the candy!" the ratty-hair girl asserts. "I remember, I like, started to eat some of the candy they gave us and then I, like, realized we were supposed to, like, save it and just throw it at her and I was just, like, what the heck? What are you supposed to do with candy if you don't, like, eat it?"
The blonde girl girl nodded and the others followed suit, everyone a little bit too afraid to voice any disagreement or dissent. Ratty girl was outspoken, a leader; no one wanted to try to justify the traditional candy-throwing after a Bar or Bat Mitzvah finishes reading a Torah portion. I remembered stuffing candy into my purse at other Bar or Bat Mitzvahas, saving some to throw, some to eat for later. This was not uncommon.
"God, I'm huuuungry," ratty-hair girl complained again and everyone else giggled.
"It is pretty long," I finally spoke up. The girls grew silent. The ratty-hair girl looked at her friends, looked back at me, and gave me a little nod. How old did I look? Was it totally weird for me to reassure them that services feel a little dull after a certain period of time?
Somehow, I needed some reassurance that I was cool enough, that I could agree, that I could assert my opinion. The insecurities of thirteen struck me again and I realized that with all of my fond memories of adolescence, all of my moments of happiness and belonging were coupled with constant questioning of how I looked, how I acted, and how I was perceived by my peers. I always felt a little on the fat side or a little on the plain side or a little on the nerdy side and never quite centered with Michelle and Leah and Rebecca and Liat. I would never (still don't! Ha!) fall into the camp of popular or totally accepted because I couldn't always be overwhelmingly friendly or bubbly or assertive.
In spite of these concerns, I grew. I changed. Upon entering high school, the rest of my body grew to meet the size of my large, thirteen-year-old feet, and my concerns with appearance, with attitude faded slightly.
At thirteen, it's achingly normal to feel so alone and to feel so lost and confused about one's identity. I apreciate the fact that I can see these other thirteen-year-old girls, smile, and realize that they, too, will grow to find their own identities. While it's exciting to be at the cusp of change, the cusp of adolescence, I'm also grateful that I'm past the point in my life where I'm concerned with those changes.
Thirteen may not seem like an appropriate age to become an adult as there is so much about being thirteen that's so immature, so childlike, and so unbelievably awkward, but it's the right time to emphasize to a girl or boy that no matter how alone or how weird or how unpopular you feel, you have family and friends and people who love and care about you in spite of yourself.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Today I Appreciate the Assignment to Write About My Face
I look for zits, I look for blotches, and I look for rogue eyebrow hairs, but I never look for much else on my face. It's a funny thing; before this assignment, where I must write a 500-word description of my face, I've never really thought about what makes my face distinctly mine. Sure, I've looked for my parents' qualities in my face (e.g. I have my dad's lips, I have my mom's eyes, etc.), but what is it about my face that makes me my own person and not just an amalgam of genes?
I suppose the answer to that question is that, well, I am simply an amalgam of genes, but my jowls really stick out in kind of a funny, impish way and half my face really is just eyes. I stared at my face in the mirror a long time before I began to write and it became something that wasn't mine; simply slopes and lines and figures and details that all added up to something I couldn't even piece together anymore. It was almost as if I created this disjunctive, floating mental grid of my face, where I tried to maintain a manageable quadrant of features, but they simply kept falling out of place or not piecing together any longer.
Rater than disconcerting, this separation of my face from my persona felt refreshing. At a place like UCLA where a large population of beautiful girls effortlessly glide across campus with grace and style and a kind of fashion panache I will never possess, I feel a constant sense of slight insecurity, of slight concern that I'm not quite admired or appreciated enough for how I look. Yet breaking my face down, seeing it for the features that exist - and not attaching any kind of subjective label to these features - leads me to believe that there is a type of beauty in my wide jowls, in my unruly eyebrows, and in the bump at the top of my nose. It may sound very India.Arie of me (remember? "I'm not the average girl from your video / and I ain't built like a supermodel / but I've learned to love myself unconditionally..." Too much female empowerment), but our features, our differing shapes make us into fascinating creatures, creatures worth noticing and studying and - maybe, but not necessarily - admiring a little bit. Even in the strangest combination of features one can find something interesting even if it's not necessarily "beautiful." After all, the aesthetics of the human face are some of the most interesting pieces of art that exist. The inherent intrigue of the face is, after all, why places like the National Portrait Gallery in London exist. There is nothing more masterfully shaped than the face.
The way one looks is integral to who one is; if I did not have my jowls, my eyes, my eyebrows, I simply wouldn't be this creature known as "Jenae."
I suppose the answer to that question is that, well, I am simply an amalgam of genes, but my jowls really stick out in kind of a funny, impish way and half my face really is just eyes. I stared at my face in the mirror a long time before I began to write and it became something that wasn't mine; simply slopes and lines and figures and details that all added up to something I couldn't even piece together anymore. It was almost as if I created this disjunctive, floating mental grid of my face, where I tried to maintain a manageable quadrant of features, but they simply kept falling out of place or not piecing together any longer.
Rater than disconcerting, this separation of my face from my persona felt refreshing. At a place like UCLA where a large population of beautiful girls effortlessly glide across campus with grace and style and a kind of fashion panache I will never possess, I feel a constant sense of slight insecurity, of slight concern that I'm not quite admired or appreciated enough for how I look. Yet breaking my face down, seeing it for the features that exist - and not attaching any kind of subjective label to these features - leads me to believe that there is a type of beauty in my wide jowls, in my unruly eyebrows, and in the bump at the top of my nose. It may sound very India.Arie of me (remember? "I'm not the average girl from your video / and I ain't built like a supermodel / but I've learned to love myself unconditionally..." Too much female empowerment), but our features, our differing shapes make us into fascinating creatures, creatures worth noticing and studying and - maybe, but not necessarily - admiring a little bit. Even in the strangest combination of features one can find something interesting even if it's not necessarily "beautiful." After all, the aesthetics of the human face are some of the most interesting pieces of art that exist. The inherent intrigue of the face is, after all, why places like the National Portrait Gallery in London exist. There is nothing more masterfully shaped than the face.
The way one looks is integral to who one is; if I did not have my jowls, my eyes, my eyebrows, I simply wouldn't be this creature known as "Jenae."
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Today I Appreciate Debate
This is going to be a short entry today because... I'm tired. Long day.
However, at our literary journal meeting today, a wonderful debate spurred with the fiction staff members and I really appreciated how everyone argued their points well and made me think about (and further respect the thought) that goes into not only those you write/submit to the journal, but to those who help edit.
It's so bed time right now. Tonight, I WILL appreciate sleep.
However, at our literary journal meeting today, a wonderful debate spurred with the fiction staff members and I really appreciated how everyone argued their points well and made me think about (and further respect the thought) that goes into not only those you write/submit to the journal, but to those who help edit.
It's so bed time right now. Tonight, I WILL appreciate sleep.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Today I Appreciate Leila, Who Showed Me Her Apartment
Finding a nice apartment in Westwood is an awful lot like attempting to nab the Fun-Sized Milky Ways from the broken pinata at a 4th grade birthday party. Unless you're unbelievably quick or you managed to weasel your way through the crowd and nab it while nobody's looking, you may end up with something terrible (e.g. broken Dum-Dums) or absolutely nothing at all.
Hence, my quest for a studio apartment has been rather frustrating and a tad fruitless. Going door-to-door with a pad of paper, a pen, and an eager smile just doesn't seem to cut it for a lot of landlords when it comes to competitive housing in a college town.
Luckily, through one of my co-workers, I discovered Leila, a 4th-year student moving out of a... studio!
See, roommates are great. Roommates are wonderful. Next year, however, I'm ready for something fresh, smoething new, and something entirely my own.
Anyway, poor Leila was sick all weekend (we corresponded via text about her illness), yet she let me come see her place because I'm an anxious person attempting to nab those Milky Ways even though I don't stand much of a chance and will typically settle for the scattered teeth-shattering suckers (I probably like this metaphor too much). She was up front: "My parents thought this place was a shithole" and refreshingly candid: "The bathroom looks like a piece of shit" and "Westwood apartments are pretty fucked up."
But you know what? Thank you, Leila, for telling me your parents' impressions and your opinions about the bathroom. While honesty can sometimes be scathing and inconsiderate, it can also reflect a greater measure of thoughtfulness: she wants me to know exactly what I'm getting into if I decide to move into her apartment rather than try to mask the realities of the situation or try to simply tell me what I want to hear so I can get out of her place. She talked to me for as long as I wanted about the realities of living in a studio (does it get lonely?), the landlord (is he a creeper?), and the utilities (does your Internet, like, work?).
When someone offers their time and opinion generously, I can't help but be grateful, knowing that someone is helping me just a touch more with stressful decisions like housing.
Hence, my quest for a studio apartment has been rather frustrating and a tad fruitless. Going door-to-door with a pad of paper, a pen, and an eager smile just doesn't seem to cut it for a lot of landlords when it comes to competitive housing in a college town.
Luckily, through one of my co-workers, I discovered Leila, a 4th-year student moving out of a... studio!
See, roommates are great. Roommates are wonderful. Next year, however, I'm ready for something fresh, smoething new, and something entirely my own.
Anyway, poor Leila was sick all weekend (we corresponded via text about her illness), yet she let me come see her place because I'm an anxious person attempting to nab those Milky Ways even though I don't stand much of a chance and will typically settle for the scattered teeth-shattering suckers (I probably like this metaphor too much). She was up front: "My parents thought this place was a shithole" and refreshingly candid: "The bathroom looks like a piece of shit" and "Westwood apartments are pretty fucked up."
But you know what? Thank you, Leila, for telling me your parents' impressions and your opinions about the bathroom. While honesty can sometimes be scathing and inconsiderate, it can also reflect a greater measure of thoughtfulness: she wants me to know exactly what I'm getting into if I decide to move into her apartment rather than try to mask the realities of the situation or try to simply tell me what I want to hear so I can get out of her place. She talked to me for as long as I wanted about the realities of living in a studio (does it get lonely?), the landlord (is he a creeper?), and the utilities (does your Internet, like, work?).
When someone offers their time and opinion generously, I can't help but be grateful, knowing that someone is helping me just a touch more with stressful decisions like housing.
Friday, January 9, 2009
Today I Appreciate the Self-Righteous, Eclectic Coffee Shop
Eek, I've missed two days of posting! It's been a crazy, busy week first week of school, but I took some notes on the past few days, so this will be an extra-special THR (look how an acronym enhances the cool factor of this blog) post with a few days' worth of appreciations in one.
Let me also preface this post by thanking everyone for thoughtful comments on the first few posts. The encouragement really helps keep me going, so thank you. :)
So, today, I felt a little claustrophobic in Westwood and decided to get coffee in Santa Monica. This tends to happen on Friday afternoons when I have no other class obligations or meetings or work. Keeping Fridays free is one of the greatest things I've ever done for myself; I can work all day on Saturday and Sunday if I'd like, but there's something psychologically pleasant and rewarding about having a FREE (read: "I-get-to-do-whatever-I-want-so-there") Friday. This is not to say I keep my Fridays homework-less necessarily, but I get to do it at my own pace and as a student, where obligations run one's life, that's probably the most marvelous feeling in the world.
Because of the nature of the column I write for "The Daily Bruin" (unofficially called "Exploring L.A.," offically called nothing), I tend to read NFT (Not For Tourists) and Losanjealous pretty regularly and discovered in NFT a coffee shop in East Santa Monica that makes coffee from a siphon.
What's a siphon? It's this: a tube running from the liquid in a vessel to a lower level outside the vessel so that atmospheric pressure forces the liquid through the tube (definition from wordnet.princeton.edu/perl/webwn). Yes, coffee comes out of those liquid pressure tube things. Neat, huh?
Hence, I undertook a question to find this siphon coffee place after class, toting a heavy backpack and directions scrawled on to a tiny notepad. Let me say that I have a terrible, terrible sense of direction, so I wrote down very specific instructions (including, "if you hit this street, you've gone the wrong way. If you hit THIS street, you're going the right way! Hooray!").
Walking off the bus past Wilshire Boulevard, I walked through a neighborhood of palm-tree lined streets and low-rise pastel-colored apartments with small balconies and little, square garages right near the street. It was the sort of charming West L.A. neighborhood that helps you realize that in spite of all of L.A.'s general lack of charming, refreshing pockets of humanity and character exist. It really elevates one's spirits to know that there are people living in peaceful alcoves of a city that inherently cannot be described as "peaceful."
Cafe Balcony is part of a strip mall and the sign outside merely reads "CAFE" in giant block lettering. It could just have easily read "BAIL BONDS" or "LIQUOR" as it was an inconspicuous strip mall shop facing loud, urban Santa Monica Boulevard. Yet upon stepping inside, the place engendered all of the warmth, character, and soul that the outside lacked. I was the first one in the shop (as I had arrived there on bus an hour before it opened, so I just read outside for an hour. Woops.) and I ordered an iced Americano and sat for two hours, doing homework, reading, and writing. The cafe's red walls, mismatched wooden chairs, and wacky music selection (ranging from electro-pop to alternative folk rock to smooth jazz to - get this - opera) felt like a cozy place to settle in for the day.
With each breath I took, the smell of coffee warmed me all the way through my body. Sitting there is what I imagine going to a cafe in Paris would be like (as cliche as that sounds): no one rushes you, everyone is reading their own great books and simply enjoying time to reflect, focus, and rejuvenate. I appreciate coffee shops that don't rush you out, that don't tell you when to leave, and don't encourage you to act "artsy" if you don't want to. There are a lot of pretentions around sitting in a coffee shop and "being an artist," but when it comes down to it, when you have a place like Cafe Balcony that is simply pleasant and encourages time to just sit and reflect and be, that's enough for me to not worry about what anyone else may think of me. That must ultimately be the most freeing experience and I appreciate it after a week of feeling like I had to live up to academic/social expectations.
As far as my other past few days go, I'm simply going to state what I appreciated: Wednesday I appreciated my USIE classmates (that is, other students teaching undergraduate seminars at UCLA in the spring like me) and Thursday I appreciated dancing with my co-workers to Depeche Mode (what a freeing experience that was, too!).
What a peaceful, lovely day thus far.
Let me also preface this post by thanking everyone for thoughtful comments on the first few posts. The encouragement really helps keep me going, so thank you. :)
So, today, I felt a little claustrophobic in Westwood and decided to get coffee in Santa Monica. This tends to happen on Friday afternoons when I have no other class obligations or meetings or work. Keeping Fridays free is one of the greatest things I've ever done for myself; I can work all day on Saturday and Sunday if I'd like, but there's something psychologically pleasant and rewarding about having a FREE (read: "I-get-to-do-whatever-I-want-so-there") Friday. This is not to say I keep my Fridays homework-less necessarily, but I get to do it at my own pace and as a student, where obligations run one's life, that's probably the most marvelous feeling in the world.
Because of the nature of the column I write for "The Daily Bruin" (unofficially called "Exploring L.A.," offically called nothing), I tend to read NFT (Not For Tourists) and Losanjealous pretty regularly and discovered in NFT a coffee shop in East Santa Monica that makes coffee from a siphon.
What's a siphon? It's this: a tube running from the liquid in a vessel to a lower level outside the vessel so that atmospheric pressure forces the liquid through the tube (definition from wordnet.princeton.edu/perl/webwn). Yes, coffee comes out of those liquid pressure tube things. Neat, huh?
Hence, I undertook a question to find this siphon coffee place after class, toting a heavy backpack and directions scrawled on to a tiny notepad. Let me say that I have a terrible, terrible sense of direction, so I wrote down very specific instructions (including, "if you hit this street, you've gone the wrong way. If you hit THIS street, you're going the right way! Hooray!").
Walking off the bus past Wilshire Boulevard, I walked through a neighborhood of palm-tree lined streets and low-rise pastel-colored apartments with small balconies and little, square garages right near the street. It was the sort of charming West L.A. neighborhood that helps you realize that in spite of all of L.A.'s general lack of charming, refreshing pockets of humanity and character exist. It really elevates one's spirits to know that there are people living in peaceful alcoves of a city that inherently cannot be described as "peaceful."
Cafe Balcony is part of a strip mall and the sign outside merely reads "CAFE" in giant block lettering. It could just have easily read "BAIL BONDS" or "LIQUOR" as it was an inconspicuous strip mall shop facing loud, urban Santa Monica Boulevard. Yet upon stepping inside, the place engendered all of the warmth, character, and soul that the outside lacked. I was the first one in the shop (as I had arrived there on bus an hour before it opened, so I just read outside for an hour. Woops.) and I ordered an iced Americano and sat for two hours, doing homework, reading, and writing. The cafe's red walls, mismatched wooden chairs, and wacky music selection (ranging from electro-pop to alternative folk rock to smooth jazz to - get this - opera) felt like a cozy place to settle in for the day.
With each breath I took, the smell of coffee warmed me all the way through my body. Sitting there is what I imagine going to a cafe in Paris would be like (as cliche as that sounds): no one rushes you, everyone is reading their own great books and simply enjoying time to reflect, focus, and rejuvenate. I appreciate coffee shops that don't rush you out, that don't tell you when to leave, and don't encourage you to act "artsy" if you don't want to. There are a lot of pretentions around sitting in a coffee shop and "being an artist," but when it comes down to it, when you have a place like Cafe Balcony that is simply pleasant and encourages time to just sit and reflect and be, that's enough for me to not worry about what anyone else may think of me. That must ultimately be the most freeing experience and I appreciate it after a week of feeling like I had to live up to academic/social expectations.
As far as my other past few days go, I'm simply going to state what I appreciated: Wednesday I appreciated my USIE classmates (that is, other students teaching undergraduate seminars at UCLA in the spring like me) and Thursday I appreciated dancing with my co-workers to Depeche Mode (what a freeing experience that was, too!).
What a peaceful, lovely day thus far.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Today I Appreciate the Korean BBQ Taco Truck
In my family, the higher risk of gastro-intestinal illness a taco is likely to cause, the more authentic and therefore "better" said taco must be. This, of course, means that I have not yet fulfilled my duty as a true Mexican food aficionado because I have yet to order any food from a real L.A. taco truck. White van, silver heated roof, and aluminum foil-wrapped tacos dripping with the fat of pork al pastor is what comprises a true taco truck and that, my friends, must be what eating real Mexican food is like.
Alas, I attend school in West Los Angeles where an authentic taqueria cannot be found because - well - there's plenty of authentic Mexican food to go around in Downtown L.A. Also, unfortunately, accessing Downtown L.A. without a car (as is my state right now) is a rather laborious task as it requires transferring to different buses and/or subways. Public transportation for me is only an issue when it takes longer than an hour to get somewhere that, by car, would take only 30 minutes. So, my reasoning for never tasing the joys of a taco truck seem reasonable given the expensive cost of my time.
Yet today, I can say that I experienced the joy of ordering from a taco truck, even if it wasn't of the traditional Mexican variety...
The Kogi Korean BBQ taco truck circulates around the Los Angeles area, selling $2 tacos and $5 burritos filled with a choice of short ribs, pork, chicken, or tofu. The toppings on the tacos (alas, I cannot speak for the burrito) include a spicy cabbage salsa with sesame seeds, cilantro, onion, and romaine lettuce "tossed in Korean chili-soy vinaigrette."
Feel free to salivate. It's delicious.
The particular truck I found was on the corner of Landfair and Ophir (a few blocks from my apartment) and a few of my literary journal buddies and I waited, discussing the joys (?) of the Twilight phenomena, David Foster Wallace, and hipsters/poets (e.g. "I'm so cool I don't need a TV. Also, I write experimental poetry."). We traced the path of every passing car and truck with our eyes, glancing around the corner to catch a glimpse at the newest oncoming headlight hoping that it would be our truck.
Needless to say, the wait for food was worth it. I write this one tofu and one short rib taco later and am content reimagining the dripping of the tender cubes of beef, the satisfying spice of the tofu, and the crunchy cabbage topping encased in corn tortillas. While the tacos were decidedly more Korean than Mexican, the spice factor and sweet, sesame flavor more than compensated for any salsa I may have missed.
New food always provides opportunities to explore different senses and to appreciate the melding of different cultures. It's easy to take Los Angeles for granted, but with moments like this, it's difficult not to appreciate the beautiful culture union here and the ways in which people create their own unique, cultural communities.
If you, too, would like to appreciate the Korean BBQ Taco Truck in the near future and you live in L.A., here's the website. There's a schedule posted for where the taco truck will travel next: http://kogibbq.com/
Alas, I attend school in West Los Angeles where an authentic taqueria cannot be found because - well - there's plenty of authentic Mexican food to go around in Downtown L.A. Also, unfortunately, accessing Downtown L.A. without a car (as is my state right now) is a rather laborious task as it requires transferring to different buses and/or subways. Public transportation for me is only an issue when it takes longer than an hour to get somewhere that, by car, would take only 30 minutes. So, my reasoning for never tasing the joys of a taco truck seem reasonable given the expensive cost of my time.
Yet today, I can say that I experienced the joy of ordering from a taco truck, even if it wasn't of the traditional Mexican variety...
The Kogi Korean BBQ taco truck circulates around the Los Angeles area, selling $2 tacos and $5 burritos filled with a choice of short ribs, pork, chicken, or tofu. The toppings on the tacos (alas, I cannot speak for the burrito) include a spicy cabbage salsa with sesame seeds, cilantro, onion, and romaine lettuce "tossed in Korean chili-soy vinaigrette."
Feel free to salivate. It's delicious.
The particular truck I found was on the corner of Landfair and Ophir (a few blocks from my apartment) and a few of my literary journal buddies and I waited, discussing the joys (?) of the Twilight phenomena, David Foster Wallace, and hipsters/poets (e.g. "I'm so cool I don't need a TV. Also, I write experimental poetry."). We traced the path of every passing car and truck with our eyes, glancing around the corner to catch a glimpse at the newest oncoming headlight hoping that it would be our truck.
Needless to say, the wait for food was worth it. I write this one tofu and one short rib taco later and am content reimagining the dripping of the tender cubes of beef, the satisfying spice of the tofu, and the crunchy cabbage topping encased in corn tortillas. While the tacos were decidedly more Korean than Mexican, the spice factor and sweet, sesame flavor more than compensated for any salsa I may have missed.
New food always provides opportunities to explore different senses and to appreciate the melding of different cultures. It's easy to take Los Angeles for granted, but with moments like this, it's difficult not to appreciate the beautiful culture union here and the ways in which people create their own unique, cultural communities.
If you, too, would like to appreciate the Korean BBQ Taco Truck in the near future and you live in L.A., here's the website. There's a schedule posted for where the taco truck will travel next: http://kogibbq.com/
Monday, January 5, 2009
Today I Appreciate Vincent of French Class
Call me "nerd," but the first day of class must be one of the best days of the year. Only syllabi (that is the plural of "syllabus," yes?) are distributed, professors remain energetic about course material, and even the students are not yet burnt out. An exciting world of opportunities are soon to begin! We're anticipating a journey with a group of other engaged minds through literature and life (at least in my case)!
The only major problem with the first day of classes is the ten minutes prior to when class begins when students sit completely in silence. A full classroom with no one talking must be on one of the eeriest places on the entire campus. Inevitably, someone will whisper into a cell phone or tap a pencil against the desk, if only out of habit of - you know - actually communicating, but otherwise nothing. The thing is everyone glances around the room seeking out the incoming professor and waiting for something - anything - as long as it's not him or her, of course to break the quiet.
I typically pride myself in remaining mildly friendly on the first day of class (e.g. "Have you had this professor before?" to the person sitting next to me) because I find the silence especially uncomfortable. This is not to say that I can't stand being alone (I can), but I can't stand a group of people all unable to at least ask a few question and engage in some kind of small talk. Coming from someone like me who loathes large parties with people I don't know and the necessity to comb through niceties for the sake of politeness, this is saying something.
Fortunately, today, there was Vincent of French 1. The amazing thing about the students in French class is they're exactly who you'd expect: slim, well-dressed girls draped in scarves and - well - slim, well-dressed gay men in scarves. This may seem like an intimidating population of artistic souls, but then, amazingly, there's someone like Vincent with dirty sneakers, a zip-up hoodie, and a battered-up backpack. I have a habit of staring at whoever walks into a room and as I gave Vincent a smile as he walked in (so as not to simply stare; that's even worse than not acknowledging someone's presence), he actually said "hello" and smiled back. At a big school like UCLA, a smile is an increasingly rare greeting as if you smile at someone you do not know, the average student will either anticipate you trying to sell him or her something or try to convince him or her to join some sort of student-run nonprofit organization to benefit African children. Social justice on UCLA's campus has, unfortunately, become more of an advertising campaign than an actual attention to social justice, but that's a different story.
Anyway, Vincent and I engaged in a conversation, discovered his brother had a family in my hometown of Folsom ("It's very nice," he said. "Spread-out. Clean enough. Kind of pretty" I told him that was a decent way of describing Folsom were one to omit the stretches of strip mall and suburban sprawl. He didn't disagree, but rather remained silent. Smart move, perhaps). I wouldn't say Vincent (who came from a high school filled with metal detectors) is exactly someone I would typically befriend, but his effort to engage, to actively enjoy conversation with someone he doesn't know, that takes the sort of confidence I always appreciate and that can always improve someone's day.
The only major problem with the first day of classes is the ten minutes prior to when class begins when students sit completely in silence. A full classroom with no one talking must be on one of the eeriest places on the entire campus. Inevitably, someone will whisper into a cell phone or tap a pencil against the desk, if only out of habit of - you know - actually communicating, but otherwise nothing. The thing is everyone glances around the room seeking out the incoming professor and waiting for something - anything - as long as it's not him or her, of course to break the quiet.
I typically pride myself in remaining mildly friendly on the first day of class (e.g. "Have you had this professor before?" to the person sitting next to me) because I find the silence especially uncomfortable. This is not to say that I can't stand being alone (I can), but I can't stand a group of people all unable to at least ask a few question and engage in some kind of small talk. Coming from someone like me who loathes large parties with people I don't know and the necessity to comb through niceties for the sake of politeness, this is saying something.
Fortunately, today, there was Vincent of French 1. The amazing thing about the students in French class is they're exactly who you'd expect: slim, well-dressed girls draped in scarves and - well - slim, well-dressed gay men in scarves. This may seem like an intimidating population of artistic souls, but then, amazingly, there's someone like Vincent with dirty sneakers, a zip-up hoodie, and a battered-up backpack. I have a habit of staring at whoever walks into a room and as I gave Vincent a smile as he walked in (so as not to simply stare; that's even worse than not acknowledging someone's presence), he actually said "hello" and smiled back. At a big school like UCLA, a smile is an increasingly rare greeting as if you smile at someone you do not know, the average student will either anticipate you trying to sell him or her something or try to convince him or her to join some sort of student-run nonprofit organization to benefit African children. Social justice on UCLA's campus has, unfortunately, become more of an advertising campaign than an actual attention to social justice, but that's a different story.
Anyway, Vincent and I engaged in a conversation, discovered his brother had a family in my hometown of Folsom ("It's very nice," he said. "Spread-out. Clean enough. Kind of pretty" I told him that was a decent way of describing Folsom were one to omit the stretches of strip mall and suburban sprawl. He didn't disagree, but rather remained silent. Smart move, perhaps). I wouldn't say Vincent (who came from a high school filled with metal detectors) is exactly someone I would typically befriend, but his effort to engage, to actively enjoy conversation with someone he doesn't know, that takes the sort of confidence I always appreciate and that can always improve someone's day.
Sunday, January 4, 2009
Today I Appreciate the Southwest Airlines Flight Attendant With the Ponytail
I mostly dislike airports.
As I mentioned yesterday, change/travel inherently makes me anxious and the airport happens to be the epicenter of these two feelings. Other travelers tend to be on their worst behavior in airports, too. Somehow, sitting in narrow seats for hours at a time makes one's fellow passengers feel entitled to a.) complain about everything, b.) partake in a number of annoying habits like cracking knuckles, chewing loudly, or taking up more space than necessary, and c.) engage in either little polite conversation or talk for too long about nothing important that nobody cares about. I also have a problem with people boarding planes in their monochromatic jump suits as if traveling is as exhausting as running a marathon.
So, behavioral and fashion issues aside, going through security and stripping off shoes, jackets, and jewelery and hunting through my backpack to plunk my laptop into a plastic bin feels distinctly stress-inducing. While the Sacramento airport tends to be a rather benign place to go through security, LAX "transportation security officers" (read: former Compton kids) bark at you to "Keep moving!," "No CELLULAR PHONES, no WATCHES. Take off your HEELS AND BOOTS, LADIES." Basically, no one is happy. At all.
Flight attendants, unfortunately, must face the brunt of traveler dissatisfaction as they deal with the weary security-rattled passengers, anticipating only restless legs, a half-cup of ginger ale, and stale airplane air. I don't know how they do it.
Yet today I interacted with the cheeriest flight attendant I've ever seen. I have little patience for fake cheeriness ("Have a great day, ma'am!", "Thanks for flying Southwest, ma'am!," "Peanuts, ma'am?"), but this particular attendant exuded a genuine contentment and - dare I say it?- happiness with his job.
How do I know this? When he wished me a good flight, I told him "thank you" and he actually looked me in the face, smiled, and replied with a "You're welcome. I hope you enjoy your trip home."
Really?
Halfway through the flight, a woman in front of me buzzed for flight attendant attention. Southwest Airlines Flight Attendant with the Ponytail came to her aid:
She lifted up her drink: "Where are the peanuts with this?"
Now, if it had been me, I probably would have sighed and just told her to be patient, the peanuts will come. Lady, this is a Southwest flight. Peanuts always come. The economy may be struggling, but as long as there are planes in the air, there will be peanuts served. Just trust me on this one, OK?
But amazingly, this guy didn't just seem harried or hassled or brush her off with a mechanic, "Just a moment, ma'am." Instead, he smiled and said:
"I'll get 'em right for! Good to get that protein in, right?"
Really? This guy does not grow weary of the fact that the only thing people care that he does is provide them with refreshments? He wants them to enjoy their in-flight protein and will willingly without reverting to rote airline service mantras - gather what this whiny lady wants?
I guess his behavior is not unbelievably remarkable, but I suppose it just goes to show that one can make even the most seemingly depressing situation sweet and that I appreciate.
As I mentioned yesterday, change/travel inherently makes me anxious and the airport happens to be the epicenter of these two feelings. Other travelers tend to be on their worst behavior in airports, too. Somehow, sitting in narrow seats for hours at a time makes one's fellow passengers feel entitled to a.) complain about everything, b.) partake in a number of annoying habits like cracking knuckles, chewing loudly, or taking up more space than necessary, and c.) engage in either little polite conversation or talk for too long about nothing important that nobody cares about. I also have a problem with people boarding planes in their monochromatic jump suits as if traveling is as exhausting as running a marathon.
So, behavioral and fashion issues aside, going through security and stripping off shoes, jackets, and jewelery and hunting through my backpack to plunk my laptop into a plastic bin feels distinctly stress-inducing. While the Sacramento airport tends to be a rather benign place to go through security, LAX "transportation security officers" (read: former Compton kids) bark at you to "Keep moving!," "No CELLULAR PHONES, no WATCHES. Take off your HEELS AND BOOTS, LADIES." Basically, no one is happy. At all.
Flight attendants, unfortunately, must face the brunt of traveler dissatisfaction as they deal with the weary security-rattled passengers, anticipating only restless legs, a half-cup of ginger ale, and stale airplane air. I don't know how they do it.
Yet today I interacted with the cheeriest flight attendant I've ever seen. I have little patience for fake cheeriness ("Have a great day, ma'am!", "Thanks for flying Southwest, ma'am!," "Peanuts, ma'am?"), but this particular attendant exuded a genuine contentment and - dare I say it?- happiness with his job.
How do I know this? When he wished me a good flight, I told him "thank you" and he actually looked me in the face, smiled, and replied with a "You're welcome. I hope you enjoy your trip home."
Really?
Halfway through the flight, a woman in front of me buzzed for flight attendant attention. Southwest Airlines Flight Attendant with the Ponytail came to her aid:
She lifted up her drink: "Where are the peanuts with this?"
Now, if it had been me, I probably would have sighed and just told her to be patient, the peanuts will come. Lady, this is a Southwest flight. Peanuts always come. The economy may be struggling, but as long as there are planes in the air, there will be peanuts served. Just trust me on this one, OK?
But amazingly, this guy didn't just seem harried or hassled or brush her off with a mechanic, "Just a moment, ma'am." Instead, he smiled and said:
"I'll get 'em right for! Good to get that protein in, right?"
Really? This guy does not grow weary of the fact that the only thing people care that he does is provide them with refreshments? He wants them to enjoy their in-flight protein and will willingly without reverting to rote airline service mantras - gather what this whiny lady wants?
I guess his behavior is not unbelievably remarkable, but I suppose it just goes to show that one can make even the most seemingly depressing situation sweet and that I appreciate.
Saturday, January 3, 2009
Today I Appreciate Antonin Dvorak
The day before traveling anywhere always makes me feel anxious. It doesn't matter where I'm going, but I somehow always suspect that something on a plane trip home will go wrong.
I'm returning to UCLA to begin my winter quarter and all day I've been unable to focus on any one task, stay still for long periods of time, or settle my thoughts that keep racing over the same worries. Then, there is that distinctive melancholic feeling of plucking shirts off the hangers in my childhood closet and folding them back into the suitcase for the dreaded plane ride tomorrow, unsure of when I'll return to the comforts and freeing irresponsibility of being home.
Of course, I must remember that while nestling into home is soothing, it's not real life. It's not advancing who I am and it's not necessarily helping me grow. I'm returning to school! University! I'm taking an intensive course load, I write a column every week for the paper, I help run the literary journal, and I'm preparing to teach an undergraduate student-taught course in the Spring. I'll be busy. Exciting, I think?
Yet even with my bipolar feelings about change, there's one man's stable lyricism that calms me through everything: Antonin Dvorak, Romantic composer.
Classical music from the Romantic era is mercifully not the stuff of stiff-collared, wig-wearing European men, but rather is pulsing, alive, emotional, swelling music from the nineteenth century characterized by its attention to building tension and feeling in its melodies and rhythms. Romantic works are complex tangles of music, pulsing into crescendos in an instant then, often just as quickly, settling into soft, graceful lullabies. I often wonder why Romantic music isn't picked up more for movie scores.
Anyway, there are many Romantic composers from whom I could choose (Rachmaninoff, Liszt, Chopin, Schubert to name a few), but the charm of Dvorak never fades for me. Unlike some of his contemporaries, Dvorak's not a real show-off (my kind of guy. Too bad we're separated by thousands of years and continents). Sure, he creates sweeping stories and runs through the same gamut of rhythmical complexities as his mates, but there's a charm that underlies pieces like his "New World Symphony."
I'm with Dvorak and his orchestra all the way through each movement of each piece, following the story he constructs. The listener discovers whimsy in the musical creation of the "New World." I not only feel the emotions conjured by the melodies, but I also relate myself to the music and become lost in what it emotionally creates for me. It's a distraction - if you will - from the more pressing emotional concerns of my present and takes me to other imaginative parts of my mind and allows me to experience the beauty and joy of experiencing the range of emotions music can create.
Today, then, I appreciate Dvorak for the emotional support his music provides. Thank you.
I'm returning to UCLA to begin my winter quarter and all day I've been unable to focus on any one task, stay still for long periods of time, or settle my thoughts that keep racing over the same worries. Then, there is that distinctive melancholic feeling of plucking shirts off the hangers in my childhood closet and folding them back into the suitcase for the dreaded plane ride tomorrow, unsure of when I'll return to the comforts and freeing irresponsibility of being home.
Of course, I must remember that while nestling into home is soothing, it's not real life. It's not advancing who I am and it's not necessarily helping me grow. I'm returning to school! University! I'm taking an intensive course load, I write a column every week for the paper, I help run the literary journal, and I'm preparing to teach an undergraduate student-taught course in the Spring. I'll be busy. Exciting, I think?
Yet even with my bipolar feelings about change, there's one man's stable lyricism that calms me through everything: Antonin Dvorak, Romantic composer.
Classical music from the Romantic era is mercifully not the stuff of stiff-collared, wig-wearing European men, but rather is pulsing, alive, emotional, swelling music from the nineteenth century characterized by its attention to building tension and feeling in its melodies and rhythms. Romantic works are complex tangles of music, pulsing into crescendos in an instant then, often just as quickly, settling into soft, graceful lullabies. I often wonder why Romantic music isn't picked up more for movie scores.
Anyway, there are many Romantic composers from whom I could choose (Rachmaninoff, Liszt, Chopin, Schubert to name a few), but the charm of Dvorak never fades for me. Unlike some of his contemporaries, Dvorak's not a real show-off (my kind of guy. Too bad we're separated by thousands of years and continents). Sure, he creates sweeping stories and runs through the same gamut of rhythmical complexities as his mates, but there's a charm that underlies pieces like his "New World Symphony."
I'm with Dvorak and his orchestra all the way through each movement of each piece, following the story he constructs. The listener discovers whimsy in the musical creation of the "New World." I not only feel the emotions conjured by the melodies, but I also relate myself to the music and become lost in what it emotionally creates for me. It's a distraction - if you will - from the more pressing emotional concerns of my present and takes me to other imaginative parts of my mind and allows me to experience the beauty and joy of experiencing the range of emotions music can create.
Today, then, I appreciate Dvorak for the emotional support his music provides. Thank you.
Friday, January 2, 2009
Today I Appreciate You
Yearly, I planned to keep some sort of journal. Fancy notebooks with floral print covers and neat, lined pages remain the only partially-filled testaments to my attempts at “practicing” writing and attempting to be a “good writer.” Every “how to be a writer” book I read told me that the best writers keep journals, so that’s what I tried to do: keep a journal.
I sparingly wrote in those journals, however, because I lacked meaningful purpose for writing in them. I only occasionally wrote because I thought that’s what you were supposed to do if you had any love of language. Alas, the entries fell into the trap of “I hate mom,” “I hate dad,” and “I hate mom AND dad” and, thus, became my platform for complaining rather than for observation. That’s not to say that complaining doesn’t have its place in literature, but it shouldn’t be the predominant emotion driving one’s work.
As Robert Root writes in The Nonfictionist’s Guide, a writer needs “a sense of commitment to the subject matter, a sense of involvement that is not simply a desire to communicate something but is instead – or in addition – a willingness to discover and accommodate whatever emerges from the writing” (26). Basically, if you have a goal in mind and you want to communicate, go and do it, but expect to learn something from the process, too.
So, this project is really twofold: I expect to not only learn a little about my life experiences by reflecting upon them in an optimistic way, but also to discover something about what it means to be appreciate what you have and through this appreciation, to become a happier, fuller, healthier person.
Today, then, I appreciate you, whoever you are, reading this beginning. You are probably among only a few who have either a.) been referred here by me, b.) stumbled upon this by accident or c.) are my family (who fall under the subcategory of a., but whatever). Happiness can only be achieved with the help of others. It’s impossible to be a complete lonely misanthrope, sulking through life incapable of finding love and appreciation from others. After all, many write to be immortal; words transcend life and being.
So, why do you need to be involved in this? Well, writing for me is a wholly beneficial process and I could easily keep this tucked away in a hidden folder, but I’m only compelled – really compelled – to write this if I know someone out there cares or is affected by anything here. That’s cliché (and, boy, do I hate that it’s cliché), but clichés exist because they are so firmly based in truth. I write this, these observations, these thoughts, these desires to share, because I wish to stir something in you. It doesn’t really matter what.
After all, it’s impossible to communicate until you discover something you need to communicate. For me, I need to communicate what brings me levity, what brings me hope, and what brings me inspiration because, without that reflection and without that understanding, it’s impossible to really appreciate and love what’s open and available in the world.
The Journey to Understand Begins
"But what is happiness except the simple harmony between man and the life he leads?"
- Albert Camus
Please join me. I hope that this journey teaches us something.
- Albert Camus
THE INTRODUCTION
Am I happy?
Well, yes. I suppose that in a general, over all state of being, I’m glad I’m alive. But is that really “happy?” Can I just wake up one morning and inherently, finally know: OK, I’m a pretty happy person over all?
I tend not to think so. Contrary to popular belief, I think it has to involve a little more effort than that.
That, of course, is not to say that one has to remind one’s self of being happy every passing second, but I’ve come to realize that I am most happy when I’m aware and mindful of what I enjoy in my life and what I’m grateful for, focusing on it, and examining the details of it. I know that process sounds exhausting, but as I think about savoring a moment and relishing the positive qualities of wonderful people who cross through my life, I realize that this process of uncovering what brings me joy is not homework, but rather something calming, relaxing, therapeutic, and essential.
THE WHO I AM
Before I go any further, my name is Jenae. I’m twenty years old and I’m halfway through my third year studying English at UCLA. I grew up in Sacramento, California. I read and write quite a bit. I’m not sure how much more there is to say about me than that. Who I really am will hopefully emerge not through the facts I divulge, but through my experiences.
I hadn’t thought much of “happiness” before this past year because I didn’t really need to. I felt effortlessly content; I grew up comfortably, had great friends, had great school experiences, and generally never toyed with anything very complex in my life (other than arguably the dreaded college admissions decisions which, at the time, seemed like they would dictate the course of my life forever and ever and ever amen).
Yet as this year began, I descended into what I like to call my “mid-college crisis.” A lot of big changes occurred. I began to question not only my academic motivations (what the hell was I going to do with my B.A. in English?), but also who I was and what I wanted from my life.
Suddenly, shatteringly, and devastatingly (how’s that for dramatic?) everything I worked hard to accomplish seemed pointless. It seemed as though no matter how hard I tried to communicate how I felt to others, no one really understood. It was as though the people around me stopped caring about what I was doing, stopped noticing me, and stopped validating what I felt was my hard work and my good character.
My organized self just couldn’t stand it; I wanted to be in control over how I felt, and yet I began to feel as if everything – my emotions, my goals – were suddenly things completely out of my control. Depression ad mantras (“Do you find yourself teary? Hopeless? Alone?”) began to resonate with me. Frankly, it was freaking me out; I had never really felt so lost.
A counselor – fortunately and unfortunately – found some sort of explanation for my concerns.
“It sounds like you’re maturing and discovering what you really want,” she told me.
OK, yes. I could accept that I was potentially growing up and maybe even out of what I thought I enjoyed, but then I couldn’t help but ask myself: what do I want?
Initially, what I wanted was for all of my concerns to disappear, for me to stop worrying about everything and just revert back to the happy freshman and sophomore who began her career at UCLA bright, eager, and accepting.
Yet attempting to squeeze on the cheery trousers I wore two years ago was uncomfortable. Why couldn’t I be the same person that everyone presumably loved more than this weepy, lachrymose Jenae?
THE CONCLUSION
It took a lot of time, a lot of loss, a lot of disappointment, and a lot of tissues to realize that it wasn’t that I needed to be the person I expected myself to be, but rather I needed to pay attention to what was happening in the present. Who are the people around me affecting me in a positive way? What am I doing that is – actually, really, truly, genuinely – satisfying me?
I grew tired of my inability to define something as seemingly simple as whether I’m happy with my life. Questioning whether I was “generally” at peace with myself, the decisions I made, the friendships I created, and the life I lead was (and still is) exhausting. I was tired of crying over frustrations, I was tired of anxiety over choices (both the big and large), and most importantly, I was tired of dissatisfaction with who I was.
THE MISSION
So, I’ve decided to stop questioning what I do and instead focus my energy on the acts of kindness that either I commit or I see others commit. I consider – really, pride – myself a diligent and hard worker, yet I have not really completed what could be an important and what should be a lifelong project: expressing gratitude for whatever and whoever inspires me.
According to an amalgam of readings on happiness and what makes people happy, it is the process of completing a project rather than the project itself that leads to self-satisfaction, so here I am, working on a project that I hope will not only bring me joy and help me stay aware and self-reflective, but may also encourage others to take the time out to be mindful and self-reflective, too, of what brings one joy.
In an article in Psychology Today (“The Pursuit of Happiness,” February 2009) UC Riverside professor Sonja Lyubomirsky recommends expressing one’s gratitude toward someone or something in a weekly journal or letter. So, that’s what I’m going to do. This will be my daily record of what brings me joy.Please join me. I hope that this journey teaches us something.
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