Parting words

Here I am, sitting at my desk, typing away these words while the music of Elgar's "Pomp and Circumstance" waft in through the open window, commemorating the 2009 eighth grade graduation currently taking place on the field of Lindero Canyon Middle School, visible from the same window. Three years ago, I sat on the same field. A year later, my sister will be there, undergoing the same ritual, and hopefully going through it without tripping over her feet.

I don't remember anymore who I was back then. If I think hard enough I can revisit memories of that momentous day, baking under the sun in our plastic maroon gowns. But I can no longer be 'that' person I might have been. I don't really remember how I used to think, what opinions I held, how I behaved in those years. I feel undoubtably older, more mature; "sobered," I like to say. I have more responsibilities, more knowledge, less time, and maybe more wisdom, though maybe 'cynicism' would be a better term. I can't say how much I've changed, but I do feel changed. I'm a bit afraid of the outside world. I've depended too much on my parents who usually take care of everything for me so I can focus on my studies. I'd like to learn how to become more independent, while at the same time learn how to seek proper help and interact more with others.

Ok, this train of thought is dying....on to the next one..

I'm really really really upset with the year ending like this. Mostly because I totally botched my math final (not in the asian sense of failed even) and consequently will not have a 5.0 A in that class. I. Am. Upset. And it's particularly aggravating since it's all my fault too for not studying hard enough. D= So now I can't say I got straight A's in junior year. ;~;
Secondly, this is my last day in the U.S. before I embark on a two-week trip to China, return for a day, and then spend four more weeks away from home at UCSD. I do NOT feel prepared for this trip, mentally or practically, but I am definitely going, so I'm going to China whether or not I am ready. >_< (I am a worrywart if you haven't noticed)

That's all for today. My next post won't be until August.

Until then,
D

Nostalgia and Grief

The former being due to the end of the school year.
The latter being due to the unexpected and very unsettling news of my maternal grandfather who is now closer to death than he had ever been.

It doesn't feel quite like the end of the year; I keep realizing at odd intervals that "Oh, this is the last time I have this class" or "Oh, this may be the last time I ever see this person." These thoughts fill me with a sense of loss, a sense of just how unforgiving time is, and how subtly painful goodbye's can be. Time passes. People grow, change, mature. People leave, for now the safe but small community they live in can't contain them. They move on. We move on, and before we know it, we will also leave. Time stops for no one.

And neither does death, it seems. I don't even know if it's ok to say that my grandfather is close to dying here on a blog that anyone could read if they knew the url. Disclaimer!!! Please mom if you read this don't be too harsh on me!! =(

He contracted esophagal cancer the spring of last year. It was removed, but the cancer had already metastisized(?) to his liver, and then to his lungs. The other day we heard the news that he had been sent to the emergency room, and right now he's in critical condition. Originally my dad would leave for China first, but mom changed plans and left with him, leaving me and my sister with our paternal grandparents. The sudden weight of responsibility fell on my shoulders to get us safely and securely to China and have all our belongings properly packed. This I had never done before. My mom always took care of everything for us in the past, so this will be the first time. It's daunting, needless to say, and my moral trembles. The morning of their departure my dad was already at his computer, typing farewell emails. After hearing the depressing news, I went to his side and knelt down, hoping to ask for some kind of blessing. I received one without even asking for it. He rubbed my head, spoke a few words of comfort, and kissed my forehead. When I came home from school, there was a letter on my desk from my mom, a library card, and my school parking permit. It was one of those "they are gone and left me this letter" kind of moments, and I nearly cried. Nearly.

We had all hoped that Grandpa would last long enough for us to see him again. My mom hinted before that it may be the last time, but now, we know for sure that it will be the last time, and he may not even be awake to see us.

I've never really heard great things about my grandpa. He served in the army, got a pension(?), married my nurse grandma through a matchmaker, drank regularly, and disciplined sternly. My mom was the eldest of their four children; three girls and one boy (the youngest). Naturally, he and his one son were the top priorities in the household. Of the little money the family received every month, most of it went to purchasing beer, of which he was very fond. Probably too fond. My mom, as the eldest, had to cook and do housework and look after all her siblings. The organization skills and strong self-discipline she cultivated has trickled down to me and my sister, though the concentration is obviously much lower. -_-

The upshot of my grandpa drinking so much is that he has no heart or blood pressure problems. He'd probably live to a ripe old age.

I hope they are all ok.

Meanwhile, I have finals to study for...

Until next time,
D

The end of all things...

For the first time in a long time, I do not feel swamped with homework.
Granted, it is the end of the school year after all and everyone, even the teachers, feels the coming of summer, though the weather is still no indication of it.

It must have been the APs. Our finals are fast approaching, yet none of the people I know feels any obligation to study excessively or really think about finals at all. It’s pretty much junioritis, and boy, does it feel glorious.
Besides a French final nagging me to be done, I have no homework to do. My afternoons and evenings spent sloughing through chemistry problems, math problems, or history papers have suddenly evaporated, especially when compared to last week, which was nearly hell.
(I say nearly because I haven’t died just yet.)

So now I can read books for amusement again and take naps without worrying as much. I’m currently almost done with Harry Bauld’s On Writing the College Application Essay, a highly enlightening 138 pages of advice from which I learned why I was rejected from the COSMOS program at UC Davis. I also received, much to my astonishment, a full Harvard application. I can already begin practicing (which my mom wants me to do and which I am attempting to do right now).
Also, I am reading A Romance on Three Legs: Glenn Gould’s Obsessive Quest for the Perfect Piano, a book belonging to my sister’s piano teacher, Mrs. Ornela Ervin. Ornela adores me. Honestly, I am probably her favorite student outside of her own studio. Even when I don’t play well, she lavishes compliments on me. I smile, nod, and squeeze out a “Thank you.” I don’t mix well with compliments.

On another note, it’s also yearbook signing season, where sharpies of all colors and sizes bloom out of plastic bags and fill the crisp white laminated pages placed uncomfortably at the end of every yearbook.
I didn’t buy a yearbook this year; it saves me a good deal of money and mental injuries inflicted by horrendous grammar and spelling errors. Instead, I brought five pens of different colors and blank printer paper on a bright yellow clipboard festooned with adorable yellow ducks and flowers.

Reading yearbook entries other people give me really boosts my ego. I generally believe most of what they say to me, even if it was obligatory to write something nice. So far I’ve collected 28 signatures or so and have written in more. Every time I sign someone’s yearbook, I usually accompany it with a small caricature of the person or some other inside joke, i.e. an octopus. People are usually welcoming about my cartoons. I try my best to draw them as accurately as possible holding a permanent pen (pencil doesn’t work well on laminated surfaces). Most times I succeed. Today I fulfilled a particular request and used a full blank piece of printer paper (on which I could use pencil) and colored it with my pens (not so practical, but). The recipient was ecstatic. I liked that. Using my talents to make others happy makes me happy in return, so long as they don’t rub it in too much.

I signed several seniors' yearbooks. Suddenly realizing that they would no longer be here next year saddened me; this would be the last time I could see them on a daily basis. The prospect of becoming a senior myself scares me slightly. None of our peers will be in higher classes than us. We will have to watch over the younger classmen, of whom I only know a few. They will be suffering similar fates to ours, while we must look forward and finally come to the brink of adulthood, where we will never again live the lives of children, in innocence and in bliss.

A friend of mine said "You know, I've realized that the more I learn, the less happier I am."

~D

On Construction

Poem by Anonymous

I watched them tearing the building down,
a group of men in a busy town.
With a ho heave ho and a lusty yell,
they swung a beam and a side wall fell.

I asked the foreman, 'Are these men skilled,
the kind I'd hire if I wanted to build?'
He gave a laugh and said no indeed,
Why common labor is all I need.

These men can wreck in a day or two
what builders have taken years to do.
I asked myself as I went my way,
which of these roles have I tried to play?

Have I been a builder that works with care,
measuring my deed by the rule and square?
Or am I a wrecker that stalks the twon,
content with the job of tearing it down?

Thoughts? Comments?

Mr. Busby said the metaphor referred to relationships between people. Some people support others; some ruin. You can spend years building up a friendship or a love with someone, and it can be wrecked with one blow. I have had it happen twice. I never want it to happen again.

Are people more of wreckers or builders?

According to Mr. Busby, about 90% of the population are wreckers, but the builders contribute significantly more to society that the difference can be compensated.

I believe I am a builder. I don't want to wreck things, and if I do, I'd feel horrible inside.

D

Quotes of the day

(I haven't gotten around to posting in a while, not even enough to say that I don't have the time to post).

The other day my history teacher gave us several papers of quotes and poems about life. I think I forgot to mention that Mr. Busby is a critical thinker and makes us think critically as well. So we talked about society, social relationships, risks, and making the most of every day. It was enlightening, and we gained some insight into Mr. Busby's own personality. I know I am a person with low self-esteem, ever reluctant to let my voice be heard. Mr. Busby almost always acts sarcastic and nearly conceited to us, but that day he confessed that he had very low self-esteem. He pays a lot of attention to student criticisms about how he ran the class and whatnot.

Here is one of the quotes he handed out to us:

Risk

To laugh is to risk appearing "the Fool"!
To weep is to risk appearing sentimental
To reach out for another is to risk involvement.
To expose feelings is to risk exposing your true self.
To place your ideas, your dreams before the crowd is to risk their loss.
To love is to risk not being loved in return.
To live is to risk dying.
To hope is to risk despair.
To try is to risk failure...
But risks must be taken - because the greatest hazard in life is to risk nothing.
The person who risks nothing - does nothing - has nothing - and is nothing...
That person can avoid suffering and sorrow but simply cannot learn, feel, change, grow, love--LIVE...
Chained by personal certitudes, that one becomes a slave, forfeiting freedom and opportunity.
Only a person who risks is genuinely free!

I am naturally a risk-averse person; I plan not to invest in stocks, I am afraid of requesting things of people, and above all I am afraid of raising my voice. Nevertheless, when I am asked to, I'll stand up and speak; when there's a problem (i.e. CD can't play) I'll try to help fix it. I still lack a lot of self-confidence, but I have been working on reducing it. Volunteering at Los Robles, playing a piano concerto with an orchestra in front of a large audience, etc. have shaped me.

For as long as I can remember I've been a shy person with a soft voice. I used to be naive, simple, and innocent. I still retain some of those qualities, but I have also definitely matured. Earlier in the year, I termed it "sober," but maybe it's just "matured." I don't want to grow up and face the enormous responsibilities of adulthood. I turn 17 in 14 days. Unfortunately, time doesn't stand still, and I have to change my personality to survive at the aggressive pace the world runs at. I cannot stay the way I have always been, sadly, however much I don't want to have to change. Altering one's very personality is difficult to do. Mr. Busby said the same, so he appraised me for taking a big risk and taking a speech class at Moorpark in the fall.

Volunteering at the front desk of the hospital has forced me to communicate and manage problems with complete strangers. Performing piano has forced me to retain an air of confidence and coolness despite horrendous performances (it still hurts though). I can greet strangers more easily now, and even hold light conversations, though small talk might take another step.

It's not easy for me to appear bubbly and cheerful. Not at all. Especially after seeing other people acting bubbly and cheerful. It gives me the shivers. I prefer being myself. That way, it doesn't feel like I am lying to myself. I'm probably honest to a fault (I say probably because I'm not sure), and I am honest with my feelings as well, though I might not say anything about them.

Mr. Busby has not been the only one who's advised me to speak up. Mrs. Cano, my English teacher, also told me to do so. Mr. Francis, my piano teacher, told me to "be just this side of conceited." Mr. Carpenter, my French teacher, continues to tease me about actually being able to hear me speak. Don't even start with my mom.

What puzzles me a little is that I am not always the quietest person. There are generally people who speak up much less than I do, yet I am targeted more often. Perhaps I just exhibit my low self-confidence more so than others (wth?); I always fret about doing something wrong.


Ok, this blog is long enough...but I feel like I was just rambling the whole time...ugh. Oh no! I just demonstrated my low self-confidence again! -_-

Another time,
D