Sunday, June 03, 2012
Saturday, June 02, 2012
Thursday, May 31, 2012
Backyard garden
My mom and I started growing vegetables and fruits in our backyard. Can you tell what these are? 
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
It is
Only with the heart that one can see rightly-- what is essential is invisible to the eye. Antonine de saint exupery 
Monday, May 28, 2012
Our front yard tree
Our tropical jacaranda tree has been alive almost as long as me! Every year, it turns our front yard into a sea of purple fallen flowers. 
Sunday, May 27, 2012
Walking Around Los Angeles
Aga came to visit. Los Angeles has some great places! Like Tom said in 500 Days of Summer, sometimes you just need to look up to see cool things. 
What you're looking at: A massive, mangled creation above our heads at MOCA, the Museum of Contemporary Art; downtown Los Angeles while strolling in the Theater District on Broadway; Angel's Knoll, Tom's favorite spot in LA he later shared with Summer in the movie 500 Days of Summer.
Sunday, April 22, 2012
Riding into Joplin, Missouri
As the sun was setting, five cyclists stood on top of a hill in
Joplin, Missouri. Before them in full panoramic view was utter
devastation from the tornado that powered through several city blocks
months before. A car, in barely recognizable condition, lay upside
down on the sidewalk. An abandoned senior citizens home, stood
windowless and roofless amongst a sea of rubble- most likely smaller
houses that didn’t make it through. In the distance, a tired man stood
amongst the mess, sorting through a pile of debris.
For anyone that felt like riding their bicycle into Joplin today, it
was no stroll in the park. Thermometers all around easily checked in
at over 100. We (once again) traversed the rolling hills of Missouri,
passing by churches with quirky slogans, golden fields with rolls of
hay scattered about, and pastures with every cow huddled under the
lone tree for shade.
The roads in the morning were a welcomed relief to the steeper climbs
days prior. Aaron Miller, my cycling partner in the morning, lead the
way past antique shops and family farms. The first 30 miles passed
with relative ease, and soon we found ourselves checking into the
first lunch stop- an abandoned gas station on historic Route 66 with a
patch of grass and glorious shade.
Soon after taking off for the second stretch, a hot gust of air blew
in my face, a signal to all the riders that the temperature was
heating up at an exponential rate. I double checked that my water
bottles were filled. For people new to cycling (yours truly coming in
at 14 tire flats thus far), riding 76 miles is a mental and physical
challenge in itself. Having what feels like 5 hot hair dryers blowing
in your face while you are trying to rise up to that challenge adds
another element to the cycling game.
Thankfully, there are two establishments that act as beacons of hope
to a tired and dehydrated Bike and Builder: McDonalds and gas
stations. A gas station to a Bike and Build cyclist is like an oasis
to a gazelle in some remote place in Africa. Like flies, riders
Caitlin Stanley, Elysia Glover, and I flock into the nearest Route 66
station, and engage in rituals which include: sticking our heads in
the refrigerator, filling our bags (and shirts) with ice, and pounding
down ice cream sandwiches and icees. None of the aforementioned are
trivial pursuits, but practices that are imperative to finishing the
ride and still remaining relatively mentally sane.
There are 20 more miles left to go, and while the sun’s rays are
coming down harder than ever, the asphalt below likewise decides to
radiate its own heat, entrenching us in a prison of sweat. We let out
screams of frustration from the pain of sitting on a saddle for an
entire day. Heat rash begins to appear on our burning thighs. Fatigue,
otherwise known as “bonking,” kicks in; and the hills that seemed
manageable 2 hours prior now feel like impassable mountains.
Soon, the hills of hay give way to wider roads, and soon we see
stoplights, signifying that a bigger town is near. We ride up to two
local cyclists to ask for directions, and let out whoops of pure joy
that echoed through the streets when learning that our final
destination is close. After a few more long miles, we pedal up to the
host site with sore butts, soaked cycling shorts, and dirt smeared
calves. We set our bikes aside, happy to be done using them for the
day.
Aside from people questioning our sanity for taking on an adventure
like this, another common reaction from people we tell our biking
story to is genuine confusion. Why spend a summer waking up at ungodly
hours to begin a long day outside? Why bike across America and subject
yourselves to heat rash, saddle sores, and odd looking tan lines? Why
venture far away from home to dig a hole or pick nails out of wood for
a whole day?
For anyone that stood on top of the hill in Joplin, Missouri, today,
the answers to those questions are clear.
-Teresa
Joplin, Missouri. Before them in full panoramic view was utter
devastation from the tornado that powered through several city blocks
months before. A car, in barely recognizable condition, lay upside
down on the sidewalk. An abandoned senior citizens home, stood
windowless and roofless amongst a sea of rubble- most likely smaller
houses that didn’t make it through. In the distance, a tired man stood
amongst the mess, sorting through a pile of debris.
For anyone that felt like riding their bicycle into Joplin today, it
was no stroll in the park. Thermometers all around easily checked in
at over 100. We (once again) traversed the rolling hills of Missouri,
passing by churches with quirky slogans, golden fields with rolls of
hay scattered about, and pastures with every cow huddled under the
lone tree for shade.
The roads in the morning were a welcomed relief to the steeper climbs
days prior. Aaron Miller, my cycling partner in the morning, lead the
way past antique shops and family farms. The first 30 miles passed
with relative ease, and soon we found ourselves checking into the
first lunch stop- an abandoned gas station on historic Route 66 with a
patch of grass and glorious shade.
Soon after taking off for the second stretch, a hot gust of air blew
in my face, a signal to all the riders that the temperature was
heating up at an exponential rate. I double checked that my water
bottles were filled. For people new to cycling (yours truly coming in
at 14 tire flats thus far), riding 76 miles is a mental and physical
challenge in itself. Having what feels like 5 hot hair dryers blowing
in your face while you are trying to rise up to that challenge adds
another element to the cycling game.
Thankfully, there are two establishments that act as beacons of hope
to a tired and dehydrated Bike and Builder: McDonalds and gas
stations. A gas station to a Bike and Build cyclist is like an oasis
to a gazelle in some remote place in Africa. Like flies, riders
Caitlin Stanley, Elysia Glover, and I flock into the nearest Route 66
station, and engage in rituals which include: sticking our heads in
the refrigerator, filling our bags (and shirts) with ice, and pounding
down ice cream sandwiches and icees. None of the aforementioned are
trivial pursuits, but practices that are imperative to finishing the
ride and still remaining relatively mentally sane.
There are 20 more miles left to go, and while the sun’s rays are
coming down harder than ever, the asphalt below likewise decides to
radiate its own heat, entrenching us in a prison of sweat. We let out
screams of frustration from the pain of sitting on a saddle for an
entire day. Heat rash begins to appear on our burning thighs. Fatigue,
otherwise known as “bonking,” kicks in; and the hills that seemed
manageable 2 hours prior now feel like impassable mountains.
Soon, the hills of hay give way to wider roads, and soon we see
stoplights, signifying that a bigger town is near. We ride up to two
local cyclists to ask for directions, and let out whoops of pure joy
that echoed through the streets when learning that our final
destination is close. After a few more long miles, we pedal up to the
host site with sore butts, soaked cycling shorts, and dirt smeared
calves. We set our bikes aside, happy to be done using them for the
day.
Aside from people questioning our sanity for taking on an adventure
like this, another common reaction from people we tell our biking
story to is genuine confusion. Why spend a summer waking up at ungodly
hours to begin a long day outside? Why bike across America and subject
yourselves to heat rash, saddle sores, and odd looking tan lines? Why
venture far away from home to dig a hole or pick nails out of wood for
a whole day?
For anyone that stood on top of the hill in Joplin, Missouri, today,
the answers to those questions are clear.
-Teresa
Monday, November 28, 2011
enter Mitch
I made a new friend over Thanksgiving. His name is Mitch, and in some ways, I think we were meant to meet. Mitch seemed a little nervous to meet me too. One could tell that he was dressed to impress by the sleek black cover he was donning, and he had cleaned himself up to shine.
When I first looked at him, I felt this odd connection-- as if an old comrade had all of a sudden walked into the room. Mitch looks incredibly similar to a friend I had during my stint in Micronesia. My old friend and I would sit underneath the porch of our home, and have hours of fun while the rain poured from the heavens a few feet away from us. He would also sit with me as I graded essays and did lesson planning on a lazy Sunday afternoon in my open air classroom. On a special staff luncheon, he even participated in a show with me and some other teachers!
However, like a tide rising and then retreating, my time in Micronesia had to come to an end after almost a year. I said goodbye to my friend, probably never to see him again.
When I saw Mitch, a lot of island memories came flooding back and like a washer on the rinse cycle, swirled around and around my mind. I am so happy to have found Mitch
(or that Mitch had found me)-- because now I can have a new friend over here too.
When I first looked at him, I felt this odd connection-- as if an old comrade had all of a sudden walked into the room. Mitch looks incredibly similar to a friend I had during my stint in Micronesia. My old friend and I would sit underneath the porch of our home, and have hours of fun while the rain poured from the heavens a few feet away from us. He would also sit with me as I graded essays and did lesson planning on a lazy Sunday afternoon in my open air classroom. On a special staff luncheon, he even participated in a show with me and some other teachers!
However, like a tide rising and then retreating, my time in Micronesia had to come to an end after almost a year. I said goodbye to my friend, probably never to see him again.
When I saw Mitch, a lot of island memories came flooding back and like a washer on the rinse cycle, swirled around and around my mind. I am so happy to have found Mitch
(or that Mitch had found me)-- because now I can have a new friend over here too.
Sunday, April 24, 2011
If you wanna bike across the country...
Last week, I swiped my MasterCard to buy some spandex with a huge pad sewn onto the crotch.
I have also been scouring the internet for deals on various creams to rub on my ass.
These are just two purchases I have had to make recently as a result of a decision to do a cross country cycling trip.
...
Recently, preparing for this trip reminded me of concept coveted by my sociology professors at Berkeley. There was a phrase that ruled my college academic life; a phrase that, when used, would ensure that my sociology exams be a whole letter grade higher. This phrase is social construction.
...
Biking doesn't seem to be entirely synonymous with cycling.
Biking is an effective mode of transportation. I learned that last year when hitchhiking became overrated and walking was so last season. I biked in dresses, and held the down the dress in the middle of the seat to avoid giving the world an eco-friendly peep show. I carried a long stick, and occasionally wacked dogs that yipped at my feet.
I realize now that while I have biked, I have never cycled.
If biking is a transport activity that a billion people in China have to do because they can't afford cars, the world of cycling seems to be set up different, with social markers that mark clear distinction from its primitive counterpart.
If the world of cycling is socially constructed, here are some markers thus far. Sexy, sexy markers for that matter:
1. Spandex with bulge.
When I was in high school, boys would come cheer on our volleyball games because, let's face it, all the squatting from the sport ultimately led to killer thighs and toned butts. And of course, the standard southern California outfit for a volleyball girl was ridiculously short spandex (who would have expected otherwise?).
Now take that image of spandex, and stick in two Overnight Maxi-pads. You have my most recent purchase at Sports Authority.
Certainly the anatomically shaped pad at the crotch must serve a purpose for long distances on bikes that I will probably attest to at a later point. But for now, they just feel (and look) supremely awkward. A bulge exists at all angles.
This recent awkwardness is only superseded by the next social marker of cycling.
2. Application of ass creams.
Rightfully named "Assos" and "Butt'r", these are products that are next to show up on my visa.
I just can't wrap my mind around the idea yet that in a couple weeks, I will be applying gunky gunk on my otherwise clean butt. I know they serve an important purpose of preventing saddle sores, and after Googling "saddle sores" I know that is something I definitely do not want. I guess it's one of those things I will understand in a few weeks. But now...gunk all day on my ass. Fancy that.
That, and the idea that the bulging spandex are intended to be worn commando.
Those are just two. But really there has been (and will be) so much to learn!
I have also been scouring the internet for deals on various creams to rub on my ass.
These are just two purchases I have had to make recently as a result of a decision to do a cross country cycling trip.
...
Recently, preparing for this trip reminded me of concept coveted by my sociology professors at Berkeley. There was a phrase that ruled my college academic life; a phrase that, when used, would ensure that my sociology exams be a whole letter grade higher. This phrase is social construction.
...
Biking doesn't seem to be entirely synonymous with cycling.
Biking is an effective mode of transportation. I learned that last year when hitchhiking became overrated and walking was so last season. I biked in dresses, and held the down the dress in the middle of the seat to avoid giving the world an eco-friendly peep show. I carried a long stick, and occasionally wacked dogs that yipped at my feet.
I realize now that while I have biked, I have never cycled.
If biking is a transport activity that a billion people in China have to do because they can't afford cars, the world of cycling seems to be set up different, with social markers that mark clear distinction from its primitive counterpart.
If the world of cycling is socially constructed, here are some markers thus far. Sexy, sexy markers for that matter:
1. Spandex with bulge.
When I was in high school, boys would come cheer on our volleyball games because, let's face it, all the squatting from the sport ultimately led to killer thighs and toned butts. And of course, the standard southern California outfit for a volleyball girl was ridiculously short spandex (who would have expected otherwise?).
Now take that image of spandex, and stick in two Overnight Maxi-pads. You have my most recent purchase at Sports Authority.
Certainly the anatomically shaped pad at the crotch must serve a purpose for long distances on bikes that I will probably attest to at a later point. But for now, they just feel (and look) supremely awkward. A bulge exists at all angles.
This recent awkwardness is only superseded by the next social marker of cycling.
2. Application of ass creams.
Rightfully named "Assos" and "Butt'r", these are products that are next to show up on my visa.
I just can't wrap my mind around the idea yet that in a couple weeks, I will be applying gunky gunk on my otherwise clean butt. I know they serve an important purpose of preventing saddle sores, and after Googling "saddle sores" I know that is something I definitely do not want. I guess it's one of those things I will understand in a few weeks. But now...gunk all day on my ass. Fancy that.
That, and the idea that the bulging spandex are intended to be worn commando.
Those are just two. But really there has been (and will be) so much to learn!
Saturday, March 12, 2011
playing hooky from church
Yay for cleaning out computers and finding stuff! Playing hooky from church one Sunday afternoon in Micronesia, I assuaged my guilt of not attending the service by writing about it.
"I’ve avoided writing much about Kosrae, largely because I’m scared to fall into the trap of vomiting gross, sweeping generalizations about a place. But, I don’t suppose I can blog forever about the trivialities of apartment life. It is once again Sunday, and I’m supposed to throw on my aqua flowered nuk-nuk and bike on over to church. But today the clouds are dumping water, so I’m thinking maybe not; besides, writing about church is indisputably more fun than actually going. The novelty of attending Kosrean church (where the whole service is in their language) wears off like cheap sunscreen in water. The church itself is quaint enough; an unassuming tin- roofed white building that is splashed with colors every Sunday from the women’s nuk-nuks. Inside, the wooden pews are split down to the T: men on the right, women on the left. While the congregation is separated by gender, the amount of dozing off (which appears to be perfectly acceptable and frequent) and the mindless mumbling of worn prayers are spread evenly all around.
The only aspect of Church that seems to save an otherwise droning service (and wake people up) is the singing, which is probably the God-liest aspect of it all. No joke, these people are good, really good; and how they acquired such immaculate vocal skills is likewise remarkable. My previous experience with musical education involved tuners, sound proof rooms, the reading of notes, music theory, black dresses and recital halls. Throw all the aforementioned out the window, and throw in 15 women sitting cross legged on the floor singing off a ripped piece of paper tacked up on the wall of my host family’s living room, you have Kosrean music class. There no notes, just words written in dried out marker and a lady leading the singing in front. After several rounds, the song and at hand and its particular pitches become internalized, and that’s it. Notes and tuners? Forget it.
Okay, I’m not the world’s best church go-er. So shoot me."
"I’ve avoided writing much about Kosrae, largely because I’m scared to fall into the trap of vomiting gross, sweeping generalizations about a place. But, I don’t suppose I can blog forever about the trivialities of apartment life. It is once again Sunday, and I’m supposed to throw on my aqua flowered nuk-nuk and bike on over to church. But today the clouds are dumping water, so I’m thinking maybe not; besides, writing about church is indisputably more fun than actually going. The novelty of attending Kosrean church (where the whole service is in their language) wears off like cheap sunscreen in water. The church itself is quaint enough; an unassuming tin- roofed white building that is splashed with colors every Sunday from the women’s nuk-nuks. Inside, the wooden pews are split down to the T: men on the right, women on the left. While the congregation is separated by gender, the amount of dozing off (which appears to be perfectly acceptable and frequent) and the mindless mumbling of worn prayers are spread evenly all around.
The only aspect of Church that seems to save an otherwise droning service (and wake people up) is the singing, which is probably the God-liest aspect of it all. No joke, these people are good, really good; and how they acquired such immaculate vocal skills is likewise remarkable. My previous experience with musical education involved tuners, sound proof rooms, the reading of notes, music theory, black dresses and recital halls. Throw all the aforementioned out the window, and throw in 15 women sitting cross legged on the floor singing off a ripped piece of paper tacked up on the wall of my host family’s living room, you have Kosrean music class. There no notes, just words written in dried out marker and a lady leading the singing in front. After several rounds, the song and at hand and its particular pitches become internalized, and that’s it. Notes and tuners? Forget it.
Okay, I’m not the world’s best church go-er. So shoot me."
Sunday, March 06, 2011
To sidewalk or not to sidewalk? That is the question. But not really.
I biked to work last week. Aside from the initial hill, the route is an easy 3.3 mile, relatively straight path. The word path, in actuality, is probably the most ineffectual word. Path implies a curving country road with nicely trimmed hedges; Beach Blvd. is a monster that could eat a country road with a single gulp, with its roaring 6 lane highway that my measly teenage-esque purple street bike cowers by while tinkering on by the sidelines. The only thing missing are handle bar streamers, I swear. I had bought it to replace my stolen aqua one when I was 10.
You would think that at 6:30am, there would be no promising signs of life in this sedated suburbia I call home, but that simply isn't true-- as proven by my newest fellow commuters who also jump on the saddle at an early hour: emo boy #1 in black who waits for emo boy #2 (also in black), crazy Indian man who screams obscenities (and I thought I left this scene behind at Berkeley), and Jesus-haired white man. Together, while I'm sure we share somewhat different life stories, we share a commonality: a no shame attitude toward biking...on.. *gasp*...the sidewalk. That's right, you heard me.
Let the runners hate and the morning walkers hate even more; I'm not relinquishing my title as a sidewalk biker anytime soon. It doesn't take long for a total newb in the world of spokes and padded-spandex in southern California to figure out The definitive divider between the initiated and the timid neophyte in this peculiar sport/mode of transportation. The sidewalk is a raised pedestal, a pledge pin so to speak, for those getting their feet wet in this activity. Perhaps this differs in other regions, but remember Beach Blvd equals monstrous path gobbler; the sidewalk is the playpen in the middle of an urban jungle, the coral reef of a vast ocean, where all the little fishies get to play.
I'm not sure which factor is the catalyst or the factor effecting change, but there is a definite correlation between the amount of spandex pieces one wears and whether one is expected to bike on the road versus the sidewalk; namely, the more pieces of spandex, the higher the likelihood of abandoning the sidewalk. Apparently, higher wear-age of spandex attire empowers the wearer with the right to give knowing "you'll get there someday" glances to the sidewalk young'uns as they whiz by on their speedy thin-tired road bikes on...you guessed it, the road. Having played volleyball in high school, I have my fair share of spandex stored in the closet; but I will happily stick to jeans and my multi colored scarf for now.
You would think that at 6:30am, there would be no promising signs of life in this sedated suburbia I call home, but that simply isn't true-- as proven by my newest fellow commuters who also jump on the saddle at an early hour: emo boy #1 in black who waits for emo boy #2 (also in black), crazy Indian man who screams obscenities (and I thought I left this scene behind at Berkeley), and Jesus-haired white man. Together, while I'm sure we share somewhat different life stories, we share a commonality: a no shame attitude toward biking...on.. *gasp*...the sidewalk. That's right, you heard me.
Let the runners hate and the morning walkers hate even more; I'm not relinquishing my title as a sidewalk biker anytime soon. It doesn't take long for a total newb in the world of spokes and padded-spandex in southern California to figure out The definitive divider between the initiated and the timid neophyte in this peculiar sport/mode of transportation. The sidewalk is a raised pedestal, a pledge pin so to speak, for those getting their feet wet in this activity. Perhaps this differs in other regions, but remember Beach Blvd equals monstrous path gobbler; the sidewalk is the playpen in the middle of an urban jungle, the coral reef of a vast ocean, where all the little fishies get to play.
I'm not sure which factor is the catalyst or the factor effecting change, but there is a definite correlation between the amount of spandex pieces one wears and whether one is expected to bike on the road versus the sidewalk; namely, the more pieces of spandex, the higher the likelihood of abandoning the sidewalk. Apparently, higher wear-age of spandex attire empowers the wearer with the right to give knowing "you'll get there someday" glances to the sidewalk young'uns as they whiz by on their speedy thin-tired road bikes on...you guessed it, the road. Having played volleyball in high school, I have my fair share of spandex stored in the closet; but I will happily stick to jeans and my multi colored scarf for now.
Saturday, January 15, 2011
Friday, November 19, 2010
11.19.10
11.19.10 - a great, great day.
A new adventure has begun. I'm not exactly sure where this one will take me; but then again, that's the fun.
A new adventure has begun. I'm not exactly sure where this one will take me; but then again, that's the fun.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Dear higher power of the universe,
Sometimes, I really wonder what you intended for me. I mean, you sent me to indisputably one of the best undergraduate universities in the world, had me grow up with a non typical familial background, and threw some really interesting experiences at me both in and out of country. You let me meet amazing people I have learned from, but distanced people I love within the same year. You had me feel connected with the world on a level I never knew could happen, but then had me feel the loneliest I have ever felt within 6 months of both experiences.
Recently, if you recall-- you swayed me into leaving an amazing location and the work I was doing there to come back home to southern California. I had originally thought the purpose for you doing that was so that I could prepare for the next step I thought you had wanted me to do- graduate school.
Yet, somehow, I am getting feeling that that might not be the case. I feel like I am beating a dead horse in my perusal of graduate school options. Thanks for giving me the feeling to gauge whether something is the right option; unfortunately, I haven't felt that feeling about graduate school.
Now, this leaves me really confused. Didn't you just have me major in something that sort of, um, needs further training in order to actually make a living? Wasn't that the purpose of sending me to a great undergraduate school with a record amount of people getting graduate degrees? Peer pressure, perhaps? I thought the last three years' experience of working below the poverty line was also indicative of needing further training.
At this point, I'm not really sure what you want me to do right now. Seriously, give me a sign.
thanks,
- T
Sometimes, I really wonder what you intended for me. I mean, you sent me to indisputably one of the best undergraduate universities in the world, had me grow up with a non typical familial background, and threw some really interesting experiences at me both in and out of country. You let me meet amazing people I have learned from, but distanced people I love within the same year. You had me feel connected with the world on a level I never knew could happen, but then had me feel the loneliest I have ever felt within 6 months of both experiences.
Recently, if you recall-- you swayed me into leaving an amazing location and the work I was doing there to come back home to southern California. I had originally thought the purpose for you doing that was so that I could prepare for the next step I thought you had wanted me to do- graduate school.
Yet, somehow, I am getting feeling that that might not be the case. I feel like I am beating a dead horse in my perusal of graduate school options. Thanks for giving me the feeling to gauge whether something is the right option; unfortunately, I haven't felt that feeling about graduate school.
Now, this leaves me really confused. Didn't you just have me major in something that sort of, um, needs further training in order to actually make a living? Wasn't that the purpose of sending me to a great undergraduate school with a record amount of people getting graduate degrees? Peer pressure, perhaps? I thought the last three years' experience of working below the poverty line was also indicative of needing further training.
At this point, I'm not really sure what you want me to do right now. Seriously, give me a sign.
thanks,
- T
Sunday, November 07, 2010
Dear Lottery god,
Dear lottery god of raffle tickets, random number generators, paper slips in black hats, multi-length straws, and wherever else your presence tends to hover,
I know it's been awhile since I've called for you. Sorry? Well, as admissions to XYZ schools are more competitive than ever, I'm sure you've been busy taking care of a lot of hopeful students. If you could take a break from them, tomorrow I would relish a really, really big favor from you.
Recently, there were two names entered into a seemingly vicious lottery. One of these names is mine, and the other is my roommate's. It wasn't supposed to be a lottery, but it was a lottery because as what seems to be the story these days, supply is not meeting demand.
Lottery god, I know I've gotten more than my fair share of good luck and lucky breaks in my life thus far (thanks, btdubs). But if you could work your magic this time for this particular lottery, that would be more than great.
I know that as I type this, there are hundreds, if not thousands, of other people scattered across America who want what is behind those lottery numbers just as much as I do. I bet some are probably talking to you right now. I don't think I am more deserving of this opportunity than anyone else, but I think I could probably do a good job of it if given the chance and think it would really do me a lot of good. It's been a bit of a tough few months, you see. My roommate I'm sure would also be grateful.
I've done all that I could beforehand, but in the end everything comes down to getting my name picked before the future can be history. I understand that sometimes things just aren't meant to be, and I am okay with that. But if you have any inkling that it might just be meant to be, can you please think of me and my roommate?
Sincerely and nervously awaiting tomorrow,
T
I know it's been awhile since I've called for you. Sorry? Well, as admissions to XYZ schools are more competitive than ever, I'm sure you've been busy taking care of a lot of hopeful students. If you could take a break from them, tomorrow I would relish a really, really big favor from you.
Recently, there were two names entered into a seemingly vicious lottery. One of these names is mine, and the other is my roommate's. It wasn't supposed to be a lottery, but it was a lottery because as what seems to be the story these days, supply is not meeting demand.
Lottery god, I know I've gotten more than my fair share of good luck and lucky breaks in my life thus far (thanks, btdubs). But if you could work your magic this time for this particular lottery, that would be more than great.
I know that as I type this, there are hundreds, if not thousands, of other people scattered across America who want what is behind those lottery numbers just as much as I do. I bet some are probably talking to you right now. I don't think I am more deserving of this opportunity than anyone else, but I think I could probably do a good job of it if given the chance and think it would really do me a lot of good. It's been a bit of a tough few months, you see. My roommate I'm sure would also be grateful.
I've done all that I could beforehand, but in the end everything comes down to getting my name picked before the future can be history. I understand that sometimes things just aren't meant to be, and I am okay with that. But if you have any inkling that it might just be meant to be, can you please think of me and my roommate?
Sincerely and nervously awaiting tomorrow,
T
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Adventures of the Traveling Mumu
Once, in a faraway place in a not-so-faraway time era, there were four girls bound together by the constraints of a vast ocean preventing their freedom of movement. It was like this for a year, and it was adventurously great on many levels.
Fortunately, a traveling mumu exists to continue the documentation of these four girls' globally spanning adventures, post-island.
Most recently, the mumu found its way from the cooler lands of Minnesota to (in theory) sunny Southern California. More specifically, it found its way into an elementary school classroom, where the students were celebrating International Children's Day.
Apparently, Ms. Mumu brought along her friends to join the party, including Ms. Nuk-Nuk and Ms. Liberation Day Skirt.
What places will this mumu see next? Oh, the places you will go, Ms. Mumu!
Fortunately, a traveling mumu exists to continue the documentation of these four girls' globally spanning adventures, post-island.
Most recently, the mumu found its way from the cooler lands of Minnesota to (in theory) sunny Southern California. More specifically, it found its way into an elementary school classroom, where the students were celebrating International Children's Day.
Apparently, Ms. Mumu brought along her friends to join the party, including Ms. Nuk-Nuk and Ms. Liberation Day Skirt.
What places will this mumu see next? Oh, the places you will go, Ms. Mumu!
Thursday, March 25, 2010
surfing
Why is it that the 20s can feel more tumultuous than the high school years? I thought the days of feeling like the world was coming to an end had hit its peak when my first love broke up with me at the beach. I spent the next months feeling inadequate, unwanted, and insecure. But the post college years thus far have revealed themselves otherwise. I feel like I’m trying to ride a wave to dry land. I’m paddling, paddling; positioning myself for the right wave to attempt. Waiting patiently, but swimming around, always on the lookout for the perfect crush. Then in the distant, there it is. A slow mound powered by the moon is gaining momentum on the horizon. The feeling of “just go for it” pushes my body to position itself. Then go time comes, and the rising sounds of the ocean make my arms instinctively try to propel the board, and ultimately my body to shoot ahead.
Something isn’t quite right, proportionately. I think it’s the lack of any muscle in my arms. I haven’t been able catch a wave and stand up. In a faded scrapbook, the picture of me doing it in Maui in the 6th grade is but an irretrievable sense memory. Right now, waves are knocking my face left and right, and eventually one side sweeps me like a bitch slap and I fall off the board completely, swallowing salt water with the fall.
I still have a long way to go before I can surf.
Something isn’t quite right, proportionately. I think it’s the lack of any muscle in my arms. I haven’t been able catch a wave and stand up. In a faded scrapbook, the picture of me doing it in Maui in the 6th grade is but an irretrievable sense memory. Right now, waves are knocking my face left and right, and eventually one side sweeps me like a bitch slap and I fall off the board completely, swallowing salt water with the fall.
I still have a long way to go before I can surf.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
< 3 more months
This initiative to fire up the blog again has been sparked by a visit to a fellow volunteer’s blog earlier tonight. I have less than 3 months left in Kosrae, year 1.
Over the past 7 months, it would be fair to say that a lot has happened for me on this pretty little island. I’ve seen more nature, logged more biking miles, and swallowed more salt water than I have in the past 23 years of living.
Perusing through other volunteer blogs and learning about all the great things that are happening around the world is inspiring, but causes me to second guess my own experience as a volunteer. Aside from making an adventure hungry 20-something like myself want to jump on a plane to whatever remote destination, I will admit that blog reading had previously playing a role in shaping my expectations of volunteering.
The incorrect trajectory went something along the lines of this: Apply for program -> Make a blog -> Post picture of oneself wearing local garb posed with naked children smiling at the camera -> have everyday be awesome, amazing, and life changing -> come back with hair in dreads preaching about the dire effects of western centric foreign policy and have a big enough adventure to write a book.
I’ll just tell you right now that I have zero pictures of me with any naked children, my hair is not in dreads, and I think any recent grad who wants to have a published memoir sitting on a Barnes & Noble shelf after 10 months of international volunteering is silly in this global age. It just doesn’t work that way. Here are some other things I’ve learned, or rather was reminded of, while being a volunteer.
Lesson #1: If the school didn’t have problems, then it wouldn’t need volunteers.
Lesson #2: Not getting paid does not equate to working fewer hours.
Lesson #3: Being inexperienced in the States will not make one more experienced in a foreign country.
Lesson #4: Organizational politics don’t go away, even in faraway places.
Lesson #5: Teenagers will be teenagers anywhere on the globe.
I feel really lucky to be in Kosrae. I don’t function at the constant level of spectacular, but the time spent here is unlike any other time in my life.
Over the past 7 months, it would be fair to say that a lot has happened for me on this pretty little island. I’ve seen more nature, logged more biking miles, and swallowed more salt water than I have in the past 23 years of living.
Perusing through other volunteer blogs and learning about all the great things that are happening around the world is inspiring, but causes me to second guess my own experience as a volunteer. Aside from making an adventure hungry 20-something like myself want to jump on a plane to whatever remote destination, I will admit that blog reading had previously playing a role in shaping my expectations of volunteering.
The incorrect trajectory went something along the lines of this: Apply for program -> Make a blog -> Post picture of oneself wearing local garb posed with naked children smiling at the camera -> have everyday be awesome, amazing, and life changing -> come back with hair in dreads preaching about the dire effects of western centric foreign policy and have a big enough adventure to write a book.
I’ll just tell you right now that I have zero pictures of me with any naked children, my hair is not in dreads, and I think any recent grad who wants to have a published memoir sitting on a Barnes & Noble shelf after 10 months of international volunteering is silly in this global age. It just doesn’t work that way. Here are some other things I’ve learned, or rather was reminded of, while being a volunteer.
Lesson #1: If the school didn’t have problems, then it wouldn’t need volunteers.
Lesson #2: Not getting paid does not equate to working fewer hours.
Lesson #3: Being inexperienced in the States will not make one more experienced in a foreign country.
Lesson #4: Organizational politics don’t go away, even in faraway places.
Lesson #5: Teenagers will be teenagers anywhere on the globe.
I feel really lucky to be in Kosrae. I don’t function at the constant level of spectacular, but the time spent here is unlike any other time in my life.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Tsunami warning
This week marks the end of quarter 1. Students are quietly completing their English final assignments lost in a swirl of thoughts, and scribbling madly in transcribing them to readable form.
I am in the front of my classroom, thinking about what is for lunch while the students are working. Everything is going swimmingly, but then another student peeps his head inside my classroom and mutters something in Kosrean, their native tongue. Immediately, pencils are dropped and backpacks are gathered, and my students are literally fleeing the classroom. I peer outside the classroom, and my students have apparently joined in on a mass exodus as they leap onto the departing buses. Half finished final assignments lay about the room; some have already been blown onto the floor by the slight breeze.
By this point, I am no longer angry, but confused. Finally, I hear the English translation of what is going on:
“TSUNAMI WARNING!! TSUNAMI WARNING!! RUN FOR THE HILLS!!”
There WOULD be a tsunami warning on Kosrae during finals. Some places have snow days, we have tsunami days, where everyone makes a break for higher ground and prays that the huge moving water mass (started from an earthquake around neighboring islands) does not reach Kosrae and engulf the beach front homes. Lunch looks like a no go. Like the last time this happened, I start contemplating what to bring for my own clamor up the hill.
I am in the front of my classroom, thinking about what is for lunch while the students are working. Everything is going swimmingly, but then another student peeps his head inside my classroom and mutters something in Kosrean, their native tongue. Immediately, pencils are dropped and backpacks are gathered, and my students are literally fleeing the classroom. I peer outside the classroom, and my students have apparently joined in on a mass exodus as they leap onto the departing buses. Half finished final assignments lay about the room; some have already been blown onto the floor by the slight breeze.
By this point, I am no longer angry, but confused. Finally, I hear the English translation of what is going on:
“TSUNAMI WARNING!! TSUNAMI WARNING!! RUN FOR THE HILLS!!”
There WOULD be a tsunami warning on Kosrae during finals. Some places have snow days, we have tsunami days, where everyone makes a break for higher ground and prays that the huge moving water mass (started from an earthquake around neighboring islands) does not reach Kosrae and engulf the beach front homes. Lunch looks like a no go. Like the last time this happened, I start contemplating what to bring for my own clamor up the hill.
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