Month: January 2010

Greeted with a Chain-Link Fence

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Generally, I try to temper my anger, but today, something happened that just defied all sensibility. 


I was leaving my Japanese American history class a few hours ago, during which my professor had talked about the Japanese American internment camps during World War II. As I was leaving, I overheard two girls laughing to themselves: “I’m so glad I wasn’t sitting by you. I was about to start laughing when he said he was going to cry!” 


Look, girls. Our professor was practically crying because he was skimming through photos of second-generation Japanese Americans — these were individuals born in the United States with American citizenship — who had been ripped from their homes and forced into barracks. He was practically crying because he was talking about college-age students — who could have been you or me — pulled from California universities and sent to Topaz or Manzanar to rot away. He was practically crying because he is Japanese American and his father was sent to a camp at age sixteen. I’m sorry if you found any of that funny. 


I have little sympathy for those who express such outright ignorance when new facts — that could potentially help them overcome their naivety — are placed right in front of them. Instead of trying to understand what my professor was going through, one of the girls exclaimed that she was not looking forward to writing her one paragraph summary for our upcoming paper. The other girl laughed, “Well, you’re just going to write about suicide, right? I wonder if there are any records in the Densho tapes!” I seriously couldn’t even turn around to look. Are you kidding me? You’re joking about writing about the suicides of Japanese American immigrants? These are my people you are referring to. No, I don’t speak Japanese, I have never been to Japan, but look at me. I am Japanese American, and you have just insulted me. 


I have never felt more Japanese than I did in my anguish at that moment.  


Now, I realize that they were not Japanese and that this could have contributed to their naivety. Perhaps they couldn’t comprehend the pictures we viewed, and at any rate, neither of them saw the faces of their mother pass by in the slides, as I imagined I did. But what really irked me was that they simply did not try to understand what my professor or I was feeling, that in their ignorance, they did not even try to understand how my ancestors felt during World War II.  


To those girls, I will say: yes, our professor is overly dramatic. Yes, you can argue that President Roosevelt was acting for America’s best interests when he issued Executive Order 9066, the order that allowed our military to forcibly detain anyone who was a “threat to national security.” But you can’t make light of the photos that streamed by your eyes, the work-hardened faces of old men who knew that their ends were near. You can’t laugh when you see the same stables used for horses simply whitewashed and used for evacuated families. 


At the very least, try to open your mind. In total, over 110,000 Japanese Americans — over 2/3 of whom were United States citizens — were taken to these internment camps. Some stayed for only a few months, and then w
ere allowed to return to East Coast colleges or farm jobs. Some stayed for years and organized strikes that interrupted day-to-day camp activities. Others, deeply embittered by incarceration, chose to renounce their United States citizenship and requested expatriation to Japan. 


After the war, inmates who returned to their homes in California, Oregon, and Washington were met with assailants, arsonists, and intimidation. Anti-Japanese rallies were held on football fields; in Hood River, Oregon, the American Legion painted over the names of Nisei soldiers who gave their lives for the American cause. 


However, the terrible events that befell the Japanese community during WWII are not isolated to history books. As the threat of terrorist attacks continues to consume the Department of Homeland Security, we must take increased measures to ensure that the same discrimination does not haunt others now. The question arises: how will we respond if there is another attack on our soil, if, god forbid, another Pearl Harbor or September 11th happens? Will another group of Americans be ostracized? 


Already, in the years following September 11th, Middle-Easterners have faced violence, increased scrutiny within airports, and housing and employment discrimination. Many, simply for wearing traditional Islamic dress, are the victims of threats and vandalism. Will they be forced into hiding? While Arab and Muslim-Americans have not been confined to internment camps, the wrongs committed against them are too recent to be classified as relics of the past. 


We have to realize that the enemy, if there is one, is not just one color, one religion, or one identity. With this in mind, we cannot deny an entire race of individuals liberty because of the actions of a few of their countrymen. We cannot tear apart families, or take away everything simply because of the way someone looks or where they were born. We cannot be so close-minded.


Each of us have ancestors that have come to the United States from another land. Many came with just the money in their pockets and a dream in their mind. Now, in the 21st century, let us sustain that dream and help it to grow, rather than stifle it with discrimination and hate. Let us greet new immigrants with the understanding that we are here now because one of our ancestors stood where they stand today. Let us greet them with a smile, openness, and perhaps, a helping hand.

Greeted with a Chain-Link Fence

Accepting Loneliness as a Part of Life

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Despite being surrounded by friends, I often feel this distinct sense of loneliness.  Perhaps you know this feeling too: the feeling that you are an outsider, although all logic assumes you fit in. Now don’t get me wrong — for the most part I am satisfied with my affiliations here at UCLA — but occasionally, I find myself alone, even while with friends. 


I try to stave off loneliness by filling my schedule with people and events. I attend recruiting events and weekend retreats, go on adventures with dear friends, and plan to work almost daily in finance. My attempts are successful: in my busy haze, I am satisfied, even happy, and the loneliness slowly etches away. 


But it often comes back when I least expect it. It comes when I witness something amusing that nobody else finds funny, when I don’t understand the latest pop culture reference, or when I do something that is simply me and get teased incessantly. To some extent, this loneliness may be self-induced, a cycle of me hoping that others will understand me and feeling alone when they do not. In another respect, I hesitate to speak about my deeper thoughts with most friends, which leaves me feeling that many of the conversations I have are on a simplistic level. To talk about mutual acquaintances, teachers and classes is so much easier for me, and presents none of the disconnect that often comes with deep discussion. 


This inability to share myself emotionally with most people leaves me sometimes feeling isolated. I still don’t know where I belong or how I want to identify myself. I have joined many clubs and organizations, and flitted around different events in the hopes of finding things that I am passionate about. But while I have gained many friends that I wave to while walking to class, I have few genuinely close friends, nothing like the close-knit, diverse “group” I had throughout my high school years. Perhaps this is because in high school, I committed myself passionately to two activities and was consequently defined and befriended by individuals in those groups. In contrast, I have tried to avoid defining myself simply by my participation in any one organization here at UCLA. For the most part, I am satisfied with this: up to this point, I have explored what I enjoy, tested my beliefs on a variety of levels, and found myself growing as a person exponentially. But perhaps because of my individual exploration, I have never cemented a core group of close friends. This makes me sad, and also brings me to somewhat of a conundrum. If I do not want to commit myself wholly to any one organization, how do I find the close-knit group that truly understands me, as an individual? I really don’t know. 


To an extent, sharing my feelings of loneliness here means redefining the person who I’ve appeared to be. I have written fairly optimistically up until now, and to show my doubts is to reveal a layer of vulnerability that I rarely let show. I’m scared to admit that I often feel alone in groups of friends, that surrounded by people, loneliness can ensue.  


But I have also come to realize that loneliness is a part of life. I’m not always going to have somebody to hang out with in my spare time. I’m not always going to know the lyrics to the most popular song. I may never find a group of people with whom I feel perfectly secure. And that’s just how life is — I am, and must be, okay with being alone.

Accepting Loneliness as a Part of Life

Some advice for those bemoaning the Los Angeles rain:

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Yes, friends, it is raining in Los Angeles. The sky is gray, the ground is wet, and the wind is whipping umbrellas and scarves to-and-fro. But while you may feel unhappy that your backpack is drenched and your hair matted, please take a moment to be grateful. Be grateful that you have shelter and a place to call home. Be grateful that you have boots for your feet, mittens for your hands, hats for your head, and a scarf for your neck. Be grateful that you are not freezing. No, even if you are cold, you are not freezing to death.
Remember the resilience of others in situations far more difficult than the one in which you find yourself. Today, at roughly 6:00 am, a 6.1 magnitude aftershock ripped through the little village of Gressier, Haiti, just a week after a 7.0 earthquake destroyed much of the country. New York Times writers Ray Rivera and Marc Lacey quote a Haitian woman as saying: “I thought this time, my good God, it was the end of the world. I screamed and screamed. Then I realized it was over. I was still alive. Hallelujah.” This is a woman who has reason to be miserable, but who is choosing to give thanks for life. In far less difficult situations, so can we. 
Tuck your shirts in and wear your parkas. Don’t forget your umbrellas. Wear ski goggles if you feel the need. But please don’t complain about the rain. Instead, once you are all bundled up in your winter fancy, jump into a puddle. Splash around, dance, laugh. Be happy. Put your hands out and rejoice in your luck, for you are in L.A., and anything is possible. The rain will stop soon.    
Some advice for those bemoaning the Los Angeles rain:

Crashing Into a Wall

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Although I am Asian-American, I never felt Chinese or Japanese growing up. Yes, my family had a huge Japanese daruma doll perched on top of our kitchen shelves, and perhaps we spoke enough Chinese to order dim sum, but these were superficialities that never gave me a sense of culture. We were American, through and through, and no knick knack in my house could counter the obvious. I did not speak an Asian language, my parents did not demand all A’s, and we ate more take-out than any cultural dish.

For me, growing up was about learning how to assimilate: about adapting the social habits, patterns of speech, and dress of the typical American. It was easy for me to leave my culture behind. My dad had escaped Los Angeles poverty; my mom had flown across an ocean to settle down. Both were eager to start fresh. There was nothing left to tie me to my background, except for my outward appearance.

Even that didn’t seem to matter. My family wore the right clothes and spoke without accents. My mother volunteered in class, my dad taught me how to play soccer, and we lived in a big house with a playground in the backyard. I was taught that I could accomplish anything, attend any college, succeed in any career. It was the quintessential American dream.

In my hometown of Pleasanton, I never once felt marginalized because I was Asian, even though Caucasians compiled over 70% of the population and Asians were but 15%. Neighbors were welcoming and gracious, and they accepted my family into the community with ease. We were no different than our Caucasian neighbors, for the trappings of suburbia left us all equal. As such, I felt no discrimination because of race growing up.

But this post isn’t about my childhood experience, not really. Instead, it about those that do feel ostracized because of their race, a group of individuals that I have never really considered until a few days ago. Because I never saw racism growing up, I simply thought it didn’t exist. Any attempt to discuss racial differences in a light other than”diversity is good” would be swept under the rug and classified as”taboo”. But even now, as I begin to realize that many people do not share my perceptions on race, my upbringing has left me unable to truly understand the marginalization of other minority individuals.

Recently, one of my friends confronted me and told me how marginalized she feels daily, simply because she is African-American. Later, my roommate shared with me stories that her sociology professor, an older African-American man, had shared with her. She said that he would walk down the street and Caucasian and Asian girls would shrink away, that police would target him for no reason, and that most people seemed to ignore him. He recounted how one day, he didn’t want to reenter a classroom to retrieve a water bottle he had left behind because he worried that the white girl now sitting at his desk would react negatively when she saw him approaching.

These are issues which I have never considered before, mostly because I haven’t had to. Considering that I am both an Asian and a girl, I have been fortunate to have avoided the discrimination that haunts others on a daily basis. Because of this, I have retained my optimism in the goodness of others. I do not meet new people and automatically assume they are judging me based on my race. I am, in most respects, secure in my identity and trust that individuals will judge me on how I act and what I say, not by what I look like.

To consider individuals who do not have this optimism makes me sad. I cannot imagine going through life believing that others only look at the color of my skin when they see me, that instead of thinking “optimistic”, “bubbly”, or any other adjective one may ascribe to me, someone could take one look and say “Asian.” The concept is a new one, and it hurts.

At the same time, some minority individuals navigate life with this perspective. Some, I can imagine, are left wary of any genuine connections and find it difficult to trust their friends. Others accept their feelings of not fitting in as simple facts of life. Honestly, I cannot understand what individuals who feel marginalized go through on a daily basis, but I can say this: I can no longer sweep the issue of race under the carpet, not when I have been given the knowledge to open my eyes.

I do not deny that it is human nature to feel attracted to individuals who are like us and to fear those who are different. This trait constantly manifests itself in our interactions with others, and sets the tone for marginalization to occur. But just because it is human nature does not mean it should be ignored or forgotten.

Discrimination is not a myth: just because I cannot feel it does not mean that others make it up. The simple fact that discrimination is still real to some people should enliven it for all of us.

So how do we solve this pervasive issue of race, which has crammed our history books with wars, enslavement, and so much discrimination? Clearly, we cannot proclaim that race does not exist and have it come true. Biologically, it will take millions of years of procreation to arrive at a homogenous-looking world. Mentally, it may take just as long to eliminate racial stereotypes. We must conclude that in our futures, race will exist, and people will feel ostracized.

Nevertheless, we have come a long way since African-American enslavement (1776-1865), the Anti-Chinese immigration laws of the late 1800’s, and the Japanese internment camps of WWII. We have granted the right to vote to citizens of every race and gender, and are progressing to allowing gay individuals to marry, a monumental step for civil rights. Through legal means, we have redefined what is acceptable in American society. Change is possible, as long as deeper resentments fade alongside it. The fact that I could grow up in a majority-white community and feel welcomed is a testament to the idea of change.

However, change will not happen overnight, in a year, or perhaps even within our lifetimes. Rather, it is the seeds we sow now that will persist. It is instilling in our future children — simply through our own acceptance — a lack of stereotypes, an open mind, and a desire to understand others that will bring about the changes that all of us need.

We can create change, but first, we must open our eyes to understand the change we want to see.

Crashing Into a Wall

Perhaps an Incendiary Piece

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I met a bunch of people yesterday. They were amazing: friendly, welcoming, and incredibly honest for a room full of semi-strangers. Although it was my first meeting, I didn’t feel any of that fake friendliness that dissipates after a few weeks. Instead, I felt real warmth and support from people who were genuinely interested in getting to know me.

This was my my first Pan-Asian Queer Meeting at the LGBT Center at UCLA. After half an hour of ice-breakers, we tackled a serious issue: the question of homosexual displays of affection in public, also referred to as PDA.

A few of my peers shared how, when simply holding hands with their significant other, they were degraded, laughed at, or otherwise made to feel as if they were in the wrong. I was surprised. Even at college, with a bunch of liberal students, these individuals were made to feel outcast. The idea seemed so unfair to me: why is it that I can hold hands with a boy and walk to class unscathed, while a gay individual who does the same is met with stares and rude comments? What gives any individual the right to judge somebody they don’t know and will never make an effort to understand?

When addressing this issue, the straight individual may argue that displays of homosexuality disturb him, even emotionally harm him. That’s understandable; when a person grows up in a conservative or religious household and is taught that being gay is a sin, it makes sense that they would be more sensitive to homosexual behavior. But I ask that individual, if I were disturbed by your wearing a cross to school everyday, would you be forced to take it off? The answer is clearly no.

The First Amendment of our Constitution protects our freedom of expression. Just as any pastor on Bruin Walk has the right to tell me that I am going to be damned for eternity for not believing in Jesus — a message which could potentially scar me — gay couples have every right to express their love, regardless of the passerby that are harmed by the display.  

Both gay and straight individuals must become more open-minded and accepting of the other side. At the meeting, a group member suggested that if individuals were disturbed by gay PDA, it was “their problem” for being discriminatory. He never tried to understand where those individuals come from or why they had difficulty accepting homosexuality, crucial steps to achieving tolerance.

In this same respect, straight people generally try to pretend that gay people don’t exist. They propose solutions that will “cure” individuals of their “sexual affliction.” They blame being gay on rough childhoods, a desire to rebel, or just being  “weird”. It is time for heterosexual individuals to accept that being gay isn’t some made-up identity: it is real, they are real, and they deserve to be treated like people before they are treated like a different species.

If we are homophobic, we should find out why. If we cannot accept people who are not like ourselves, we should try harder, reach out, do something to ensure that we do not remain stagnant in our beliefs.

Personally, I am tired of so much homophobia, especially on UCLA’s campus. Now is the chance to broaden our understanding of other people, not shy away from our differences. I can no longer step back and say I understand their feelings. I don’t. I should stop talking and start learning.

Perhaps an Incendiary Piece

It’s a Warm January Morning in Los Angeles.

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I saw a girl smoking today. She was pretty in an Urban Outfitters checkered-tunic sort of way, and she pulled off the slouchy beanie on her head flawlessly. She was in all instances a normal girl, who happened to be smoking a cigarette on her way to class.

As I walked by, I thought about her friends and whether they had sat her down and asked her to quit. Whether they had treated her with love and said, “I care about you and want to see you live a long, healthy life, and I’m asking you to quit, for yourself.” These questions passed through my head soundlessly as I hurried to my own class. I wondered whether the words of her imaginary friends would have any effect, or whether her friends perpetuated her habit.

I know that I am in no position to judge others, but it is difficult for me to understand why so many young people smoke when we have been inundated with the negative health consequences since childhood.

I have a lot of friends who smoke, and most of the time, I shake off my worry because I know that smoking is their decision and I shouldn’t judge them for what I believe to be harmful. However, if I were to sit down with my loved ones, would my words prompt change? In other words, can we change our friends at all?

In some ways, I believe the answer is yes. Humans are impressionable beings. Despite what we say to the contrary, praise produces joy, however faint, and derision makes us reconsider our actions. However, in another sense, I do not believe we have the power to change deeply inset beliefs of our friends, nor should we try to force this change.   

When I think about talking to friends who smoke, I know that their minds will not be swayed by the fact that smoking can cause cancer, respiratory infection, or heart disease. They know these details and yet their habits persist. I try to look at it from their perspective. Smoking feels good, it’s a quick high, it takes the edge off.

Instead, I must appeal to their hearts: “I love you, I don’t want to see you hurting yourself.” If that doesn’t work, I must learn to accept the habits of my friends. I cannot change what they believe, nor should I try to force my belief system onto them. Most of all, acceptance is important between friends; relationships cannot be contingent upon one party changing his behavior. All I can do is share my concerns, express my continued acceptance, and let my friends discover for themselves, over time, their own incentives to quit.

I think back to that girl in the checkered shirt, and wonder if her friends have come to the same conclusion.

It’s a Warm January Morning in Los Angeles.

New Year’s Day Reflections

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I’m counting down the New Year with cherished friends. Toasting with champagne. Singing and dancing. Laughing. Playing silly childhood games that never get old. Waking up. Time for traditional Japanese breakfast. Crunching on homemade Mochiko chicken. Sipping ozoni soup and chewing mochi balls. Biting into a sour pickled plum soaked in green tea. Five hours later, at another grandmother’s house. Eating shu-mai dumplings soaked in soy sauce. Laughing.

It’s the New Year, and if I know anything, it’s that I’m so lucky to be surrounded by love wherever I go.

Over the past ten years of my life, I have pursued many academic and personal goals. At age nine, the goals were simple: ace my math test, score during my soccer match, perhaps run a mile in under ten minutes. As I matured, my goals became more diverse: get this boy to like me, get straight A’s, be perfect in school and in life. It took me until the eleventh grade to realize that life wasn’t just about the pursuit of individual goals, but about sharing these goals – and the happiness of meeting these goals – with other people. Simply, life is about the connections we make, and the opportunities we have to express and receive love.

Now that I am in college pursuing even larger goals, I often set aside the importance of sharing and receiving love. My daily life is consumed by balancing professional obligations with individual growth, and I place great weight on this delicate balancing act.

On one hand, I am no longer a child, and I must take responsibility for my professional aspirations. Along these lines, I spent many afternoons this fall working at a real estate internship, learning how to sell commercial buildings at the expense of spending time with friends at UCLA. I often prioritize tasks with deadlines, like homework and recruiting events, over the less “required” telephone calls with my family or talks with my roommate. It makes me sad sometimes, but I know that if I want to become financially independent by the time I am thirty, I must sometimes sacrifice fun for professional development. I understand and accept this sacrifice as a part of life.

At the same time, I am not yet ready to become an adult. I see the world with a sense of wonder and optimism, and nothing delights me more than experiencing something new. Everything I dreamed of when I was a child – skydiving, studying abroad, running for political office – is within my reach, and I often find myself yearning to abandon professional responsibilities to go out and explore.

I feel most alive when I forsake reason and simply act. For this reason, I postponed studying for my midterms to walk through Olvera Street during the Dia de los Muertos celebration. I headed to the Los Angeles County Museum of Art rather than review my statistics material. I spent an entire Saturday walking to the Botanical Gardens and refused to wear a jacket, simply to delight in the beauty of the wind on my bare skin. Nothing brings me more happiness than exploring somewhere new, especially if I have a loved one by my side.

But ultimately, all this balancing simply brings me back to my simple childhood message: that nothing is more important than loving and being loved.  

When I was walking by myself to the Botanical Gardens, the wind whipping against my bare arms, I yearned to tell someone – anyone – of my foolishness and how I was bound to get a cold because of it. I wanted to share the moment, to laugh, to point out odd flowers and run through the trails, if only to make what I was experiencing all the more real.

The same goes for professional accomplishment. When the real estate company hired me, I wanted nothing more than to dance in circles with my roommate and to shake hands with members of my fraternity. When I got an A in political science, I wanted to tell my parents all about it. Individual accomplishment is meaningless without loved ones to share the joy.
 
Over the past two years, I have realized that it is the connections I form with other people that brings meaning and happiness to my life. It is with the hope that I will build upon these connections that I write today.

Sometimes, I feel discouraged by being stuck in the precarious balance between work and play. I ask myself why I am not achieving higher grades in school or exploring daily the streets of Los Angeles. In the end, however, I accept my inability to be perfect. Nobody short of Wonder Woman can explore the city every weekend, catch every basketball game, rock a 4.0, manage twelve hours at an internship, and stay sane. I can’t expect myself to do so.

I have come to accept that it is a sign of maturity to embrace life the way it is and yet continue to strive for better. To above all remember that balance is only a piece of the puzzle, that balance is only useful as far as I can love.    

Above all, I want to live my life in love.

Happy New Year, everyone!

New Year’s Day Reflections