Conquering Writer’s Mountain

I’m sure many of you have gotten writer’s block, but what I have feels more like writer’s mountain. Insurmountable, undefeatable, horrible, writer’s mountain. It is so frustrating to watch my blog languish in inactivity for weeks at a time, or to generate ideas that never get converted to stories. I’m trying, but it seems that every idea out of my head is, after a few sentences, little more than space used up on my computer, never to see the light of day. 

I didn’t always have to battle for my ideas to leave the drawing board. In fact, last quarter, I felt like a real writer. In between classes, I’d race to the library to pound out a quick piece, or jot down ideas in the margins of my newspapers. Ideas would just hit me while walking down Bruin Walk or in my classes, and I would simply try to remember everything. Writing was fun, not stressful, and I easily could post the one entry a week I committed myself to at the beginning of starting my blog. 

Generally, writing goes something like this: idea pops into my head (!), I jot it down, come back, type furiously for a couple of hours, and bam! The story is done. 

Now, however, I feel momentarily defeated by words. I’ve begun so many sentences only to hold down the delete button to erase everything. It’s so frustrating! While I can still generate ideas, I have trouble sparking the electricity in my head that drives the piece home. Instead, I meander between different arguments, stopping to brush my hair or check my emails, and I soon become unhappy with the story idea in general and its lack of progress. Stories quickly get delegated to my “to-do” list, which receives bare-bones attention and is pretty much abandoned. 

Why am I facing this writer’s mountain? I’ve asked myself this numerous times in the past weeks, and I think it has to do with me constantly comparing my old pieces to my new ones. With my prior writings on my blog as clear evidence of what’s come before, I feel obligated to come up with something inventive and serious and quirky all at once. This pressure leaves me unable to write anything.   

I must stop setting myself up to fail by criticizing everything I do: stories written imperfectly will need to be enough. If not, I am going to continue driving myself crazy. Words will stagnate in my head, I’ll keep punching myself for fun, and hours of time will be wasted simply because I can’t write more than two sentences on any given idea. I want to overcome the walls in my head stopping my fingers from typing with confidence. I want to stop criticizing myself so much, to stop asking the impossible. 

Melanie, it is okay to post something imperfect. It is okay to have fun with this blog. It is okay to not know how you feel about something, or to not research every minute detail, or to be silly. 

Let this start the outpouring of words. 
Conquering Writer’s Mountain

A Rap to UniCamp Retreat

My body is aching, mind racing, hands shaking,
so many thoughts making me think. 
My eyes are closing, dreams fast approaching,
but I’m not ready to fall asleep.
Oh retreat! You’ve captured my heart in
one weekend complete 
with loving and joy, and blessings so sweet
You’ve turned strangers to friends
put hearts on the mend
And this all in one weekend, played out 
on the beach!

Who could’ve known we could fly through the air
or that these new friends would be carrying us there?
Who could foresee the beauty there’d be
when sixty crammed into a house by the sea?

It’s beautiful, it’s true, the things that you do
cementing the bonds of our session two
and all I can say, at the end of today, 
my body in shambles and fading away
is thanks for the memories on that cold beach,
for the warmth and the smiles and that overarching peace
I’ll carry these stories with me, I pray
when I wake up tomorrow, with me they’ll stay.

Please help me to send kids to UniCamp! 

My fundraising page:

A Rap to UniCamp Retreat

What not to do on the first date (that can possibly be done on subsequent dates)

  1. Don’t get two parking tickets before the date even starts.
  2. Don’t critique his driving skills (especially if he’s driving your car).
  3. Don’t invite your best friend Kathy.
  4. If the area around the restuarant is ghetto, do not say so.
  5. Upon getting chicken feet, a dish you do not particularly like, do not order your best friend to “eat those feet, bitch”.
  6. Upon thinking of said order, don’t laugh so hard that you spit your chashu bow into your date’s water cup.
  7. If food does end up floating in said water cup, do not fish out food with chopsticks.
  8. Towards the end of the meal, do not ask your Asian friend to ask the waiter if there are taro balls. And do not say loudly, “I like those balls.”
  9. If said event happens, and there are no taro balls available, do not demand in a very loud voice, “WHY?”
  10. At the dessert locale after lunch, when your best friend lets you taste her yogurt, do not move directly towards it and lick the top. Do not proceed to laugh at her confused face, either.  

Today was a wonderful day. Carl and I went to dim sum with my best friend Kathy, and although I proceeded to break all of the above rules, Carl asserts that he continues to accept me. Luckily, we have stopped counting how many dates it has been. How lovely, indeed.

What not to do on the first date (that can possibly be done on subsequent dates)

My name is Mochi. What’s yours?

If Romeo and Juliet were not Montagues and Capulets, but simply “star-crossed lovers” who met at a dance, there would have been no wicked swordplay between families divided and no need for poison or tombs. (Of course this would have ruined the Shakespearean classic, but that’s a question for another time.) Instead, the duo could have courted and married with great joy in both families. Alas, it was not to be, and readers are left to wonder what is really in a name.

I ask: does renaming an object or oneself change one’s properties? Of course, an individual will retain his ‘essence’, with or without his original name, just as the object will maintain its shape and color. However, the way in which others perceive him will change, and this shift will influence the individual himself. 


For fun, imagine an individual named “Jessica”, and then re-imagine her as “Gertrude.” See if she didn’t just age thirty or so years. The same holds true for many other names. I have concluded that, at least in the minds of others, to rename is to redefine. 

If Romeo was not a “Montague”, but merely “that boy from across the street”, he would have been welcomed into Juliet’s family as her suitor. The same can be said for non-fictitious individuals and their ability to redefine. Without the moniker “Melanie”, for example, I can shake off all prior identities: I am not necessarily shy or intelligent or clumsy or optimistic. I can be all and none of these things; I am whomever I choose to be. 

This summer, I will be renaming myself when I participate in UCLA UniCamp, a nonprofit organization dedicated to sending low-income Los Angeles kids to summer camp in the wilderness. Camp is a blast for the children and for the volunteers, who are blessed to watch the kids play and experience joy during their week at camp. 

As a volunteer, I am planning to fundraise $375 to subsidize the cost of attending camp for some of the kids, and during the summer, I will be heading down to Camp River Glen myself to be a counselor or specialist for a week in July. I am so excited to share this experience with my newfound friends and campmates. 

My name will be “Mochi”, a fitting name for a mochi loving fiend like me. I will be renaming myself this summer in the hopes that I can nurture young kids to rename and thus redefine themselves, in the same way that a young boy named Smart did many years before. One of the old counselors told the story:

When UniCamp first started, a young boy who attended the camp was talking to his counselor. “If you could be called anything,” the counselor asked, “What would you call yourself?” The boy thought for a moment and said: “I want to be called smart. I’ve never been called smart before.” And so his name for the week became Smart.


Some of the children I meet will be redefining themselves for the first time, and really deciding the new way they want others to perceive them. Others will be looking to escape the worry of fitting in at school or impressing their friends, while a great many will simply be there to have the time of their lives. Regardless, naming is great fun for the kids and the counselors, and allows both groups to separate themselves from the preconceptions of outside life.  

At my first UniCamp meeting, not being tied to “Melanie” really allowed me to feel open about acting silly. Because nobody knows me and nobody is looking to judge, I can be comfortable singing a song about bubblegum at the top of my lungs and making “om nom nom” noises. It is absolutely liberating to separate myself from what I’ve done in college, and to be “Mochi” instead of “Melanie”. 

I can’t wait for the children at camp to have that same chance to redefine themselves, to say: “I want to be smart and funny and outgoing,” without us knowing any differently. I want them to sing in front of crowds if they want to, to act crazily, to jump onto trees and to dance without worry. I want to value each one of them, and watch them as they learn to value each other. To learn to withhold judgment, to grasp hold of their wispy dreams and hold tight, and to learn to believe in themselves, whoever they may be when they arrive.  

The first step is in the name.


Please help me to send kids to UniCamp! Anything (even $1) is appreciated!
My fundraising page:
http://unicamp.kintera.org/campathon/mochi_melaniegin
My name is Mochi. What’s yours?

Lose Yourself in the Commodities Market

Yesterday at exactly 1:49 PM, my team liquidated our 26 short positions of crude oil (CLEJ0) at 8047 for a loss of $4,660, which closed our accounts at $141,720. Roughly twenty-five minutes later, at 2:15 PM, the markets closed for maintenance, which to us signaled the end of our two-week long commodities competition. I was emotionally drained. For the past four hours straight, I had watched the markets anxiously with my teammates, praying to the commodities gods for crude oil to drop significantly. It did not, hence our nearly $5,000 final loss. 

Let me explain. For the past two weeks, I have been participating in a simulated commodities competition with four friends from UCLA, all part of the Undergraduate Stock Trading Society. Led by our captain Kenny, our team has been trading gold and crude oil futures on the Chicago Mercantile Exchange. We began with a $100,000 capital balance and a goal of making the top four, thus receiving a much-desired spot in the final round and a shot at paid internships with the exchange.

While not every moment in our competition was defined by the anxiety we felt on the final day, many stick out. Just one week ago, our account balance hovered at $89,830, and we trailed the leaders by over $30,000. Times were rocky. If I went long a few contracts and the price of oil suddenly fell, I’d erupt in profanity and incoherent screams. If I were watching the market and a friend attempted to talk to me, I would respond in tense, rapid-fire statements, never moving my eyes from the screen. Carl felt the ripple-effect too: he witnessed my tearful breakdown after I had lost $10,000, with the market still falling, and was subject to my lecture on utility shortly thereafter. At that point, he turned off the computer and told me to go to sleep.

But happy moments abounded too. Good decisions by Justin and Kenny in the past week rallied our account into the green. Strangely, every movement seemed to go our way. We would go long, and crude oil would leap up. We would short, and gold would fall on cue. Every day, we recorded another $10,000 gain. Suddenly, with two days left, we were within striking distance. With a capital balance of over $120,000 and the fourth place team hovering at $135,000, we felt jubilant. It felt like only a matter of time before we would rise to the top. “Lose” stopped being part of our vocabulary. On the final day of the competition, with the fourth place team at $150,000, I awoke to Kenny’s email: “Someone must’ve been praying… ’cause we’re at $145K w/ a $8k profit… we touched on $150K just a moment ago.”

I sleepily smiled. It was the last day of the competition, and winning seemed so tangible. I walked to accounting class with the market on my mind. After class ended, I met my team at Café Roma, and the real battle began. The market had fallen a bit and we were at $145,000, with the knowledge that only by reaching $160,000 could we expect to finish in the top four. Our mentality was all-or-nothing: we couldn’t just pansy around with a little capital, expecting to make small gains. It was all of our money into the market, every time. We went long on oil before it started to fall and we sold for a small profit, around $3000. Then we made a big mistake. We shorted all 26 contracts of oil as the market spiked, climbing higher and higher until I couldn’t watch anymore.

By the time Justin had arrived from his 11:00 class (I had skipped mine), we were already resigned to the fact that we probably wouldn’t win. With just 1.5 hours left and over $20K to make up, we started making our concessions. I was devastated. In the end, like I said before, we ended up covering our positions for a roughly $5000 loss, a sad way to end a roller coaster of a competition.

We did not end up placing in the top four and progressing to the final round, as we had banked upon. We did not end up beating USC, which ended up one place ahead of us at $146,372.00. We did not end up meeting our original goal of $250,000, and thus we will be running laps for every $5000 we fell behind. We did not win the commodities competition, and that thought left me feeling hollow.

But what I know now, after a day has passed, is that our ending capital balance will not be my lasting memory of the competition. Instead, I will remember the thrill of watching the crude oil market jump 175 ticks in half an hour, netting us a $7,000 gain. I will remember calling Kenny frantically at all hours, wondering why my software was so dysfunctional. I will remember Justin going long on 18 contracts of oil with an RSI of 44.65 – this is relatively crazy – and picking up a sweet $14,000 gain. I will remember Carl and Anthony and Kenny and Justin, and me, the only girl, watching the market on a beautiful Thursday morning, knowing that our competition was over and reflecting on the moment.

You know, guys, it was pretty glorious. I got a taste of what my dad must have felt like watching the options market. I tested out a career I might want to pursue in the future. And most of all, I got to bond over commodities with four people I can now call my friends. Overall, skipping class, not sleeping well, and all the stress was overwhelmingly worth it. Thank you for the two-week roller coaster, you guys. I will carry these memories with me for a long time.

Lose Yourself in the Commodities Market

This Happiness of Ours

I have spent the past few weeks exploring Los Angeles with one of my best friends. When I am with him, I feel this sense of wonder: every crevice must be investigated, every bustling brook run across with bare, shivering feet. Life is somehow sacred. When I am with him, the child within me releases in glorious abandon. I find myself inventing voices and faces for people and places that I have yet to visit. I leap off of rocks, run headfirst into traffic, and laugh at the silliest jokes. Together, we sing off-key duets, say the same syllable with fifty different accents, and smile all the time. I am ecstatic. 

With him, I feel this dual sense of joy and of peace, of wanting to experience everything at once and of wanting to be silent and cherish what we have. What we have is special, and nothing anybody says should dissuade me of my impassioned feelings. 

But sometimes I have doubts about the validity of our happiness. Doubt springs up whenever one of my friends reacts with surprise or derision when he or she realizes that we are together, that yes, he is the guy who makes me laugh and takes me out to dinner and keeps me on my toes. Despite my feelings of joy, I am somewhat ashamed to admit that I feel pangs of uncertainty when faced with the negativity of my friends. These pangs make me question myself: Is what I am feeling real? Why am I feeling the way I do? Then I realize that I should not have to justify my feelings. 

Yes, everyone, I am with him, and it angers me when individuals I value as friends react with such judgment. Please, when two individuals develop feelings for each other and begin the early stages of a relationship, do not compare them on a numerical scale. Do not talk behind their backs or make mean comments to their faces. Please do not detract from their happiness, as some have managed to do to mine. It hurts; it really hurts.

I should not have to justify this wonderful person to anyone, and I will not. I cannot. I ask you, my friends, to withhold judging us until you truly understand how we interact. Watch us together one day, and see if it doesn’t make you smile. Let me try to help you understand.

When I am with this boy, I feel that I can be unapologetically myself. He has seen me in bed sweating off a 103-degree fever. He has seen me at my hungriest, screaming the word “food” at the top of my lungs. He has seen me tired, overwhelmed, pessimistic, and yet he still says I am beautiful. 

We both enjoy capturing the world, I with my words and he with his camera. We tell stories together with our two mediums, weaving together images with syllables, faces with descriptions. It is magical: I have never told stories with anyone before. We sing Jason Mraz and Michael Buble, Train and Coldplay. He rarely tells me that I sing off-key. 

Every moment I spend with him is an adventure. I never know what is going to happen, and yet somehow that un-knowing is okay. It is as if I am finally living life on the edge of my seat, and I cannot wait to see what will happen next. Little Tokyo, San Diego, Coronado, the Annenberg Center, Olvera Street, Pasadena, the Staples Center, museums, every little nook of UCLA… the list goes on and on. It’s amazing, it’s freeing, and it is so humbling to know that tomorrow is another day, and tomorrow, I will get to see him again. Friends, I am so happy to be with this boy. Can’t you see? Please try to share in our happiness. 

His name is Carl. 
This Happiness of Ours

Greeted with a Chain-Link Fence

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

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:

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

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