On Writing and Family

I found myself thinking about my dad lately. In fact, he shows up a lot in my writing. This poem is going to be published in this winter’s edition of Redactions: Poetry and Poetics. I figure posting it here is ok, right?

The Price of Sweetness

No easy thing to bear, the weight of sweetness.”
–Li Young Lee

The peaches on the counter have browned
and bruised, tears in the skin have peeled
back to expose flesh. This is the sugar
reacting to air, this yellowed pulp
turning gray, the sweetness eats it from
the inside out. I roll my tongue over
the hard candies of my teeth, pick at the
crevasses and spaces between them
trying to find the childhood of Hershey
kisses and jawbreakers. Food was always
the simplest reward to give because when
you never had enough to eat, offering
what you lack comes as second nature.
It’s what you thought was right, McDonald’s
after school for straight As, letting me dive
through the paper bag for loose fries,
the bag rustling like your hand shaking
through my hair. Now, after all these years
and doctor appointments, I’m baking a pie
that we both can’t eat, tearing open
peaches and smothering them in sugar
before watching them brown in the heat
encased in a shell that’s as fragile as we are.

My dad’s health hasn’t been great lately. I think this is why I write about him a lot. I’m already mourning for the loss that will be inevitable. This is why I was so stunned when my mom had a minor heart attack (she’s fine) about a month ago. My mom was always going to be the one that’s around. She was the strong healthy one in the family. And to find out that she was also as weak as my father (and to an extent, myself) was scary for me.

I did find a push in this though. In my writing persona, my character Hemingway Li–I do find a lot of her life mirrors my own. Writing imitates art and all that jazz, yes? I found that the mother was this sort of nebulous entity in my poems. Now, she has a form. And I think now, Hemingway will have more of a form. It’s weird growing into my character’s skin.

My parents are pushing me to apply out of state for my PhD programs. They love me, but I can’t keep taking care of them and they can’t keep taking care of me. It’s hard because, I will always feel indebted to them. And it’s not something I want to grow out of. I don’t know if it’s a cultural thing, but being Filipino, I was always expected to stay close to home. Or move back home, but still be an ‘adult’ paying my own way. I have paid my way, paying rent and my own bills, but my parents still help me out now and then. I don’t feel like an adult yet. Maybe that’s why I feel like I owe them. Like I have to prove to them that I need to off on my own for a while and maybe that way I can take care of them–later. But it feels like they need me now.

My ‘chosen’ family, my friends are all pushing me to be happy. And they almost all believe that happy for me is out of state. Away from Southern California for a short while. The ones I love, both by obligation and by choice want what’s best for me. That makes me feel like maybe I’m the luckiest and well loved person in the world right now.

Purpose

Since I hadn’t done a real post for the latter part of the week, I figure I would show you all the big piece of writing I’ve been working on almost relentlessly for the last few weeks. This is my statement of purpose for the three PhD programs that I’m applying to. It’s still rough, but I think this is about as good as I can get it within 500 words. I do have to work on my statement of purpose for my masters of education programs that I’ll be applying to as well.

Edit: I was told by someone in an email to take my SOP down because someone might steal it and tweak it using it for their gains. I’ve always been leery about posting original work on my blogs for this reason. So I guess that’s a good idea. If you want to see my SOP, please email me and I can see what I can arrange.

On Teaching Philosophy

The title can be read in two ways. This is going to be an entry about teaching/lecturing about philosophy. Or it could be about my philosophy on teaching. Maybe it’ll be both.

I’ve been working several teaching gigs lately. Enough to disappear from my usual obligations and my friends. Some of these obligations, I am glad be away from, but it does keep me wondering and missing people. I wonder if this will be like this, if I end up going out of state for school. But I digress. In teaching, I was working with a young lady. This young lady was introduced to me as having a few learning difficulties.

I’ve worked with students with learning difficulties, so I didn’t think too much of it. However, when I got to the girl’s home for tutoring, it was–well. She didn’t talk to me. The tutoring session, which is supposed to be one-on-one had an extra person involved. Her brother. The girl, Amanda didn’t talk to me. Instead, she spoke to her brother who would relay the messages to me. And I would have to speak through him as well. Even if I addressed her and spoke to her, she did not say anything until her brother repeated exactly what I had just said to her.

This went on for the two hours that I had been assigned to tutor her. I mentioned it to my supervisor who said that this girl had been a customer of the tutoring service for years and she’s had no real problems with her (making it seem as though I was the one who was making an issue of it for no reason). I also spoke the mother asking her for insight. I was told that the girl has “trust issues.” I was told that Amanda should open up to me within a few weeks. Until then, her brother would have to sit in until then.

I feel at odds because Amanda–is a first year student in college. Her brother is in his 3rd year. He has to babysit his sister and he seemed to be answering questions for her, when I would run drills with her to test her on history–he would answer without asking her the question. And we would move on. I lost control of the situation, a situation that I didn’t fully understand.

Education is meant to be a challenge. But I felt as though this girl isn’t being challenged but coddled. I feel as though her mother has thrown money at the problem by hiring tutors to “help” her daughter. This isn’t the help that I feel she needs. There’s something wrong here where people are doing her homework for her. I was told that I would be “helping” her write her essays, her term paper for class.

Part of the term paper involved her doing a summary of an academic article, which she needed to have with her. She didn’t have it. And still was telling me (through her brother) to “do it.” I can’t summarize something that isn’t there. She was getting frustrated with me as I could barely hear her voice as she was whispering angrily at her brother to tell me what to do. Her brother, who looked tired and as though he had gone through all of this before, tried to relay to me what was happening.

This goes back to when I was a TA for the Honors Philosophy class. I was a TA with another member of the creative writing cohort. She had a student in her section who demanded to be switched into my discussion section because Natalie (the other TA) was too harsh of a grader. Now, Natalie is a pushover. I read the paper in question, Natalie gave the girl an A-. The girl demanded an A. She was moved into my section. The next paper she wrote. I gave her a C.

I don’t know if I have the clout to do something like that with my tutoring position now.

Preface

For me, memories have always mattered. When I am ready to write, ready to sit down and actually apply ass to seat and fingers to keyboard, usually I conjure up inside my head an image or a piece of remembered dialogue. It’s Southern California that comes through to me. I come up with images of the Santa Monica Ferris Wheel looming over the water, or I come up with a hurried slurred Spanish of my neighbor trying to explain to his wife something or another. There, as one would imagine would be the ubiquitous graffitied buildings, modern day Kandinskys warning whose turf you were on, the fabled Avenues which were talked about, but even to this day—never seen. There were weed-choked vacant lots and shoes tied together by their laces and flung onto power lines, that symbolism that took me into adulthood to figure out

The memories of these places and events mattered to me, more so than the names. The front yards where I played, sprinted through lawns kicking up dirt and leaves, these places could have been on San Fernando or they could have been on Division street or Avenue 32. It could have been anywhere. I played made up games and stared out at the sea of city lights that out shined the pinpoints of stars in the sky, asking myself, “where does it all ever end?” I’ve reflected on the incremental sense of loss that has been building up in my life. Did nothing about it except to share them with my almost see through reflection in my window. The smells of dust from incense or rotted leaves hung in the wind, made my nose twitch. I picked up so much from the world around me, but it wasn’t enough. Maybe I am a born writer because sometimes what I imagine is more important to me than the things I remember.

Years later, I still remember the stories I drew of dragons and superheroes. I remember all the dreams about changing the world with stories. Even today, I still find myself less preoccupied with things such as statements of purpose and letters of intent than I am with the life of a girl walks away (not so much as runs) from home and finds a pair of socks burned in the middle of the road.

I assumed this life of a mental vagabond. And I don’t know where it goes. I have to keep going. Where does that kid from Southern California end up? Mostly going forward, carrying a notebook, a story behind his brown eyes.

Navigation

I’m not Pinocchio, but you can tell when I’m lying. I guess it’s both a fault and an advantage that I’m earnest and wear my emotions on my sleeve. Over the last few days, my friends asked me if I’m ok. I kept saying I am. One told me, “Let me know when ‘ok’ means ‘not ok.’” That struck me. Most of the time, I had been working on auto-pilot. Despite being an emotional person, I don’t like it when my emotions get the best of me.

My parents are doing better. A few weeks ago, my mother had a mild heart attack. She’s doing better but she’s adjusting to her life now knowing she has to take even better care of herself. A few days ago, my father was weak after his dialysis. I took him to the hospital and he was very anemic. His blood levels were less than half of what they’re supposed to be. He’s in the hospital right now. But my family expects he’ll be making a full recovery.

It was something that causes me to take account of my actions. So far, I had been coasting along working meaningless crap jobs for crap hours at crap pay. I’ve been all talk with applying to graduate school and writing. Now, with my parents mortality in front of me, I can’t keep relying on them as a crutch. Nor can I use them as an excuse to not go on with my career.

I gain most of my strengths and limitations from my family. I see them almost every weekend. I spend time with them despite the fact that they drain me. My sister even triggered one of my nervous breakdowns several years ago. She doesn’t know this. In fact, many in my family don’t know that for a long time, I had been seeing a therapist. Yet I feel obligated to them in ways that I cannot describe.

This is why I am afraid to pursue graduate school. Despite the fact that now I have my letters of recommendation lined up and the applications finished, I am afraid to hit that send button. Two of the programs I am looking at are out of state. Two are in San Diego, a considerable drive from Los Angeles. One is in San Francisco. The rest are fairly local (San Bernadino, Long Beach and Fullerton). Part of me wants to leave my family and make it out on my own. But the other part of me wants to stay behind, not just for my family, but for my friends and a new relationship I’ve been starting.

This tear at directions keeps me up at night. I keep myself preoccupied with video games and meaningless tasks, such as reorganizing my room. These things keep me away from work and working. From writing and learning. I do it because it’s easier than moving forward.

I wish I had a way to be held more accountable for myself. I don’t mean to whine. I don’t want this blog to be updated whenever I have the desire to complain. There will be a more positive update in the near future. I just couldn’t sleep tonight.

On being

There was so much I wanted to write about for the last few days. On health. On morality. Mortality. Parents getting older. Getting sick. Dating. Not dating. Falling for someone when you don’t expect it. Reciprocity. Money. Money orders. Subscriptions. Bills. Jobs. Getting new jobs. Getting fired for unknown reasons. Getting rehired. Poetry. Art. Dance. Broken bones. Johnny Quest. 9th Wonder of the world. Video games. Dependency. Moving on. Moving up. Moving out-of-state. Stasis.

Instead. I want to write about Halloween.

It’s the one time of year where you can be anyone else you want for a little time. Any childhood fantasy of running around with your underwear on the outside and a blanket tied around your neck can be appreciated and re-enacted once more. Usually I have a big fuss over this holiday, which my friends used to call one of the High Holy Gay Days.

This year, I find myself wanting to stay home. I’m still going to go out with my friends because I enjoy their company, but I think I’m going to half-ass my costume. Just wear some ragged clothes, use some of the extra costume make up I have and go as a zombie apocalypse survivor.

Last year, I was the Doctor from Doctor Who. The year before that, a genie. I’ve gone from the fantastic to the more…gritty. I don’t feel so head in the clouds anymore. I fee like I survived something.

Early in the week, I ended up on the roof of the Arts Building. It’s easy to get to. And for a while, staring at the city–Moreno Valley to the East. The Mountains to the north. And Corona to the West. There was a feeling of that was somewhere between complacency and wanderlust. I don’t know how to describe it.

I forgot about the meteor shower that was a few days ago. I could have gone up to the roof of the Arts Building again and laid there to stare at the stars. At that level, there’s not so much light pollution that it would have felt as though I were somewhere else. Someone else. Until the last star fell.

I’m going to be someone else this year. I just don’t know who. Yet.

Joy. Ride

There are some universal truths to life. The world is large. Elvis is dead. No one really likes the Yankees unless you grew up in NY. And most of all, Southern California is a culture built on cars. There’s a sense of freedom in knowing you can get into your car and leave. Living in Los Angeles, where there is no clear lines of where the city ends, driving the sprawl seems natural to me.

Maybe this is why I find the idea of the roadtrip to be everyday and commonplace instead of a wonder. Driving from the desert to the ocean at night is calming to me. This is why I don’t know if I can ever fully survive outside of California.

People identify with their cars. Cars are named. They’re icons. From Stephen King’s Christine to the Delorean from Back to the Future, they stir up memories and attachments. From my friends, I can see Cowboy driving a truck the color of rust, a truck that keeps going. Megan, I see her in a Chevy Aveo—a slightly obscure car that’s bigger on the inside. Clowncar? Despite knowing him as a kind family man, I see him as a man driving with a Cadillac convertible, top down so the kids can play with the wind tousling their hair. With me, I don’t see myself in a particular car, just as long as it can carry the weekly groceries.

I associate myself with my car a lot. Most people say pets and their owners start taking similar characteristics. My car, Paris is spazzy. It takes a lot of beatings, is halfway presentable. The alarm goes off at almost any slight disruption—which matches how easily startled I tend to become. And now, my car is…well, out of commission. I feel out of place without my car.

I’m borrowing my Uncle’s car for the time being. My Uncle’s car also was my first car. He built it, well his class did. He offered the shop class he thought all As and not having to go to the class for the rest of the year if they could make a running car out of $1500 worth of scrap and parts from a junkyard. And lo and behold, they did it. I bought the car off of my uncle for a few hundred and had been driving it for a while. It was made out of a Corolla frame, Mitsubishi engine, Volvo steering wheel and etc. The car was called Frankenstein for a while. Then the engine kept dying, so I called it Deathmobile. Since I bought my car Paris (at a police auction), the car has since been fixed and it runs fine. Even a little better than Paris does.

But it feels strange to be driving Deathmobile instead of Paris. I feel strangely disconnected without my car. But I have to get used to it. I mean, not knowing where I’ll be in a few months, I might not be in a location where driving is practical. I’ve barely used public transportation. Before I had my car on a regular basis, I walked everywhere. I can’t ride a bike. So this is an adjustment.

There’s so much about cars in our culture. The idea of the Drive-in movie is still romanticized despite the fact that I can only think of one Drive-in location within 100 miles. The first kiss usually happens after sitting in the car and talking.

Maybe I’m just more Southern Californian than I thought…

Eh. What about you? Any attachments to your cars and your memories around driving?

Poetry Tuesday: Don’t Come Home by Todd Boss

This week’s poem is one I found that I made a copy of and didn’t really recall photocopying it. You can follow a link to his website which I provided below.

Todd Boss:

Don’t Come Home

ranks first among

the worst things

someone you love

can say. Not even

the common I

hate you does

the damage Don’t

come home will

do. You can live

with I hate you,

same as you live

with the past.

You abide it. I

hate you n fact

can be worth

coming home to,

like anything built

to last. I hate you

may be the mythical

two in the bush

the bird in the hand

is worth, while

Don’t come home,

by contrast is

that first bird.

caught bird, scared

to sing its song,

percussive wings

held fist-fast just

so long.

Now, this poem is a detraction from what I usually enjoy. This is not loaded with images but it’s a narrative. It tells a story where more is implied than what is said on the page. What do you all think? I’ll give some further remarks later.

Who are you? Who do you wish to be?

The Fool Card

I am the Fool.  The Fool card is classified as: having risk, innocence, departure or a new path. In its upright position–it represents the positive aspects of a new life, the prospect of adventure, of falling in love, or opportunity and idealism. In its reversed position, the Fool is an error in judgment, a symbol of deception, and forcing a situation only to have it backfire.

Tonight, the moon is fat and the sky is so clear, I can almost see the stars. Or as much as the stars as Southern California can allow. Light pollution does so much. Staring out while driving on the 60 Freeway heading back to Riverside from Los Angeles, I could have driven without my headlights on, it was that bright out. I’ve been on a journey lately, but the end destination is unclear. Ever have one of those type of drives? I wish I had enough money to do that. Because gas is a bitch but the concept of driving without a general direction has always been very freeing to me.

I want to be the Magician:

The Magician

The Magician represents a sense of power. Adventure, new projects, energy and creativity. In its upright position he represents success, new friendships and productivity. He is the continued path of the Fool, momentum that propels further and longer than reach. In the reversed position, he is trickery. Plans without foundation, a warning of deceit, and in the arts–a creative block.

I’ve been writing a lot lately. But it’s been mostly outlining. Nothing too productive yet. I feel the urge to write and produce something, however when I sit down to type, I freeze up. I haven’t been this petrified before. I don’t know what it means. I’ve started playing with what had previously been my thesis. Instead of it being a novel in verse, I’m thinking more young adult novel. But my fiction muscles are weak and under-developed. But I have to try, right? I’ve been applying to graduate school again. 2 MA programs in English (to prepare myself for the PhD) and 8 MEd programs in student affairs/higher education (for what I feel I am naturally good at and passionate about. I want to change the face of education to make it accessible and enjoyable for everyone). But I am naturally very scared about my options and the path I’m about to take.

But this is a part of the journey and the growing process, yes?

Welcome to the part of the internet I am trying to carve out for myself. I only wonder what shape this is going to take.

Because I’m lost too.

I don’t know if anyone even knows if this link exists. My old blog, The Academic Masochist is still active. It will be active for another week or so. I’ll make a formal type of announcement there. Either way, welcome to Narrative Misdirection. I’ll be sure to have some real content here. I’m still cleaning up and trying to poke around in terms of setting up the space. Well. I guess here goes nothing.