Enter the Son

Ethnicity and Nation: Question Mark and Exclamation

2010-11-21T23:21:00.000-08:00

I am not prepared for December to come. I am not prepared for the piles of work for school, my friends, and family. I was checking my telebears today and read on the screen "You are the degree list for SPRING 11" -- another reminder that I am graduating soon, very soon. These past weeks like other weeks prior has been about planning and looking towards the future. Very recently, people have asked me " what have you been doing and why have I been so MIA?"--well to put it simply, I am planning for this future of uncertainty/

I no longer work at Bo Sua. Meaning i will no longer work on a hourly wage basis. I hope to still be able to stop by and hang out with my co-workers. Although I won't have a set schedule, I will still be at the retail store helping out with little things, or translating English, or drinking ice tea with them. I will still be at the office, asking designers, accountants, and managers questions, helping the out with whatever they need me to do, and share about my experiences in the states.

I just got back from an excursion in Nghe An to pass out jackets to school children of ethnic minority villages in the mountains. This trip has made me think a lot about one of my majors "Ethnic Studies" and its importance in the academic world. Today in modern times of national politics, why is it necessary to look at the significance of ethnicity and how does one determine "ethnicity" in the first place? Well, in Vietnam, if you were to ask Vietnamese people if they were considered "ethnic." They will most likely say no because what is "ethnic" is a conception associated with "minorities" in the country--those who do not identify with the national majority; that is, Vietnamese or Kinh of the lowlands.

National culture simply cannot be equated as ethnic culture because ethnicity is something that is in opposition to the nation. Ironically, the make-up of a nation such as Vietnamese is an ethnicity in itself. It just so happens that they are the winners of the story called "history" and they own a land they call their country. While reflecting upon this topic on the bus, I came to think a lot about America and how it's somewhat similar, if not the same way. Would Americans say that American culture is "ethnic" compared to the culture practiced and bought/sold in "enclaves" like Chinatowns, the barrios, Japantown, and so on? Hmmm..

When I was at the ethnic minority schools, I thought of America's own "ethnic minority" schools, aka segregated schools. I thought of the divisions of class and race. I thought of the problematics of school curriculum and what should be taught nationally, and whether or not those who do not identify with the "pro-national" narrative should learn the same as those who do. I thought of teaching relevance as opposed to "regulated regurgitation." I wondered whether or not those children who live in the highlands identified with the Vietnamese nation knowing that they are not "ethnically" Vietnamese, but rather nationally Vietnamese. I wondered if they are taught their own history, and how their people fit in Vietnamese nationalism and struggle for independence. Although at times, I felt awkward doing "charity work" and temporarily easing their "poverty," I nonetheless felt happy that I was able to help; however, I couldn't help but to think of those charity commercials of Christian missionaries in Africa. There's something about it.

This November with the freed time from working, I wanted to explore new terrain in Hanoi. I was hoping to hang out at Lenin Statue, a place I see as the "youth (sub)cultural mecca." This is truly where all the skateboarding, rapping, breakdancing, beatboxing, popping, and locking take place; these are where all these ideas about metropolitan-urban cultures manifest and spread. This is also where the owner of Bo Sua started skateboarding and met all his friends, some of whom are a part of the company. However, with so much on my plate and to-do list, I don't think it will be possible to carry out a full-out and personally.

With so much planning at hand, I have to remember the reality of it all. My time here in Hanoi is not much, but I will try my best to carry out all the things I want to do. If not, that's okay too. For now, here's to Berkeley style all-nighters and wrapping things up.

Remembering Southern Trip

2010-11-12T05:29:00.001-08:00

I remember..

In Saigon, upon the vendor at the large market realized I was Vietnamese American and projected it out loud, vendors in proximity started to pull on my arm asking me to take them with me home. I had to rush out of the market with all eyes on me. The center of attention.

Hearing my parents' voice in the Southern people.

When I started to be able to think in Vietnamese.

The reality of Phu Quoc's future when cruising down semi-paved dirt roads, witnessing the countless construction projects of hotels, resorts, and business districts.

The countless mosquito bites sleeping in the countryside. We had mosquito nets too!

Along with that, my crazy American-media-influenced imagination during the night time. Mass serial killers. Wartime ghosts in the night shadows under shimmering stars. The creepiness of mosquito nets in the dark.

The familiarity in the sweetness of the bowls of pho and desserts. And my mother's home cooked meals.

At the same time, enduring the over-sweetness of it all. "Holy,how much sugar did they put in this?" LOL

The moment when my family and the Diaspora made much more sense in my mind: both my mother's side and my father's side, including the disparities between the two.

The moment I started to see Vietnam more in my future, and my ambition to help mend relations between overseas Vietnamese and Vietnamese nationals.

Đặng Thế Luân & Y Phụng - LK Người Ngoài Phố & Dấu Chân Kỷ Niệm

2010-10-27T22:45:00.000-07:00

Reconciling and Reconnecting

2010-10-09T20:38:00.000-07:00

In these past weeks, working and wrestling 6-days-a-week-work-days at Bò Sữa, immersing and interacting with my co-workers, communicating and concentrating through my broken Vietnamese whether with my co-workers or customers, and learning to listen of lessons learned (those small talks, or you can say "gossip of the everyday"), I am very grateful to have an experience like this. I think this may be a sort of boot camp in my search--whatever it may be. I never intended this study abroad to be a vacation here in the first place. Roughing it up a little bit is not a bad thing.

Right now, my body and head aches due to the last night's reveling. My mind is filled with railroads of thoughts. I am at a dilemma at the moment with priorities. On one hand, while I work so much to learn and explore what life in Hanoi is like among young people like me, but on the other, I am neglecting a part of the EAP program. At times, I feel I learn much more being the locals in their day-to-day, often mundane work-life as opposed to being confined to the walls of a classroom. I learn something new everyday.

My attitudes and cognitive associations regarding "Vietnamese-ness" has changed tremendously ever since my embarking on this educational journey here. For instance, for a large part of my life I used to look down on F.O.B.'s (Fresh Off the Boat)--recent Asian immigrants-- because I found myself in opposition to those who look like me, but aren't like me: their mothball permeating odor, their apparent accent that marks their foreignness, their bad sense in fashion, and so on. Being here is helping me get closer to reconciling all these things I had been internalizing in the past. However, I do wonder how my perception will again change upon coming back to the Bay Area.

Last weekend was the weekend of the 1000-year celebration of Hanoi, and the last few days of continual 10-days-filled with festivities. Hồ Hoàn Kiếm was dressed up in extravagant lights; a wide array of colors. At points, these lights reminded me of Christmas in my neighborhood Willow Glen in San Jose. A little bit of home. One of the nights during those 10-days, I sat a cafe and started to reflect again about my family and their early beginnings in the US.

My experiences so far struggling to express myself with the locals here and at times makes me feel ashamed and incredibly disempowered. Sometimes I feel like a little boy whose immaturity is marked by his lack of vocabulary; always mumbling or stuttering; always structural errors in sentences. For a moment, I had been thinking that this is probably what my parents felt when they had arrived to a land they did not know. I can imagine the disconnect between their high-level of life experience, complex minds clashing with their foreign tongue.

Nhiều kinh ngiệm, nhưng nói về kinh ngiềm đó không được.

Although this experience brings me great pain and frustration sometimes, it has helped me appreciate more for what my parents have done and how much they have struggled to get me where I am today. And that is here. From where it all started.

I wish I could speak to you. Depict the dimensions of my world. Sketch the shadows and shades of my mind. Vocalize the music of my mundane. I wish to know you more. You know who you are.

Maybe I am hâm after all.

Asking the Why's for Wise

2010-09-22T10:11:00.000-07:00

Long Entry:

Currently I am in Đà Nẵng for EAP Vietnam's 10-day extravaganza in the central region or miền Trung. The food here has a lot more depth in terms of flavor and spices. Sometimes I wonder how food reflects different peoples and cultures; how geography and climate affects human survival; how identity is formed out of such circumstantial contexts. During this trip, I have realized the magnitude of Vietnam's diversity.

Before this EAP Vietnam, I had always understood Vietnam as just a region with a bunch of Vietnamese people whose ancestry perhaps have mixed roots. Now I understand how much of a mixed bag it really is. While the phở soup is clear like water in the North, the soup in the South is darker like the skin of many people who work outside in the southern and central region. My parents' stories and regional conceptions based on experience resonates much with this realization. Indeed I see how the impact of a culture of office/inside worker of the north compared to the south/central rural agriculture has an impact on food itself. And also, the history of large Chinese influence in the north compared to south/central's more heteroegenous mix.

The hot sauces here are actually hot! Spicy is actually spicy! I feel a familiarity or filial connection with the food as well as tongue here. In this respect, tongue means taste and language. I am more comfortable speaking Vietnamese here because I hear the accent of my family. More d d d d sound as opposed to gi gi gi or v v v. Here, a little bit of home is hitting me. This home is not the broad, general home I call America, or San Jose, or Willow Glen, or Berkeley, or California; this home is my family, the root or gốc of my existence..

In these past months, I have been thinking and a lot of times contemplating by myself while other EAP'ers are socializing and having a whole lot of fun, just why I ask so many why's. Questions within questions conjure upon the opening of my eyes each morning. I always think to myself... wow I still can't believe I am in across the world away from where I am to figure out who I am.

Here in Vietnam, I walk these streets like a vestige of colliding history of war and politics; identity and love; a strive for independence, but theoretical divides of what human freedom actually is. Manifested violence though many would say it was necessary. Perhaps it was.

There, I often mention this story to somehow form a story of my own that is often left in the Pacific Ocean through which my family trekked. I find my peers at times somehow romanticizing this story to serve political and social ends for their organization--to mobilize the poor, the disenfranchised, the marginalized, the oppressed. You know, those catchy keywords revolutionaries would use for propagandistic reasons.

There, I lead, sometimes I follow, sometimes I follow, sometimes I lead, but in my mind circularity is all I think of. Here, this circularity becomes more apparent. Although this trip in Vietnam could serve as a kind of vacation in which indulgence is prioritized, I always have these thoughts whenever I have a gơod time or đi nhậu.

It feels great to have so much power with the dollar or the đồng, but i truly want to make this experience much more than what I read or hear: a typical Việt Kiều story where ultimately in the end, there is always some sort of realization of what is real and what is fantasy. While you may be searching for meaning, you are confronted with the hyperrealities or utopias accessible to tourists. You are a tourist.

You can buy, use your currency to navigate through your time here. You can be boss and have all these people service you as if you were a king or queen. Live luxuriously and lavishly because you just so happen to come from a "developed" country whose supposed value is higher because of statistical formulations which most of the globe follow. This game where you either race to the top, or you race to the bottom.

You can love and hope for permanence in ink along these temporary pencil-drawn lines of 3 months studying abroad. What makes you different from the next Magellan, Columbus, or conquistador sailing across clouds on modern-day airplanes to learn and broaden your understanding of the world? Sometimes this educational gain may be at the expense of others, especially your subjects of study and that is, the people here, người dân.

I am, but a sojourner moving from one place to another. From region to region though my region may be the south. I however come from the West though my skin may signal East. When I speak, they might laugh or question my who/where I am? Mỹ gốc Việt I'd say. Vietnamese American. Oversees Vietnamese. Vietnamese at the root of it nonetheless. From there, they will have different standards for me. I feel like I am left off a hook and put onto another. This is inescapable though I can leave anytime if I wanted to. No. I have three months left until I am back home where streets are easily remembered; where everything seems to align so easily; where I am able to be myself again. But here for the mean time, I am striving to fit in like a piece on this jigsaw puzzle. So then I can finally see this bigger picture that everyone seems to be raving about. Of course, because I am a part of this, I'd have to step back to see it. Ironically, I'd have to face another puzzle and I'd have to start anew again. Each time will never be the same. EAP Vietnam...

Academic Blog

2010-09-11T00:50:00.000-07:00

For all you UC-HANU and others who are interested, please follow my academic blog at

http://soneapvietnam10.blogspot.com/

This blog is my social blog for thoughts that sometimes do not fall in the weekly assigned prompts.

Việt Kiều Ngoài Phố

2010-09-03T01:49:00.000-07:00

I'm now on my third week of school at HANU. It's quite interesting to be a part of the 5% males at a school with 95% females. I am currently enrolled in four classes: 1) Vietnamese 2) Globalization 3) Contemporary Viet Nam 4) Viet Nam History Seminar. The workload is not so bad. I find myself learning not just simply in the classroom, but outside of it: cruising down the streets of Ha Noi on my green bike, every time I try to bargain with the vendor, comparing and contrasting different parts of "traditional" village dwellings of Ha Noi versus the "modern" (sub)urban parts, and analyzing the material culture among the youth--Ha Noi has their own hipsters too!

I've also been thinking a lot about identity, especially in terms of what tangibly makes me me Before my trip here, I had been thinking a lot about how I mentally perceive Vietnamese-ness; that is, the meanings I attach to let's say Vietnamese food and language. When I was a child, I used to see other Vietnamese people, especially elders, to be a part of my family though they may not be related to me--filial connection to those even outside the family. There is something about how such words are spoken, the mannerisms, the way they smell, the way they convey humor, love, and affection. It's that something that I've held onto for so long. While I'm here I'm trying to understand what that something really is. People in Ha Noi remind me so much of my own family with exceptions of the Northern accent.

Yesterday was Viet Nam's Independence Day. I prepared for it by researching Viet Nam's national history. Just like the story between the Dragon and Angel, Viet Nam was and still is quite polarized, split, if not fragmented due to political and cultural factions. North/South, these people versus these people, French colonialism, Chinese colonialism, Japanese colonialism, American imperialism, and now in contemporary times, globalization, neo-liberalism and lifting of borders for trade. The "Vietnamese" national identity was a struggle in itself to solidify. By drawing borders on the map and claiming a certain territory, and then proclaiming a nation of people of Vietnamese own it in a effect marginalizes those who do not identify as Vietnamese or practice "Vietnamese culture."

This story of nation-state building reminds me so much of why ethnic minorities or people of color in the United States historically have been disenfranchised. During that day to celebrate freedom, I could not help but to think the relativity of freedom; what about those who fall in the periphery of the nation and national identity? There is a lot of irony, but indeed though there is a lot of setbacks to nationalism and nation-state building, the country did kick a lot of ass when imperialists and colonialists tried to get a piece, if not most of the pie.

If it hadn't been for America interfering with Viet Nam's what-could-have-been-simply-a-civil-war, my family and I perhaps would not have left. I could have stayed in Viet Nam and who knows how much different I could have turned out. It's mind-boggling to try to play around with history in the light of self-discovery and self-knowledge.

In case you don't like reading my long passages, here are some pictures I've taken that I hope captures at least a dimension of my experience here. I'll be here until December, but getting back in January. I miss you all.

in case you are wondering what the title means, it's "oversees Vietnamese from outside the streets." That's how I often when interacting with locals here. I'm always in-between, in limbo, in-formation, in-transition, in-and-out, or even to an extent in-decisive. I am Việt Kiều.

My First 2 Weeks in Viet Nam

2010-08-22T08:13:00.000-07:00

Many people whether online or on the phone have asked me: "So.. How is your experience in Viet Nam thus far?" I might have answered simply, "it's great!" or sometimes more extensively "i'm learning a lot. here is why... a, b, c, d." To be truly honest, I am extremely overwhelmed everyday to a point which I feel somewhat lost, so lost that I found. If that makes any sense. If not, it's alright.

This is my first time out of the US. It's very interesting to study and learn about what modernization or "development" means for non-European or "non-Western" countries. I've been questioning a lot about my identity and the various borders I draw for myself. Despite the complexity and theoretical nature of the academic material I have to go through for class including the thoughts I'm thinking each day, I'm learning a lot about the simplicity of life; especially, life here.

Without those clear-cut roads lined and ordered for efficiency.
Without an automobile to always worry about.
Without the road rage that complements individual rights; those me me me's.
Without the excessively large closet I make myself up with.

Without the fast food franchises that storm each intersection.

Without the chemically-engineered food that problematize health of so many people.
And so much more..

I hope to post up pictures each week or every 2 weeks to update friends and family of what I have been up to. I miss you all.

2010-08-02T12:05:00.001-07:00

testing testing

EAP Vietnam

2010-05-09T02:56:00.000-07:00

Can't wait for EAP Vietnam!!!

White Privilege

2009-12-24T01:52:00.000-08:00

Was digging through past coursework. Found this document about white privilege from my first sociology class, Soc 1.

"I was taught to see racism only in individual acts of meanness, not in invisible systems conferring dominance on my group"

By Peggy McIntosh

Through work to bring materials from women's studies into the rest of the curriculum, I have often noticed men's unwillingness to grant that they are overprivileged, even though they may grant that women are disadvantaged. They may say they will work to women's statues, in the society, the university, or the curriculum, but they can't or won't support the idea of lessening men's. Denials that amount to taboos surround the subject of advantages that men gain from women's disadvantages. These denials protect male privilege from being fully acknowledged, lessened, or ended.

Thinking through unacknowledged male privilege as a phenomenon, I realized that, since hierarchies in our society are interlocking, there are most likely a phenomenon, I realized that, since hierarchies in our society are interlocking, there was most likely a phenomenon of while privilege that was similarly denied and protected. As a white person, I realized I had been taught about racism as something that puts others at a disadvantage, but had been taught not to see one of its corollary aspects, white privilege, which puts me at an advantage.

I think whites are carefully taught not to recognize white privilege, as males are taught not to recognize male privilege. So I have begun in an untutored way to ask what it is like to have white privilege. I have come to see white privilege as an invisible package of unearned assets that I can count on cashing in each day, but about which I was "meant" to remain oblivious. White privilege is like an invisible weightless knapsack of special provisions, maps, passports, codebooks, visas, clothes, tools , and blank checks.

Describing white privilege makes one newly accountable. As we in women's studies work to reveal male privilege and ask men to give up some of their power, so one who writes about having white privilege must ask, "having described it, what will I do to lessen or end it?"

After I realized the extent to which men work from a base of unacknowledged privilege, I understood that much of their oppressiveness was unconscious. Then I remembered the frequent charges from women of color that white women whom they encounter are oppressive. I began to understand why we are just seen as oppressive, even when we don't see ourselves that way. I began to count the ways in which I enjoy unearned skin privilege and have been conditioned into oblivion about its existence.

My schooling gave me no training in seeing myself as an oppressor, as an unfairly advantaged person, or as a participant in a damaged culture. I was taught to see myself as an individual whose moral state depended on her individual moral will. My schooling followed the pattern my colleague Elizabeth Minnich has pointed out: whites are taught to think of their lives as morally neutral, normative, and average, and also ideal, so that when we work to benefit others, this is seen as work that will allow "them" to be more like "us."

Daily effects of white privilege

I decided to try to work on myself at least by identifying some of the daily effects of white privilege in my life. I have chosen those conditions that I think in my case attach somewhat more to skin-color privilege than to class, religion, ethnic status, or geographic location, though of course all these other factors are intricately intertwined. As far as I can tell, my African American coworkers, friends, and acquaintances with whom I come into daily or frequent contact in this particular time, place and time of work cannot count on most of these conditions.

1. I can if I wish arrange to be in the company of people of my race most of the time.

2. I can avoid spending time with people whom I was trained to mistrust and who have learned to mistrust my kind or me.

3. If I should need to move, I can be pretty sure of renting or purchasing housing in an area which I can afford and in which I would want to live.

4. I can be pretty sure that my neighbors in such a location will be neutral or pleasant to me.

5. I can go shopping alone most of the time, pretty well assured that I will not be followed or harassed.

6. I can turn on the television or open to the front page of the paper and see people of my race widely represented.

7. When I am told about our national heritage or about "civilization," I am shown that people of my color made it what it is.

8. I can be sure that my children will be given curricular materials that testify to the existence of their race.

9. If I want to, I can be pretty sure of finding a publisher for this piece on white privilege.

10. I can be pretty sure of having my voice heard in a group in which I am the only member of my race.

11. I can be casual about whether or not to listen to another person's voice in a group in which s/he is the only member of his/her race.

12. I can go into a music shop and count on finding the music of my race represented, into a supermarket and find the staple foods which fit with my cultural traditions, into a hairdresser's shop and find someone who can cut my hair.

13. Whether I use checks, credit cards or cash, I can count on my skin color not to work against the appearance of financial reliability.

14. I can arrange to protect my children most of the time from people who might not like them.

15. I do not have to educate my children to be aware of systemic racism for their own daily physical protection.

16. I can be pretty sure that my children's teachers and employers will tolerate them if they fit school and workplace norms; my chief worries about them do not concern others' attitudes toward their race.

17. I can talk with my mouth full and not have people put this down to my color.

18. I can swear, or dress in second hand clothes, or not answer letters, without having people attribute these choices to the bad morals, the poverty or the illiteracy of my race.

19. I can speak in public to a powerful male group without putting my race on trial.

20. I can do well in a challenging situation without being called a credit to my race.

21. I am never asked to speak for all the people of my racial group.

22. I can remain oblivious of the language and customs of persons of color who constitute the world's majority without feeling in my culture any penalty for such oblivion.

23. I can criticize our government and talk about how much I fear its policies and behavior without being seen as a cultural outsider.

24. I can be pretty sure that if I ask to talk to the "person in charge", I will be facing a person of my race.

25. If a traffic cop pulls me over or if the IRS audits my tax return, I can be sure I haven't been singled out because of my race.

26. I can easily buy posters, post-cards, picture books, greeting cards, dolls, toys and children's magazines featuring people of my race.

27. I can go home from most meetings of organizations I belong to feeling somewhat tied in, rather than isolated, out-of-place, outnumbered, unheard, held at a distance or feared.

28. I can be pretty sure that an argument with a colleague of another race is more likely to jeopardize her/his chances for advancement than to jeopardize mine.

29. I can be pretty sure that if I argue for the promotion of a person of another race, or a program centering on race, this is not likely to cost me heavily within my present setting, even if my colleagues disagree with me.

30. If I declare there is a racial issue at hand, or there isn't a racial issue at hand, my race will lend me more credibility for either position than a person of color will have.

31. I can choose to ignore developments in minority writing and minority activist programs, or disparage them, or learn from them, but in any case, I can find ways to be more or less protected from negative consequences of any of these choices.

32. My culture gives me little fear about ignoring the perspectives and powers of people of other races.

33. I am not made acutely aware that my shape, bearing or body odor will be taken as a reflection on my race.

34. I can worry about racism without being seen as self-interested or self-seeking.

35. I can take a job with an affirmative action employer without having my co-workers on the job suspect that I got it because of my race.

36. If my day, week or year is going badly, I need not ask of each negative episode or situation whether it had racial overtones.

37. I can be pretty sure of finding people who would be willing to talk with me and advise me about my next steps, professionally.

38. I can think over many options, social, political, imaginative or professional, without asking whether a person of my race would be accepted or allowed to do what I want to do.

39. I can be late to a meeting without having the lateness reflect on my race.

40. I can choose public accommodation without fearing that people of my race cannot get in or will be mistreated in the places I have chosen.

41. I can be sure that if I need legal or medical help, my race will not work against me.

42. I can arrange my activities so that I will never have to experience feelings of rejection owing to my race.

43. If I have low credibility as a leader I can be sure that my race is not the problem.

44. I can easily find academic courses and institutions which give attention only to people of my race.

45. I can expect figurative language and imagery in all of the arts to testify to experiences of my race.

46. I can chose blemish cover or bandages in "flesh" color and have them more or less match my skin.

47. I can travel alone or with my spouse without expecting embarrassment or hostility in those who deal with us.

48. I have no difficulty finding neighborhoods where people approve of our household.

49. My children are given texts and classes which implicitly support our kind of family unit and do not turn them against my choice of domestic partnership.

50. I will feel welcomed and "normal" in the usual walks of public life, institutional and social.

Drawing Parallel Lines of Experience

2009-12-18T09:29:00.000-08:00

It's funny to look back at your high school years and see that they also somehow parallel your college years.

here and then.

accept it, grow from it, and move along.

The End of Another Semester

2009-12-16T07:41:00.000-08:00

It's almost 8 AM and I'm still up because my sleeping pattern is out of wack! Well actually, throughout the whole semester I usually slept around 5-6 AM and wake up around 12 PM. Ah. I really don't know if this is exactly healthy for my body, but I hope to regain a normal sleeping schedule (11-2) this break.

Reflection of this semester, Fall 2009

it's been quite interesting living at DA HEIGHTZ in Rochdale, the well-renown, or rather notorious spot for parties that hold over its maximum capacity of 30 -- we've had 200-300 people come in and out at our parties. While it kind of sucks to have the downstairs room, the experience living here is quite indelibly memorable. Aside from cheap rent, cheap landry, I am really loving the community aspect of co-op living. I am really going to miss my roommates and this atmosphere when I leave for Viet Nam next year in the Fall. Of course I won't miss the dirtiness of the apartment though. hah!

I declared American Studies as my second major this semester and after taking two of the courses offered under the department, I can say I really like what I am learning and I feel the topics discussed and the different theories really correspond to my own fascinations, curiosity, and questions about American life, or even the questions surrounding the definition of America, being an American, and American culture. Very interesting! Because I'm double majoring now, I'm hoping to graduate by Spring 2011, or Summer 2011 at the latest.

I think one of the most important aspects of this semester for me is the new type of consciousness--or different sets of question in regards to my life here, in San Jose, and elsehwere--that deals with my position being a student here at CAL, an elitist university and how I've realized how alienated and detached I've become.

To tell you the truth, it's quite depressing thinking about how just by being here, by being a Cal student, by having that attached to your name and people's perception of you, it can be quite condescending to other people who do not go to this prestigious university--just by you being you, or what ever/how ever you want to define it.

My birthday is also coming up, December 25, Christmas day. I remember growing up my parents would celebrate Christmas because of me--they did it because they did not want me to feel left out from all the other children at school who would talk about their Christmas day, waking up bright and early in the morning, running to the Christmas tree with their parents close by opening up presents under the shining light the Christmas tree star, and how they got the newest toy that they had always wanted and or the newest video game, or pair of shoes, or skateboard. My parents wanted me to feel like I was a part of America.

I wish I could show more gratitude to them now, but it's hard because emoting has never been an easy thing for especially when I am at home. I don't know if that type of tendency is part of my psyche or habits or whatever, but it's very hard to express how I really feel at home. You can say it's cultural, but there can always be a change. Perhaps I'm just not used to being expressive at home because lyrical or verbal love is not emphasized in my family; love is rather a form of sacrifice, and it's usually silent. Hmm..

I don't want to drag on for too long. It'll be dull. Until next time. I really have to get back to sleep. I'll be sure to get on this more since it's quite therapeutic.

Biography to Geography

2009-11-15T20:11:00.000-08:00

I can't wait to go to Viet Nam next Fall. It won't be an escape, but rather it will be connecting my biography and geography.

Poem From Anthology Workshop

2009-10-17T16:10:00.001-07:00

Family gatherings is where I hear the
thump thump
of familiar voices in Vietnamese karaoke the
thump thump
of the rhythms of little cousins' bottoms sliding down the rough carpet stairs the
thump thump
of the footsteps made by mothers in the kitchen cooking the
thump thump
of the slapping of playing cards on dinner tables by uncles and fathers the
thump thump
of my heart beat
cause.... that is where the home is.

Perspectives

2009-10-17T03:17:00.000-07:00

it's mind boggling to think of how many diverse and dispersed perspectives there are along the lines of class, sexuality, gender, race, locale, nation.

A night within a morning

2009-10-03T08:08:00.001-07:00

based on reason, science, or so-called evident truths, we look at time as something linear, continuous, always moving with us moving with it, directing forward all the time.

for some, time moves faster for them than others. for some, time moves slower for them than others. if you "feel" like time is moving fast or slow, then are you purely "feeling" meaning you're not being rational as you are basing your truth on simply emotion. We can get all philosophical here, but perhaps I should not continue to delve into it.

This year is my most busiest year. It seems like I've adjusted quite well to my classes. I'm no longer as stressed out as I used to be over tests and assignments as I just naturally do them now. I'm reflecting on how I used to spend my "time", this linear conception we've come to understand growing up.

Sometimes, I wish I still had the time (Whatever that means) to catch up on the latest movies, tv shows, things that unite a lot of people nowadays. Being in this sanitized bubble of privilege, I've been realizing so much of my detachment to outer societies--whatever they may be. I feel like I am still living in the past. I need to have some time to catch up on time sometime.

It's the morning from a late night of partying again. I should be sleeping, but I can't. This feeling is coming back to me and I can't seem to digest it. Let it feed on me again for old time's sake

Walking Out on 9/24 (today)

2009-09-24T01:17:00.000-07:00

I'm still up researching and writing my paper for Advertising. I am hoping to finish this paper tonight, or even perhaps in the morning, so I can participate fully in the protests that is happening TODAY all across California on UC campuses. I've recently heard that community college is also hurt and De Anza College in Cupertino has thousands of students not being able to add classes they want and need. This shit is crazy.

Reflecting on what I've been going through in college, I'm very grateful to be in a time period like this: the first person of color/mixed race person to become president and being in Berkeley to witness the mass reveling on the streets and this mass protest movement that is happening today all over the UCs. I find it incredibly unfair to take so much money away from education in a time like this especially when education is the basis for our social structure and the underserved's mobility. 3% of the state budget is cut, and 30% is cut from education. Tuition is raised from $6,000 to $10,000 which ironically shows that public education is slowly becoming privatized.

Sorry, but after years of struggle, movements and fight for civil rights from many people, it is again overturned even more with something like this. Sorry, but the door for college is gonna be shut for a lot more people like people of color and immigrants. Sorry, it's not gonna happen. You tell me if this is democracy when more people are going to become more disenfranchised because. You tell me if it's fair to slowly move into segregation AGAIN.

War - The World is a Ghetto

this may be true, if education is only accessible to a few, and barred off from many.

The Purpose of Papers

2009-09-23T03:09:00.000-07:00

Gotta write them papers to get that paper.

The Purpose of Education

2009-09-18T21:38:00.001-07:00

You're IN class so later on you can HAVE class.

The Curse and Gift of Thinking Hard

2009-09-15T00:59:00.001-07:00

Sometimes, I refer myself as a Hamlet, that character in that Shakespearean play who overanalyzes his situations so much that he becomes caught in the web of his thinking. He is literally a victim of his own cognitive spider. When I first read, or rather sparknoted, that play in my senior year of high school, the dimensions of his character spoke so much the dimensions of my own character, or at least my interpretation of it.

Something I might wanna on this year since this is my last real year here is at CAL is to "take things as it is" (as quoted by Voltaire from my APALI internship this year) sometimes. My human relationships are on the line and I really want to make the people around me happy and myself happy. I know there will be a lot of fluctuations throughout this year, but it really all depends on how I approach it.

The Irony of My Schedule

2009-09-14T02:45:00.001-07:00

The Son comes in when the sun comes out. I love it.

3rd Year

2009-09-12T13:50:00.001-07:00

Let's hope I don't screw it up.

Let's hope I screw it in instead.

(no sexual pun intended)

Stuck In The Attic

2009-09-11T02:40:00.001-07:00

I feel like Anne Frank,
not hiding from the Nazis,
but from the Future.

I am hiding in the attic
in the Past.
How dusty everything and

I am chained to the hands
of this clock.

I feel like puking out
what money had to buy

the shores of my
own desires.

Berkeley Jerkers in LA

2009-09-08T17:25:00.000-07:00

Recap:
-LA trip was so much fun. It's a whole different experience when you are going with your friends instead of your family. Although LA looks beautiful in its plasticky, intentional, and rhetorical way, I am still proud to be at CAL in spite of its urbanness, cloudiness, grayness. Like the rose that grew out of concrete, which 2pac used as an allegory in many of his works, beauty CAN come from something so ugly and that is Berkeley and its revolutionary way of thinking.

Check out the Berkeley Jerkers!!

Passed in the Past

2009-09-08T05:11:00.000-07:00

It's 5 AM and I still do not know why I'm still awake. I suppose I've gotten so past the sleepy stage that I am now wide awake.

Recap:
-APALI 2009 was definitely a revolutionary year. I am so grateful to have been an intern for this year. No regrets.
-I was able to pass Astronomy class with an astonishing grade of a C+ with little to no effort put into studying for the tests and giving my attention in class. I really disliked the professor who was incredibly condescending and self-righteous towards his students. Screw that guy! I could not stop thinking about how he looks so much like Plato/Aristotle and Santa Claus.
- <3
-I am disappointed that I was not able to catch up with more old friends. I have to keep on reminding myself not to get so caught up in me and my own little world that I create under the circumstances I am in.

Lately, I've been thinking about how and where I fall within the time continuum of space and time (philosphical isn't it?). I've thinking a lot about my past obsessions with computers and technology, especially back in middle school, aka the Counter-Strike days. The days of anime, AzN PryDe along with growing popularity of AzN youth typing in "hip" sticky-capped internet ebonic langauge, searching and experiementations with identity.

I felt back then I was truly ahead of my time in terms of my expertise with computers. I had truly thought that I was going to be a computer engineer or computer programmer until my parents told me my "element", which is wood, was not compatible with steel, which in this respect is associated with computers. I remember helping all my friends with their computer hardware and software problems in person as well as on forums such as viaarena.com and tomshadware.com. I was proud that I had knowledge many did not have since during this time, not many people had computers. This was a time before myspace and facebook while xanga and blogs were gaining a lot of popularity. I was so proud to be a computer geek or nerd. I felt I was ahead of my time relative to the friends I had who did not have access to the type of computing langauge I had.

But now.. I feel like I'm still stuck in 2001. I often get surprised of how "mainstream" internet langauge is nowadays: LOL, LMFAO, OMG can be heard in songs and tv shows. Programs are made so user-friendly nowadays that I feel a lack of independence and control to how I used to feel about using programs from back then. Webpages do not have to be self-coded in HTML anymore. Pirating movies is not just limited to IRC anymore, but can be downloaded and watched on streaming sites and torrents. In many respects, I feel like how my computer is everyday--always becoming obsolete with each second that passes.

I feel like the world that I am an insider, yet outsider in is moving so fast like the skinny kids in my PE class mile-runs that my chubby self cannot keep up with their ever fast times. I'm always a few laps behind. Clocks have hands, but will never give you a helping hand because even when you are behind, it will keep on moving, ticking and tocking, without you.

12 hour days

2009-07-12T11:46:00.000-07:00

I've been having 12 hour days interning and taking a class at De Anza; from 8am-8pm. My internship is with APALI, the Asian Pacific American Leadership Institute. So far it's been a great experience. I am really learning a lot about myself, my leadership, and privilege through this program. In fact, I was actually a student in 2007 during the summer before my 1st year at Berkeley. So APALI has been a part of me and my political identity formation for the past 2 years. I really love it

And for the class, I'm taking Astronomy in which I fall asleep whenever the lights go off and the projector turns on. The classroom is in a planetarium with seats that stay reclined for you to gaze up into the spheric ceiling of stars and planets. It feels like the Back to the Future ride at Universal Studios. I am still sad that they got rid of it. I'm taking the class to fullfill my Physical Science breadth requirement. Good thing only the units or credits transfer, not the grade because I do not plan on buying the book or studying for it extensively. I'm basically half-assing the class. hehe

The fact that I am going to be a 3rd year hit me today while I was talking to Huy, one of my good friends from Van Lang who is also going to be a senior in high school. On top of busy days, I've also been guiding and counseling a few friends and family friends on personal statements and college stuff. Everyone's getting older. Back when I was a kid, I never really paid attention to time. I had thought things would stay the same probably because I was sheltered. I didn't move a lot. I had a consistent room. My parents were consistent with each day with the roles they carried out in the household. Wishful thinking indeed.

Summer is great so far! I hope to continue to catch up with old friends and make new ones.

My 7th Grade Journal

2009-07-05T23:47:00.000-07:00

While I was cleaning up my room, I found a journal from 7th grade. I cannot believe I wrote this back then. Around 7 years ago...

September 11, 2002

"I feel sorry for hte people on the plane and the two towers. Innocent people killed over religion. It's just not right. When I saw the building collapsed on the news the first time, I felt like I was in a movie, not real. I have never seen a plane hit into a building then collapsing before, and people jumping out of the window, falling to their end. Never in my life have I saw that kind of image, only in the movies.

Before all this happened back when I was 10, I felt I lived in a good place, where no one would get hurt. But I learned that the world not all happy."

October 11, 2002

"I hate it when people hate on each other. People are not supposed to hate people. About the 9/11 thing, other people were prejudice against the hijackers' nationality, which was Muslim. Americans thought that 'Islam' was a very evil religion. They were all wrong. It looks like they did not study that religion. They just hated it because it was clearly 'Muslim.' Hate is a very powerful word. It defines anger and dislike at the same time. Which can cause that person, or group of people to kill, or oblish that certain thing. An example is the KKK, which is a group of people who hate black people. If one of the members had a chance to kill a black man, he would."

October 23, 2002

"The thing I value most are my family and friends. They are more important in my life than all the riches in the world. Nothing can surpass love or friendship. Without friends or family I would not be me today. Or a part of me. Only a part of me would be here. Without people around people, people would not be people."

Back On The Road

2009-07-03T13:08:00.000-07:00

SASC SI 2009 was truly inspiring. Despite "shit happening," I thought it went pretty well. The cohort of mentees this year was a unique one. SASC is truly a family. As each year passes, my age hits me more. I can't say the realization of age is only apparent in family, but I can say that perhaps in my mind, I associate the two things together most of the time. I think about it more whenever I am in my own family or at home.

The theme this year was "Re-Mapping Our Geography", which is a little different from past years' as it focuses on drawing, and redrawing your understanding of yourself. How did you become you in the first place? Where did you come from? How did you get there? Why are you here? Where are you on the map? Where are people like you on the map? Is the current master map inclusive of your own history, your stories, your belonging, your home? With this theme, there is a huge emphasis on belonging, space, travel, and advancement. Instead of using roots all the time, we played with maps and geography. If you think about it, geography is a huge part of our lives. It's not just limited to pin pointing where you are on the map or spinning the globe to check out where is where. You have the power to change what has already been set. Things always change. Do you want to change with it? Or do you want to ignite the changing?

I'm back on the road, and I'm moving forward. I'm in control of my direction. Even if I have no direction, I am still in control of myself. I am free to encounter whatever will appear in my lifemap. My past will be my compass. My present will be where I stand. My future will be where I go. I'm back and there is no stopping me from moving on, going to anywhere I want to go, and being where I want to be.

Empty

2009-06-11T02:10:00.000-07:00

Where did all my passion go?

Best Man

2009-05-21T17:13:00.001-07:00

I could still remember when you used to take me down, sit on my face, and fart on it. And another time when I got really mad at you, I threw a stapler to your face. Luckily you dodged it or else I would've regret it even more. Now, it's time for your wedding this Sunday. It looks like I have to throw a speech at you on your wedding day.

My brother Bob's wedding is this Sunday. He chose me as "best man". I seriously have not come up with a speech yet. I've been youtubing and reading tutorials and guides on how to make this speech. I'll try to whip up something by tonight hopefully.

I'm happy for my brother. When I was still a boy with all my three brothers still living in the house, I could never have imagined what is to come on Sunday. It seems so surreal that I will be up there with him and his future wife, Maria, speaking. It's going to be an interesting night. I'm excited to have a larger extended family here and in the Philippines!

Blurry Lenses

2009-05-15T19:22:00.001-07:00

Watch this. And it's gone. Shall we replay that? No, we can't. We can't let anyone know about this. We can't let anyone know about us. Destroy the footage. Destroy the evidence.

Drink this so you won't remember it, or at least you think you won't remember it. Drink it so perhaps you can bend the truth a little bit. Oh shit, the cameras are watching me. How do I shut it off? How do i shut off people's eyes?

jibber jabber jibber jabber. Let them talk. They don't know the truth. This really happened.

[presses play on the remote]

Ow. My head hurts. There's only so much I can remember. Why do these scenes keep on playing over in my head? How do I shut this off?

[presses stop]

It's over now. I'm going to archive you in the library now. First, I gotta brush the dust off my shelf. There you go.

After the Fall

2009-04-29T16:24:00.000-07:00

After the fall, a new season blossoms. Pollen of ships scatter across oceans. Geography becomes modified once again. Liberation at last! Fists in the air as the sound of helicopters fade out. Those damn colonizers are gone! The Vietnamese people are now independent. They are no longer subordinates to the French or Americans or Chinese! At Last! At Last!

At least, more people did not lose their homes. At least, more people were not killed in this war for liberation, for democracy, for independence or whatever. At least, the little boy with bowl cut hair sipping on his bowl of chao got the luxury to watch Scooby Doo on such a big tv in such a big suburban neighborhood in such a big city like San Jose. What is this fall you call?

I never learned of "Black" April until I got to college. I had thought Sai Gon and Ho Chi Minh City were two different cities. When a few of my friends used Ho Chi Minh City instead of Sai Gon, I was puzzled. What did each connote? I recall a time when we had some sort of heritage day in kindergarten on the the grass field, there were flags of so many nations. I remember seeing the flag of Viet Nam which my teacher had to point out for me. I did not know "my own flag"? Red body with a yellow star in a middle. I never knew? I had always thought it was yellow with three blood red stripes. Or maybe, the red, white, and blue flag. I am an American after all. What flag do I raise? Why do I have to raise a flag period?

Knowing that I come out of this history, I wouldn't be here if it hadn't been for the war, for the Fall of Saigon. My parents were privileged to had lived in an urban area where war did not take place in. They did not feel the war until the Fall of Saigon on April 30, 1975 when troops marched into their city (can't remember the city at the moment). They were not seeking for opportunities like other immigrant groups in the past, they were seeking a new home. I am not too sure whether they've found it yet either. Little Saigons, Lion Plazas, and Grand Centuries scream out a Viet Nam of the past, before the war, before this Fall. Even the blood-lined flag we use to represent ourselves is all of rebuilding a nostalgic, romanticized past. You see it in Paris by Night. You hear it in the voices of Vietnamese karaoke'ers--the rural sorrow, the industrial happiness.

I can mourn for all who have died because of war or the boat experience, but I do not know if I can mourn for the loss of a nation. If I were then I would be mourning the exodus for my existence and the foundation of my identity.

Born

2009-04-24T12:40:00.000-07:00

My body lays on my bed with a sea of blankets and ships of pillows.
My head facing up to the ceiling patched with glow-in-the-dark stars, green like greed.
My arms near my chest as if they were confined by shackles.
My legs bent, my knees to my stomach.
My body in fetus position.
I become me coming out of my mother's womb.

Born crying to a new world,
my eyes start to open
to the ER blinding lights.

I sleep in this darkness
so
I can wake again to the light
and be born again.

Ba Noi

2009-04-22T11:59:00.001-07:00

I can still remember the tobacco in her mouth, the constant chewing of her mouth that made the wrinkles on her face dance, the fabric wrapped around her head like a hood that covered the grayness of her hair. Ba Noi, my grandmother, my father's mother, was one of the two women in the house: my mother and her.

I was 7 at the time and I had just moved into my brother Thuan's room. Before, I had slept in my parent's room where every night was a Chinese movie night. I used to stack the black tapes pretending they were sky scrapers. I would see how many tapes I could stack until it collapsed. One time, I made a tower of tapes surpassing the height of my adolescent body. I also remember the tape rewinder we had that looked like a car. It was ironic that the car did not rewind as fast as the VCR.

It took me awhile to realize that the movies were Chinese dubbed in Vietnamese. I had always wondered why the lips sometimes did not match the the melody and the rhythm of the Vietnamese langauge and why sometimes the ambience sounds were obscure. I suppose I was too used to the animation of cartoons on Nickelodeons where characters' lips moved up and down like a nutcracker. Up and down. Up and down. No variation.

It took me awhile to understand my grandmother. From what I can remember from my childhood, I did not have a great relationship with her. What I do remember was I looked down her and I was ashamed of her. I looked down on the tobacco she chewed throughout the day. I was ashamed that she could not speak much English and was always in the house, immobile. I was ashamed to bring my white friends home, fearing they would see me differently after they had seen my grandmother. I looked down on the cave-like room she lived in, like a bear, like a vampire--always in the dark.

I often teased her and let her chase me up stairs to my brother's room. Her raspy voice, groaning of old pain would circulate the empty house. My premature, pre-puberty voice gigling, laughing like I meant it. I still regret doing all those terrible things to her. My grandmother used to take care of me. She became my my mother when my real mother could not take care of because her work--putting together angel dolls for a company--a few cents a doll. My grandmother loved me, but I did not love her back until after her funeral, after I grew up a little bit more after that. Thank you/Sorry Ba Noi.

Dots

2009-04-16T19:38:00.000-07:00

I stare at the dozen dots on the cheeks of Wendy's picture on the cup of coke. Her red hair. She must be Irish. Her freckles. She must be white. Her silky white skin that blended in the snow colored cup--cold and icey. Her pony tails. She's so much like the girls at my elementary school.

I could still remember my first crush. Her name was Melanie who also had these dozen dots on her cheeks. Before she moved away, she had promised me to bring turkish delites to school for me to try. Our class had gotten done with the book "Narnia" and I had no idea what those British candies were. My child mind conjured up turkeys, Thanksgiving, Indians, and Pocahontas after I had read about it. Of course, my ESL-mind was wrong. I was always corrected not by people, but by myself. I would think things, have preconceptions, then get corrected later on by experiencing, see, hearing, feeling. That was how I learned as a child. And I still learn that way even up to today.

Melanie never came back. Melanie never brought those turkish delites for me to try. Even though I knew she was going to be gone forever, I still waited. This was my first experience with "longing". I still have never tried turkish delite. Whenever turkish delite comes up, I think of this memory. I think of my initial preconceptions of what they were. I think of her generosity. This could be Thanksgiving. I was the Indian and she was the white settler. I had no idea what this British treat was and she was willing to let me into her world. It never happened.

Perhaps, I should offer some of my things to others too. I should make it happen

Stages

2009-04-06T11:40:00.001-07:00

The VSA Culture Show is coming up in a few weeks: April 19th at 5 PM At Zellerbach. The title of this show is called "Monsoons". I play the nameless "Warrior" who tries to save a village from starvation and a drought. He journeys into the jungle to find the sacred spring that can save the village. Ironically, in the end, he causes the unleashing of an evil spirit worsening the problem. It is supposed to allegorically reflect the history many Vietnamese Americans came out of: The Viet Nam War and its many paradoxes in revolution, nationalism, heroism, change, oppression, and displacement. Woo, so many key words!

I've never given actors much credit for their talents. Acting is pretty hard I must say. I know it's all psychological. I have to be in the mind of the character, not just the body; I'm still waiting for my costume. Hopefully, by then, I can get into character more. If I had been given an insane, funny but meaningful, or villainous role I think I would have fitted those better. Besides the stress and anxiety of memorizing these darn lines, I am pretty excited to be on stage acting for the first time ever. Come see me! SUNDAY, APRIL 19th, ZELLERBACH, 5 PM, $13 presale, $15 at the door.

I've been down lately. Another stage.... My taste buds don't work as well anymore so food doesn't taste as great. My stomach is constantly aching, So does my mind. My nose is always congested because of the weather--it's so nice out, too bad I could never enjoy sniffing the flowers like how it is in cartoons when depicting spring and its beauty. Music doesn't sound as good anymore either. It feels like my speakers are dying or is it my ears, or is it the pleasure I take from listening to music?

I can't sleep sometimes. I constantly think about things I shouldn't even be thinking about. Circles. Reoccuring shapes and scenes and faces.

I sit with my face down to a ground I used to walk on when I was a Freshman, unfamiliar and unaware of my placement. I hear the doors closing like an orchestra of secrets. Behind those closed doors, I wonder what happens. The knobs lock, why should I bother busting the door open? Knock. Knock. My face still to the ground reliving what I could've, should've, would've been through. We are placed at certain times, just like music--right and exact--about perfect--no, it must be perfect. They suddenly stop. Gone. It's dark. Night Time. Behind the same closed doors, laying down next to you, secrets are revealed we both become vulnerable in darkness where our shadows do not linger. Safe again? really?

I am here. Again. And I wonder why I keep on coming back.

Too Fast, Too Late

2009-03-31T17:03:00.000-07:00

Finally, it is getting hot. The sun is shining. The skies are blue. Once again. The wind blowing through what is left of my hair, I keep on rolling the the lever for the windows to sink so everyone else with their windows down can hear the music too. The speakers are bumping bass-intensive trance music to pass this drive by faster. Faster. Faster so I can pass everyone by. This repetition of melodies cycling round and round this never ending road leading me down and down that I am actually going up waiting for the climax waiting for a brick on the road anything anything

I push the gas pedal, the engine roars like a mechanical lion. This jungle, I call 87 N, has a lot of traffic during this time. I smell the gasoline burning, intensifying the heat of this hot day. These exhausted pipes fuel this air. I can see this air getting more rigid like waves of a toxic ocean, like the transparent outlinings of ghosts. So empty, yet dense. I can taste the bitterness of this so-called necessity to go faster, to maintain this speed.

I am trying to get home 75 miles per hour. The fast lane, though it's just me.. It's 3:27. 3 minutes until the middle of the hour. I can't stand being in the middle. I wish I could have those 30 minutes back because time is so precious. That's what I've been taught.

PAUSE.

Where am I? Where am I going really? How am I really doing? Output more Q's so more A's can come out at such an alarming rate. product product. BEEP BEEP. It's TIME to WAKE up, but I'm too tired to get up again and again and again. To get back on this road. Back and forth. Back and forth. I am beat down by time though so many people want to beat time. Sometimes, I just want to take it slow so I can see myself move without the blindfolds.

I'll be sure to give you time.

Four Corners of My Lime Green Wall

2009-03-25T02:16:00.001-07:00

It's great to wake up to a fruity color like lime green. The color of the walls I wake up to remind me I am in my room in San Jose. Where I can sleep as long as I want. Where during a break like Spring Break I do not have to worry as much about reading, writing papers, or exams. Where my stomach does not feel as empty. Where my mother comes in the middle of the night yelling at how skinny and green I am and forces a glass of milk down my throat. It's quite dark. Let me open the blinds. Ah, sonshine. Good morning.

Spring Break has been a trip though I haven't been around much besides around San Jose. I've been here since Saturday. I hitched a ride with Thinh, Nam's friend, along with Phi, Helen, and myself. When I got home, I noticed the smell of my house more. It's like as if my nose had become unfamiliar to the scent of my home. My nose had to get used to it again. I could smell the distinctiveness of my house. I realized how powerful the kitchen is in our home dictating and controling the scents around the house. My mother's cooking, I could taste home upon sniffing it.

The red carpets of my house was something I had to get used to again. Being at Juan's place for almost month, I've gotten used to gray carpet. In my room, I notice the pee stains left by my chihuahua dog, Lucky. Whose dog isn't named Lucky if you are in a Vietnames familly? I call my dog Bang Lai, a name I thought of when seeing her run around and bowing for food--the rhythm of her movement. Don't ask me why else I named her that. It was the first sound or combination of words I heard in my head.

I've been going through my family pictures lately. My baby pictures included. I laugh at the naked pictures of me. I laugh at the little scribbles I angrily made as a kid in the photo albums. "Stupit family." "Retarted Guy." "Girls are Retarted." That's what I had written when I was a boy whose feelings were hurt. I wonder if I will laugh at a lot of things I had gone through not so long ago just like how I am laughing at the marks made by my adolescent self. Of course i will. Perhaps I should think more that way. I laugh at the stories I wrote when I was in elementary school. For instance, the mini-book I wrote about my macarena-singing stuffed gorilla who I had named "Banana", which I still have sitting somewhere downstairs. I should bring it back upstairs to my room.

Hearing my voice of me then is hilarious. This laughter is something different. Not the laughter you laugh at/with a comedian like Dave Chapelle. Or when you are embarrassed or nervous. Or when you see or hear someone else laugh. Or when you see or hear something silly or awkward. Or when you see or hear something that is ironic, satirical, absurd. Or when something is cute. No, it's incredibly different. I am guessing it is the laughter when a memory gets open up and you start to remember or at least try to remember how you were, what you were thinking of during that period that picture was taken. It's funny because yeah perhaps you look silly or cute, but that was you, and in many ways, that is you. Funny, how that is. I am still laughing about writing about why I am laughing. That's funny too.

The four corners of my lime green walls are dark now that the lights are off. I know it will be bright again. Until then, I have to keep my blinds closed until morning. I know these walls will shine again once I wake up after hearing the owl near my house hoot and open those blinds. Ah, good morning sonshine. It's 1 pm and it's time to live again.

Down Varsity Lane

2009-03-23T02:40:00.001-07:00

I drove down varsity lane at Willow Glen today with Phi and Michelle. It was more like driving down memory lane. I spent 7 years of my life at Willow Glen from middle school to high school. It's hard to believe so much has happened, how much things have changed at Willow Glen. New buildings, new signs, different colors. At least as I was driving, the bumps on the road felt the same. The bumps of my past.

I saw the basketball courts where I spent most of my time in 6th and 7th grade. I developed a move called "monkey style" that was a lay-up with a pass behind my back before shooting it into the basketball. A few friends of my friends who played with me should remember this. Good times.

I saw the spit pit near the basketball courts on the middle school side. The "spit pit" that was a stairway leading down to a room in the gym. No one should ever walk down there or else you'll get spat on.

I saw the shared running track. Dusty like how I remembered it. That was where I knew I had to change my weight and my look. I sprinted well, but my endurance was lacking. I was a pretty chubby kid. That summer before my Freshman year, I jogged literally everyday to improve myself. I lost 30 pounds. During my first year, I finished the mile under 10 min. PE was huge for me back then because throughout middle school I felt so insufficient. I had 15 min mile times. I wanted to change it all: my look, my athleticism, myself. And, I did.

I saw the field of tanbark which was the "new quad area" during the time. That table under the tree right dab in the center of the quad. I could still visualize my friends playing 13 on the tables. Along their side, I would watch, my hands in my uniformed khaki pant pockets, black sleeves of the same pull-over hoodie I would wear everyday. I could taste the chimichangas, the pink lemonade, the hot cheetos, the dominos pizza and breadsticks. Our little niche.

I wonder what I would do without all these spaces I had and experienced. What if I was not here, but there? What if I was born a few days earlier, I would be up a grade. What if I had stayed in East Side San Jose, and not moved to the outskirts of Willow Glen? Sometimes I see my life in a linear fashion. Upon analzying it, I see how each of the things that happen in my life fall into place almost so perfectly to form the person I am today. However, I know I don't have to look it that way all the time because I always have these questions of "what if"? What if I did not exist here, but I existed there?

The more I accept my home, the more my home will accept me. No more questions about where I belong when I know I belong here already. I am ready to enter through this door to stay here for awhile longer. That's only if it'll take me. It's all up to me whether or not I want to. And, I do.

Distance to Closeness

2009-03-22T03:57:00.001-07:00

The roads stretch far into the distance. I have yet to reach Closeness Inn at the median of this road. I am not too close, but I can get there if I keep on moving. My feet hurt from walking this gray, stone pathway. This cannot be Wizard of Oz again. The more concrete I walk on, the more concrete this distance I've been keeping from people becomes. I wish I had my razor scooter to get there faster. But, wait, is time really that important to me?

Tick Tock. My grandfather clock calls from the grave. He looks from the altar. Tick Tock. Shall I move on?

This cannot be Wizard of Oz again. You are the new-age the tin-person from today's standards: The robot, who show me the how it is like to have a heart. Perhaps, I am the robot. We are robots together I suppose. Please travel with me to Closeness Inn. I don't want to walk this road alone. Let's reach Closeness together.

This cannot be Wizard of Oz again, but it is now that I see it that way.

Save Her to Define Me

2009-03-16T11:25:00.000-07:00

Their speech and the movement of their mouths do not align. The weak woman character in the dubbed-in-Vietnamese Chinese kung-fu series cries in distress as she is getting raped by a villainous male character with hands that aggressively caresses her face traveling down to her waist and onto her.... Her voice is drowned by the dubbers inaccurately capturing the emotions displayed, skewing the tone of the scene. She screams. I wish I could had done something. Though I made sense of my world through these depictions on screen, it was not real, but it soon became real for me.

My 8 year old eyes, with pupils of dark brown, mirror the horrendous scene on the tv. I slowly form my perception of good and evil, man and woman.

I can see my little self growing angry, frustrated, confused of why women had to be weak, why women had to be dependent on a male hero to save her. I was a boy who wished he could be a hero to all those women under the evil of certain men. As a boy, I felt it was my duty to protect women, as a boy becoming a man.

I remember back then, I told my mother not to wear such revealing outfits out of fear she might attract other men. I wanted her to stay with me all the time, to smell her hair, to say she is my mother. "Please do not go to the doctor's, ma. I don't want him to touch you in those ways." I cried to my mother. I would use a plastic stool we would buy from Dai Thanh Supermarket on Story Road to hold onto her while she makes rice porridge. The familiar scent of her black, curly hair comforts me that I am home with my mother and that she is safe and that we are safe.

Manhood, I believed, was defined through these lines set by movies and television. I believed that one day I could be those heroic men in these stories. That was what represented good to me. I should have realized that women have the agency, that I should not be protective all the time of them, that I should not try to define myself through rescuing them to reinforce their fragility and weakness. Though I am conscious of this, I still have a tendency to be protective, but I am slowly letting it go little by little.

I want to let go of what I felt was right to me then
and move on what I think is right to me now.
The first step is to accept that "Women are not Roses".
They are who they are. Who they want to be. What they want to do.
I am who I am and I can't define them because I am not them.
I am not my mother. I am not you..

Faces

2009-03-15T03:17:00.000-07:00

My father and uncle sitting cross-legged around circles complemented with beer cans. The smell of cigarette smoke and alcohol consumes the air. One of my uncle with a cigarette in his mouth deals. A deal sealed, you can never take it back. Whoever made the deal must win or pay. Either or, either or. Faces, some red some smiling some dark some pale, face each other and onto facing the face of the dice facing the ceiling. The rattling of dice in bowls sounding like rattle snakes rattling: the click-clacking of venom. A strike into the heart with a bite. A bad omen. Dollar signs are on the line: who will take all that cash, all those chips? These color-coded tokens of yellow, red, white, and blue, have faces of dollar signs. The American faces on grassy-green bills show $20 on each of the sides of the rectangle: back and front with the front facing up. 2-dimensional. Stacks of them on carpet floor. American presidents on these leaf papers face these new refugees who've just come in. Faces around the circle face those faces of the currents of history printed and value instilled. Say "Hello" or "A-lo" to a pot of gold? Jackpot? Andrew Jackson? Jack Nguyen? Their eyes on the prize, in-n-out and between them, only them.

Friday Night(s)

2009-03-14T05:45:00.001-07:00

I don't want to let the drink talk for me. I ask it where it was made. It answers Europe, perhaps Germany, perhaps Russia, perhaps here wherever here is, it answers through my reading of its name and labels of the bottle. I twist its cap. I smell the scent of nail polish. I imagine my multiple Vietnamese barbers from multiple beauty salons. I imagine them cutting my hair, calculating which angle to snip at, wondering if I wanted it that way. I smell that scent, yet I still consume it, a piece of myself, my make-up. My mother appears out of that imagery evoked by my scent. My mother appears when I hear you speak of whatever issues you have being a woman.

Tears drip down an unfamiliar face. I've never seen this side of me before. Thank you for witnessing it so I can witness it for myself. Thank you.

Possession

2009-03-10T01:39:00.000-07:00

"No that's mine," I said out loud and in my mind. "That's mine...."

You know how you were growing up, there were a lot of kids who wrote their names on everything such as their backpacks, their binders, their gameboys, their water bottles? I remember knowing and seeing so many kids back in elementary school all the way up to high school who just wrote their names on everything. Of course, many of those kids progressed in writing their names on walls through the voices of their spray cans. I was never one of those kids who wrote their names on their belongings to show possession. Perhaps, I was a little ashamed of flaunting my name. Perhaps, I did not want to show that I was possessive. But, I was some way or another.

The Things They Carried by O'Brien was a book I had to read for AP Langauge and Composition my junior year. It made me really realize the things we mark ours define who we are whether it is our stories, our childhood toys, our family. Anything. It does not have to be materialistic. Posessiveness. I've always had trouble claiming my belongings. Throughout my childhood, I tried to avoid bringing friends over to my house. Perhaps once again, I was ashamed of the belongings in my house: the blood-red lights that shine from my alter with my deceased relatives' picture staring down at you, the smell of roasted fish or rice porridge, the unconventionality of everything, the lack of American-ness you can say. I couldn't proudly say this was my house, this was my family, this was my room.

If my belongings, or at least what I believe is mine, defines my identity, I suppose it is not too late to claim what is mine.

This is me. This is mine. Son's....

In a non-selfish way of course.

Hear I Speak

2009-03-09T01:50:00.001-07:00

I hear the Vietnamese in me
as
the sound of my voice captures
the pinches of Accents
above, between, under
my words
my syllables.

It cuts through
what I call this overriding
tongue swirling to the
melodies of
The Wheels on the Bus
Twinkle Twinkle Little Star
Mary Had a Little Lamb.

Each word
pronounced,
sung
how
it's supposed to be. The real way. The correct way.

I hear the Vietnamese in me
and
it sounds so
B-\\E-A.....TI-------FUL.

Ode to Connie

2009-03-07T20:24:00.000-08:00

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
She uses her tongue to educate and live.
Or perhaps, live to educate.
A dragon-boat rower,
her arms amplifying strength and might,
she fights her way
through Ignorance's waves of Injustices.
She uses her tongue to taste
the wine of her roots.
From the bottom up,
Bloom[helping others] [Connie] Bloom[helping others].
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

. . .

2009-03-04T15:30:00.000-08:00

. . .
is what I hear in my house.
. . .
Silence.
. . .
I hear the rice pot set by my mother murmuring the words "Never go hungry". The smell permeates upstairs into my room where I sit glued to the monitor screen.
I hear my father's tool banging on the vocal chords underneath a decrepit car from one of his clients. It's cold and it's raining. It looks like he's alone at his shop today.
I hear my eldest brother scrambling through the refrigerator in the kitchen before eating 11 PM dinners by himself, standing up. His hands glued to the remote. His eyes glued to the television screen.
. . .
Silence.
. . . . . .

I come back. My room had changed. A constantly changing and rearranging museum. The order of how my books are stacked on my shelf near my closet against the radiant lime green wall have changed. I know my father had been going through my belongings. The silence had caused him to go through his son's belongings to decipher who is own son is. Who is his son? Who is this boy who he calls his?

I can imagine him flipping through the pages of my certificates, autobiographies, reflections, pictures mirroring what I had done in high school and been doing at Berkeley. My internships, my summer programs, my high school involvement, Key Club, graduation, Reach!, SASC, Let's Rise. Everything, not through spoken words, but through text and pictures. I can imagine him struggling to define his son through foreign words he had never seen before, through foreign people who had never seen or met before. Why is this? Because I've kept my home reality and outside reality separate. Silence.

Funny how I've been doing the same for my eldest brother. Dusty. I try to understand my brother by checking up on what kind of books he's been reading, movies he's been watching. I see it's always quite organized. Dusty still. I wonder who you are, Thanh. Silence.

Luminosa Noche

2009-02-28T13:10:00.000-08:00

So I was looking through my xanga posts from high school, I was able to dig up a really sad poem I had written after my first break-up. Ah, the days of xanga.

Here is the poem I wrote during my junior year when I was taking my third year of Spanish.

Luminosa Noche

by Son Chau

Esta luminoso noche, hace muy frio-las nieves se lastiman
Yo no siento mis manos-son helada.
Escucho el clima, en mi cabeza, hay una tormenta.
Miro el cielo este noche con ella en su carro,
Las estrellas amarillas en el cielo negro detra's de nos-las hojas cantan en la calle.
El carino es un ilusionada-puedo llorar cuando estoy triste, puedo reir cuando estoy comi'co, puedo romper cuando tengo dolor.
Hay dos rios contentos, pero uno corre, y uno para por eternidad.
Hay dos flores bonitas, pero uno crece, y uno esta' mismo y solo' por eternidad.
El mundo me lastima-Yo me lastimo-Ella me lastima.
El mar en el mundo es azul, largo, y placido,
Los pajaros pueden volar debajo del mar.
Puedo morir debajo del mar, pero puedo vivir con ella....

This poem characterized much of my "emo-ness" through high school. Thank you Dashboard. Thank you Taking Back Sunday. Thank you Early November.

(Em)Braces

2009-02-28T12:18:00.001-08:00

My mouth filled with metal to gain a medal.
I ask please, please treat me right.
Straight teeth seem to be right.
Straighten me out.
Straighten me out.
No one wants to be crooked, a thief, a crook.

Mirror looking at me, I don't want to look.

...

Because image is everything?

I'm disappointed I'm not in Berkeley right now for Shadow Nite. I had to come back to San Jose on Friday for an Orthodontist appointment today, Saturday, to tighten my braces. I am in pain right now. Ow!

Driving down Tully Road to get to "other side" of town, though it's such a short distance (approximately 4 miles), it takes a quite awhile. There's always traffic on Tully, especially at the overpass to get on/off the freeway before the first and largest Chuck-E-Cheese in the US (yes, that is one of the things San Jose is known for). When I first learned how to drive, I believed the stereotype: Asians could not drive, especially those darn Vietnamese people, except me of course. My explanation for why that area specifically was so trafficky, which increase the chances of accidents (yeah, there are a lot of accidents there), was that Vietnamese are bad drivers.

Now, I understand that yeah some Vietnamese people might be bad drivers (applicable for everyone, not just limited to race and ethnicity), but you must take in consideration that that area has a dense population--it's overcrowded (you can look at the public policy aspect). Plus, that area is considered the "heart of the Vietnamese community" (Lion Plaza) in San Jose. No wonder it's so crowded all the time. Many Vietnamese rely on the services and businesses there. My orthodontis is there, right across from Eastridge. For many Vietnamese people, "everything to them" is there: the market, restaurants, coffee shops, doctor's, dentists', orthodontis'.. the list continues...

While driving down Tully, I could not help but to observe the elderly Vietnamese ladies, who remind me much of my own grandmothers, with their conical hats waiting at the bus stop, walking along street, crossing the street. I would glance at their teeth, crooked, sometimes not all there, but still smiling. Still smiling.

I could've sworn I left my smile somewhere. When back then it felt so right.

Moving Me, Moving Mine

2009-02-27T11:40:00.000-08:00

I've been living in my studio since August. Although I am anticipating to finally live with a roommate, another human being to talk to, I know later on I will miss living alone. These naked, off-white, walls clothed by black activists, musicians, Hip Hoppers, 2006 SASC SI, Let's Rise, Tiffany Lin's drawing of weed creature, and a poster of Starry Night right above my desk. I will truly miss seeing these pictures in the same order when I look circularly around the room during homework/reading breaks. They will have a new home soon. I will have a new home soon.

So, this Sunday I'll be moving into Juanito's place. I am going to be living in the living room. My parents, being the Feng Shui experts they are, hopefully will help me arrange the furniture. As a kid, I used to be really into Feng Shui. I read a lot on it. I do not believe the spiritual aspect of it, but I do believe the psychological and practicality of it--placement is everything. I recalled not being able to sleep when my bed, while myself was in it, facing the door. And another time when a mirror was facing my bed, I couldn't sleep as well. As a kid, i researched on those things and I found out that placing a bed in front of a mirror or a door is bad--the flow energy was not circulating well in the room, but for me, i felt it was more of a psychological thing. I kept on looking to the door to see who was walking towards me. I kept on looking to the mirror that held my dark reflection. That shit was creepy.

So, I'll be living in the living room, that will be my room, but it will still remain the living room. I can't wait to make the room up. I can't wait to finally cook in a kitchen, saving money on food, feeling independent and self-sufficient. I can't wait to install the disco ball on the ceiling. I can't wait to finally be able to blast music loudly on weekends without suite mates complaining.

Say good bye to the crazy thoughts I had confined in these four corners of this room. Say good bye to full-privacy. Say hello to a new start and eventually, new problems (it's inevitable). To be real.

Hedonists, We all Are?

2009-02-26T15:16:00.001-08:00

Study, my mother said, so you won't have to go through what we went through. Study, my father said, so you can have a family without financial stress like us. So, that was what I've been doing for 15 years of my life. Study, I said to myself, so I do not continue our/my family in that direction. The more money the merrier. The more money, the safer you are. That's what I believed. Now, I think college has had a profound impact on my understanding of I guess.. why, really? It made me rethink about that purpose, that objective.

This term, HEDONISM, I learned in my Philosophy class during my Freshman year has come up a lot in my mind.

he⋅don⋅ism
/ˈhidnˌɪzəm/ Show Spelled Pronunciation [heed-n-iz-uhm] Show IPA
–noun
1. the doctrine that pleasure or happiness is the highest good.
2. devotion to pleasure as a way of life: The later Roman emperors were notorious for their hedonism.

This term comes to mind a lot especially when I am at parties: any kind, whether it is kick-back, dances, smoke-outs, etc. Happiness through various means. Happiness is centralized within these realms. Happy Happy Man, that man on Telegraph and Bancroft raising a board of commentary, happy happy happy. Is he a hedonist, or is he making a message about our own happiness and order?

Are you happy that last weekend you were able to make-out with the person you really liked?
Are you happy that you you had such a great meal when you were high?
Are you happy that you can say you were part of that generation to experience the election of the first "Black", or mixed race, President?
Are you happy that Happy Happy Man made you smile because he has such a cute phrase? Oh Oh, listen to his speech. He has an accent. Is he insane? Does he know what he's talking about? What's this gibberish on his board? Is he insane?
Are you happy that you can consider yourself smarter than these group of people? That you go to Berkeley? That you can proudly show off your school's spirit and symbol of hierarchy by wearing CAL on your blue/GOLD sweater?

Is it just a hoodie? Is it just a dream? Is it a movie? An RPG (Role Playing Game)?

Happy Happy Happy.. let's smoke.. let's get drunk... it feels "so good". Keep on "feeling good."

Work Work Work.. but for what? for ourselves? for our family? for who who who

Happy Happy Happy. Hedonists, We All Are?

Home She Said To Me

2009-02-24T01:38:00.000-08:00

Mẹ,
cho con đời sống.
Mother,
you give me life.
You,
gave me life.

Mẹ,
How
can I put my hands on
you.

Mẹ,
When
you,
give life.
When
you,
make my home, make me home, make me.

Em,
your brown-nâu eyes,
mirror
my own,
mirror,
Mẹ.

Mẹ,
your tối-đen, black hair
imbued
by
the aroma
of
the
Perfume River.. is

The essence of my adolescence.
The essence of my manhood.

My running reflection.

Mẹ,
the wrinkles, the cracks, the marks on
your
hands
mirror
the beauty
I mirror the world to you, Em.

Viet-Nam-Mẹ-------------------
America-Em--------------------

I am you. I am you both. Viet Nam. America. My Em, my lover. My mother, my creator.

Centerterms, midterms

2009-02-19T17:07:00.001-08:00

Midterms. Centerterms. Right dab in the middle of everything, of all? Center us on the tests. Write your name on your blue book. You sit in the middle. Your name messily, thoughtfully written in the box, in the middle of the page. Your name is in the middle of the front. Frontterms. You are the term. These terms are not you. Sonterm. Jeffterm. Juanterm. Laozeemanterm. We are the front of those terms. Those terms are not in the front of us, nor are they right, or left, or middle. They are backterms, in the back of our minds, in the back of frontpages. Those terms are not you. Define those terms. Memorize those terms. Do those terms. Those terms are not you.

Buzzzzzzzed and I gotta study to define my terms. So I can get my term A, A, A. No Bees on my honey card.

ahh .

(Ignore)ance

2009-02-17T17:08:00.000-08:00

When I first heard of this word, I thought ignorance meant "not wanting to know". Since it has the root word of "ignore", the verb, which means to neglect, pretend someone or something is not there, not paying attention. There is intention involved in ignoring. I assumed ignorance was defined along the same lines, but I assumed wrong when my teacher in 4th grade told me it means simply "not knowing", instead of "not wanting to know". It was a hot, sweaty day after that recess when I learned of what that word meant when we were talking about history and its importance.

A student raised his hand and asked the teacher about the phrase "ignorance is bliss".

"Why do we have to learn history when my parents tells me this all the time?"

The teacher replied, "There are some things that we ought to know, and there are some things we ought not to know. History is important because it will help us understand the mistakes we ought not to repeat."

No students asked anymore questions after that. I wanted to know what those "things" were. Why do we need not to know these "things"? I wondered if these things could ruin my life? Isn't knowledge power? How is knowledge dangerous?

I had those questions throughout middle school and high school. Instead of following that phrase, "Ignorance of bliss", I followed the term "Knowledge is power". The computerized, internet age was beginning to pick up speed as computers, internet access became more and more accessible, more people were able to connect to each other, post knowledge on the web. Being the computer geek I was in middle school, I learned so much through the internet: from computer hardware, troubleshooting to glowsticking (raving) to insight on Hip Hop history, culture. I fed on knowledge and knowledge fed on me. In part, the computer, internet contributed highly to my identity: what was AzN? Counter-Strike? Import Cars? Import Models? How much "pryde" could I convey through my Xx's and Oo's in between, in the ends of my screen name?

Now that I am in college, some of the things I learn about society, human condition, institutions, the ills of history empowers me, yet at the same time, makes me more cynical. Sometimes, it hurts to know. It hurts to be able to deconstruct, destabilize your own reality, your family's reality. It hurts to know that you have agency coming from a environment where being dependent, sheltered was all you knew. It was so easy. Now it's so hard.

“Know history, know self. No history, no self.”–Mel Orpilla

Hey Arnold! Hey Mr. Hyunh (Huynh)!

2009-02-16T13:07:00.000-08:00

I should have posted this earlier on, like during the Holiday season. I've been wanting to share this episode with people for a long time now. It's the Christmas Special of Hey Arnold! from back in the late 90's. What makes this episode so controversial is that the story centralizes on the Vietnamese character of the story, Mr. Hyunh's, history; themes of war, displacement, and "leaving family behind" (in Mr. Hyunh's case, he stays behind in Viet Nam giving up his daughter to America, to American G.I.'s hands while the helicopter flies away). It's pretty darn touching.

When I first watched this episode, I didn't know what to think. "Could this my family's story as well?" I didn't ask my parents back then about their history. I was either in elementary school or middle school. My mind was still focused on video games, computers, riding my bike around, pokemon, etc. Now, when I watched it for the first time since then, I get butterflies and tear-eyed. It really hits home. I thought the people behind Hey Arnold! had an innovative idea of displaying race on screen in such a "multicultural way", while taking place in an urban setting.

The characters in the show are all from different racial, ethnic backgrounds; from the immigrant-filled house Arnold lives in to his friends at school playing football, baseball on the streets. Of course, Arnold, the main character, is white; the show is from his perspective, centers him as the protagonist. He unites Mr. Hyunh's war-torn family at the end. Gran Torino anyone? Last Samurai anyone? etc. etc. It is a common racial formula depicted on screen. But hey, this cartoon was way ahead of its time capturing the diverse composition of city-life I still think. Check it out, ya'll.

note: When I first watched Hey Arnold! I thought he looked so much like my dad's friend, Mr. Tai. lol

Dancing to Dream

2009-02-15T12:21:00.000-08:00

Dancing is an alternative reality for me. We use language everyday to communicate to each other, to get to each others' truths. Sometimes, I would slip on my syllables, pronunciations, and tones (especially for Vietnamese). Sometimes, I would judge people's character based on their speech; questions from intellectual capacity to race, ethnicity. Some might view race, ethnicity are linked to intellect, linguistic capacity in an English-speaking-dominant locale. Language can go with or against me. Dancing for me breaks those confined ways of thinking and judging.

SASCerade last night was really fun. I enjoyed the pre-party we had at Connie's where a lot of people were freestyling: Dancing with words. Not only is freestyling a funny ass thing to do with your friends, it's a great way to display whatever is on your mind, what you are learning whether in or out of class, humorizing topics or issues--a form of humanization of speech, experiences, thoughts. Everybody has a story to tell.

The same with dancing physically. It helps us humanize our existence through the movement of our bodies. Although many people might disagree, bumpin' and grindin' falls within my interpretation of dance and what it represents. It may be "sexual", but it's still part of our humanity, existence, being.

SASCerade's turn-out was huge! I am so glad that a lot of people came to help fund SI. "Dance up on each other to help fund the empowerment of youth!" haha. So much irony. But it's necessary. We gotta hustle forreal!

(Alter)ation

2009-02-14T11:48:00.001-08:00

Home is where the blood Red light shines
from
the alter of my ancestors.

Home is where the burning incense
timidly tickles
my nose when I step into the ruby room.

Home is where I must pray
under a
Nation
under
a God.

Home is where I bury my head
on my clenched fists
on moisty classroom
desks.

Home is where I bury my head
to the symphony
of prayers to
Him
after the Fall of
Two Towers.

Home is where I pray
to Them,
and,
not Him.

Names

2009-02-10T01:34:00.000-08:00

My brother, Bob, is getting married soon sometime in May. I am excited that finally one of my three older brothers is getting married, especially all three of them are so old, around their thirties. Our family is expanding. I will soon have Pilipino relatives.

Bob. Thao. Those are his two names he goes by, but mostly by Bob, which in the past the marker of his personality throughout high school. Bob. His friends gave him that name. Thao. His parents gave him that name. He goes by Bob more though. When I was a kid, I reconstructed his name, something, I still do with a lot of other people's name up until today. From Bob to Bobolo. I think I got that name from another word, discombobulate which means "to upset or frustrate" characterizing my relations with him growing up. I remember one time at my dad's shop, I threw a stapler at him. It was easy to upset me because I had a short temper then. I still do sometimes.

Son. Ever since I was little, I wanted an American name since it was essentially thee center target for mockery or ridicule. Very recently, I've come to love my name more. Maybe, the meaning behind it: mountain or just its conciseness that helps people remember me. This is coming from a person who is horrible with names. The common case would be people remember me, but I cannot remember them.

Names helps us navigate our way through people. Bob and his Bob-like attitude. Son and his Son-like attitude. Whatever that means, attached adjectives and attributes to names come natural to how people are identified and perceived. When Bob and his new wife, Maria, come down to naming a child, she or he will take on a name and that will be her or his marker for life. The more I write my name down. Son. The more I know I exist. I find it interesting my brother was able to change his marker along with countless people. I don't think I will ever change my marker since it's the only thing that was first given to me other than my life.

City Hall

2008-08-08T21:48:00.000-07:00

For the past months during this summer, I've been interning in City Hall for Madison Nguyen on the 18th floor (the massively tall building has 19 floors). While working in my cubicle, I tend to look down to the city of San Jose seeing houses looking like little squares, streets like ant trails, mountains looking like clay, cars moving like bit char-g cars that were popular a few years back. I actually have a box full of those little things from back then. During my daily viewing, I could not get over the fact that many people are waving signs for companies on the side of streets, working on the fields picking fruit in the blazing hot sun down there while I work in the office comfortably in a cubicle with the AC blasting keeping me cool, high speed internet making me forget how it is really outside: reality, the privilege I have being inside on a hot day as well as the opportunities that await for me after this internship.

This job is totally different from my first job I had back in my sophomore year of high school at McDonald's. It's almost the entire opposite. At McDonald's, you get your hands dirty and you get sweaty. At City Hall, the worst you can get with dirtying your hand is if you don't wash it after you use the bathroom. It is quite comfortable, yet I am possibly getting paid more than I did at McDonald's with my end of the summer stipend from Vision New America. So if salaries define who you are then is being an intern for a Councilmember more "significant" than a McDonald's worker or any "lower" field of work?

Today was my last day and I feel incredibly grateful to learn how our bureaucratic city government works while being able to contribute to the legislative process. Before the internship, I used to narrow-mindedly think politicians did everything: write all these proposals, letters, commendations, etc., but now I know there are HELLA people behind them to do their work. It reminds me of that word in AP English during high school: metonymy -- to refer to something that represents something else. When we talk about a politician doing something, it's not just her/him, it's the people in her/his office doing it as well. Bureaucracy! Metonymy!

It has been a pleasure working there. It makes me a little bit more comfortable familiarizing what options I will have after my undergrad. I will definitely consider legislative staff positions in the future.

Far Away San Jose

2008-08-03T21:07:00.000-07:00

I've been living in San Jose my whole life. My family lived in East Side San Jose on Winslow near Grand Century before I was born. I was only able the breathe ESSJ air for only a few months after I was born. My parents decided they did not want to raise their children in an environment filled with gang activity, drug dealing, things that would impede their children's development. Prior to living there, they had lived in East Palo Alto infested with crack addiction and dealing. Now what once was our neighborhood is now Ikea and a huge shopping plaza.

Basically, during that time in '88, many impoverish areas in San Jose were populated by Vietnamese; many of those areas were still developing while refugees were resettling in neighborhood that already had existing problems. My parents, while they were split between community vs. affluence, chose to move out into a more "safer" community called Willow Glen. There were little to none Vietnamese resettling there.

San Jose. A city so big, I have yet to explore most of it. The more I drive around San Jose in my car pumping gas the more I want to walk with my feet around Berkeley. For once, I feel like I belong in a community that is somewhat knit-tight unlike where I've been living for most of my life which is incredibly spread out.

I miss my friends from Berkeley. I miss my friends from San Jose although I've been home. A lot of people are changing, I'm changing. There has to be change for there to be a tomorrow as corny as that sounds. I'm pretty sure many people experience this. When they come home from college after a few months, they notice a lot of changes that took place: home, family, friends (especially). I see my friends who've attended their first year college far away come back with newly-formed perspectives and outlooks whereas a lot of my community college friends stayed pretty much the same. I'm one of those 1st year far away college people.

There is so much to learn, yet such a big space to cover. I feel like a shadow within a shadow of something much bigger. I'm on my way in reclaiming my shadow.

Dinner Table / Ban An Com

2008-07-31T20:55:00.000-07:00

The dinner table in our house has gotten smaller and smaller over the years. It had started with my mother, father, all three brothers, and my grandmother to just my parents and me. I visited the chairs on the side we never sit on at that table and it's getting a little dusty. I miss those days.

Just to think how it would be in Viet Nam where family is center of people's lives compared to the individualistic mindset we are grown up to have and adopt here, it's mind-boggling. Sometimes I wish I had a more cohesive family. Compared to my other Southeast Asian friends' families, my family, from what I know, is only limited to my immediate family to a few families on my mother's side. In spite of everything, I am really grateful for the family I have.

Other than the dinner table and the car, there isn't much dialog between my parents and me. I'm learning more and more about my family than ever before. Ever since I got back from Berkeley and recently, SASC, I've grown more conscious of my family with many of the things I've learned in the back of mind every time I'm with them. Too bad I cannot communicate with my parents that well like I used to although there is much more dialog than before. At least the ambition and connection is there which was not there before.

It's unfortunate that it's almost like a "give and take" relationship while I'm away in college. I've lost so much of my Vietnamese due to being away from my family for so long. While I've been losing my "native tongue," I've also gotten to learn so much myself in my first year. I wish I was still back at Van Lang (the Vietnamese Sunday School and also the old name for Viet Nam). I miss that too.

First blog post. I'm trying to get used to this.