pieces of grace

I guess I’ve always been a “Daddy’s girl.” A fair amount of my Facebook profile pictures are with him, mostly because he’s just that good at making faces. I share his love for singing, though, I will humbly admit, he’s better at it than I am. I’d rather not share this fact with him, however, since it would stroke his ego immensely and merely give him more reason to karaoke around the house at the most absurd hours in the loudest possible voice. I even kind of look like him when I smile, which I always jokingly groan about because I don’t really like my smile. I suppose there’s nothing wrong with it, but it’s a little too big – it really hides my eyes so I end up looking like some kind of inane simpleton with Asian eyes. I used to smile all the time for dance performances until a girl told me that when I smiled I looked like “a retarded dog.” After that, I became incredibly self-conscious about my smile. But I digress. I mention all these things about being a Daddy’s girl because I was listening to the song “Cinderella” by Steven Curtis Chapman today and it almost made cry. You can listen to it here, or at least until Youtube takes it down. My linking it here will probably increase that likelihood, but whatevs:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BUk5SZ18WhY

It’s really a cute and touching song, describing a little girl growing up and dancing with her father at various stages in her life, and that he has to cherish these times of dancing because “all too soon the clock will strike midnight and she’ll be gone.” The whole time, though, all I could think about was how Chapman lost his youngest daughter when his son accidentally hit her in the driveway. At first, I thought he had written this song for her, but it actually turns out that he wrote this song before the accident happened and that he had written it for all his “Cinderellas.” That made the song a little less sad for me, but even so, it reminded me of two things:

1) How close my dad and I are and how I don’t want to lose that. Well, I’m actually really close to both of my parents. I’m definitely a Mommy’s girl, too. I just want to put that out there in case she reads this and gets all hurt. I think my dad and I are more openly gushy about it, though. His nickname for me is “Baby.” And we have various routines that we go through that would probably make a majority of you throw up (my mom certainly does). I remember many times throughout high school when we would go through them and he would say, “When you go to college you’ll be too embarrassed and just ignore me, or you’ll be too busy with your new boyfriend.” Whenever he said that I would say “never,” but now that I think about it, I realize how much more cynical I’ve gotten about it. I now make fun of him more than I go through these routines. Maybe it’s because I like to think I’m too “grown up” for these kinds of things. But remembering them makes me realize just how little things like that are important for preserving our closeness, and they probably mean a lot to him. There’s a scene in Meet the Parents where Ben Stiller’s girlfriend runs up to her father, played by Robert DeNiro, and she jumps on him like a little girl and they go through a little routine. I want to be like that. No matter how old I am, I think I’ll always be his baby. So why not keep dancing like Cinderella? Hopefully that part of me will never be gone.

2) I was just really struck by Chapman’s tragedy. I found an article where they interviewed him and his family in their first public interview after the accident and one thing they said really spoke to me:

When asked whether or not the accident brought them to question their faith, Chapman confessed that it did, “absolutely,” but explained to the GMA anchor that faith is believing without having all the answers.

“My son said the other day that, ‘You know, yeah, we are family – like people say – of great faith … but we’re a family with a lot of questions,’” Chapman said. “But that’s what faith is. It’s living with the questions. That doesn’t mean you have the answers. That’s exactly what faith is.”

Faith is living with the questions. That was such a great reminder for me, because coming to college, it’s been such an exciting time of renewing my faith in my true Father. But that doesn’t stop the questions. I had such a struggle with that in high school, and I think the ultimate thing God taught me in high school was that it’s okay to have doubts and questions. I’ve sometimes wondered that if I’m too absorbed in my faith right now and not questioning as intellectually as I did in high school. That was one of my major concerns, but God’s reminded me that that’s okay. And really, that’s what faith is about. It also just puts so much into perspective; I haven’t suffered a tragedy as drastic as the Chapman family, and yet they remain in their faith in spite of and even because of the questions. Everyone’s going to have their ups and downs, but I’m just so thankful because right now, God has just given me so much peace and every day I’m reminded of His overwhelming love. This song reminded me that I’m a Cinderella to an even greater Father in heaven, and that I’m a little princess in His eyes. I want to dance with that Father forever.

Wow, sorry, this was really supposed to be a short entry, but it turned out rather long. The best part about this is no one’s going to read this entry because I deactivated my Facebook for two weeks so it won’t feed into Facebook like it usually does. But may I just say, life without Facebook is amazing. It’s given me the time to focus, reflect, and be with God. I thought it would cause me so much stress, but it’s given me so much more peace instead.

I apologize for the ay-ohs; I simply couldn’t resist. But contrary to what you might think, this post really isn’t about Ne-Yo (as much as I love him), or the song, or for those who know me well, that amazing So You Think You Can Dance Shane Sparks piece danced by Sabra and Dominic. No, this post is about something much more mundane: relationships.

Relationships are funny. (I’m not sure if that’s a line from Scrubs, but I can hear J.D. saying it in my head so I’m just going to assume that it is) They can change so quickly, going from one extremity to the other. One minute you’re crying or ranting or giving the silent treatment, and the next, what do you know, you’re BFFs. Who cares that you just screamed and shouted obscenities at each other? All of that has suddenly become erased – at least until the next time when one of you brings it up again. Guys who have witnessed a girl fight before know what I’m talking about. Isn’t it just weird how the fight can end in a hug? It make absolutely no sense. I can see the conversation in a movie: “So you guys are friends now, huh?” “Sort of.” “What do you mean?” “Well…we’re frenemies.” *camera pans over to confused expression on guy’s face*

Why am I writing about this? No, I haven’t been involved in girl drama lately. In college, everyone’s pretty much past that stage – I think. And no, I’m not dating anyone (I know some of you were excited at that prospect…Sorry to disappoint). But it’s because I’ve been thinking lately about my conception of relationships, the realization of how much work they take, and most importantly, my relationship with God. I know that’s a lot of stuff that seems unrelated, but bear with me as I try to explain.

Since the topic of relationships is extremely broad, for the sake of post length I’m going to focus on 1) romantic relationships and 2) friendships and then tie it back to how I see my relationship with God.

1) Probably one of the most exciting parts of college is that I’m finally allowed to legitimately date. If you’re confused right now, I will end your confusion with two words: Asian parents. I’m sure you understand now. But I’m actually kind of grateful I didn’t date in high school. For one thing, it let me focus on school and all the other stuff I was doing to try to get into college. For another, it gave me time to really know myself and understand what I’m looking for in a guy. And after observing so many people in relationships, I’m starting to think I’m probably still not ready. There’s just so many factors you have to account for, like things you do that piss the other person off but that they don’t tell you about till much later and all the stuff that builds up and starts coming out. And even if you’ve been together a long time, dang, can your relationship can fluctuate. Listening to other people, watching other people – it’s really weird. And kind of scary, because I’m one of those people who’ve watched one too many chick flicks and have a very fairy tale-like idea of a boyfriend. It just made me realize – getting a boyfriend won’t really be a be-all end-all panacea to every problem I’ll ever have. In fact, it will probably give me more problems. If I get a boyfriend, there’s no guarantee I’ll be happy. But I do know one relationship that will give me the guarantee of being happy, and that’s a relationship with God. So for now, I think I’m going to focus on that and just trust that whatever God has for me, it will be amazing. I don’t need to really try to look for someone – it will happen when God wants it to (and hopefully that’s not when I’m 30, but if that’s the way God wants it, then so be it).

2) Along with people sneezing right next to me really loudly, jiggling their leg, or being fake, one of my biggest pet peeves is flaky friends. I really get annoyed by that, because it’s antithetical to the whole idea of friendship. I mean, if you’re really my friend, then you would talk to me in some consistent interval. If you really cared about me, you would try to help as  best you could. Even if you don’t really do those things, then you should at least respond reciprocally depending on how good a friend I am to you. That’s always kind of been my philosophy. This is coming up because I’ve been annoyed at a particular person lately for not really being a friend while claiming to be one. But I realized last night that like every other pet peeve I have, it’s incredibly hypocritical, because I do it too. Even worse, I do it to the person I claim is my best friend. For the past four years, I’ve barely given God the time of day. Sure, I pray to him 3 times a day for like 30 seconds each time, but they’re usually very general and involve me asking Him for things that I don’t deserve. The sad truth is, I’ve been neglecting the person who’s given me everything. If the person I was annoyed with is a flake, then I’m the biggest flake to have ever hit the planet. So who am I to judge? I really don’t have that right. Until I stop being such a flake to God, I can’t be mad at others being flakes to me.

Thinking about these things have really helped me realize that the most important relationship in my life right now should be the one with God. Even though I’m a total flake to Him, it’s amazing how much He still loves me and the extent to which He blesses me. Now that’s what I’d call a real friend.

So God, are you ready to make this work? Because I am. Or at least, I can try. In full-out Ne-Yo fashion.

There’s no doubt about it: I have gotten exceedingly dumber this summer. I can almost feel my brain cells dying. The fact that I just spent 30 seconds thinking about what would be the proper word to use for brain cells since they obviously don’t just leave my brain and shrivel merely confirms this sad truth. Granted, I wasn’t very intelligent in the first place, but even so, having to spend over a minute grasping the right word for “intellectual property rights” is a sign that I have a problem. Yesterday, I sat in on a class at my workplace, and realized I had forgotten all my US history when the teacher asked if 1969 was a happy time for the US (I was about to say yes when some kid started talking about the Vietnam War. Needless to say, I was quite wrong). I didn’t even know about the solar eclipse in Asia today until my mother notified me through her Chinese news (speaking of which, why does she always get these things quicker than I do? She even knew about Dumbledore dying before my brother had finished Harry Potter 6 – and that’s saying something). That’s when it kind of hit me: I don’t really bother to read the news anymore. Is it because I’ve decided this is supposed to be the chillest summer of my life? I didn’t exactly tell myself to check out intellectually, but I guess that’s what’s happened. Instead of actually knowing what’s going on in the world (my biggest criticism of today’s tween generation), I’ve squandered my time and life on Facebook and really bad movies, the kind that the Google people know are so bad that they don’t even bother taking them off Youtube (case in point: Ella Enchanted).

I suspect that once school starts again I will be all over current events, but this just goes to show that perhaps I don’t take a true interest in these things. That’d I’d rather live in my own bubble of entertainment than actually care about recent political conflicts in other countries. Naturally, I don’t want to admit this too lightly since it would be affirming that I am, simply put, a hypocrite. But I guess that’s what I am. And what horrifies me is how easy it has been to become one of the empty-headed, unaware potato couch morons that I love to scoff at – the stereotypical, overweight American. The Ms. South Carolina that says Americans can’t locate North America on a world map because they don’t have one. The reality show contestant who doesn’t know how many quarters are in an hour. I’ve laughed because I didn’t think it would ever be me. But maybe it already is.

“Let me explain…No, there is too much. Let me sum up.”

- Inigo Montoya, The Princess Bride

My last SAT test this morning was commemorated by a power outage. That’s pretty much all you need to know. I suppose I could tell you more, like how I very nearly missed the test, on account of the fact that none of the alarm clocks in our house are battery-based. Or I could try to express the sense of urgency I felt when my mother woke me up and I glanced accusingly at the clock, only to see a blank screen. Perhaps it would be more insightful for you all to hear my belief that God saved me, performing a grand miracle through my father, who usually lacks a bit of common sense. I could explain to you the once-in-a-lifetime genius act that my father performed last night when he decided, by a sudden flash of divine wisdom, to set up an alarm on his watch just in case a power outage occurred. And maybe, just maybe, you’d be intrigued to hear that despite this most despairing of circumstances,  I rejoiced silently as I brushed my teeth in the yellow gleam of a flashlight. I like to imagine that you’d want to hear about this particular hardship (a difficult task, indeed, as the darkness only added to the visually-impaired blur I am accustomed to seeing before I put on contacts). It is quite possible that you’d be interested in everything I have to say on this close shave. Maybe you thought that, for once, I wouldn’t be that long-winded and verbose – that I would be able to sum up. But I can’t.

To quote a seemingly innocent Ellen Page seeking revenge against pedophiles in the movie Hard Candy, it is, indeed, time to wake up. Well, for me, anyway. In a mere 4 days, I shall be embarking upon the miserable journey (or so I’ve heard) of a first-semester senior. And I’m not exactly looking forward to being overwhelmed by a slew of schoolwork, exhausting extracurriculars, and, of course, the biggie: college applications. Someone recently asked me how come I haven’t burned out yet in all these years of high school, and I guess the answer is I’m kind of burning out right now, at a most inopportune time. But in all honesty, I am feeling a little lost in the whole college application process. There seem to be a lot of opportunities, but, then again, compared to all the competitive genius kids my age (of which there are millions), my accomplishments (which seem to be diminishing daily by closer inspection) don’t seem quite enough. Not that I ever really thought they would be enough. Right now I’m just worried about a lot of things, primarily the essays, since I’m not a particularly strong writer (just ask my English teachers). But really, what can I do? Now isn’t the time to try working on my literary skills, though I do know it’s relatively early on in the actual application process. Since playtime is now officially over, it’s time for me to stop trying my poor attempts at humor on this blog and focus on the stuff I should be focusing on. So forgive me if you don’t hear from me within the next 3 months (that’s rather unlikely, though, since I get ideas and want to write them right away). Before I take my indefinite leave of absence, though, I have two last anecdotes to share, which I decided were not good enough to be entries on their own.

“A Rant on Those Ghetto Asian Shopkeepers Who Pretend They Don’t Have A Restroom of Any Kind” (aka Yet Another Bathroom Story)

I recently paid an exclusive visit to the Asian parts of Los Angeles. I asked my dad why LA didn’t have a Chinatown. (every time we go somewhere, we always pay a visit to that city’s very own Chinatown) My dad answered that the area we were in was basically shaped like a bell, and that was the LA Chinatown. Aka LA doesn’t need one because it’s already flooded with the Chinese population. Reaching our favorite 99 Ranch plaza, I was disappointed to find that the big Asian department store there had been closed down for remodeling. But I needn’t worry. My mother had already done the research 2 weeks before and found a cute Korean-esque boutique across the street for me. We made our way across the back of the plaza to a sketchy-looking area and entered the store. Not long after, I was plagued by nature’s calling and quickly rushed to the one employee at the cashier, asking if there was a bathroom.

Me (attempting to be casual, but really not good at hiding the urgency in my voice): “Hey, is there a bathroom here?”

Girl: “No, sorry, we don’t have one.”

Me (catching a glimpse of a bathroom right behind her that says Private): “Oh…okay, well, where’s the nearest bathroom?”

Girl: “Oh, we don’t have one in this area, so you’ll probably have to go across the street.”

What lies. There was clearly a bathroom in that store, and there were probably a lot of other ones in the surrounding ghetto shops. I mean, are you really asking me to believe that these sketchy shopkeepers didn’t have their own need to fulfill bodily functions in the middle of the day? Seeing as they can’t exactly leave their shop, where else would they have to go? I was rather furious with her at this point and wanted to say, “You might as well let me go here since there is a very strong possibility that I will buy clothing from you.” Fortunately, I controlled my tongue and walked across the street. The first stop was Tapioca Express. I rushed in and, to my delight, found a bathroom after boldly pacing across the cafe, trying to ignore the many stares that soon came my way. I restrained the urge to jump up and scream for victory when I saw Women sign on the door, but then…I noticed another sign that read, “Please ask for key.” So here it was, a sign that was clearly meant for those people like me, who walk into Tapioca for the sole purpose of using their bathroom. It was such a clever ploy to make us feel guilty that it succeeded with me. I was too embarrassed to walk up to the counter and ask for the key when it was quite apparently that I was not a paying customer. Sorely disappointed, I stalked out of Tapioca and tried my luck at Nubi, a new froyo place that’s to Socal as Yogurtland is to Norcal. And though I had to wait because there was only one bathroom in the entire store, and then deal with the disgusting cigarette smell from the previous user, I managed to succeed. Though hardly triumphantly.

“Idiomatically Challenged”

While I have spent all my years in the US and am a very firm American citizen, I still struggle with the English language – particularly in the idiom department. For example, I failed to understand “just what the doctor ordered.” My most notable incident this year was when we were supposed to write a parody of Pope’s “Rape of the Lock” and the prompt instructed us to create our own “tempest in a teapot.” Like the stupid, idiomatically-challenged idiot I am, I thought that the “tempest in a teapot” part was our prompt and was ready to literally write about a storm in a teacup until my friend (poor girl) was confused by my interpretation and proceeded to ask the teacher for clarification (thankfully none of this happened in class). My English teacher couldn’t help laughing at my idiocy, but nicely explained that “tempest in a teapot” was an idiom. I was incredibly embarrassed and made the casual remark that I seem to have difficulty with idioms, to which my teacher replied: “Grace, were you born in America?” I glanced up at her face, sure she was joking, but no, she was deadly serious. And I had to humbly admit that, yes, I was a full-blood citizen and have lived here all my life. Needless to say, I left her room rather deflated – was I that bad that she actually had question my years of learning English? That’s probably an overreaction, but still, this incident made it official: I am strongly idiomatically challenged (along with being vertically challenged and all that good stuff).

Our school decided to be kind to us this year and give us an extra two days off for spring break, and so, here I am trying to catch up on a crapload of work. I decided to check my school email, hoping to find answers about a certain paper from a certain teacher, whom I had tortuously emailed over break. Instead, I was met with a huge array of spam mail from, yet again, colleges – the kind that they email to everyone but pretend they don’t so that you can feel special when you really aren’t. My usual routine with these types of emails is to just quickly scan the titles and briefly check what colleges have decided to “single me out.” If my mother happens to be there, I’m often treated to a brief rant of disappointment about all these “bad colleges.” And just so you know, bad = any college that isn’t Stanford, Berkeley, or Ivy League.

After being treated to this rant, an email from Mills College caught my eye. It wasn’t the Mills College part that intrigued me. Oh, no. It was the title: “Smarter than Barbie AND Stronger than Ken.” Needless to say, I was deeply interested and amused and decided to open up the email, only to find this very unique and personalized message: “That’s what we say makes the students at Mills College so distinctive, Grace” along with a little link that said “Find out more about the dynamic students here at Mills.”

My gut reaction was to just laugh my head off, because, really, if Mills thinks that their students are unique (excuse me, I mean DYNAMIC) because they are all not just smarter than Barbie but also stronger than Ken, then they are wrong. Because we all know that this broad category of being smarter and stronger than little plastic Barbie dolls includes every human being on the planet (well, most of them anyway). And even if Mills’s Admissions Office was going for a figurative meaning, then they need to get their priorities straight – since Barbie’s brain is usually filled with statements along the lines of, “Hi! I love being your best friend. Let’s go shopping!” But if Mills was going for a good marketing strategy, then they succeeded because I definitely opened up my email out of pure curiosity and amusement. The only problem is, I now think Mills is somewhat ridiculous and now only look forward to future emails from Mills as sources of entertainment.