On Turning 30

I have been 30 years old for exactly one month now. I was never under any impression that being officially in my thirties would feel any different than being in my late-twenties, though I was preparing myself for the possibility of an emotional crisis. A google search for "30 year old women" pulls up pages on how 30 year old women feel about being single, 30 year old women and fertility, how 30 year old women should dress for their age, what kinds of beauty products 30 year old women should invest in. It's as if the world has somehow set 30 as the threshold for when a woman should start feeling anxious about getting old and undesirable.

Upon turning 30, I decided to jump into the dating pool and start online dating. And indeed, some of my experiences browsing profiles and chatting with men in the network have confirmed the kinds of anxieties that, as a 30-year-old woman, I'm made to feel. Time and again I see men my age who want to date younger women. One 30-old-dude specifically listed 18-19 as his preferred age range. (Gross.) And time and again men my age and older will list their preferred age range as 21-29: old enough to drink, but not as old as 30! Thinking about how search engines work, I figure that I must not even pop up in some men's search results, now that I belong to an entirely different age bracket. One guy I talked to even asked me point-blank, "So, why is a 30-year-old woman such as yourself still single?" (What I should have said: "Because 30-year-old men like you have not learned to appreciate a woman like me.")

I suppose I could just adopt a dozen cats, start taking Boniva and resign myself to my spinsterhood, but I've discovered one beauty in being 30: I am now the age when I really don't give a shit anymore.

The last time I tried online dating, I was 22, and, like now, just started a new phase of my life in a new place. Still informed by the absurdity of college dating-- hooking up with gross dudes at frat parties, falling into "friends with benefits" mode with a dormmate, being the prey of older men as the youngest girl at the bar-- I didn't know what the hell I was supposed to do whenever a guy asked me out. I was nervous about what to write for my profile, what photo to select for my profile pic. I felt the need to be nice and answer every message I received. I went on many bad dates and didn't always recognize soon enough when a guy was a douchebag. The whole experience got so overwhelming that I quit before finding anyone special on the network.

I can't say that I like online dating any more now than I did then, or that I don't feel somewhat self-conscious about how I interact with the men I meet. But I am definitely better at not taking anything guys say or don't say too personally, at not trying so hard to be attractive, at not tolerating bullshit. Because the fact of the matter is, now that I'm 30, I am in such a good place right now. I have a PhD. I have a great job. I've had a couple of real relationships under my belt and have learned from heartbreak. I know what I believe in and what I want out of life and what kind of man I want to be part of the picture. My self-worth does not rest on the idea of a man sweeping me off my feet, because I enjoy the fact that my feet are firmly planted on the ground.

As a romantic at heart, I would like to fall head over heels in love with a man who thinks that I'm amazing. But I can now say that I am excited about the prospect of looking for him, precisely because I know that I'll be just fine should I never find him. When you've had the chance to build your life on your own, letting someone else into it becomes a lovely bonus rather than the condition of your happiness.

So bring on the 30s, I say! And good riddance to my 20s. What I have to look forward to in my 30s: getting tenure, making a name for myself, and knowing how to pick the men out of the boys. It's going to be awesome.

A Sane Radical

If there were such a thing as The Daily Show generation, I would be a member of it. Jon Stewart took over the late night show on Comedy Central when I was in college, the time in my life when I started to form my political outlook. The show got me through graduate school (or, I should say, George W. Bush’s presidency, which almost perfectly coincided with the eight years I spent getting my PhD), the time in my life when I learned how to articulate and substantiate my political outlook. As 9/11 happened, as the nation’s unity shifted into vitriolic division, as the Bush administration launched two wars using justification that proved to be unfounded, and as American political discourse became increasingly absurd, The Daily Show became a source of catharsis. Watching the show, I didn’t have to feel weird or crazy for getting upset when “you’re either with us or against us” got branded as patriotism, for observing the irony in Sarah Palin's admiration for her daughter's "choice" to have her baby, for cringing anytime anyone who's not a murderous dictator gets compared to Hitler. In a time when the most insane politicians and pundits seem to get the most power and attention, The Daily Show has been one of very few voices that articulated what I often felt alone in feeling and thinking.

So it's no surprise that I was one of the estimated 215,000 people who attended Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert's Rally to Restore Sanity and/or Fear this past Saturday. I wasn't sure if was going to turn into the progressive response to Glenn Beck's rally, if it was going to be an irony-fest for smug hipsters, or if it was just going to be one giant party. From where I was standing, it wasn't really any of these things. True, I got the sense that people in attendance identified themselves as liberal, since the overtly political signs largely poked fun at Christine O'Donnell, FOX News and the Tea Party. But people weren't there to push any particular political agenda. I didn't see anyone promoting any political candidates, in spite of the fact that the rally took place just three days before election day. I didn't even overhear any political discussions amongst the other attendees around me. I was pleasantly surprised by the age range of the people I saw. While my early morning bus to D.C. was full of college kids, I ended up sitting near a lot middle-aged folks, some of whom admitted that they didn't even watch The Daily Show. The energy was positive. People just seemed happy to be there, making room for each other, making sure that their signs weren't obstructing someone else's view, sharing snacks. This really was a gathering of reasonable people who wanted to make themselves visible as the non-insane majority of America.

I applaud Stewart's closing speech, his "moment of sincerity" in which he condemns both our political process and the "24-hour political pundit perpetual panic conflictinator" for projecting images of ourselves as angry, fear-mongering monsters incapable of compromise. Stewart was very careful in condemning extremists from both sides, saying at one point, "Why would you work with Marxists actively subverting our Constitution or racists and homophobes who see no one's humanity but their own?"

This is where I think Stewart missed an opportunity to talk about the substance behind the rhetoric. While extremism on any end of any political spectrum is never a good thing, we need to acknowledge that it is not the extreme left that is currently holding the microphone. It is not the extreme left that is calling President Obama is a fascist, claiming that that health care reform is tantamount to a Bolshevik takeover, that all Muslims are out to destroy America. I can't think of a single Marxist who is actively subverting our Constitution (never mind that Marxism in and of itself is not extremism), but people like Rush Limbaugh and Ann Coulter have made careers spewing racist and homophobic beliefs every day. Let us not forget, too, that our Congress still has room for former unabashed Klu Klux Klan members, such as Senator Robert Byrd, who died earlier this year. Our political terrain is so tilted to the right, that even "moderate" people are voting for laws that undermine a woman's right to an abortion, allow law enforcement officers to racially profile people, keep gay and lesbian Americans from getting married and serving in the military. Pundits and politicians from the left dare not suggest that we reduce defense spending, insist on a public health care option, grant citizenship to immigrants who have labored their whole lives in this country. There's no political payoff to stand by liberal policies, but it's politically safe to concede to conservative ones. No radical leftist party has gotten the kind of clout that the Tea Party has.

Stewart is right in saying, "When we amplify everything, we hear nothing." I would add that, right now, it seems like only one side is being amplified, and that's the only side we're hearing. Perhaps if there were an insane leftist ideological machine that was equally as influential as FOX News, we would get a better sense of where to locate the actual middle. Maybe people will realize that the liberal counterpart to FOX isn't NPR or even MSNBC. Maybe people will realize that Obama really is more of a centrist than he is a liberal. Maybe people will see that some reasonable and moderate people do dig the theories of Karl Marx, and some reasonable and moderate people are a little bit racist and homophobic.

The "Wall Street bailout" is one example of where right-wing fear-mongering has dictated what positions we're even allowed to take on any issue. Those hell-bent on taking down Obama and the Democrats have used it as an example of how "big government" is turning our country Socialist. There hasn't been a radical counterpart to this position, no prominent ideologue jumping for joy over the extent to which the government has to step in to solve our problems, nor any famous anarchist opposing the bailout with the belief that our financial system should collapse. The Troubled Asset Relief Program, which was actually signed into law by George W. Bush, not only prevented a complete collapse of our financial system, but has also been paid back in full and with interest. TARP was not at all a leftist conspiracy for a government takeover of Wall Street, but somehow it has been framed as one by the insane right. As a result, Obama gets no credit for following through on it, but John Boehner gets a lot of airplay decrying it and calling for it to be shut down. (Never mind that in 2008, when Bush was president, Boehner cried on the floor of Congress, begging his colleagues to vote for the bailout.)

Or, another example is the debate over the military's "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" policy. When the leftist position is one that is merely advocating for equal rights to all American serving in the armed forces, there isn't room in the political spectrum for someone like me, who is disturbed by the policy, but is even more disturbed by the fact the Department of Defense is the nation's largest employer. There isn't room in our political spectrum to even suggest a downsizing of our military industrial complex.

I can appreciate that the purpose of the rally wasn't to promote any particular political agenda. The rally may not have been as successful if it did. I just wish that Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert had spoken more about the substance behind the rhetoric in addition to rhetoric itself. The problem in this country isn't that insane people from both sides of the political spectrum are yelling too much and making it impossible for anyone to compromise. It's that insane people from the right are the only ones yelling while everyone else is staying quiet. And their yelling is also setting parameters of what everyone else is allowed to support or reject. I don't believe that the solution is to encourage the insane left to do some yelling, but I do think we need to readjust the barometer before we all agree to "take it down a notch." We need to restore not only sanity, but an idea of what "moderate" really means. In today's political terrain, I get lumped in with the insane radicals, simply because the middle bar is so skewed to the right. And while I have no problems with identifying myself as a radical, I have to insist that my concerns are entirely reasonable and that my ideas for what would be better for this country are governed by careful thought. I may be a radical, but I'm also a sane one.

How To Become A Professor (When You Don't Know What You Are Doing)-- Lesson 4: Know Your Audience

I'm gearing up for my third week teaching at my new job, and I'm quickly figuring out just how different my current students are from the ones I had taught at my previous institution. I got my PhD at a large and prestigious public university in California, where I had taught writing and Ethnic Studies courses. I had attended a school like that as an undergraduate as well, so that was the landscape most familiar to me: one where the students were diverse in a variety ways, from what they were choosing to major in to their level of preparedness walking into the university, from socioeconomic background to ethnicity. (Though I should say "diverse" really means "lots of Asian American kids" in this context.) My current institution is just the opposite. It's a small (about 5,000 students), private university that specializes in business-related fields. It costs $50,000 a year to study and live here, and since the school doesn't seem to brag about offering a ton of financial aid and scholarships, I'm guessing this means the students here are from distinctly middle-upper class backgrounds. Aside from the international students, the students are largely local, mostly from Massachusetts and the surrounding New England states. The first thought that crossed my mind when I met my first class was, "Man, this school is hella white."

I knew upon accepting this position that I would have to adjust to this unfamiliar environment, but I didn't anticipate the extent to which the environment could impact my teaching. After all, the English and Media Studies department hired me specifically for my Ethnic Studies and Asian American literature background. The professors and administrators all talk about wanting to diversify the student and staff population, as well as the curriculum. And my department chair is pretty much giving me free reign in how I want to design my courses. From what I can tell, the university wants me to teach the students about social justice, train them to think critically about the world and their place in it, and encourage them to be creative.

But mission and practice are two very different things, and impacting the culture of this university is going to be constant uphill climb. First off, I wonder if a specialized business school can ever be a place where a literature/cultural studies practitioner can thrive. In the short time that I've spent with my students, I can tell that they're generally uncreative and conservative in their thinking. They're not so interested in challenging the status quo. Their idea of "social justice" and "ethics" probably means "how to make a profit without being a total asshole." A word like "counterhegemony" is definitely not in their vocabulary. (Case in point: On the first day of my expository writing class, I had the students read a Michael Pollan essay, "We Are What We Eat," which isn't doesn't even promote any particular political agenda but simply describes the ways in which our food industry is entirely made up of corn. One of my students got really pissed and said, "Who cares so long as it makes money?") I suppose this shouldn't be at all surprising, because it probably takes a very particular kind of 17-year-old to commit to a major like Accountancy and close off all other options by attending a school where you can't major in much else. I just don't understand that kind of focused channelling. Aren't we supposed to float in "undeclared" land and figure out what we really like before we resign to being "practical"? I remember thinking the same thing about a girl I knew in college who said that she always wanted to be a dentist. I definitely found her scarier than the goth girl who majored in ethnomusicology and performed spoken word in the middle of the quad.

This isn't to say that my students aren't bright or inquisitive. On the contrary, my freshmen in my expository writing class pepper me with tons of questions and exhibit pretty sharp close-reading skills. Aside from a few knee-jerk reactions, they've been very willing to engage in discussion, however unfamiliar the topics may be. It's the juniors and seniors in my Asian American literature class that lend me to believe that their curriculum is doing such a good job and conditioning them for their chosen professions, that it's completely foreclosing them from any other types of thinking. They've been trained so well in tasks like estimating profit margins and understanding audit regulations, they aren't so good at seeing the bigger picture.

On the first day of my Asian American literature class, I introduced to the students some key issues that one really can't avoid talking about in an Asian American literature class: racism, immigration, citizenship, class, labor. I asked them to think of current debates related to these topics. I was dismayed to find out just how little they've heard about Arizona's SB 1070, how difficult it was for them to name one example of economic unfairness, how uneasy they are when they're asked to talk about race. And I don't think I even hit them all that hard. I introduced them to the class by playing a song entitled "We Belong" by Asian American hip-hop artists Magnetic North and Taiyo Na, figuring that they would enjoy some music by people not much older than themselves. The students seemed to enjoy the song well enough, and they were able to identify the themes of the song: the trials of being a migrant worker, racial stereotyping, poverty. But when asked to reflect on the themes (as well as the form in which these themes are being articulated), they exhibited resistance. One student, who is Asian American, declared that he had seen Magnetic North perform live and had decided that he "hated" them. When I asked him why, he initially said that he didn't understand why Asian Americans should perform "black" music, and then revealed that because he never experienced racism before in his life, he didn't understand why these artists would make a deal about it.

In my view, the student experiences racism regularly whether he notices or not, because the society in which he lives is one grounded on white privilege. But I can't fault him for not sharing this view, for growing up never having to doubt American meritocracy, for never experiencing the sting of a racial slur. But the refusal to see beyond his own experience and acknowledge validity of the experiences of others is what bothers me. What bothers me even more is the fact that none of his classmates contradicted him.

I certainly had plenty of students like him at my previous institution, but I could always count on other students to offer dissenting opinions to spark some productive discussion. And I think that's the main difference between the large state school and the small private one-- For every student who wanted nothing but to climb up the corporate ladder, there was one who organized labor strikes as an extracurricular activity. And the reason for this diversity isn't just because of size of the university or the fact that it's public; the university has also instituted departments and programs that foster different kinds of learning. While disciplines like Ethnic Studies are always being threatened at any institution, the legacy of their existence, at the very least, offers a space where students can question the very institution in which they are learning. So the aerospace engineering major may very well have to ask herself how she feels about learning how to build weapons used to blow up other countries.

I'm not so naive to say that the large public university churns out socially-conscious world-changers. Quite the contrary. But at the very least, I was able to stand firm in the belief that my expertise was legitimate, that it played a good and necessary role in my students' education. And perhaps that's even more true at my current job. Certainly, if I were to get my students to think in ways they aren't asked to in any of their other classes, that should be even more gratifying than teaching to those already in my corner. I guess I wish that I was working in a culture where I don't have to sell my class to my students and pitch it at a level suitable for students who never think about the sorts of issues I discuss. I wish that I was simply operating in a system that already has use for my work, rather than feeling as though I've been hired to start a system from scratch. I wish I was at a place where I can feel like a normal professor rather than a radical one. Oh well. I guess I'll just treat this new job as a challenge and a learning experience! I'm up for it.

Marriage, According to Mom and Dad

My dad's latest hobby is homemade karaoke. He takes an HDMI cable and connects his laptop to the 46'' television in the family room. My dad, who to this day has trouble operating a VCR, managed to figure out how to hook up his speakers and subwoofer to this setup as well. He goes onto YouTube and searches for karaoke videos of songs by artists he grew up listening to: the Ronettes, the Bee Gees, James Brown, Elvis, etc. My dad goes through this performance twice a day now: when he gets up in the morning and before he goes to bed at night.

My mother, of course, is not thrilled by my dad's hobby. She thinks he sounds awful. She's embarrassed by the idea that the neighbors may hear him. She's generally averse to any kind of behavior she finds absurd (of which my dad has plenty). So she'll retreat into the opposite end of the house, in the master bedroom, and watch her Taiwanese news programs and soap operas from the giant TV they have in there.

I called my parents tonight to see what they were up to. I happened to call when my dad was in the middle of a karaoke session.

Dad: Hello?

Me: Hi, Dad!

Dad: Oh hi!

Me: [hearing noise in the background] Whatcha up to?

Dad: Hold on a moment! I have to finish this song. I looked at the skies, running my hands over my eyes! And I fell out of bed! Hurting my head from things I'd said...

Dad, with Me singing along over the phone: Til I finally died! Which started the whole world living!! Oh, if I'd only SEEN! THAT THE JOKE WAS ON MEEEE!!!! [laughing]

Dad: Hehe, mom's finding sanctuary in the master bedroom.

Me: Poor mom.

Dad: Oh, and I found a really good video today that has applause in it! So I feel like Elvis entering the building! And when the song is done, I hear the applause and I bow in front of the TV. And that makes mom even more pissed. She asks me, "Why do they applaud? Why don't they say that you suck?" HAHA!

Me: You bow in front of the TV.

Dad: Yeah. And it would be even better if James could make me a nice outfit like Elvis. Because usually I'm just in my underwear. Haha! Or Elton John! Some nice glasses and a white suit and a bow tie. HAHAHA!

Me: Mom would love that.

Dad: Oh, you know, she asked me if we could go to Reno to see her favorite Taiwanese pop star perform...

Me: Yeah, she mentioned that to me.

Dad: So I said, sure, we can go. But only if she lets me do my karaoke everyday. So she said yes.

Me: Really? That doesn't seem to be an even exchange, Dad. You take her to one concert and she has to put up with your singing everyday?

Dad: Well, she has to put up with me everyday anyway, so singing or no singing, what's the difference? Hahaha!

END.

On Being a 30-Year-Old Child

My mom flew out with me to Boston about a month ago. Two weeks ago, my dad joined us to both check out my living arrangements and make sure that my brother was getting settled in smoothly. Today, both mom and dad flew back to California. Upon dropping them off at the airport, I was immediately struck with a feeling of loss. I don't know who started crying first, but I totally lost all composure when I saw my father, whom I've never once seen cry, get teary-eyed and speechless. I was in tears driving back home, and cried for about an hour after. I thankfully had plans to meet up with a friend tonight, so I didn't let myself sit in sadness all evening. But even now, I'm writing with a lump in my throat.

I feel slightly embarrassed at myself for feeling so emotional about saying bye to mom and dad. This is worse than when they dropped me off for college. Actually, even worse than when they first sent me to pre-school, because according to them, I skipped off to school without so much a glance backwards. Obviously, this is different. I'm now on the opposite side of the country, and will be living here indefinitely. For now, while I'm only starting my career, I can't assume that this move is only a temporary stopover. I really am setting out on my own for the first time in my life.

But the thing is, I'm actually really excited about starting my new job and living in my own place. As much as I enjoyed having mom and dad stay with me these last weeks, I was thinking how nice it would be to claim all of my space and determine my own routine. As if hosting my parents in my modest apartment were like an extended family road trip, I even found myself getting testy with my parents and welcoming functions at school just so I could get some me-time.

So the sadness I'm feeling isn't really about fear of being on my own. It's actually about just the opposite. I'm realizing that my being able to be on my own is largely because of all that my parents have given me. I could not buy my new home if it weren't for my father, who helped me with the downpayment. I could not settle into my new home if it weren't for my mother, who helped me paint my walls, assemble my furniture, and kept me company while I tried to figure out the city. And it is because of both of their patience and unconditional support that I was able to make it through my graduate program and allow myself the freedom to search nation-wide for my first tenure-track position. There are parents who, either consciously or not, prevent their children from fully pursuing their aspirations. I am exceedingly lucky to have parents who work every minute of their lives to ensure that my brother and I are able to pursue ours, even if that means that we won't be nearby enough to take care of them.

But it's not a sense of filial guilt that's making me weepy. I very simply like being near my parents. I love them as my parents and like them as people. I credit them for instilling in me attributes that I take the most pride in. So when I say that I will miss them, it really means simply that.

I suppose I should just remind myself that my family has always been superb at keeping in touch. Tonight, when I stepped out of South Station, I got a brilliant view of fireworks from downtown. I have no idea what the occasion was, but I can't wait to tell mom and dad about it.

Mashers!

My brother and I will each be living on our own for the first time in our lives. This is how we shared our feelings about it.

Bro: As much as I loved my roommates, I can't wait to have my own place.

Me: Yeah, I think it'll be alright in an apartment. But living alone in a house would freak me out. No matter how much a roommate could get on my nerves, I still preferred to have someone else in the house.

Bro: Yeah, that one time when mom and dad went out of town, and I thought it would be really fun to have the house to myself, I totally freaked out at any little noise. I turned on every light in every room, turned on every tv, and just stayed in bed in their room.

Me: Aww, why their room?

Bro: Because my room is at the front of the house, and I kept thinking someone would burst through the window!

Me: Yeah, I'd be afraid that the mashers would come out and get me.

Bro: The what?

Me: Mashers!

Bro: Huh?

Me: You know, bad guys who come in and mash you up...

Bro: Mash you up?

Me: Yeah, like with a meat tenderizer.

Bro: What? Why a meat tenderizer?

Me: Cuz that would be super painful! Like worse than a shanking.

Bro: Uh, I dunno about that. I mean, couldn't you defend yourself against a dinky little meat tenderizer?

Me: No, not one of those little wooden ones. A big ass metal one! With spikes! All your bones would get mashed into little bits!

Bro: Ohmygod, that's what you're saying? Mashers! I thought you were just saying "monster" in some weird accent. You fucking weirdo...

Me: Mashers!

Bro: But who the hell would carry around a big ass meat tenderizer?

Me: I dunno, a viking. With, like, a big hat with horns.

Bro: So that's your worst nightmare. A viking comes into your house in the middle of the night and mashes your legs with a giant meat tenderizer.

Me: MASHERS!

Bro: So there's more than one masher? There's like a clan of viking mashers?

Me: [laughing] I guess!

Bro: [laughing] Are they actual vikings or just dudes dressed as vikings?

Me: [laughing] Does it matter?

Bro: [laughing] I guess not...

Me: [laughing]

[Mom pokes her head in the room.]

Mom: [In Cantonese] Hey! Do you two know what time it is? Stop being so loud!

Me: [giggling]

Bro: Shhh!!

Me: [giggling]

[Mom leaves.]

Me: See, masher!

Bro: HAHAHA!! Can you imagine mom in a viking costume??

Me: HAHAHAHA!! But she actually would use the little wooden meat tenderizers! One in each hand!

Bro: HAHAHAHA!!! [mimicking mom yelling at us in Mandarin] "Wan Ba Dan!"

Me: HAHAHA, ohmygod...

Bro: Heeheehee...

Me: ...

Bro: Well, I guess that's sort of like that one episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, where Anya's cousin shows up and he's like, a big ogre viking.

Me: See, Joss Whedon understands my nightmares.

Bro: Joss Whedon is a genius.

Me: ...

Bro: ...

Me: Though I guess if a masher had a giant ass meat tenderizer, it would be pretty easy to dodge him. That thing would be heavy.

Bro: HAHAHAHA!!!

END.

Things I've Learned While Getting Settled Into the Northeast

1.) Moving companies can deliver your stuff whenever the hell they want. In spite of my checking in with Mayflower, the company I hired, about the status of my cargo, they ended up delivering my belongings an entire week later than I had requested. And there's absolutely nothing wrong with this practice, so long as they deliver within the time range they give themselves. When I complained to the moving agent about the costs and inconveniences of being stranded in an empty condo, she simply said, "Well, technically we could have delivered your things as late as August 6." My advice to those who are doing a big move: Pack or immediately buy upon your arrival an air mattress, toiletries, plenty of underwear, and something to boil water in.

2.) As much as I fancy myself a cosmopolitan person who supports small business and resists the homogenization of American society, I unapologetically admit to loving superstores. I was never so relieved to drive (thankfully the moving company delivered my car on time) outside of Boston to a town that had a Costco, Home Depot, and IKEA all in one place. One stop shopping, FTW.

3.) My mother is a powerhouse. While helping me get settled in, she has done heavy lifting, assembled furniture, navigated unknown roads, and with more energy than I'm able to muster. And she's twice my age. Either she's incredibly strong or I'm incredibly out of shape.

4.) New York City is crazy. I went there with my brother to look for his apartment. The process of finding a rental is absurd. Most landlords will only talk to a broker. No-fee apartments are usually more expensive anyway, so you'd might as well go through a broker who demands 15% of the price of rent. Place get snatched up right away, so you're pressured to sign on the first thing that looks remotely livable. And god, the prices. $1600/month is the standard for a tiny, run-down studio in Manhattan. The subway system is a puzzle. The weather during the summer is wretched. And people are cranky. But there's also always something magical about the city, about seeing in front of you landmarks that you've seen over and over again in movies, art, and television. That my brother gets to live in a city where he can go shopping in Times Square at 1 am and catch a Broadway show any night of the week does make me a bit envious. But still, New York City is crazy.

5.) People in the northeast don't wait for walk signals. Pedestrians just walk when they feel like it.

6.) There's a surprisingly large Chinese community in Boston and its surrounding areas. My mom and I drove out to Quincy, which feels like a small, very white, beach town. And yet, tucked within the historical sites and Irish pubs is a cluster of Chinese-run businesses. We found a huge Chinese supermarket and were able to get all the necessary ingredients for my mom's signature dishes, which I'm trying to learn to make.

7.) Shopping on Newbury Street will be my new temptation and weakness.

8.) Food is definitely more superior in California.

9.) The MBTA is great. And I like that I see people reading while riding it.

10.) I'm really loving owning my own place. And I'm really excited about building my life in this city.

No Goodbyes

I've spent the last eight years of my life in a town that I had always said would never be my home. Not only is it just a little too small and suburban for my taste, but I had always kept in mind that this town was just a stopover to something more permanent, that everyone I would meet during my time in graduate school would be dispersing eventually. But the problem with spending nearly a decade in one place is that you can't help but make a home out of it. If home is where the heart is, then my heart is definitely with the truly special people I've come to know in graduate school.

I've always known that I'm surrounded by really good people here, and these last couple of weeks have especially reminded me of that fact. I never gave much thought on how saying goodbyes would be, figuring that I would just sort of see people in the midst of packing for my move and then just flitter away. My friends, though, made sure that my departure was an event, not only for me, but also for them. My roommate of four years, who's also one of my closest friends, organized a bon voyage party. And because I love costume parties, she came up with the perfect theme for me: FOSSE. Given that Bob Fosse was a director/choreographer known for a style of dance emblematic in shows like Chicago and Cabaret and not a style of dress, I really didn't expect people to come in costume. But these friends of mine were totally game. In spite of having to first ask, "What the hell is Fosse?" they went out and purchased their bowler hats, corsets, fishnet stockings and bow ties. I'm sure dressing up was just fun for them anyway, but I also saw their effort as a gesture of camaraderie. They took the time and energy to make my last party here something memorable. I couldn't have asked for a better send-off.

And then in smaller, more intimate gatherings, I was able to enjoy what I love the most, which is dinner at home with my best friends. This year, we started calling it the "writing cave," because we would all gather at my place for a group writing session and then end the work day with a meal that we prepared together. In spite of the fact that all of my friends are busy writing their dissertations, teaching summer school, dealing with things like deaths in the family, they freed up their evenings just to spend time with me during my last days here. I felt really loved and supported all week (all year, really), which is exactly what I needed to get me through the harshness of this transition.

When it comes to goodbyes I've never been one for tears or even very many heartfelt words, which isn't to say that departing from people with whom I've come to admire, love and depend on isn't deeply sad for me. It is. But perhaps the rush of getting the job, finishing the degree, and buying the home has allowed me treat this big move as an adventure to look forward to rather than to fear. And that's another reason why I love my friends so much. I know these goodbyes are really sad for them (not because I'm egoistic enough to assume that I'll be missed, but because saying goodbye to friends last year was a lot harder than I had anticipated), but they've been so generous about making my departure a happy one. They've encouraged me to be excited about this move, and allowed me to treat it as a personal triumph. I think that's true selflessness-- Being available for a friend, helping her out by simply doing tasks that make her life easier, and creating the emotional atmosphere that she needs. I needed fanfare, not a funeral. My friends gave me that, and I am endlessly grateful.

I hope, though, that even with my stiff upper lip, my friends know how much I love them and how much I'll miss them. I hope they understand that when I say that I don't believe in goodbyes and that they should come visit and stay with me anytime, I mean to keep them close and make my new home theirs as well. After all, I intend to carry my friends with me wherever I go.

When An Anti-Jingoist Watches Sports

I don't really follow sports, and when I do, I don't ever swear allegiance to any one team. Maybe this has something to do with the fact that I grew up in San Jose, CA, a city that really only has the Sharks to claim as its national sports team. (And, really, who the hell here gives a rat's ass about hockey?) I suppose there are always the San Francisco teams to get behind, and I remember the 49-er frenzy when I was a kid, back when Joe Montana was a star. But for the most part, the notion of feeling personally affiliated with a sports team, and loyally supporting it, has always been kind of foreign to me.

The funny thing is, the only sports events I ever did follow consistently were the Olympics and the World Cup, two events premised on competition between nations, and thus should inspire the most flag-waving, anthem-singing, allegiance-swearing fervor. My impulse has always been to root for the United States, because, of course, that is the country I call home. But since I was a kid, I always noticed when my parents would get excited about China's performance, and it never occurred to me that they, as American citizens, were being unpatriotic. And when it did occur to me that they weren't necessarily supporting China as a nation (for, after all, both sides of my family were kicked out of China after various revolutions generations ago, and no one has expressed any interest in returning to the homeland), I came to understand that my parents were feeling an affinity with a people and a common ancestry. One's loyalty or sense of belonging isn't always represented in terms of teams. So while my family certainly has a strong sense of home and origin, it has never been that interested in jingoism. I guess I haven't been, either.

My educational background and academic career have equipped me to intellectualize my inherent distrust of nation, and have also interfered with my watching of sports. I'm far more interested in what programs nations have in place that enable the strong performance of its athletes rather than the performances themselves. I'm always impressed when athletes from war-torn and impoverished countries manage to medal. The Beijing Olympics were particularly interesting for me, because it displayed China as a country once closed-off debut itself as a superpower. While I was certainly proud to see my ancestral nation host and compete so impressively, I was also quick to wonder how much money was going into "representing" the nation when so many of its people are dirt poor. I found it thrilling to see an Asian country give my true homeland, the big and powerful U.S., a run for its money, but I also felt fatigued by the cost of competition. In the end, rather than get caught up in the medals race between the United States and China, I found myself looking out for nations that were medaling for the first time.

So for this year's FIFA World Cup, I've been largely rooting for the underdogs. Yes, I rooted for North Korea, even if they're supposed be an evil dictatorship. I just thought it was cool that they were making it to the World Cup for the first time since 1966. Yes, I rooted for Ghana, even when they were playing the United States. I just wanted to see an African country make the final in the first World Cup to take place on the African continent. And now that we're reaching the final, I definitely don't want to see one between the Netherlands and Germany, two former colonizers of South Africa.

I suppose my cheering habits betray my politics and world-view. I'm clearly fiercely critical of colonialism (and its counterpart: globalization). I'm also an American through and through, right down to my awareness of American racial politics and the history of white supremacy in the United States, which somehow translates to an affinity with my Asian brethren and other folks of color when they manage to defy expectations that history dictates.

Obviously, I'm not much of a sports watcher.

---

UDPATE: I actually got my ass up at 7 am to watch the Germany vs. Argentina game. Gotta hand it to the Germans-- They were simply way better than Argentina defensively, and knew how to position themselves in order to finish off their attempted goals. Really strong, tight team. No wonder they've been slaughtering every team they've played. See, I do pay attention to the game!

I want to have this man's babies.

So that's Alex Wong, the standout contestant on this season's So You Think You Can Dance. The show first featured Wong when he auditioned for Season 5 and totally wowed the judges, including Ms. Debbie Allen (as in "You want FAME? Well FAME costs. And right here is where you start paying in SWEAT." Debbie Allen), who could only respond with a "Shut. Up." While Wong's contract with the Miami City Ballet kept him from competing that season, he's now returned to totally dominate Season 7.

The guy has an adorable face and killer abs. (Seriously, just look at those abs.) And he's a crazy skilled ballet dancer, as his win at the Prix de Lausanne clearly indicates. But what sealed the deal for me was this performance from this week's episode:

alex 9 @ Yahoo! Video

I. Cannot. Stop. Watching. This. He is hitting it so hard, and with so much commitment and abandon, that the audience goes completely batshit. And to expand on the judges' exaltations, the fact that this guy is primarily a ballet dancer makes this hip-hop performance all the more awesome. Even I, a total non-dancer, can spot when a hip-hop dancer isn't accustomed to the lines needed for lyrical dance, or when a tap dancer is missing the hip action needed for latin ballroom. Wong just kills a genre that's totally outside of his own. (It's really clever, too, on the part of choreographers Tabitha and Napoleon D'Umo, to highlight Wong's versatility by slipping in the ballet bits into this routine.) I cannot wait to see what Wong has in store for the rest of the season.

I realize that Alex Wong would probably be more interested in making out with his dance partner tWitch than with me (not to make prejudiced assumptions, of course), and his physical agility genes would probably be shamefully diluted if mixed with my flabby ass genes, but seriously, I would carry this man's child. Or many children, to produce a friggin' Von Trapp family of dancing Asian babies.

Sen. Daniel Inouye, Senate President Pro-Tempore

Not to undermine any honor due to Senator Robert Byrd, who passed away on Monday, but it is worth noting that his passing has created a void in the position of Senate president pro-tempore. This position is filled by the longest-serving member of the majority party, who is now Senator Daniel Inouye (D-Hawaii).

This means that Sen. Inouye is now third in line of presidential succession. That is the closest an Asian American has ever come to the presidency.

To be clear, no part of me is wishing that Pres. Obama and Vice Pres. Biden get knocked off just so we get an Asian American president. (Besides, in my opinion, our president's Hawaiian upbringing, Indonesian step-dad and Chinese brother-in-law practically make him an honorary Asian anyway.) I'm just saying that this is a noteworthy moment in American history. Perhaps it is now somewhat imaginable that an Asian American could someday get the top job.

Sen. Inouye, 85 (damn, these senators are old), has been a U.S. senator since 1963. He fought in the Nisei 442nd Regimental Combat Team during World War II, and was awarded the Medal of Honor. As senator, Inouye was instrumental in securing reparations for Japanese Americans who were interned during WWII. He also voted against the Iraq War in 2002.

When Nerds Attempt to Hook Up

I know several people who met their significant others at a work-related conference. I suppose this makes sense, given that the conditions are ideal for a hook-up. You're at a hotel already. You get to meet people with similar interests as you do, and everyone is dressed up and looking nice. And after or in between all the conferencing stuff, every social and networking occasion involves alcohol. And you're there for only a few days, so you'd might as well have a little fun while you're working.

However, in regards to academic conferences, which are the only conferences I've been to, I find it hard to believe that much hooking up happens. Quite frankly, I rarely see anyone remotely fuckable at academic conferences. Professors are largely former speech and debate geeks and academic decathletes (no joke), so one can only imagine what kind of a meat market academic conferences might be.

At a recent conference I attended, I did manage to meet someone with hook-up potential. He wasn't a professor or a graduate student, but worked as a program coordinator at an institution that works in historical preservation. I'll just refer to him as Sriracha. Because I only remember that his name started with an S. And, well, because he was hot. Anyway, I met Sriracha with a group of graduate students who were having dinner and drinks at the end of the first day of the conference. As the night progressed, we got drunk, danced, flirted, and eventually found ourselves back at the hotel.

Now, I'm not one to do the one-night-stand thing, even in my drunkest and flirtiest state. So I was pretty careful about setting my boundaries and keeping things light. Sriracha, however, definitely wanted sex. A part of me was definitely tempted to throw caution to the wind and sleep with the guy. But then, the dude suddenly transformed into a pubescent boy. After going in for a kiss, he started talking like Screech from Saved By the Bell and exclaimed, "Woah, what happened there?" And then he told me he wanted to see my "boobies, " after which I burst out laughing and told him I had to call it a night. Any desire on my part to hook-up fizzled. I didn't see the guy again for the rest of the conference.

Anyway, because the academic world is absurdly small, it turns out that Sriracha knows a good friend of mine, who worked at the same institution he works for. She was quite shocked when I told her about our little almost-hook-up, because the dude is engaged to be married. And apparently, his fiancee is absolutely gorgeous. My friend is also very disappointed the fact that Sriracha would cheat on his fiancee, because he seems to be such a decent, intelligent, put-together guy.

I suppose I should be insulted by the fact that this guy was putting me in the position of Bombshell McGee, Divine Brown, or the however many women Tiger Woods managed to have affairs with. But mostly I just think the whole scenario is absurd. I'll bet Sriracha regularly has one night stands with women whenever he goes to conferences. Had he not chosen to make me his target, I'm sure he would have found someone else that night. He may have had a different woman each night he was at the conference. I think this might be the case for a lot of men in academia, especially in the humanities, where men are the distinct minority. Sriracha, who's attractive, but really is only a normal-looking dude in the normal world, must easily catch the attention of academic women, who either don't get to meet very many men at all or only meet friggin' weird and awkward men. (Again, academics really are just a bunch of nerds.) I've seen it time and again-- Guys who are really unexceptional-looking or even downright ugly getting way more ass than one would think they'd be able to get, or snagging women way out of their league and then cheating on them. I really don't get this behavior.

Jerks exist everywhere in and in all forms, of course. But put a guy in an environment where he feels entitled to be greedy, even the biggest nerd can be a playboy.

Good Friends/ Bad Friends

A few years ago, I was in a relationship with a guy who wasn't into me as much as I was into him. I only say this now, of course, in retrospect, because I'm able to recognize how much I feared facing the fact of his indifference. I had no problems being the initiator, planning out dates, thinking of ways to surprise him, making room in my life for him. It had occurred to me many times while we were together that I was putting more into our relationship than he was, but I never could bring myself to let him take the lead. Sometimes I would wait for him to make me dinner, plan a getaway, tickle my fancy. But I would usually cave and be the initiator once again. So long as he played along with my plans, I was able to ignore the glaring fact that I really should have confronted from the very beginning: Had I walked away from the relationship, he probably wouldn't have chased me. I was simply to afraid to put him to the test.

Largely because that relationship ended in exhaustive heartbreak for me, I've been much better about demanding more from men that I date. The relationship that came after was much healthier. I let him chase me, and then would reciprocate when I felt ready to. The relationship was a lot more equal, and I was able to rest assured that his actions would correspond to his feelings. I had expected that should that relationship end, it would be because one or both of us could not give anymore. And that's pretty much what happened. While I was deeply saddened by the end of that relationship, I didn't walk away feeling spent and stupid. I'd like to think that I'm now brave enough to walk away from any man who isn't into me, no matter how much I may be into him.

One would think that the expectation for reciprocity should be even easier to manage when it comes to non-romantic relationships. But these past several months have really made me consider what kinds of friendships I've maintained. It's always the worst and best of times that make me realize who my true friends are. And sure enough, these past several months have been at once the most exhilarating and the most exhausting for me. Some friends have been fantastic-- They've celebrated my graduating, getting a job, buying a home, at the same time that they've provided emotional support and companionship when I've felt just downright freaked out about all these sudden changes and transitions. Some other friends, however, have totally dropped the ball. They've not even sent a message of congrats or even acknowledged that this has been a really big year for me. Strangers have expressed more excitement over my accomplishments than some of these so-called friends have. Some of the very same friends who have been the recipients of my gifts and congrats when they've gotten married, graduated, had babies, bought houses, etc., have completely ignored my announcements. And even worse, some friends are even burdening me with their needs and problems at a time when dealing with my own life is already taking all of my energy.

I suppose everyone realizes at one point or another that some people simply suck. (I'm sure I've sucked, too.) I should be able to live with that realization, except that, as I did with my non-reciprocative ex-boyfriend, I think I'm bringing a lot of this sucky behavior onto myself. After all, it's not as if these sucky friends were ever really good friends in the first place. Through the years, I've been the one to round them up for our reunions during the winter holidays. I've been the one to send them birthday cards. I've been the one to fly across the country to their weddings. But if I never did, I think I would just never hear from some of these people. And, really, those friends who are laying their problems on me have always been better at taking than giving. I don't know why I haven't been better at setting my boundaries. I don't know why I haven't walked away from these friendships.

Actually, I know why. I keep holding onto these friends because it seems to be part of my nature to just shut up and do things that need to be done. Or, rather, I've been trained to do so by my parents. My mother will do it all for people-- She'll chauffeur, run errands, cook and clean up after. She'll do this for anyone who will ask, and only hopes that her efforts are appreciated. My father is more selective with whom he will serve, but when he does choose to do things for someone, he won't expect any reciprocity or even appreciation. He's been taking care of my greataunt, who regularly talks shit about him to other people and accuses him of stealing from her, simply because he knows she needs the help. He doesn't do this out of self-martyrdom or obligation or love. He just chooses to do it because he can.

So when I've complained to my parents about feeling slighted or burdened by some of my friends, my parents don't have a whole lot of sympathy to offer. My mother will say, "You should be a good friend simply because it's the good thing to do; Stop being so petty." And my father will say, "Just do what you are willing to do for your friends. Even if they don't acknowledge or appreciate it, just treat it as a favor to them." To my parents, friendship, love, marriage, family are all premised on simply doing things for people. And yes, oftentimes those people are going to take your kindness for granted, receive your help without offering anything in return. That's just a fact of life.

So maybe I need to figure out if that's how I want to conduct my friendships. That's certainly my first impulse, anyway. If a friend needs cheering up, I'll host a party. If a friend is stressed out about work, I'll turn my home into a workspace and make her dinner. If a friend is a hot mess, I'll do the dirty work. So long as I can do something, I'll try to. But unlike my parents, I get miffed if I don't feel sufficiently appreciated. And I get downright resentful if I feel that my efforts aren't being returned. I start thinking that that friend is simply stingy, lazy, selfish. I start wondering if he/she is a bad friend.

And the thing is, I know I'm being unfair in my resentment. First of all, I shouldn't get upset if I haven't even communicated to my friends that I am upset. And second, I may need to be better at recognizing the gestures of friendship my friends do offer, even if they're unlike mine. But still, conceding these two points doesn't make me any less disappointed.

Maybe there is something about this turning-point in my life that's making me ration out my emotional energy. And maybe I'm ready to only spend energy on my truly great friends, those who treat friendship as something to step up to, not just coast on.

Stuff White People Like: Chinese Parents' Edition

I was watching tv with my parents a few nights ago when we stumbled upon the Discovery Channel, which was broadcasting a marathon of Man Vs. Wild, starring Bear Grylls. Though I generally have no interest in the wilderness or how one would survive in it, I kinda love the show. I excitedly described to my parents some of Bear Grylls's nastiest antics: finding drinking water by squeezing it out of fresh elephant dung, hollowing out a camel carcass to use as shelter, and drinking turtle blood (pictured). Coincidentally, the episode we happened to catch was a countdown of Bear Grylls's 25 favorite moments, so my parents got a condensed helping of the show.

As they watched Bear Grylls (how awesome a name is that?) deliberately fall into a frozen lake, jump out of airplanes and eat giant exploding worms, they offered their commentary:

Mom: What is wrong with this crazy man? Why would he do these things? Does he want to die?

Dad: It's all fake! If he was actually risking death, they wouldn't show it on tv.

Me: Well, that Crocodile Hunter guy died, and I think they eventually showed it on tv.

Mom: That guy was stupid, too.

Dad: Why is it always stupid white men who like to do these stunts?

END.

My parents may have a point. Bear Grylls, Steve Irwin, the two guys on Dual Survival, just about every contestant on shows like Survivor-- It does seem like white people, and white dudes in particular, take delight in throwing themselves into environments in which humans aren't meant to exist, getting themselves injured, and eating lots of really gross things. Not to say that Asian folks don't have tendencies to do some crazy shit. Martial arts are pretty crazy, especially when taken to the level that THIS Chinese dude has. The Japanese have perfected the art of producing television shows featuring people who like to hurt themselves. And let's face it-- Half the "gross" stuff that white people eat on these stunt challenge shows like Fear Factor is probably standard cuisine in many Asian countries. (For the record, of that list, I've only had durian, stinky tofu, and fugu.)

But while all cultures may celebrate their own brands of crazy, I wonder if the type represented by Man Vs. Wild is a particularly white Anglo-American thing. Does the scenario of a lone dude combatting the hostile wilderness and defying death appeal to the standard frontier myth that has basically driven white men to "discover" new lands and conquer them? Does Bear Grylls satisfy some fantasy that white men have to maintain in order to feel powerful in this supposed post-feminist, post-racial, post-modern world?

I dunno. What I do know is that I love watching a white dude piss into a tube of snake skin and drink from it as a means to hydrate himself.

Home:Word

I am totally hooked on THIS ALBUM. I've sort of kept an eye on Magnetic North (a duo comprised of emcees Derek Kan and Theresa Vu) ever since I was introduced to their cover of "Drift Away." So when I learned that they collaborated with Taiyo Na, an artist whose work I've also recently come to admire, I had to buy the album right away. Besides, I'm always on the lookout for Asian American talent. Even better, socially conscious Asian American talent.

My favorite track is "We Belong," an anthem for Asian American empowerment that takes jabs at Rosie O'Donnell's ching-chong joke and Miley Cyrus's chinky eyes at the same time that it incisively comments on the model minority myth, refugee experience, and the lives of migrant workers. And on top of that, it's great to listen to, with a funky groove, singable chorus, and tight rhymes.

A friend of mine knows Vu, Kan and Na personally, and he says that they're fantastic people who are activists as well as artists. So support them and buy the album now!

We Did It!

My commencement ceremony was last Thursday, which was then followed by my brother's commencement on Friday. And if graduations were typically celebrated with the kind of hoopla that weddings are, my family would certainly know how to play up the pomp and circumstance. It doesn't matter that graduation ceremonies are tedious and boring, and that attending two of them in different states within a span of 24 hours was going to be one big pain in the ass. My family makes recognizing educational achievement a top priority. I'm pretty sure my mom would be more upset if I were to ditch my PhD commencement than if I were to get hitched via elopement.

If it weren't for the fact that both my brother and I are planning big moves to the east coast this summer, and if it weren't for the fact that I just purchased a condo (with my parents facilitating the down payment), and if it weren't for the fact that my generally frugal family isn't loaded, we would have hosted a banquet in honor of my and my brother's joint commencements. And why not? As it is, I was already ordering announcements and spending a lot of dough on my dress (aka super expensive regalia). Might as well make the whole event official, complete with gift registry and everything. In fact, before we had anticipated that we would graduate on the same year, my brother (the king of party-throwers) had my PhD party all planned out. It would take place in the fabulous backyard of my aunt and uncle's house. (In fact, their house would be great for an intimate wedding.) The theme would be "In Her Shoes"-- In honor of my shoe addiction, but also because, duh, who wouldn't want to be in my shoes? Guests would be required to wear black and/or white, unless they were a holder of a PhD, in which case they can come in color. (I would probably wear magenta.) And, of course, all in attendance have to come wearing their best pair of shoes. For sure, there would be dancing and lots of booze. Had we had the time or money to throw it, that party would have been more fun than most weddings I've been to.

But we managed to do it up right anyway. My parents, along with my closest aunts, uncles and cousins, drove up to Davis the day of my commencement. We did a banquet style lunch at a favorite Chinese restaurant, to which I was able to invite a table of my best friends from graduate school. After lunch, we headed over to an uncle's house and had champagne. My family was an awesome cheering section as they saw me get hooded. Lots of pictures, chit-chat with my dissertation chair, who served as my faculty escort. My cousin made me a lei with fifty carefully origamied $1 bills. I then had to drive home with my family that night, because we all had to catch a plane to Seattle first thing in the morning. Upon arriving in Seattle, we basically only had enough time to get a quick lunch before heading over to my brother's undergraduate commencement ceremony. As tired as we were, we were really excited to hear his name being called. He had already set the tone by decorating his robe with glitter. We're not necessarily noisy people, but we know how to make ourselves stand out. After his ceremony, we went to a fantastic restaurant called Etta's. After that, the older folks went back to the hotel as my brother, cousin and I went out clubbing to the wee hours of the morning. We spent the rest of the weekend helping my brother pack, treating his roommates to dinner, and meeting their families.

So our celebrations were fairly modest, but no small deal, given that so many people I know seem to forgo graduation celebrations altogether. Even my dad, who's typically a tightwad when it comes to unnecessary expenses and doesn't really believe in rituals and traditions, happily footed the bill for one big dinner after another. Relatives who couldn't make it to the celebrations have been sending me generous red envelopes congratulating me on my achievement. Which makes the complete lack of congrats from some friends for whom I shelled out a lot of money and energy for their bachelorette parties, weddings, baby showers, etc., all the more meaningful (and sad).

I know that I can only say this because we're privileged enough to afford any kind of celebration, but I'm really glad that my family is willing to make a big deal out of graduations. Weddings are still a bigger deal, as they are for basically the whole world, but we do a pretty good job honoring graduations as the once-in-a-lifetime milestones and truly admirable achievements that they are. After all, any idiot can get married. Not everyone can complete a degree.

Open Letter

Dear Econ Grad Student With Whom I Went On Two Really Awkward Dates About a Million Years Ago,

I'm very flattered that you still remember me and my name, because, quite frankly, I would not have recognized you had you sat next to me at the bar. And it's very cool of you to come up and talk to me, however briefly. That's way cooler than the friggin' owner of the bar, whom I had also dated about half a million years ago, who likes to pretend that he doesn't know me, even though I've patronized his establishment regularly for the past 8 years. Thank you, too, for offering to buy me a drink. Had I not already been drinking for much of the night, I would have accepted the offer.

But my saying, "Thanks, but I've already had a few beers tonight" doesn't necessarily mean that you need to cut the conversation short and just scamper off. You could have said, "How about I get you a Coke, then?" Or just continued chatting with me while I sipped at my glass of water. You could reciprocate my question of, "So, have you finished your degree?" with that very same question. Instead, you chose to randomly tell me that you spent some time in China (Was I supposed to be impressed by that fact? Because I'm Chinese and you're white?), and then ended the conversation without asking me what I've been up to. The fact that you then ran away with your tail between your legs only reminds me of why each of our two dates was really friggin' awkward, and why I was relieved when you didn't come around asking for a third.

What is up with dudes like you and the complete lack of follow-through? If you want to talk to me, just talk to me. If you want to buy me a drink, go ahead and do so. If you want to ask me out, just ask. Unless you're a major creeper (like the dude who introduced himself to me by saying, "I'm a pharmacist; What type of birth control are you on?"), I generally won't bite your head off or give you the cold shoulder. I will be my usual friendly, conversational self, as I believe I was with you tonight. I may decline your offer should you ask me out, but that's a risk that we all take, right? Grow some huevos and just take it.

I suppose it doesn't really matter that you totally punked out, given that I had already decided a million years ago that I didn't want to date you or even be friends. But you just reminded me of why I find meeting people so frustratingly exhausting. I cannot tell you how many times I've encountered guys who would initiate and then suddenly veer off course. I used to think that there must have been something wrong with me, that I was suddenly off-putting, that I smelled bad and didn't know it, that I was like that woman from that one episode of Seinfeld who suddenly looked ugly in a shift of lighting. But now, I really don't think that's the case. I'm fucking charming. And always polite. I have impeccable hygiene. So I have to assume that when guys who talk to me run away as if I were the plague, there's something wrong with them.

And you know, I'd might as well apply that assumption to men whom I actually do end up dating. Because the follow-through is key there as well. I've been dumped by a guy who decided after one year into our relationship that he "wasn't sure" if he was ever in love with me. I've been dumped by a guy who acted as though he couldn't get enough of me and then never talked to me again, not even to say "Thanks" when I sent him an email wishing him a happy birthday. I don't walk into every relationship believing that it will end in "happily ever after," but I do think that people should own their choices and actions. When I say that I want a follow-through, I mean that I simply don't want a relationship to end with a "WTF?" It is possible to break up with someone without making them feel as though the whole relationship was a lie. And it is possible, and even comforting, to convey to someone that you care about them even after the relationship is over. Certainly, taking off like a bat out of hell may seem to be the less messy of alternatives. But it also makes you a spastic asshole.

But I digress. What I meant to say was simply this: Thank you for validating my M.O., which is to no longer suffer wishy-washy boys kindly. I want and deserve a man who knows what he wants, and who knows that he wants me.

Best,

Me

The Real Estate Pain-in-the-Ass That Nobody's Telling You About

Let me just start with a disclaimer: I just became a homeowner with a whole lot of help from my parents, and I am in no way an expert on the ins and outs of buying a home. I'm just speaking as someone who has witnessed the buying and selling side of real estate this year, and who has come into contact with a little pain in the ass thing we'll just call the "10% rule."

With any home loan you apply for, the federal government (via Fannie Mae or Freddie Mac) has to back up the bank. I guess that's what it means for your loan to be FHA approved. As of about two years ago, the federal government has instituted a rule saying that it will not back up any loan that will be used to finance the purchase of a condo in which one owner owns more than 10% of the complex. As a result, banks generally won't bother issuing loans that will be used to finance the purchase of a condo in which one owner owns more than 10% of the complex.

This rule was put in place in response to the housing crisis. It makes sense in the context of giant establishments (say, hotels) in which one big investor may own a good chunk of the building. Say that investor owns 50% of the building-- If that investor goes bankrupt for whatever reason, the rest of the investors in that building would also get screwed. And so do the banks. So this 10% rule is meant to protect "little" owners, I suppose. It makes it difficult for any one body to own too much of one complex, balances out the distribution of ownership and power, and allows the banks to also protect their assets.

But even the most well-intentioned rules cannot be universally applied. This rule has been quite the pain in the ass for "little" people like my family. For a while now, my dad has been helping my greataunt, who is elderly and senile, with her estate. Seeing that she was running out of money, my dad applied on her behalf for a reverse mortgage. For some reason, this 10% rule came into the picture, and the banks denied her application, precisely because one owner in her complex owned more than 10% of the units. (This is also the fault of her homeowner's association, who didn't step in to prevent this one owner from purchasing that many units.) I don't understand why this 10% rule should apply to reverse mortgages. Seems like an exception should be made, especially for someone in my greataunt's situation. After all, what good is a house you've invested in your entire life if you can't live off of what it's worth once you're too old to support yourself?

My greataunt was not only running out of money, but she was also running out of the mental capabilities of taking care of herself. In order to facilitate her move into an assisted living establishment, my dad had to help her sell her condo. Sure enough, the 10% rule became a huge obstacle. No potential buyer would have been able to get a bank to approve a loan in order to finance the purchase. We were seriously worried that my greataunt would be stuck with this condo as her finances kept draining.

Miraculously, we did get a buyer who was able to pay in cash. So we were able to sell my greataunt's condo, and now she hopefully has enough cash to live on for the rest of her life. But had that buyer never come along, my greataunt would be in dire straits. And even though things worked out in the end, this 10% rule probably cost her tens of thousands of dollars. Given our desperate situation, we had to sell the place at a lower price than we could have had we been open to buyers who could get their loans approved.

This 10% rule continued to be a pain in the ass for my family when we went out to Cambridge to hunt for my condo. The first place we were interested in was one unit of seven, in a building owned by a developer who was selling each unit one buy one. The developer still owned five of the units, so, of course, he owned more than 10% of the units. We were told right away from the New England Moves, the mortgage company affiliated with Coldwell Banker, that they would not be able to finance this purchase. A local lender, East Cambridge Bank, would have been able to, but at a slightly higher interest rate. We did make an offer on that unit, but with some reservations. Even if I could secure the purchase with a loan from East Cambridge Bank, what will happen a few years down the road, when I want to sell the place? If the developer still owned more than 10% of the units, would I have trouble selling the place because no buyer could get a loan? Not willing to risk this, we made a low-ball offer (figuring that we'd get a counter-offer, and thus wouldn't be tied to the contract), and went looking for other units. Luckily, we ended up finding one that we liked even better and in building where this 10% rule wouldn't be a problem. But in the end we couldn't ignore the fact that this rule was affecting our lives at many junctures.

What's truly upsetting is the fact that no one seems to be upset or bothered by this 10% rule. The sellers I've come across during my real estate hunt completely dismiss it. And the morons in my greataunt's homeowner's association totally whitewash the problems the rule causes, in spite of the fact that not one of them will be able to sell their properties. You'd think there would be some amount of public outrage, at least enough for the federal government and the banks to tweak the rule, add an addendum or exception here and there, so that it doesn't end up screwing over average folks who need to meet simple goals like buying a home or selling it, in order to secure their futures. This rule is not helping or protecting people like me or my greataunt. On the contrary, it's only helping super rich people who could buy real estate in cash and bypass the banks entirely. Or, it's helping mafioso banks that are willing to issue unconventional loans at high interest rates. The 10% rule is a good idea gone very, very bad.

Well, maybe my little anecdote here can help spark some conversation at least.

Big Step

So I haven't blogged in a couple of weeks, largely because I've been consumed with the best kind of busy: I just became a homeowner! After several weeks of applying for home loan pre-approvals, talking with realtors, figuring out how real estate works in Massachusetts, and scouring MLS listings, I went out to Cambridge with my parents to scout for a condo. And after looking at many properties that were either too small to be livable, in less-than-convenient locations, or in crap condition (for, after all, I was working with a limited budget), I managed to find a place that is quite perfect for my needs. I made an offer on a modest 2-bedroom condo located very near a major T station. After some counteroffering from the seller, I got my bid accepted. I've secured a fantastic interest rate (30 years, 4.8%). The home inspection has been conducted. Should no big hiccup come up, I will officially close and own the place mid-July.

So now to plan for my cross-country move! There's certainly something scary about moving so far away from my family, living on my own, and having mortgage payments. But I'm also very excited about starting this new phase of my life.

Sex and a City of Hot Asian Men

Last night, a good friend of mine hosted a Sex and the City party, in which we wore our cutest shoes, drank girly cocktails and watched our favorite episodes of the series. Revisiting the series reminded me of how neatly it manages to encapsulate the thrills and frustrations of being a single woman. The "A Woman's Right to Shoes" episode points out how much money I've spent on friends' weddings and baby showers, and dares me to register for gifts so that all those bitches have to validate my life choice of getting a PhD. (After all, the 8 years I took to get the degree is longer than the duration of any of their marriages so far.) I also can't help but applaud when Carrie goes on her rant after being dumped via Post-It note. As a woman whose last long-term relationship ended with the guy breaking up with me over the phone and then never talking to me again, and as as single gal who recently went on a date that ended with the guy giving me a Christian side hug, I also think that an ending that is thoughtful and decent shouldn't be too much to ask for. I guess the fact that so many women could relate to the show, in spite of its fantasy-creating glamour, is what made it successful.

But as much as I relate to the show, and as much as I've caught myself in conversations where somebody says, "Oh, this is like the SATC episode where...", there's also something incredibly alienating about watching it. Part of it is class, of course. I don't know anyone in their 30s who can live the kind of lifestyle that these women do on the show. Plus, there's the show's unbearable whiteness of being. The four leading ladies are white. All their friends are white. All the passersby in the background whenever they go shopping, eat at trendy restaurants, or attend club openings are white. They all end up with white men (unless you count Charlotte's Jewish husband as non-white). And with the exception of a few men of color (like the truly drool-worthy Blair Underwood), all the men they fuck are white.

And this is what truly bothers me: Not once in the entire series or subsequent films does any one of the ladies date or fuck an Asian man. (Samantha does spend one episode lusting after her South Asian yoga instructor, but the entire episode is also about the fact that she CAN'T fuck him because he's taken a vow of celibacy. Of course.) The lack of Asian beefcake on the show is not so surprising. Asian men don't get represented as sexy or desirable in American popular culture, and perhaps the most famous Asian man who has circulated through American media in recent years has been, lamentably, THIS GUY. And THIS GUY is not much better. Latino men have the macho Latin lover stereotype going for them. African American men, stereotyped as having big penises, produce catchphrases like, "Once you go black, you can't go back." Asian men, however, are small and anemic computer nerds who wouldn't know how to navigate a woman's body with a map and a flashlight. Asian men have no place in the world of Sex and the City.

As an Asian woman who has known quite a few hot Asian men, and who's always looking out for my Asian brothas, I present the following evidence of what the makers and viewers of Sex and the City have been missing out on:

Daniel Henney

Daniel Dae Kim

Naveen Andrews

John Cho

Sendhil Ramamurthy

Victor Basa

Russell Wong

Hidetoshi Nakata

Aaron Kwok

Rick Yune

Archie Kao

Johnny Tri Nguyen

Takeshi Kaneshiro

Holy hotness. What heterosexual woman of any ethnicity wouldn't want to tap some of that? Here's what I propose: If the Sex and the City movie franchise were to end in a trilogy, the last installment should feature no men BUT hot Asian men. That's my idea of a thoughtful and decent ending. In fact, I'll volunteer to write the screenplay. And work as the casting director.