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.

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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.