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.