我想为你努力

I know they're proud of me, but sometimes it's not enough. They're not proud enough. There is always something they can say, always some fault they can find, something to criticize, something I haven't done right, or well enough, or at all. And it hurts, because they're right. This is the way I feel about myself, why I can never really accept all the accolades and praises people try to give me about my accomplishments: whatever I've done, I could've done more.

I don't dismiss what I've achieved as unimportant, but all of it really fades into the background when it comes to what I could be doing, should be doing, could've/should've/would've done instead. Take for instance this summer: I should've put more work into finding something to do after I come back from China and Korea. I tentatively have an option open at a restaurant, but it's not a guarantee. Why didn't I look for an internship instead? Why didn't I plan ahead for something sound and of worth, volunteer work, even? I don't take the initiative often enough.

I know my parents are proud of me, but they see better than anyone my faults and shortcomings, and they let me know-- They do it when they're irritable and stressed, which means that their guard is down and this is how they feel at the moment (that I'm not enough), but it also means that they don't always feel this way (which is some sort of comfort).

It does hurt; of course it does. I don't think anyone's opinions of me matter quite as much as my parents'. That doesn't mean I'll let their opinions of me shape my entire life or my beliefs, because I know I live a different life than they do, and I know they're wrong at times, but their opininos certainly do make an impact and carry weight.

It does hurt when they tell me I'm not good enough, but considering the rest of tonight, I'd rather they be upset with me than with each other. Because I at least know that they love me anyway, that they're only worried about me, wanting the best for me.

I hate it when they're upset with each other. I hate it when they're so tired, so sick, so stressed, that they snap at each other over every little thing. I hate that my mom hates her job, because there's so much pressure, and I hate that my dad feels the same way about his job, constantly struggling to prove himself to his superiors and support the family. I hate that my parents don't communicate well with each other, I hate that they don't understand why the other one is legitimately upset. I hate that they're both sick right now and that neither of their health is that good.

I hate that my parents are unhappy so much, or at all, and I hate that they're getting old.

I hate that I don't know what to do about it. I wish I could support the family financially and my mom could quit her job or find a different one. I wish I could take on more of their duties (basic household management issues, maybe) so they wouldn't have to worry about that on top of their jobs. I wish I could do more, that I was better, more efficient, more knowledgeable, more capable. I wish I could take care of them.

Sometimes I really feel my age. Most of the time, I feel older than I am. I'm always surprised when I remember, hey, I'm not even twenty-one yet. I'm only twenty? I feel twenty-three at least. But maybe it's good that I'm not, because I hope to be far more capable and accomplished by twenty-three.

Someone I really respect said, about his parents, "我会努力让你们过的幸福开心,你们的幸福是我在心里最大的安慰,希望老爸,老妈身体健康,儿子永远我爱你们." (I'll work hard so you can live happily; your happiness is my heart's greatest comfort. I hope Mom and Dad will stay healthy; your son will always love you.)

I want to want that. I want to stop feeling so selfish about my own wants. This trip to China and Korea--I want it so badly, but it's causing my parents an untold amount of stress and worry. And I'm so sorry. But I want to go, and I want them to trust me to go; but more than that, I want them to be happy for me. I want them to stop being so anxious. (But they're parents, worrying is what they do.)

They've done so much for me. I wish I could do something in return.

it makes sense in my head

You are not allowed to be weak because you do not make allowances for weaknesses (in yourself).

when the words fall away

I hate everything I write; I especially hate it after reading a particularly good fic or piece of fiction. Nothing I write has a point. There should be themes, interpretation, parallels--something. Something beyond a random slice-of-life; if the slice-of-life is demonstrating a particular sentiment or illustrating a certain point, that's different. But I hate everything I write because nothing I write has a point. I can never find the write words to express the things I'd like to express, or I use pretty language in the shallowest of ways to describe things in a vaguely literary manner--except still without a point. I have too many loose ends and irrelevant details, emotions that escape at the edges and aren't properly directed or reshaped by the end of the story. My humor is contrived and not that funny.

I can't write length and I can't write plot.

What kind of writer am I?

我需要的人

I play mom and older sister and sempai to a whole host of people in real life and in fandom. I like it. I love these people and I love helping them and supporting them and giving (hopefully good) advice in any way I can--but sometimes I wish I had a 姐姐 or a 哥哥 to lean on. I suppose I know a fair number of people older than me through fandom, but we aren't close enough for me to rely on them. And, in real life, I don't have many people/friends who are older than me. Maybe it's my faulty psyche--I want to lean on someone and for them to give me advice, but I'm not capable of being that kind of dependent person. I have enough trouble telling people when I'm seriously upset... It's a paradox: I want to have someone to support and guide me, and yet I feel incapable of burdening people with my woes and seeking advice.

I know I'm strong. I strive to be. But sometimes all I want to cry and lean on someone else. I just don't know if I'm capable of taking your hand if you offer it.

two sides of the sun

In class today, my English professor eloquently described our campus as having "lawns that have sprouted people". With the nice weather, people have emerged out of nowhere onto our quad, sometimes alone, sometimes in groups of two or five. They lie out under the sun, baring arms and legs (and sometimes backs) to the warm golden rays, diverting themselves with laughter and talk. I walk past them, those bright spots of color--red, blue, yellow, white--against the green grass, and I think how different are my cultures. (Then I take a moment to dwell on what I call "mine", but I think I can justify this to myself, or save it for another time.)

What do I mean?

I walk through the quad, weaving past people in t-shirts and shorts, and think about how different this scene would be China. Putting aside the fact that there are few areas of unspoiled lawn (even in parks), the people in China are not nearly so welcoming of the sun. Women and men alike don hats and hold intricately designed umbrellas (parasols?) to ward off the heavy, cancerous rays. They shy away from the light and the suffocating heat, exactly opposite of the people strewn across my campus, who turn their faces up in welcome to the sky.

Girls in China* are always dressed with effort: every eye not their own is part of the audience they display their style to, on the streets and in the malls and throughout the city. Even their casual clothes involve intricte outfits and designs on their shirts and on their jeans. The sneakers are also trendy, and those are only worn when they're not tripping through crowds in platform sandals or strappy heels. Over their heads, these girls wave pretty umbrellas (that sport flowers or lace or both) that match their outfits, shading them from the sun as they walk down the street.

(Wearing my solid-colored top and simple, undecorated jeans--so everyday and basic in the States--made me self-conscious in China, because I felt so very plain. And my borrowed lavendar-tinted umbrella unfortunately clashed with my green-and-blue clothes. I felt un-Asian, a failure in my own culture.)

So different are these cultures, I think as I walk across my campus. (Are they both mine?) Which do I prefer?



*disclaimer: in urban China, not rural; in comparisons that can be drawn to CH or universities in general

if you write about writers, who will write about you?

Today in my Intro to Fiction class, we discussed The Hours by Michael Cunningham, where he fictionalizes a part of Virginia Woolf's life. This brought on a meta discussion about the morality (as well as other literary problems) involved in writing fiction about a real person's life. Why would you choose to do this? How accurate does it need to be? Are there problems in presuming their thoughts and feelings; what kind of liberties are taken?

Questions that also struck me that I hope to bring up next class (or privately with the professor): Is there a difference between writing a fictional account of a historical (i.e., dead) figure and someone who is currently alive? What kind of permission do you have to seek? Is there a certain length of time that needs to pass before the person's life becomes public property much in the way literature copyrights expire?

Then there's the entire idea of writing fiction about fictional characters. I would love her opinion on this. They call it "derivative fiction" when they can get it published, all those awful works based off Pride and Prejudice (Mr. Darcy's Diary, Mr. Darcy Takes a Wife, etc.; what is this crap?) or The Wizard of Oz (oh Wicked). How legitimate is this? How are the morals involved here different from writing about real people (historical or present)?

I have no problem with any of this. Honestly, the thing about writing is that no one can stop you from writing whatever you want. The only thing people can restrict is the distribution of your writing--they can say who can or cannot read your writing, but they can't stop you from writing it.

So write it.

for all time, you are my everything

You're the breath of life in me
the only one that sets me free

Spring Break ends today and it's back to classes and routine (nose to grindstone) again tomorrow. I know I'll be able to readjust fairly quickly, but right now it's so hard to want to face everything again, when the past week has been so full of lovely things like sleep, Chinese food, writing, random drinks with A, time. Life goes on, though, and we move with it. I'm just in a vaguely nostalgic, vaguely pensive mood, one that borders on unhappiness (except I wouldn't go that far). It, too, shall pass.

I'm listening to this song on repeat. It's a pretty good rip of a fancam from a concert featuring D (a Korean star) singing 98 Degrees' My Everything. His English is coherent, clear, understandable, and the entire performance moved me to tears when I first watched it. This song is a tribute to his late father, apparently with images playing in a slideshow behind him as he sang. The very concept is touching, but to hear him sing it is just so much more-- It kind of breaks my heart.

in memory, we emerge from the fear and the tears

It was Eve.

It wasn't just anyone, it was Eve.

Eve Carson was our student body president this year and yesterday morning around 5am, a 911 call alerted the police to her body at a community not far off campus. She was lying in the intersection, shot. She was identified this morning at the hospital and her name was released to the public at 12:30 this afternoon at a press conference.

No one knows if it was a random incident or if she was targeted. All we know right now is that she was murdered.

I didn't even know Eve. I've never met her. But I've passed h on campus, I've seen her picture in our campus newspaper; I knew people who knew her, I knew her policies and her friendliness through other people. She was real to me, to the entire campus and city of Chapel Hill.

This time, the shooting victim wasn't just a twenty-something college female. This time it was Eve--Eve, who was someone to everyone. Her death doesn't just affect her family and her friends and the people who knew her. Her death affects the entire UNC campus and the city of Chapel Hill because she was such a public figure, so engaged.

This is the closest death has ever struck for me and it's terrifying. It's incomprehensible and unfair and random and frightening. In the March (again, March) of my freshman year, a crazed graduate student drove his car across the most crowded area of campus during lunchtime and hit five or six people. About nine people were injured but hundreds were left shaking, afraid. Sarah was almost hit that day. She was terrified; I was terrified--but no one died then.

This brings home to me how truly tragic the shooting last April at Virginia Tech must have been. Multiple this feeling of shock, loss, fear by thirty-three.

For me, just one--just this one--is enough to bring tears to my eyes.

It was Eve.