Wednesday, January 23, 2013

Crying. In public.


It was 9pm last Wednesday night and I was crying in a booth at Canter’s Deli on Fairfax. I pushed at the corners of my eyes with my knuckles and dabbed the snot leaking from my nose with a napkin. The edges of my vision blurred with tears, like a watery postcard. At the center of the postcard, still surprisingly in focus, sat my friend. 

I get ugly when I cry. My entire face turns blotchy and red. The salt stings my nostrils. My eyes puff up, causing me to look more Asian than my usual fifty percent. My nose swells. My eyelids start to itch. The corners of my mouth dry out. I can’t breathe through my nose. 

I try to avoid crying in public, mostly because of the ugliness and the sluggish way the signs of it fade from my face. I feel marked long after the impulse to weep has gone. As a kid, my dad would call me “red eyes” as I sat at the dinner table, unable to hide the signs. 

I’ve locked myself in countless stalls in countless bathrooms at countless churches, waiting for the telltale puffiness to leave my eyes, giving the all clear. 

I’ve always felt shame at any strong display of emotion. 

I have a good memory too, for emotions and things. How do I know this? Because when I say to a friend or family member, “Remember when such-and-such happened?” or “Remember when you said this-or-that?” they almost never remember. For example, my sister doesn’t remember the hurtful things I said to her when we were eleven, but I do. I remember the emotional charge of hate, fear and pain. 

My dad recently told me, “When you were little, you would burst out crying at the dinner table because of some promise Mom or I had made to you months ago.” 

It’s like I was born to hold grudges, to internalize forever the hurt and unmet expectations of the moment: “You wounded me on this day, at this hour, wearing this blue shirt.” 

Last Tuesday night, I had a dream that my sister was telling me that it was over between us. There was no yelling, no screaming, just calm, rational argument. She was making several very valid points: I had said this. Done that. Sure, it was in the past, but still the facts were there and the only logical step would be to cut ties. 

I dreamt this, knowing my sister. I dreamt this, knowing that she would never reject me. Never. In the dream, I felt numb. 

My dad and I had a fight about a year ago that ended in my tears. And honestly, I despised myself for crying. I hated the vulnerability of it. 

And sitting there in that booth, in Canter’s, on Fairfax, in Los Angeles—all I could see was how I needed to forgive myself. That it was okay to be hurt, okay to remember, okay to cry. 

Perhaps God made me this way for a reason. Perhaps it’s part of being a writer—this emotionally fraught memory of mine. 

I looked across the booth at my friend. All I could see in her eyes was empathy. I was crying, but I felt no shame. 

Sunday, January 13, 2013

Resolutions: A 2012 Retrospective

So, last year I made a few New Year's resolutions. This is a recap of what I actually did. Warning: Yes, it is depressing.

1. Read more.

Er, well, maybe I read more. You see, in 2011 I spent most of the year working at a bookstore warehouse surrounded by books, many of which I wanted to read, but couldn't (you know, what with working getting in the way and all).

I was textually frustrated.*

In 2012, I got another job, and then ANOTHER job, neither of which involved books. I did read a few books. I did not read as many as I would have liked.

New goal: get paid to read books.

Truthfully, I still read all the time. Probably for hours a day. I just read online material: blogs, Slate, articles, more blogs.

2. Write more.

I did write more (mostly for this blog). I did not, however, get published all that much. I kind of stopped trying after submitting to two places and not getting published.

One blog post that I wrote, Are You Experienced?  I originally submitted to Relevant. They didn't take it.

However, I don't regret the effort that I put into that essay. I worked a little harder than I normally do on the craft of it, and I took the time to be really honest with myself about not only what I felt but why I felt that way.

I think it paid off.

It's gotten more of a response than any other thing I've written.

Although my top post of all time is still How to hit on a girl on facebook. Thanks, Google.

3. Think less.

There's no real way to measure this. Did I go with my gut more? Worry less? Overanalyze less? Now I'm thinking about thinking!

4. Participate.

I'd like to think I participated, at least a little bit. I also blew off social commitments and plans for no other reason than that I was tired. I was that lame person who fell asleep by 11pm on New Year's Eve. I was the person who RSVP'ed on facebook and then never showed up. Sorry everyone.

5. Shoot more.
This one was actually kind of a success--I shot a lot, especially toward the beginning of the year.

I shot a short film with my sister. I shot footage for a music festival near San Diego, I shot a friend's feature-length Shakespeare adaptation. I had fun.

There are studies that say sharing goals actually makes you less likely to achieve them because just by getting positive social feedback, you already FEEL like you've achieved your goals, when actually you've only stated them out loud (or online).

I think this year will be more about discerning the difference between what I think I should want to do and what I ACTUALLY want to do.

I'm pretty sure I want to do more of the above.






*My theory about working in/at/for a bookstore or owning a bookstore is this: You should love books, but not too much. If you love books too much, you will want to keep them all for yourself, so you can read them or decoratively display them in your tastefully furnished hipster apartment. You won't want to let them go. Working around books without being able to read them is hard. Luckily, I have the willpower of small, scrappy mule with an eyepatch.

Tuesday, January 8, 2013

Why is Church Cliquey?

Why is church cliquey? I suppose I have a few theories about this--and I'm not just talking about my own church--reports have come in from far and wide about the cliquey nature of church, primarily from people my own age. Specifically, what makes the church foyer such an awkward place for new people? Why does it seem difficult to "break in"--to a conversation, a circle, a tight-knit social group?

Some theories: 

Theory 1: We respect your right to disengage more than we value your desire to be engaged.

Theory 2: The rise of irony makes it difficult to express sincere, unabashed interest in something or someone.

Theory 3: Church is "home" and we want to talk to our "family." 

Theory 4: Church is a series of loosely connected social circles. Maybe you're new, or maybe you just belong to one of the other social circles. Either way, I don't know you and I probably won't talk to you unless our circles intersect.

Theory 5: In LA especially, it seems like everyone wants something from you--sex, a date, a pitch meeting, a job, the secret of how you got your hair to do that crazy poof thing. Or they don't, in which case, why are they talking to you again?

What does the opposite of cliquey look like? I'm not sure, but I can hazard a guess, or rather, an experience: Black churches. I can remember going to one or several with family when we were visiting from out-of-state. To say that we were welcomed with open arms (literally) would be an understatement. We were "loved on." Hugged. Called "sister" or "brother."

My own history with church cliqueness is complicated. I was the awkward kid at the church party. Scratch that, I still am the awkward kid at the church party. 

When I was 9 and attending grade school in China, of course I didn't fit in. I was American, a foreigner, a lao wai. When I was 12 and started going to my international church's youth group, of course I didn't fit in. Most of the kids were older and "cooler." When I was 15 and we moved back to the states and I started going to youth group there, of course I didn't fit in. I was still reeling from the move and my parents' divorce, still adjusting to a new (old) country.

Whatever it is that makes fitting into social groups effortless (or at least non-awkward) never clicked for me.

I've blamed other people. I've blamed church for being cliquey, when the only thing I had to blame was my own lack of social skills. Blessed are the awkward, for they shall inherit all of the spinach dip.

"[T]he foreigner excludes before being excluded, even more than [s]he is being excluded."
-Kristeva

I'm not claiming that church is not cliquey. I'm not claiming that people aren't excluded, whether intentionally or unintentionally.

If you think that church is cliquey, if you feel excluded, judged, put down, ignored, insignificant--I'm sorry. If you've stopped going to church because you feel like you don't fit in--I'm sorry too. But one thing I've learned is that as much as I try, I can't separate my relationship with God from my relationship with other people. I can't love God and hate his church. I can't pursue God and cut off my brother, my sister. I can't harbor resentment and bitterness in my heart and claim that it's all okay, because God and I are okay.

I'm not saying you should attend a church that spiritually abuses you. I'm not saying you need to reconcile with those who excluded or ignored you. I'm not saying you need to agree with everything a church teaches. I'm saying, in a deeper sense, there is no in-crowd.

Whatever the point of hurt is, whatever the wound--it matters to God. For me, that would be feeling like the church doesn't care about my gifts and talents. It might be different for you. But don't give up. Be awkward. But don't be a stranger.

I attended a church-related holiday function alone recently, and as I told my friends, "I'm worried it will be awkward." The party promised to feature such cringe-worthy activities as "singing Christmas carols" and "eating white chocolate popcorn." But, impending awkwardness be damned, I went anyway, fruit tart in hand. And guess what? I was the awkward one (I know. I was surprised too).

I got there, promptly ignored the host when he introduced himself to me, in my nervousness drank large quantities of what turned out to be not-ice-tea, and generally faux-pas-ed it up in admirable fashion. And I had a great time. People went out of their way to make me feel welcome. When asked by one guy I had just met how I knew the people at the party, I replied, "I don't really know anyone here."

He said, "You know me."




Want more?

Why is church cliquey? Part 2
Why is church cliquey? Part 3
Why is church cliquey? Part 4
Why is church cliquey? Part 5