Making friends.
How does one go about making friends? And I’m talking about real people, not the imaginary, inflatable or cyber types.
I guess the first step would be to put yourself in a position where you would encounter people. But this alone is insufficient. You can be friendly with many, many people, but still not consider them your “friends.”
I remember not knowing anyone in Kindergarten. The friends I had made in pre-school were in other classes or at different schools. I remember being out on the playground during recess and taking my turn on the sliding board. Once I slid down a few times, I stood at the bottom of the slide and watched other kids slide down. I saw a girl with a smiling round face and two pigtails on either side of her head that were braided and tied at the bottom with ribbons that matched her blouse. She looked nice. Once she slid down the slide, I said, “Hi! My name is SweetlyDemure. Do you want to be my friend?” She smiled and said, “Okay!” and we were best friends until 5th grade when she and her family moved away.
I guess that technique could still work today…in Kindergarten, but what about something that will work amongst adults?
Looking at my current pool of friends, I notice that with many of them are long-time friendships. I still occasionally hang out with people I went to elementary school with. I had a tight group of friends in high school, but we drifted apart in college. Funnily, friends that I keep in touch with today from my high school years belonged to a different clique. Also, I still see a couple of people from college and a handful from law school, tennis (I have played adult7 league tennis since college) and church (until recently I attended the same church since elementary school).
Another group of friends actually started out as friends-in-law. A friend-in-law is a friend of your friend. Somewhere down the road we all went out together and eventually the relationships morphed and I ended up seeing the friend of my friend more than my original friend. Then at some unknown point a little farther along, my friends-in-law have become my friends.
A few friendships were built out of the workplace, but the core of my social circle has never emerged from the people with whom I work. We do lunches or dinners and go over to each other’s homes every once in awhile, but while I would consider some of them good friends, they are good friends on my periphery, as I am on their periphery. It would not be strange to call them for a favor, but they are not even buddies I see once every two months.
Friendships develop in different ways. Perhaps my way is the crockpot method, whereby for whatever reason we find we are in each other’s vicinity and realize at some later point that hey, we meld pretty well together. A friendship stew, if you will. I’d like to think of myself as more of a potato, being able to get along with almost any meat or veggie, no matter how exotic. This, as many things in my life has come back to food. Introspection makes me hungry. Well, truth be told, almost everything makes me hungry. Beef stew, anyone?
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
It's Alive!
There is just something about a live performance. Whether it be music, a play, or a poetry slam, there is something about seeing it live. And it is not the “tightrope” feeling that something may go wrong at any moment. That’s unsettling to me. Rather, I think it may be the palpable energy, the interaction between performer(s) and audience and the audience with each other that raises the bar.
This weekend I saw Carlos Barbosa-Lima in concert at the Honolulu Art Academy. He was amazing. He has an interesting style that I would not have known about if I had just heard a recording of his work. His right hand looks stubby, because he really curls his fingers in when he strums and picks. You can only see up to the middle knuckle. Yet his left hand looks like a long-legged spider traveling up and down a fret board web. Sometimes dancing joyously and unfettered, other times picking its way daintily.
The last number he performed (not including several encores) was called “One Note Samba.” There was such a pure innocence and vitality about they way he interpreted the music. A joyful, unselfconscious exuberance that immediately had me picturing children playing, running across a meadow, laughing with faces shining. Another song he played was called “Conchichando.” In my program, I just made a one-word notation next to the title: “Wow!”
Something happens when art is performed live in front of me. It could be the result of hundreds of rehearsal hours or an impromptu session. Either way, why does it seem so good for my well-being? Why do I miss it . . . feel that something is lacking? Why does my “creative side” (whatever may be clinging to life there) get fired up when someone shares their art with me?
Part of the reason I love live music is it gets me to think abstractly . . . in colors, scents and movement, something that does not convey itself as easily when I’m listening to a CD. It’s like my creativity suffers from narcolepsy, and once it goes to sleep, it can slip into hibernation for long periods if nothing wakes it up and I end up sort of just drifting along. I’m afraid one day it will just never wake up. Definitely time to wakey, wakey!
This weekend I saw Carlos Barbosa-Lima in concert at the Honolulu Art Academy. He was amazing. He has an interesting style that I would not have known about if I had just heard a recording of his work. His right hand looks stubby, because he really curls his fingers in when he strums and picks. You can only see up to the middle knuckle. Yet his left hand looks like a long-legged spider traveling up and down a fret board web. Sometimes dancing joyously and unfettered, other times picking its way daintily.
The last number he performed (not including several encores) was called “One Note Samba.” There was such a pure innocence and vitality about they way he interpreted the music. A joyful, unselfconscious exuberance that immediately had me picturing children playing, running across a meadow, laughing with faces shining. Another song he played was called “Conchichando.” In my program, I just made a one-word notation next to the title: “Wow!”
Something happens when art is performed live in front of me. It could be the result of hundreds of rehearsal hours or an impromptu session. Either way, why does it seem so good for my well-being? Why do I miss it . . . feel that something is lacking? Why does my “creative side” (whatever may be clinging to life there) get fired up when someone shares their art with me?
Part of the reason I love live music is it gets me to think abstractly . . . in colors, scents and movement, something that does not convey itself as easily when I’m listening to a CD. It’s like my creativity suffers from narcolepsy, and once it goes to sleep, it can slip into hibernation for long periods if nothing wakes it up and I end up sort of just drifting along. I’m afraid one day it will just never wake up. Definitely time to wakey, wakey!
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Parents are People, Too
I am not sure when in time I had this epiphany, but the moment itself is clear. One day I realized that my parents were more than just my parents, they were individuals apart from me. I am embarrassed that this realization came rather late in life (I believe I was in my mid-twenties and out of college). It was one of those defining moments for me where my world paradigm shifted, never again to revert.
In some ways my Dad is your typical Asian patriarch. King of his castle, he communicates in grunts and facial expressions. “Taisho,” as my Mom calls him. But there is another side to my Dad. He can be a talker, a teller of stories. It is a source of amusement in our family. At a family gathering, we’ll see him talking to one of my uncles or a cousin and say to each other, “Okay, I guess we’re not leaving for another half an hour!” Or we’ll commiserate, “Oh, poor uncle/cousin, cornered by Dad!”
So I grew up hearing his stories, and as a typical child, was bored when he started (in my mind), droning on and on about the old days. Since he grew up in Hawai’i, he did not have the “I walked 5 miles in the snow to get to school” story, but every other “typical” old-time story was told. I heard about working in the plantation on the Big Island. Learning to swim by getting thrown into the stream by the older boys. How his friend “Udon” got that nickname (which is a hilarious story).
My Mom is more reticent. She is more of a listener than a talker (a lesson I have been trying to adopt from her all my life), but even she will get nostalgic and talk about her past. About how she and her six siblings walked barefoot everywhere (no shoes). How she pretended to be asleep so she would not have to go work in the family farm early in the morning. That her friends got her English name put on her birth certificate one day when she was absent from school.
Now that I am older (and thankfully a bit wiser), I have grown to cherish these stories of my parents’ lives. Not just their stories as children growing up in the Territory of Hawai’i (pre-statehood), but when they first met and how they struggled to purchase their first house. How difficult it was to find a white-collar job as an Asian man and what life was like before Unionization.
But there is one story in particular that really turned a light on for me and made me fully realize that my parents are individuals. Individuals with dreams, hopes, disappointments and struggles all their own, apart from me, apart from our family, and even apart from each other. I do not know why this story among all the others particularly resonated with me, but it did…it still does.
One day my Mom and I were talking and she mentioned (almost off-handedly) that when my Dad was younger, he had wanted to become a teacher. What?!? It amazed me that my Dad had wanted to be something other than what he was. Didn’t he always want to be in insurance? Didn’t he want to be in sales? I mean, it seemed to fit with the gabby, bon vivant side of him.
My Mom went on to tell me that he did not become a teacher because he had to quit school (which I knew, because his father died before my Dad was in high school, so as the oldest boy, he had to quit school and earn money to support the family). What I learned that day was that my Dad came to O’ahu to find better opportunities to earn a living and to support his siblings. Even after his siblings were off on their own, he and my Mom had already married and he had a family to support.
My parents raised me to believe that I could be anything I wanted to be; do anything I wanted to do if I worked hard enough and put in enough effort. Yet my Dad, because of how seriously he took his responsibility to his family, was not able to be what he wanted to be. He had to give up his dream of being a teacher. Part of the reason he worked so hard was to ensure that I (and the rest of his kids) would have that choice that he did not have. It is something I have always known (I mean, everyone knows most parents work and sacrifice to give their children a better life), but now it was personal and real to me.
It humbled me to learn this. I have always loved and respected my parents, and except for a few rocky years in my teens, I knew I was lucky to belong to my family. And I know that my parents deserve a lot of credit for whatever is good in me. But for some reason, still beyond my comprehension, learning about the dream my Dad decided to forego just made everything sharper, more intense, more real. Maybe it is because it seems so seminal…what one does for a living. Maybe it is the Gen X belief in the importance to find meaning in your work and that the ultimate is to do what you love. Whatever it is, it made me look at my parents in a completely different light.
It made me understand that parents are people, too. And once that becomes real to you, you can never look at your parents in the same way again.
In some ways my Dad is your typical Asian patriarch. King of his castle, he communicates in grunts and facial expressions. “Taisho,” as my Mom calls him. But there is another side to my Dad. He can be a talker, a teller of stories. It is a source of amusement in our family. At a family gathering, we’ll see him talking to one of my uncles or a cousin and say to each other, “Okay, I guess we’re not leaving for another half an hour!” Or we’ll commiserate, “Oh, poor uncle/cousin, cornered by Dad!”
So I grew up hearing his stories, and as a typical child, was bored when he started (in my mind), droning on and on about the old days. Since he grew up in Hawai’i, he did not have the “I walked 5 miles in the snow to get to school” story, but every other “typical” old-time story was told. I heard about working in the plantation on the Big Island. Learning to swim by getting thrown into the stream by the older boys. How his friend “Udon” got that nickname (which is a hilarious story).
My Mom is more reticent. She is more of a listener than a talker (a lesson I have been trying to adopt from her all my life), but even she will get nostalgic and talk about her past. About how she and her six siblings walked barefoot everywhere (no shoes). How she pretended to be asleep so she would not have to go work in the family farm early in the morning. That her friends got her English name put on her birth certificate one day when she was absent from school.
Now that I am older (and thankfully a bit wiser), I have grown to cherish these stories of my parents’ lives. Not just their stories as children growing up in the Territory of Hawai’i (pre-statehood), but when they first met and how they struggled to purchase their first house. How difficult it was to find a white-collar job as an Asian man and what life was like before Unionization.
But there is one story in particular that really turned a light on for me and made me fully realize that my parents are individuals. Individuals with dreams, hopes, disappointments and struggles all their own, apart from me, apart from our family, and even apart from each other. I do not know why this story among all the others particularly resonated with me, but it did…it still does.
One day my Mom and I were talking and she mentioned (almost off-handedly) that when my Dad was younger, he had wanted to become a teacher. What?!? It amazed me that my Dad had wanted to be something other than what he was. Didn’t he always want to be in insurance? Didn’t he want to be in sales? I mean, it seemed to fit with the gabby, bon vivant side of him.
My Mom went on to tell me that he did not become a teacher because he had to quit school (which I knew, because his father died before my Dad was in high school, so as the oldest boy, he had to quit school and earn money to support the family). What I learned that day was that my Dad came to O’ahu to find better opportunities to earn a living and to support his siblings. Even after his siblings were off on their own, he and my Mom had already married and he had a family to support.
My parents raised me to believe that I could be anything I wanted to be; do anything I wanted to do if I worked hard enough and put in enough effort. Yet my Dad, because of how seriously he took his responsibility to his family, was not able to be what he wanted to be. He had to give up his dream of being a teacher. Part of the reason he worked so hard was to ensure that I (and the rest of his kids) would have that choice that he did not have. It is something I have always known (I mean, everyone knows most parents work and sacrifice to give their children a better life), but now it was personal and real to me.
It humbled me to learn this. I have always loved and respected my parents, and except for a few rocky years in my teens, I knew I was lucky to belong to my family. And I know that my parents deserve a lot of credit for whatever is good in me. But for some reason, still beyond my comprehension, learning about the dream my Dad decided to forego just made everything sharper, more intense, more real. Maybe it is because it seems so seminal…what one does for a living. Maybe it is the Gen X belief in the importance to find meaning in your work and that the ultimate is to do what you love. Whatever it is, it made me look at my parents in a completely different light.
It made me understand that parents are people, too. And once that becomes real to you, you can never look at your parents in the same way again.
Friday, August 8, 2008
Grumblings & Mumblings
Just call me Oscar, because I am a grouch.
I know, I know, it is so difficult to imagine one as sweet and demure as myself grouchy. One might even suggest it would stretch the limits of one's imagination. And yet, alas, it is true. During the past two weeks, I think I have been less patient, less understanding, less loving than my normal impatient, semi-understanding and somewhat loving self. Huh.
Things that have been getting on my nerves:
People that insist and/or whine about how busy they are at work, yet they always seem to be goofing off. I say, if you goof off, goof off. Everyone has times when it's difficult to concentrate and taking some time to play solitare, chat, read the newspaper, update your blog (heh), etc. can "cleanse the palate" so to speak and help you concentrate better...eventually. But please do not repeatedly tell me (or others) how incredibly busy you are when obviously you are not so busy that you can't spend half of every day not working! How is that possible? Bleh.
Spam. Not the bad-for-you mystery meat in a can, but the kind you get in your e-mail. I do not need to find a hottie, have money to invest in anything, want a bigger penis (I don't even have one, why would I want my non-existant penis to be bigger?), want to participate in a get-rich-quick scheme, etc. Why do I get Christian dating sites, Jewish dating sites, affair/fling sites, dating over 40 sites, finding young hottie/bootie call sites? They all contradict one another. Whatever happened to target marketing? Do these people actually think I will cull through their ads and check out the ones applicable to me rather than press "Delete All?"
People who worry about inconsequential things. At lunch the other week, someone kept mentioning how she was going out for dinner that night and was worried about not having an appetitie for dinner if she ate too much at this lunch. Does this even make sense? Please, woman! If that is your biggest worry, stop talking about it and enjoy your life! Even after lunch she was speculating if she ate enough or too much, because she was having dinner in 5 hours! Bleh.
Passive-aggressive people. I'm Asian. I can be passive-aggressive with the best of them. That doesn't mean I like it. I don't like it in me and I don't like it in others. Be passive or aggressive. Not both at the same time. Not attractive. Not cool. You know who you are! (Tee hee!)
People who cut you off on the road, then drive slow. This one may harken back to my natural impatience, but I dislike when someone speeds up to cut in front of you, then drives slow. If you are going to be impatient enough to cut in front of me, then be impatient enough to keep up with traffic and move it! The other people that are annoying are the ones that are driving leisurely, then when you want to cut in front of them, will speed up so you are unable to cut in.
Grouchy, irritable whiners. Yes, at this point I am beginning to irritate myself with all this negativity. None of these things are worth getting upset about, but here I am ranting and grousing away. How's that for attractive? I would never allow a guy to say this, but perhaps it has a bit to do with hormones. It's the time of the month that I'm craving red meat. Uh, too much information? Good thing nobody reads this anyway.
No more grumbling, no matter how cathartic it may be. The next post will be all sunshine and light, baby! Sunshine and light.
I know, I know, it is so difficult to imagine one as sweet and demure as myself grouchy. One might even suggest it would stretch the limits of one's imagination. And yet, alas, it is true. During the past two weeks, I think I have been less patient, less understanding, less loving than my normal impatient, semi-understanding and somewhat loving self. Huh.
Things that have been getting on my nerves:
People that insist and/or whine about how busy they are at work, yet they always seem to be goofing off. I say, if you goof off, goof off. Everyone has times when it's difficult to concentrate and taking some time to play solitare, chat, read the newspaper, update your blog (heh), etc. can "cleanse the palate" so to speak and help you concentrate better...eventually. But please do not repeatedly tell me (or others) how incredibly busy you are when obviously you are not so busy that you can't spend half of every day not working! How is that possible? Bleh.
Spam. Not the bad-for-you mystery meat in a can, but the kind you get in your e-mail. I do not need to find a hottie, have money to invest in anything, want a bigger penis (I don't even have one, why would I want my non-existant penis to be bigger?), want to participate in a get-rich-quick scheme, etc. Why do I get Christian dating sites, Jewish dating sites, affair/fling sites, dating over 40 sites, finding young hottie/bootie call sites? They all contradict one another. Whatever happened to target marketing? Do these people actually think I will cull through their ads and check out the ones applicable to me rather than press "Delete All?"
People who worry about inconsequential things. At lunch the other week, someone kept mentioning how she was going out for dinner that night and was worried about not having an appetitie for dinner if she ate too much at this lunch. Does this even make sense? Please, woman! If that is your biggest worry, stop talking about it and enjoy your life! Even after lunch she was speculating if she ate enough or too much, because she was having dinner in 5 hours! Bleh.
Passive-aggressive people. I'm Asian. I can be passive-aggressive with the best of them. That doesn't mean I like it. I don't like it in me and I don't like it in others. Be passive or aggressive. Not both at the same time. Not attractive. Not cool. You know who you are! (Tee hee!)
People who cut you off on the road, then drive slow. This one may harken back to my natural impatience, but I dislike when someone speeds up to cut in front of you, then drives slow. If you are going to be impatient enough to cut in front of me, then be impatient enough to keep up with traffic and move it! The other people that are annoying are the ones that are driving leisurely, then when you want to cut in front of them, will speed up so you are unable to cut in.
Grouchy, irritable whiners. Yes, at this point I am beginning to irritate myself with all this negativity. None of these things are worth getting upset about, but here I am ranting and grousing away. How's that for attractive? I would never allow a guy to say this, but perhaps it has a bit to do with hormones. It's the time of the month that I'm craving red meat. Uh, too much information? Good thing nobody reads this anyway.
No more grumbling, no matter how cathartic it may be. The next post will be all sunshine and light, baby! Sunshine and light.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
