Friendship Stew

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?

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!

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.

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.

An Open Letter to Michael Chang

Michael Chang.

***sigh*** (insert dreamy smile here) ***sigh***

Huan Hsu recently wrote an article for Slate entitled: “Dear Michael Chang: You ruined my tennis career. Thanks for nothing.” Here is the link to the article: http://www.slate.com/id/2194929.

My response: “Dear Michael Chang: You ruined me for other men. Thanks for everything.”

In my formative years, I rarely crushed on Asian guys. My best friend would go ga-ga over Asian dudes, but me, my attention was focused on the haole dudes. The one exception: Michael Chang. He caused my heart to go a-flutter and my eyes to go all dreamy.

Why? Because he is the whole package, baby!

Physical: He is about 5’9”, which is a perfect height for someone who is . . . er . . . 5’ almost 3”. I could wear heels and he would still be taller than me, but if I wore flats (as I always do), he would not tower over me in that weird, uncomfortable way. I tend to feel like a little kid when I am around tall people, which mentally takes me to that kid place. Which, if you are around a romantic interest, can be somewhat creepy, if you know what I mean.

His legs are incredible. Now, I am not one to usually gawk at men’s legs. I’m usually looking a little farther up . . . and I don’t mean their butts . . . I meant their faces. But Michael Chang has exceptional legs. I guess because he relied on his quickness and his ability to chase down every ball, he really built up his lower body strength. A law school classmate was at a tennis tournament and saw Michael’s father and informed me his father had thick, muscular legs, too. She said it boded well that it was a genetic thing and not likely to change once he (Michael) no longer played professionally.

Which leads me to my final physical point…the guy has stamina. He built his fierce reputation around running every single shot down. His opponent could never relax, because no matter how good the shot, Michael Chang would run that ball down, whether it was the beginning of the first set or the end of the fifth. He worked hard to be physically fit. That also gave him a mental edge, knowing that he could stay on that court and run around in the fifth set without being super tired and shaky. Which segues nicely into the second category,

Mental/Intellectual: Michael Chang was a thoughtful player and mentally tough. I believe in an interview, he compared playing tennis to playing chess. You could tell he was constantly thinking on the court. Strategizing. He would set up points, because physically he did not have the height or muscle mass to do what came naturally for other players, Michael had to play smart. He would figure out his opponents’ weaknesses and work it against his strengths. He had a game plan, but adjusted his plan to the capriciousness of the game.

Michael was always very articulate when interviewed. He came across confident, but not cocky, and was always contemplative in his comments. You could also tell he set very high standards for himself; and when he did not meet those standards, he was pretty hard on himself.

Family / Christian Values: Michael Chang has always been clear that he is a Christian. And from the way he conducts his public life, his faith seems like a very important part of who he is. That is very attractive! Much of his time after retiring from tennis seems to be spent on his charities and helping others. He also seems very calm and caring.

And he does this work with his family. Now some may be apprehensive about joining a close-knit family. But once they know you and love you, you become part of their fabric, so to speak. The importance of familial relationships and respecting your parents has been ingrained in me since I was a child. To be honest, I’m guessing his mom will be the most difficult one to win over. But, I’ve always done really well with parents. Heh.

X-Factor: Finally, Michael Chang has that X-Factor. Something that draws my eyes toward him. Something about his intensity and focus. Very intriguing. Maybe it has something to do with traveling around the world and learning about different cultures. Perhaps it was learning how to handle the pressure and attention of being a top athlete at such a young age. Perhaps it is simply innate in him. Whatever it is, he’s got it.

So, Huan Hsu of Slate, do not be jealous of Michael Chang and all he has accomplished. Rather, embrace it…embrace your Asian-American culture of expectation and values and what it means to be an Asian male in America. Let go of your one-handed backhand, net-charging, serve-and-volley ways and accept who you truly are. And take another look at Michael Chang. See that cute dimple in his cheek when he smiles? Perhaps he’s smiling for you, Huan; though I prefer to think he’s smiling for me.

Reality TV Love, Another Look

I watch a lot of television. In fact, I probably watch too much television. I think it has something to do with my propensity toward addictive behavior, but that’s fodder for another post. The reason I bring up television is because there are two shows that I really am kind of falling in love with . . . and they’re both “reality” or unscripted shows.

Part of the reason I am writing about this is because I hope to garner some understanding about why I have latched so strongly on to these two shows in particular. What is it about them has me repeatedly watching repeat episodes?

The first show is on TLC and is called “Jon and Kate Plus 8.” It is about a couple who has two sets of multiple-birthed children (is that what it’s called?) Anyway, they have twin girls and sextuplets (3 boys and 3 girls). I believe the twins are 7 years old and the sextuplets are almost 4 years old. The couple (Jon and Kate) are in their mid-30s, I am guessing. Kate is a nurse and now a stay-at-home mom. Jon is an IT person.

My first thought on why I like this show is because their kids are adorable. But there are adorable kids all over television. Then I thought, maybe it is because I get to “peek” into their family life. Some kind of family voyeur (but not in a creepy way). I am somewhat privy to the couple’s relationship with each other as well as the relationship they have with their children, and the children’s relationship to one another. But that kind of dynamic is rife in television, with the plethora of Nanny type shows and American Chopper and Little People, Big World, Hogan Knows Best, Kardashians, etc. I am not addicted to those shows.

So perhaps it is because the kids are a quarter Korean? They really pull toward the Asian features. Jon is hapa, having a Korean mom and a Caucasian father. Kate is Caucasian. Am I so thirsty to see Asians on television that it accounts for my fascination with this show? I do not know.

The second show I am addicted to is “Run’s House” on MTV. No Asians there! It is about Joseph Simmons (or Rev. Run or DJ Run) from the seminal rap group Run DMC, and his family. He has a wife, 3 daughters (one newly adopted) and 3 sons. The two older daughters are living in California, but come home to New York often. The oldest son is in a rap group trying to break into the business, the youngest son is interested in cooking and they seem like a really nice family.

The Simmons household is not crazy and chaotic. The kids listen (somewhat!) to their parents and speak to them respectfully. Likewise, the parents speak to their children with love and respect. Of course there are arguments and disagreements and people are irritable with each other, but on the whole, it is obvious that this couple (Rev and Justine) have managed to raise solid, caring children in the midst of wealth and notoriety.

At the end of each episode, they show Rev soaking in a bubble bath and providing a “Final Thought” a la Jerry Springer on his Blackberry. He has a nice way of summing up the events filmed for the show and has a positive message.

One commonality is that I believe they are both Christian families. Jon and Kate attend an Assembly of God church and talk a little about their faith on the show. The Simmons family does not really talk about church, but Joseph’s nickname is “The Reverend” and he ends each show by saying something like, “God bless.” It also seemed like he (Rev) avoided any shenanigans while on tour with Kid Rock. The Rev would go to his room alone while the rest partied. Of course, this does not necessarily mean they are a Christian family, but maybe they are.

So, perhaps what draws me to these shows is that they portray loving families. They may argue and speak harshly to each other, but they apologize and try to make things right. When television shows you war, death, struggle, hunger, fear, greed, sensationalism and pain in the world around you, there is comfort in knowing people like that exist. Families like that exist. They are not perfect, but they are trying their best. They face different kinds of challenges, but find strength in the love they share.

That may sound hokey, but it is also encouraging and uplifting . . . and maybe our world needs a little bit more hokey-ness. If I am going to be addicted and oddly fascinated with television shows, well, I guess I could be addicted to a lot worse than that!

C'mon Baby, Light My Fire

I am disturbed.

Not in the unstable, unbalanced, psycho kind of way (now wouldn’t that be a fascinating post?) More like there is a disturbance in my universe kind of way.

This past weekend I lost my fourth tennis match in a row, thus going 0-4 for this season. But that is not the reason I am disturbed. Rather, I am disturbed about not feeling disturbed about losing my fourth tennis match in a row. I think this is the first season in the many, many years I have been playing adult competitive tennis when I have not won at least one match. So why am I not bothered by this?

One reason may be that I am coming back from a wrist injury that kept me off the court for about a year. Perhaps I am cutting myself some slack because I realize I am returning from an injury and cannot expect to jump on the court and be at the level I was before the injury. Coupled with that, I have not really practiced a lot since my wrist healed. I cannot expect to play well after taking a long time off and with a limited amount of practice.

But it is more than that, which is why I find myself concerned. Have I lost my competitive edge? I notice I do not have the same focus and the “fire” that I usually have when I am competing. It’s almost like I do not care if I win or lose. Well, to a certain extent I never have cared too deeply . . . I mean, I am unwilling to cheat to win. I always did not (really) mind losing if I played well and prefer that to winning a match that my opponent is deliberately tanking to preserve her rating.

Generally, I am a good loser . . . on the outside. However on the inside, I keep thinking about what I could have done differently; I relive errors and am somewhat irritable at how poorly I played. Truthfully, I am a bit hard on myself. But this past season I have not scrutinized my play in the same way I have most of my life. I have not been as critical and have been more willing to just “let things go.”

Perhaps I am disturbed for nothing. I still find joy in being on the court and playing. Maybe I have even evolved, letting go of petty and unproductive thoughts. But I don’t think so. I don’t feel evolved and it’s not like I’m acting or feeling any better. I want to care about the quality of my play more. How does one get that back? Sports commentators call it a “fire in the belly.” It’s the thing that causes you focus more during the crucial points, helps you see openings and take them aggressively, pushes you when you are behind and basically makes you a better player.

I do not want to have lowered expectations of myself. I want to expect myself to give my all during the match and leave it all on the court (something that did not occur in my last four matches). That’s how I want to play tennis. That is not to say that I do not have fun on the court because I am so busy leaving my guts on it. Many people have said that while watching my matches they can’t tell if I’m winning or losing, because I am always smiling and laughing on the court. Well, I can smile and laugh and still feel ferocious (in the sweetest and most demure way, of course!) I am missing my ferociousness. I want it back. Where the heck did it go?

I will continue to practice during the “off” season and hopefully my game will improve. Hopefully if I play tennis more, I will rekindle the embers of my competitive spirit. I will focus and I will care and I will have the eye of the tiger! “Grrr!” rather than “meow . . . purr.”