Moment of honesty #523,937,184:  I don’t feel like writing.  I haven’t for a while, obviously.  That said, here I go–writing about how I don’t feel like writing.

Life’s been full lately, so full to the point that I not only cringe to close my eyes on the train for fear of waking twenty stops up in the Bronx but am also having to write this first draft on a kitchen ticket while still behind the bar.  Yeah.  That kind of full.  Needless to say, writing hasn’t been very high on my list of priorities, save for in thought and in theory.

I’ve just been so tired. I’m worn out.  I’m at the crossroads, if you will, a saying all too familiar with my close friends, which in the context of a late-night study session would translate to something like, “Let’s get some 7-11 coffee or Bible-in-a-minute or Backstreet Boys going and I’ll be good until the sun comes up…otherwise, I’m going to bed.”   As it applies now, though, it would translate to:

Sit down and write or give up and wait until I feel like it.

I am clearly trying to go with the former, although right about now it feels as pleasant as wearing skin-tight jeans after Thanksgiving dinner.  Against every somatic whine and whimper to do something—anything—else, though, I want to write.  I don’t feel like it, but the commitment has been made and my mind is resolute to see it through, for it is at these everyday crossroads where I come face-to-face with the future Malia.

Staring contest to begin—now.

And whilst I stare into the eyes of the future me, I see the woman I want to become.  I can sense that God’s accomplished some great and mighty feats through her, and yet I know those didn’t come along by mere fortune or feelings.  Rather it was by way of developing a sound and steadfast mind through the ordinary errands of life that extraordinary endeavors were able to happen.

Now I don’t want to overstate the act of writing this entry; still, I don’t want you to underrate the significance of discipline, for it’s the very thing that is going to get you through those feelings of I-don’t-feel-like-it amidst your driest droughts and lowest lows.  It’s discipline that will push you one step further when you didn’t think you had anything left and, enough steps along, will take you to places you didn’t think possible.

And in turn, maybe or maybe not, you might just end up blessing someone along the way.

Who knows?  Lord knows.

After all, it was discipline that helped me finish this entry.

Growing up, I was awkward.  I was chubby.  I was abnormally tall for my age.  Not to mention, I had a gait as manly and shoulders as broad and eyebrows as thick as my brothers.  One might have easily concluded I was raised by rugby players.  

Contrary to popular belief, though, this former chubster actually grew up in leotards and tights.  That’s right.  This girl, back in the day, took a ballet class or two and, every summer when competition season came, could be found rehearsing late into the night at the purple castle studio on Kilani Avenue.

Now in the same manner as elementary class pictures, the usual lineup for formations went something like this: short ones in the front, tall ones in the back.  That’s what they said, at least, but in my mind, it felt more like only delicate blossoms were allowed in the front while ungainly behemoths were banished to the back.

One can only speculate where I spent most of my time.  [That’d be in the back in case you didn’t pick up on that.]

Anyway, it never felt particularly glamorous or glorious being in the dark recesses of the stage, but then again, I knew that it wasn’t up to me.  It was up to the choreographer, who not only had experience far beyond, well, my entire lifespan but also had a comprehensive vision of the entire stage and the routine as it was supposed to progress.  So there behind two, three, four rows of delicate blossoms, I did my thing and I did it with pride because I knew that I had been purposely placed there by my teacher whom I trusted.

Now perhaps this may be silly [but this is a snapshot into my thoughts regardless of yours], but I have these scenarios that play in my head of how  I think God reacts to some of the things I say.  Lately, I’ve been envisioning His reaction to statements like, “I just work in retail,” or “I just work at a cafe,” and I’m thinking it can’t be terribly favorable.  I’m thinking I should rephrase that.

“I work in retail, and I work at a cafe.”

YES, I work in the back rows of the job market, and while they’re not the most glamorous or glorious of jobs, I know that I was placed here for such a time as this.  Now, that’s not to say that I think I’m significantly impacting the world with every T-shirt transaction and latte I make.  Still, I am going to do my thing and do it with pride because I know that I have been purposely placed here by my God whom I trust.

Originally, I had a couple of ideas for an intro and conclusion paragraph, but in the end, I decided to let the stories speak for themselves.  That is, I decided to let Rose and Lana and Willie speak, for every individual has a story worth paying attention to and a voice that deserves to be heard.

Ergo, World…

Meet Rose.  Rose was heading home on the R train and accompanied by her two kids.  Initially, the conversation began with a question about working out.  Thirty minutes and twenty stops later, I learned that Rose currently lives with her boyfriend whom she hates but can’t break up with because he pays the rent.  She wants so desperately to get a job in order to move out and support  her family, but with two toddlers, she can’t leave them alone and certainly can’t afford a babysitter.  Now the envelope that lay in her lap, she let me see inside.  It was papers from the adoption agency concerning her third child, the one she had to give up.  Included was a letter from the family and a picture of a little girl named Angelina.

“Savannah,” Rose whispered.  “I named her Savannah.”

Meet Lana.  Lana was panting on the corner of 45th and 5th and accompanied by a burgundy-colored suitcase.  Initially, the journey began with a friendly offer to carry her luggage, which I soon discovered weighed a million cajillion pounds and, of course, had no wheels.  Awesome.  Thirty minutes and ten avenues later, I learned that Lana is originally from Russia but moved to Chicago when her son was eight.  He’s now 22-years old and has already overstayed his visa.  There is an option to return to Russia, but American culture, American friends, and the English language is all he’s ever known.  Currently, it looks as if he’ll be leaving for Canada soon and won’t be permitted back for ten years.

“It’s absolutely unbearable to think about,” Lana panted, this time not out of physical but emotional exertion.  “My heart bleeds over this.  It’s bleeding, and I just can’t make it stop.”

Meet Willie.  Willie was sitting at the table next to us in the Yoshinoya on 42nd and accompanied by a meal he had to scrounge for.  Initially, the interaction began with a moment of sheer panic when Willie accidentally ate a mouthful of sour pickled ginger.  Thirty minutes and only three bites later (as he had forgotten to eat because he was talking too much), I learned that he had just gotten out of jail.  Previous to that, he was a well-respected business man; however, when his teenage daughter was raped, he made a mistake, he admits, is not proud of.  He served his time dutifully but is now struggling to get back on his feet.

“People just assume, you know?”  Willie remarked despondently as the excitement from the tales of his West Coast travels wore off.  “They find out that I take my showers at the shelter and eat meals from the restaurant’s leftovers, and they write me off as a lazy bum.”

Pssssst.  Listen up, World.

Literally.

“Fluff!  Oh God, I’ve watched way too much porn to say ‘fluff’ with a straight face.”

PORN?  Really?  Porn.

And here I was thinking of little Pomeranians and down pillows.

Now, call me naïve.  I don’t care, not about what you might think of me.  Nope.  What I do care about, however, are the minds of my guy friends and my brothers and my future husband.  I am concerned about them and all of the other men I have met in times past and still have yet to meet, and it breaks my heart knowing that not a single one of them is beyond the lure of pornography’s baleful reach.

[Sigh] I just don’t understand.

I don’t understand how hosting a mistress in bed is so scandalous it could take politicians out of office and preachers out of pulpits, yet hosting a mistress through a television or laptop screen is somehow widely acceptable.  Nonetheless, I know it’s out there and in the homes and secret places of many good men, married and not married.  I also know that there are deeper issues that feed into this, as like any other addiction; thus, I’m not really focused on a lengthy explication of why it is bad, so much as I am trying to simply convey the heart of a woman who loves people deeply and is heartbroken over this thing called pornography.

So to the men out there, here are the sentiments of this woman’s heart on behalf of all other likeminded ladies:

To begin with, we don’t want to share you.  Not now.  Not ever.  Not in another bedroom with another woman, most definitely not in ours…and not in your imagination.  Body, heart, and mind: we want you all, for all time, beginning now.  I know there’s fierce competition clawing for your attention and anticipating your demise.  It can often seem as if fighting for purity in this day and age is like fighting a wildfire with a water gun.  Be that as it may—

I believe that every time you resist the temptation to click on that raunchy ad or YouTube video, there’s a woman out there beginning to accept herself as exquisite and worthy instead of what society objectifies her to be.

I believe that every time you reject the notion that cybersex slaves will assuage you, there’s a woman out there beginning to believe that she will be more than enough to satisfy her husband and keep him around for a lifetime.

I believe that every time you engage in the battle for a clean mind and pure heart, there’s a woman out there letting her man-hating defenses down and allowing her true beauty to be seen.

In the end, I believe that every day you purpose to become the person you were made to be, there’s a woman purposing to become the person whom she was made to be.  Plain and simple but in no way easy, this battle for purity is going to be an intense one.  It’s going to be a difficult one.  Even so, it’s going to be a good and truly worthwhile one.  For as I am beginning to learn, the best things in life always are worth fighting for.

I’m telling you, the more places I see and people I meet (and also don’t meet but just do life with day in and day out)…WOW.  The beauty of new.  The fascination of different.  The hilarity of ignorance.

#1.  Hawaii is an actual state…of the United States of America.  Interesting fact:  Honolulu is not an actual island.  That would be Oahu.

Now that we’ve got that established…

#2.  Most maps of all 50 aren’t accurate in scale or layout.  In other words, Hawaii is not underneath California or Arizona or wherever else they choose to stick us but is actually 2,500 miles west of the West Coast.  That’s an approximate 5.5-6 hour plane ride.  Interesting fact:  Alaska is also wrong in most maps.  Google that!  Alaska’s huuuuuumongous!…and likewise, not underneath California.

#3.  Being born and raised in Hawaii does not equate to being native Hawaiian.  For the record, I’m Asian.  Interesting fact: Asian is not a language.

#4.  Being born and raised in Hawaii does not equate to being really good at surfing, doing the hula, or calling everyone “brah”.   Enough said.

#5.  You can indeed be friendly just for the sake of being friendly.  Interesting fact:  I come from a place where our normal is your friendly and our friendly is your death-by-sunshine-and-happiness.  Please don’t read into things too much or too deeply.

#6.  Rubbish belongs in rubbish cans.  Interesting fact:  If you litter, you are never EVER allowed to complain about New York being dirty.

#7.  When you shake someone’s hand, look them in the eye.  Interesting fact:  I’d really rather not shake your hand if you’re going to be like that.  Lord knows the last time you washed it anyways.

#8.  When you sneeze, cover your mouth (preferably with a tissue in hand or into your arm.  Obviously, #7 is still fresh in my mind as something could quite possibly be fresh on your hand).  Interesting fact:  We will still bless you if it is a clean and cute sneeze but will mercilessly condemn you and all other ailing infidels who dare show the slightest sign of snot in a public place.

#9.  Priority seating on the bus and subway are for the elderly, disabled, or pregnant.  Interesting fact:  We’re all going to be old someday and are going to wish, hope, and pray that some young-ins out there still honor this courtesy.  Interesting fact for men: Giving up your seat is extremely attractive, as is chivalry in general.  Just saying.

#10.  Things don’t always turn out the way you think they’re going to turn out.  Interesting fact: I could only think of nine, so I’m ending this now.  That’s it.  That’s all.  Nine it is.  I’m going to bed.

“So, what are you going to do with your communication studies degree?  Communicate?!” [cue I’m-so-funny-and-original laugh]

Seriously?  Seriously.

Most days out of the year, that quip doesn’t really bother me and is about as hurtful as a five-year old telling me I can’t eat a slice of his mud pie.  Wom-wom.  Life goes on.

Since graduation, though, I have been mulling over more deeply what it is exactly that I should be doing with my education.  Shoot.  Since beginning to pay back my student loans, I better have something pretty darn incredible to share in return for selling my soul to Sallie Mae…hmm, and you would think a communication studies major would be able to communicate it best.

DUMBO.  Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass.  I never hang out in DUMBO; however, we just happened to be down there on Wednesday because the brothers wanted to check out the Brooklyn Bridge Park.

Upon exiting the subway station, lo and behold, there was the Morris Grilled Cheese Truck on the corner glowing, glistening, and beckoning us to come and eat.  Naturally, being the Wee family, we have very little resistance to and a whole lot of love for food trucks, so we had to stop and order.  And while we waited for our sandwiches, I began to wander down the cobblestone streets when I stumbled upon this little beaut.

Sign:  “Help Wanted”

There once was a place that sang the most enchanting three-part harmony of life, love, and belonging.  From the awkward family pictures hanging in mismatched frames to the collections of Connect 4, chess, and Monopoly pieces in the recesses of stained sofa cushions, the space strongly conveyed a sense of “YES, we have kids.”

There was the study where all would work (parents included) on homework after dinner.  Then there was the kitchen where one could always find at least one other sibling, most often times disobediently sitting on the counter with his or her hand directly in the Tupperware.  Then there were the walls, though originally plain and white, were spotted with patches of $6 DAP plaster repair where adolescent boys had lost their temper and miscalculated golf club lengths and strengths.

In hindsight, the most treasured part of it all was that my parents, a pediatrician and internist, could have had the affluent lifestyle so many dream of.  Instead, they chose family over the fortune and stability of a large medical firm, and subsequently created a space although modestly furnished was lavish in love.  Now I reflect back on the sacrifices they made in order that we kids would know what a worthwhile life looks like.  And as a hurting and homesick comrade clings to his sweetheart’s picture so close to his chest, so I cling to those memories, for they remind me of how much I have to be thankful for.

“Not in here, not in here, not in here,” I kept repeating as I pleaded with God to hold off the vomit until after I could get off of the train.  For not only was I in public (obviously) which is not the most ideal place to toss your sugar cookies from the night before, but I also happened to be on the most crowded Metro North train everrr–the day after Christmas, heading back into the city.  [Forehead slap]  I should’ve known.  I’m talking people, people, and more people crammed into all possible aisles as well the boarding and emergency areas.  Even the places you wouldn’t think could hold people, had people.  And with every personal bubble popped and property line erased, we were about to get really acquainted with each other really quickly.

So, there I stood.  Sandwiched between strangers and unable to steady myself from the dreadful sway of the train, I reeled back and forth and all around as the usually picturesque Hudson River and trees began to blur together like a watercolor painting by a 4-year old.  “45 minutes?  45 minutes!!!” I screamed in my head.  The 6-minute Westmont shuttle ride from Montecito Vons to campus was already bad enough, 45 minutes was an absolute absurdity.  Furthermore, the thought of throwing up on my poor and unsuspecting neighbors with nowhere to go was also intensely mortifying.

“Next stop: Grand Central Station,” I at last heard the muffled voice of an angel say.

I exhaled with relief as the train entered the familiar enclosure of Grand Central and my desperate prayers transitioned into, “Just get me off, just get me off, just get me off…”  DING!  The flimsy double doors slid open, and with a spirit of jubilation, I quickly assimilated into the mass exodus from Track 34.  I then proceeded to make it a mere 12 feet out of the doors before nausea completely overwhelmed every fiber inside of me, and I realized there was no way I was going to make it into the station.  I had to sit down, so I did, right there, in the tunnel, on the floor, criss-cross apple sauce style while hundreds and hundreds  of people continued to pour out of the cars and scoot around me as they headed for the exit (I did move to the side, for the record).

And there I sat.  With my head in my hands, I wanted to throw up.

Then, much to my surprise, out of the endless flood of holiday commuters knelt someone by my side, genuinely concerned and wanting to help.

“WOW,” I marveled to myself…touched by the kindness of a stranger, amazed by the impact of a single deed, and convicted by its lesson…

…that there on the grimy New York ground and amidst the people people people people people people people people people people “Hey there…” people people people people people people people “Are you okay?” people people people people people eye contact people people people people people people people people people people people people people people people “Can I help you out in any way?” people people people people people people people smile people people people people people people authenticity people people people and more people, I felt LOVED.

LOVE.  Not as in the mushy gushy, Hollywood-manufactured, where-is-my-Prince-Charming-at kind of love but rather the kind that comes in the simple acknowledgement of one another’s humanity.  The kind of love that would have a King kneel with beggars and wash the feet of His own servants.

Now, I was able to make my way into Grand Central (and sat on that floor for a bit) and eventually returned to Brooklyn in good health.  Still all the while home and even up until this point, I’ve been reflecting on why this episode has struck me as strongly as it did.  And in the end, I suppose I don’t have a conclusion so much as I do a greater appreciation for the little acts of kindness that have the power to turn yucky moods into good moods and awkward experiences into deeply-contemplated blog entries.  Sooooo, that’s it.  That’s all I got, but I’m thinking a smile and kind gesture are all I really need in order to begin to making a difference.

The open hardwood floor at work stares at me.  It calls to me, “COME.”  All the while, the beat in the background pulsates through the overhead speakers, and in its most enticing voice, it pleads with me, “MOVE.”

And just like that, as specks of sand in my suitcase, certain places and pieces of music transport me back to a time that once was, a time when I thought I knew what I wanted and how I wanted it all to look like.  A time that currently feels like a million light years ago.

“Have I been dancing?” you ask.

Kind of.  Not really.  Okay, no. I haven’t been; still, before you catapult your best and most inspirational follow-your-dreams line my way, hear me out.

I am not precisely sure I know what my dream is.

Since moving here, circumstances have largely limited my ability and accessibility to dance.  I assure you, it most definitely was and still is not a matter of choice.   Nevertheless, the forced stillness has generated a rather hazardous habit of mine—thinking.  Oh gosh.  What is it that I really want?

I don’t know…

I don’t know.

Now, that’s not to say the flame to dance has died.  Oh how brightly it continues to burn!  And yet these days, it looks a bit more like a votive candle in a pricket stand burning at the base of the great cathedral’s altar; for the truth is, I don’t know where to go from here because I don’t know where I want to go.  Thus in and from this concrete jungle where dreams are made, the only thing I can conclude in this passage is that I can’t be the only one to corroborate this passion.

Lord.  Please.  Help.  Guide.  Lead.  Inspire.  Thanks.

[Photo Credit: Amber Schoniwitz]