Happy New Year!

Are you fully aware right now?
What do you mean?
Meaning, do you think you'll remember this in, say, ten years? This moment.
Like, this conversation with you?
Yeah.
Of course. I'll remember
this. Why wouldn't I?
I'm not sure. How old are you?
Thirteen.
Yeah. I remember being thirteen, but I don't remember a single, particular moment. I have feelings, maybe echoes of thirteen, but I don't remember any moments like this.
Call me in ten years; I bet I'll remember.
Maybe you're just smarter than me.

Perhaps it was a strange conversation to have with a middle-school student during lunch break, but I couldn't help it. That particularly cloudy day in early December, all I could think about was how I always feel hyper, maybe even, super cognizant of my life, but, inevitably, I can only vividly remember one week prior.

It's a strange idea that my presence is so malleable, so ephemeral. Like when you daydream while you're reading: the words in and out, just out of phase with the vibrations of your memory.

2009 sinks beneath the timeline horizon like a whale going back under the surface. Elegance, beauty, softness gone, existing somewhere else. A few sharp memories of pain stand out in '09. A few honeyed instances make me smile. But largely, the entire year floats somewhere out of sight.

Maybe it's just because it's December 31st. Or maybe I should take more ginkgo.

Goodbye, 2009.

Goodbye, My Plastic Christmas Tree

It feels like a break-up. It really does.

Every year, with tender emotions in December, our relationship is effortless. I gently place wrapped gifts at her feet, and she, in turn, stands tall and soft, like a goddess I've known my entire life. She is a paradox of intimate familiarity and passionate unfamiliarity. She may have the same unmistakable shape, but the way she dresses, the way she ornaments herself is just for me.

But the inevitable always happens. The saccharine honeymoon period ends in early January, and I prolong the doomed relationship as long as I can. Bitter words are spoken about our love as guests come into my apartment with barbs of "You still have your tree out?" With the magic of Christmas unwrapped, her smile fades. I forget to plug her in, and her lights, darkened and taken for granted, change her from a sparkling princess to a forgotten triangle.

So this year, with visceral, nostalgic pleasures cloistered away, I decided to pack her away with the calendar face still reading 2009. "No need prolonging the inevitable," I told her as I wrapped newspapers around her bust. She cried, and her branches fit chaotically into her newspaper prison. I tried to comfort her, told her "It's not you; it's me," and she loyally let me fold her face behind newspapers and rejection.

And as I slid her back onto the top shelf in the spidery-dark corner of my closet, I knew I'd love her again, in time. For now, her sight has become an annoyance, a reminder of the end of good times.

But next year, I'll reach for her outstretched branches; her plastic fingers, overeager for my touch, hastily prick my hands. But all love is destined when it is new and December; all love is possible in the future.

Silver orbs for bracelets, lines of golden tinsel to necklace her, and a star tiara dull in comparison to my affection. I'll offer her new gifts next Christmas; I'll love her more deeply than I ever have. And until then, I'll imagine the books on my shelf are her plastic, evergreen scent.

Day-After Christmas Shopping With Mother

I remember clothes shopping with Mom was a chore. Through my childhood (and embarrassingly my adulthood), if my mom wanted to buy me clothing, she bought five sizes and colors of the item and returned four of them after I'd tried them on at home. I raised such a brat-like stink in the store that, well, it was easier for her to make two trips. But like a textbook mother, she constantly prodded me into clothes shopping.

As I've grown up, our shopping trips have become much more sporadic. I look back apologetically that I sent her through such tribulations.

So today, when Mom wanted to buy me a new suit for Christmas, I initially rolled my eyes channeling the adolescent, anti-fashionista within me. But being older, and with an income separate from my mother's, I realized that free-suit offers are quite generous. So I sucked in my immaturity and met Mom at the store.

As she rifled through the racks of jackets, I kept my impatient feet in check. When she jiggled my pants checking how the cloth draped my buttock, I bit my tongue. And when the decision came down to two suits, one black and one blue, I hid my frustration and smiled as I changed between the pants and jackets four times.

In the end, though, I must admit: Mom picked out one slammin' suit. I never quite understood why "fancy" suits look so much better than regular, off-the-rack suits. Actually, I still don't. But at least now I'll have a suit in my closet that enacts that mysterious principle.

Back in my vagabond sweatshirt and jeans, Mom treated me to lunch. We sat quietly, both secretly exhausted from the shoving crowds and interminable suit choices. The trip certainly was annoying, but on the other side of the torture, I actually had some fun.

Mom's a pretty amazing lady. She demanded quality help from the clerks and tailor. Like a predator missile through the clouds, she wove in and out of hoards of people. And she used her shrewd cleverness to pit two different clerks against each other in order to receive a discount.

I didn't really like the act of shopping. But quietly munching on my french dip, I realized that seeing Mom act like a crazy-cool shopper was pretty crazy cool. And that was worth the jiggling.

Belief

I never had a traumatizing, "Santa-isn't real" experience. I never found the fluffy red suit under my father's bed. I never saw my mom placing the presents under the tree.

There were clues and inklings that, over time, compiled into a general disbelief in Santa. My step-father's swooping letters looked eerily like Santa's festive signature. I once received a Santa gift that was left off the letter I sent him. And as I got older, Santa became an object of ridicule in the school yard; I would nod along, adding a "Santa's hella fake" even though the question still rested, unresolved, in my Christmas spirit.

And I believed my way through childhood never having the one definitive destruction that so many of my peers experienced.

On a Christmas Eve walk with my mother today, she reminded me (like she does every year) to "go to bed early so Santa can come and deliver his gifts." There was a coy smile on her face, almost a flirtation, and she radiated holiday energy like mistletoe in a foyer. Though she and I both knew my true belief in Santa faded long ago, she still made efforts, perhaps for her own nostalgia, to have fun with the mystique and Romance of Santa.

As a 25 year old, I've learned to live life without Santa Claus, but I've also learned to see Mom as a special mom. All those years, she worked hard preserve a happy belief inside me. She thought quickly, and she acted quickly to quell any potential threats to my innocent holiday spirit. Though I never give her credit for being smart, she outsmarted me for years. Though she is not religious, she gave me faith in Santa.

And on December 18th, the last day before winter break, two of my 13-year-old students, bordering on the edge of their Santa beliefs, were arguing about Santa. Their voices climbed exponentially, and each stubbornly gripped their mutually exclusive viewpoints on Santa's existence. I was packing my desk for the two-week break when they came to me with "What do you think?" about the subject. All I could do was smile, coyly, and radiate holiday spirit as I replied, "Go to bed early and see."

'Tis The Spirit

I only go to the post office when I need to send a flat-rate box. Most of the time, I find myself half crouching, half sitting on the four box flaps trying to tape it shut. The confused Vietnamese postal worker behind the counter usually stares with dead eyes at a scene that should result in a humor-induced smile. But instead, she's always stone faced at the man emulating a chicken hatching an egg in a government building.

And in a building so obviously associated with frustration, dullness, and, above all, a strict sense of reality, I came across this bright red mailbox.





















This may be the first year of the Christmas mailbox; it may be the fiftieth. Either way, this functional icon of the season allows believers a physical locale with which to postmark their treasured messages to the Man himself, Santa.

And of all places to see something so wonderful, so full of the spirit. The post office. Where, once, a line of playful flirting resulted in a "The line is long sir. Please don't waste my time." The post office. Taking extra time to bolt a holiday mailbox into their floor. Deep down, the jaded and cynical of the USPS have a heart, just like the rest of us.

When My Dog is Going Poo...

is a bad time to woo a woman. It was one of those unfortunate days where my poor dog was cooped up in the apartment for 9 hours straight. When I unlocked the front door, he immediately ran to the foyer, ignoring me completely, and stared at his leash hanging on his "Hug a Pug" hook.

Being a stubbornly territorial dog, I knew he had to poo urgently when he only marked one bush before arching his back and relaxing his behind. I reached into my coat pocket and began uncrinkling an old Safeway bag. As I was checking for holes in my plastic-bag pooper scooper, I noticed a girl walking in the park. And with my fecal-laced luck, she happened to be the adorably captivating girl that lives in B building.

In keeping with the season, yet fashionable, she wore a baby blue hoodie zipped halfway. And with the oscillating San Jose winter weather being on the rise, she wore those trendy shorts that had "SJSU" printed on the seat. Her rusty red hair was in a half-pony tail, and she walked quickly with her toned physique that implied she was exercising.

We've exchanged glaces across the courtyard before, and I once tried to talk to her, but the gate to our complex snapped shut too quickly. So when she gave an arm-akimbo, coy wave in my direction, I was a flutter.

Only then did I remember I was holding a Safeway bag.

She was about 50 feet away. Should I meet her halfway and leave the poo until after my courtship? But maybe she saw my dog "do the deed"; she would think me socially irresponsible for leaving the litter on the ground.

30 feet. Pick up the poo? Pick up the poo and have concentric circles of funk around me as I spoke to her for the first time? Have the curling smell of excrement associatively tied to the first impression of me?

10 feet. I surrendered. I embarrassingly snatched the poo off the ground. My nervous grip tighter than usual. The feces gently squished between my fingers thinly gloved by plastic. She was close enough to vocalize a greeting, but, instead, I waved sheepishly. And as fast as I could walk without looking like I was retreating, I shuffled away dragging my confused dog behind me.

There will have to be another day to invite her to a Saturday-night dinner.

Abandoned Suitcase

Living adjacent to a city park, I've grown accustomed to the usual sights. The discarded Taco Bell bags stuffed with damp, bean-stained burrito wrappers. The squirrel who carries nest-making leaves in his mouth. And sometimes, a size 1 baby shoe in the sand, kicked off without the mother seeing.

But two nights ago, I stopped. I saw something unusual. Under the streetlight's amber glow, this rectangular gargoyle peered out at me through the misty darkness of winter.
















Over the next 48 hours, I continued to walk past this abandoned suitcase, pondering it like a melon misplaced in the cereal aisle. I wanted to unzip it, and, a few times, I walked directly towards it. But I always stopped.

The Romantic in me thought the suitcase might contain a manuscript by an undiscovered master writer. Or maybe loads of cash were inside, and upon its ethical return to the owner, they would split the tidy sum with me, 50/50.

But the paranoid skeptic inside always stopped me. He warned of the anarchists of the world who sought my anonymous demise. Maybe there were used needles infected with H1N1. Maybe there was a bomb. Or even worse, maybe there was a dead cat, split open down the abdomen with its stomach spread apart like wings.

No, for two days, I walked gingerly around the suitcase, unlocking it only with my imagination. And of course, on the third day, it moved to a new location. Obviously, the abandoned suitcase wasn't as infinite or perplexing to some people.

Unfinished Dreams

This weekend and last, 3 University of California campuses held ceremonies which conferred honorary degrees to people of Japanese decent whose collegiate education was derailed by the Japanese Internment during World War II.

Today, I was lucky enough to attend the ceremony at UC Berkeley.

http://honorary.universityofcalifornia.edu/ Take some time to watch the videos; they are worth the few minutes.

I also had the privilege of attending a luncheon for the students (who are now around 80-90 years old) where I was able to see them as people rather than specks from the Haas Pavilion bleachers. I didn't know any of them personally, so I hovered around the edges of the ballroom watching and listening. Many of the recipients of the honorary degrees came with their families, who loyally assisted by walking and wheeling their honorees around the ballroom. One woman, dispersed by the Internment, flew back to college from Texas to receive her degree.

These Nisei (second-generation Japanese Americans) students had their educations interrupted by war and wartime hysteria. Some said they continued their studies elsewhere, but most others said the diaspora after the Internment permanently altered their professional dreams.

And in their sagging eyes and sun-blotched skin, I saw my Nisei grandmother. Just a few miles away in Oakland, she said she'd rather stay home and watch my dog as I went to the event.

Though she did not go to college, I know her intent was to become a nurse. But the Internment altered those plans, and, moving to Minnesota after Topaz, she traded her white gloves for black-stained hands from the acid of peeling tomatoes.

After the ceremony, I went back to her house and told her about the day. I tried to tell her how strange and surreal it was. About how I've never seen so many Japanese honored before. But for all my excitement and awe, she returned a genuine but terse, "That's nice."

For a participant of the Internment, she rarely speaks of it; and in return, neither do I. All I could do was write this blog for her, even though I know she'll never read it.

I may not become a nurse, Grandma, but I'll walk your unfinished dreams to lucid sunlight.

Carousel

I'll give one chance, my dear, to pluck a rose.
And when you catch me, place its stem between
my grasp: The emerald thorns of envy rise
in reddened, passioned promises of "me

and you." My dear, come follow close behind.
My Fafner should not scare you. Golden bound
along round paths, he guards his princess, blind
to knights like you, who seek to earn my crown.

Mount your whitened stallion—but sheath your glaive.
Don't fear his claws; just fear I'll fly away.
You'll gallop up and down with metal gears
and plated poles to grant my lovely spray.

Come close, and let the rose untame its smell.
My dearest, give chase on this carousel.

Holiday Peeps

It's been several years since I've conceded that Peeps just don't taste that good. Don't get me wrong: I love Peeps. Their crystalline sugar coating, their spongy innards, their whipped white stickiness. I'm one of those fellows that buys three packs of Peeps at Easter time because they're cute and eats only about four chicks or bunnies before the teeth and stomach groan from the sugar load.

But I'm no Peep expert. I think today's trip to the market proved that point.

In the candy aisle, I came across Holiday Peeps in the shapes of Christmas Trees and Snowmen. Several ladies gawked at the supposedly grown man, who was too lazy to get a cart, drop his gallon of milk and three jumbo Mr. Goodbars with a squeal of delight. I was excited...to say the least.

I quickly bought four trays, two of each species, and scampered home, ready to consume my bounty with holiday cheer and milk. After an entire life of eating Peeps, the company had gotten it right: another holiday to share in the charmingly adorable treats. I was Indiana Jones; I had unearthed the Holy Grail of Peeps, and I was secluded away in my apartment ready to explore this undiscovered bounty.

Little did I know that seasonal Peeps beyond Easter are an old occurrence. There are Halloween Peeps, and 4th of July Peeps, and even Valentine's Day Peeps.

I am out of the Peep loop. I'm ignorant. And worst of all: I'm sad. All these holidays that I've been alone, celebrating in solitude without the comfort-companion Peep. Today's shopping trip showed me that I need to know more about Peeps. I thought I was in. Actually, I'm out.

Gingerbread Quandary

The holiday season is trimmed with indecision. Sale prices, store inventory, and frantic mobs paralyze me into procrastinated holiday shopping. Happiness only narrowly outweighs the holiday debacle that is shopping.

These sentiments were epitomized by my recent grocery shopping trip where I was frozen by two Pepperidge Farm cookie options: one, the year-round Ginger Man or two, the seasonal Ginger Family.

On one hand, the Ginger Man is year-round and, thus, consistently delicious. But to that end, he is familiarly predictable. He is crispy with a powerful bite of snapping ginger, and his face shines with crystallized sugar. Though he is slightly amorphous, his shape is undeniably recognizable as cookie decadence. He is an old, trusted companion, but I was tempted by another.

The Ginger Family is seasonal and, thus, annually exotic. But were they too chewy? Were they too thick? Like all new things, the Family was loaded with both potential flavor and potential disappointment. The distinguishable characters were lovable and sweet. The father's combed hair showed he was well-respected in their gingerbread community. The mother's humble apron showed home cooking was waiting just inside her edible house. And of course, the two children played, hands baked together in solidarity and love.

Both offered something magical and comforting. This wasn't a simple gingerbread quandary; this was an option that would stick with me, shaping the taste of my dessert for days to come.

But in rebellion to the overbearing indecision and consumerism of the season, I did what every overweight, cookie lover would do: I bought both.

Crafts, Cats, and Dogs

Today was the Humane Society, Silicon Valley's Animal Arts Craft Faire. Vendors sold adorable animal-related arts and crafts. There were home-made dog treats, hand-made chew toys, and decadent cat trees. There was live music, a food court, and activities for children.






And in case the humans wanted to shop unencumbered, there was a "Dog Valet" who would walk your dog while you shopped. That's my dog Pancake on the left with valet Judy.







The Humane Society moved to a new location in April, and the facility is amazing. Despite it being an animal shelter, everything looked immaculate. The dogs had giant cots covered with blankets, and each kennel was considerately filled with two dogs so they could run and play. The cats didn't have cages, but "condos" where mini-sofas and climbing trees faced large windows flooding the apartment with nap-able sunlight. There was even a special section for rabbit adoption.












The walls were covered with paintings and photographs of adopted pets' success stories that found new homes. The fountain at the main entrance captured the free spirit of a dog jumping into a lake with a cautious cat observing from above.

And while the Humane Society's new facility is simply amazing, the stars of show were the animals up for adoption. Going to an event like this, I mustered all my fortitude to not return with another dog. But when I got there, I saw so many animals that I wanted to take home. One Chihuahua mix in particular, Chispita, captured my heart. I watched her through the window, her brown ears half-folded over her apple-shaped head. She was calm despite the gangs of people traipsing past her. She was older, almost 10 years old, and I imagined her being passed-up for the younger, more-spry dogs.


But alas, I returned home with only one dog, my constant companion Pancake. I found myself whispering to him. I wouldn't want another dog so badly if you weren't such a great dog.

He curled up on my lap, and we watched tv together.

Please visit the Humane Society's webpage. Maybe you can adopt Chispita; she's a dear.

Tombstones

Opening the refrigerator isn't supposed to be this disheartening. The breeze shrinks my skin onto my bones, and the cold air is chilling as I peer into the graveyard of my Thanksgiving leftovers.

And this happens every year in early December.

Fresh from four days of splendid food, wonderful sales, and priceless family time, we are hungover, slogging through early December, out of earshot of Christmas's sweet tune.

With the interminable four weeks still before us, we are forced to eat the once-divine Thanksgiving leftovers. We cautiously smell the turkey before we eat it. We drain the stagnant water from the tupperwared yams. The pumpkin pie crust is flaccid and soggy.

We look on the rows of containers in our fridges, monuments to a wonderful holiday now gone. We were humbled by the joy of Thanksgiving, only now to eat tasteless food at its wake. Tombstones of leftovers remind us that even the happiest holiday times come to an end.

Superstar Plumbing Quality Assurance Phone Transcript 12.1.09

BEGIN CALL 19:23:54

Superstar: Good morning. Thank you for calling Superstar Plumbing. How can I be of service?

Caller: (Frantic) I need to have a plumber come to my house right away.

Superstar: Of course, ma'am. May I ask the nature of the service required?

Caller: Can you send someone now? The water's getting everywhere.

Superstar: Okay, ma'am. Everything is going to be alright. Can you try to explain what's going on?

Caller: Uh...I'm not really sure what's wrong. (Water sounds) My bathtub keeps overflowing. And yesterday, I had to take a pot and...uh...scoop all the water from the tub.

Superstar: Okay, so the tub isn't draining fast enough? Or is it plugged altogether?

Caller: It's just draining too slow. And some brown water started coming out of the sink drain when I used the tub...flooding onto the floor. It's ruining my carpet.

Superstar: Just try to stay calm. It sounds like you might have a clog in your main line. I'll make a note of that on the service request.

Caller: I've just never dealed with stuff like this before. (Sigh) My husband used to take care of all this stuff. He was a plumber, and I...I just never learned about it because he'd fix it fast.

Superstar: It's okay ma'am. That's what we're here for. If I could just get some of your information, we can send someone right over.

Caller: Thanks.

Superstar: Your address please?

Caller: 5454 South 98th Street. Oakland. California.

Superstar: Okay. And I'll send someone over within the next two hours to help get that drain cleared up for you. Is that okay?

Caller: Yes. That's good. Thank you.

Superstar: It's my pleasure, ma'am. And thank you for choosing Superstar.

END CALL

Black Friday

The greatest shopping day of the year isn't great because of the deals; it's great because of the stories. I don't really need a Samsung MP3 player when I have an elite iPod. I don't really need a free Xbox game in exchange for sitting in the cold air for 3 hours. Sure, there are people who truly need the deals in order to make their holiday budget work, but I often spend my Black Fridays in line for some frivolous item, not a money saver.

I do it for the stories. In just one day, I told my Black Friday war story—sitting in line, drinking hot cocoa, fighting for my doorbuster bracelet—to my Grandma, Mom, Dad, my brother, and the guy who works at the Mail Center. I shocked them with the horrific conditions and the bloodshot eyes, and when they are reeling from adrenaline, I roll up my sleeve and show the scars and spoils of war.

And like all great war stories, there isn't just one enemy; there are several. The late hour and the long, twisting lines are the obvious foe, fighting you face to face with brute strength. But the cunning foes, your fellow individual shoppers, they are the one who flank you from the side and snipe you with psychological warfare.

Three hours in front of Old Navy, two ladies dangled inane conversations in front of me. Every noun was preceded by a swear-word adjective. Every topic concerned only the boorish riff raff of society. They let their friends cut in line. And to top off their arsenal during the Black Friday war, they blew clouds of cigarette smoke in my face.

I let it slide for an hour, but with my lungs feeling palpably fuzzy from the tobacco smoke, I took action. I asked them to please smoke farther away from the line. They gave me the 'stink eye' and begrudgingly moved their poisonous habit a mere five feet away still drenching me with funk.

I'm sure they weren't bad people. I'm sure they were simply irritable like we all were. I did my best to accommodate their psychological warfare without resorting to physical violence. I was still feeling thankful and positive from Thanksgiving...and, because of that, those ladies should be thankful I didn't knock out all their tar-stained teeth with the curb.

Black Friday. What a great day. What great sales. I'm tired. I'm going to bed now.

Sleepy and Turkey

Here's a tip: Never wear skinny jeans to Thanksgiving dinner. I wore my new dark-wash jeans in hopes that I would look more fit in the Thanksgiving family pictures. It was all for naught: the dining-room table hid my pants in the family portraits, and I had to unbutton my pants to sit on the couch, far from the "fit" image I wanted to project.

So here I am, thankful for the beginning of the holiday season and sleepy from the sugary yams and heavy gravy fermenting in my stomach. I knew I was in trouble when Grandma said, "We have less people than last year, but the turkey is heavier." It was a bittersweet moment of laughter.

My brother is working the 76 Fall Classic in Anaheim. Rebelling against the the warnings of Medical school tearing apart family holidays, my brother had never missed a Thanksgiving in his 7-year medical career, until today.

My brother and I usually have a contest to see who can use a punch to blow out the dinner candles. It was strange and pathetic having that contest with myself, like laughing when you're alone. And thus, Thanksgiving has been more docile this year.

But docile isn't necessarily bad. I spent some quiet time with my grandma looking at Black Friday ads. I took my dog for a nice long walk in the cold Sacramento air. Docile gives me time to reflect and be thankful for nice food and nice family.

Docile doesn't make for the most profound writing, but it's nice to sit with my grandma, watch my brother on TV, and wish the outside world a Happy Thanksgiving.

Bad Words

Even though it was Friday, I decided to stay late at school and help the short-handed tutoring program. My tutee was a tiny girl with hair straight like a filly's mane and soft like a freshly baked gingersnap. Her smile was dear, and while it was over-burdened with her adult teeth pushing through, I could tell she would one day smile her way out of speeding tickets. Her name was Chaitali.

My task was simple: take her through her second-grade vocabulary book. And with words like 'badge' and 'tread,' it was going to be an easy session. I sat quietly in the undersized chair across from her and read her workbook upside-down. Her handwriting was bubbly like a child's, but one day, her curvaceous swoops and curls would write notes to break boy's hearts.

And then the word 'separate' came up. "What's this?" she asked. "It's when things come apart." I used my hands, increasing the distance between my palms. "Is it like divorce?" she asked.

The only way a girl who didn't know 'corner' would know 'divorce' is by experience. I could see her father and mother sitting her down on their pristine white couch. Chaitali on the far right, parents—with palpable distance between them—on the left. It's not your fault. We love you the same. It's a problem between us.

"My parents are getting a divorce," she said. It was like hearing her swear, only worse. Words like 'ass' and 'shit' and 'damn' all have a context. Kids will hear these words eventually, even internalize and personalize their meanings. But their lives don't change when they learn how to use 'fuck' as a noun, verb, or adjective. To be so young, to have a discussion with a second grader about divorce was the real bad word.

She swore using a socially acceptable word. She showed no disrespect, and yet her word showed a brutality of life and a loss of faith. Forever will Chaitali's comfort in the family unit and the undying power of love be separated from her childhood. With her smile and with her charm, I'm sure she'll regain the lost faith one day...but it's that much harder.

Most times a child cries, I know better than to humor them. I know a pinched finger in a door will heal, and the tears are magnified by naivete. But when she started to cry in front of me, her tears were salted by experience. I remembered my past and hugged Chaitali, my sister of divorced parents.

Awe

I had a craving for some salad and a steak sandwich, so I went to Pluto's. I owe a debt of gratitude to the Wednesday-night lull as the typically hectic and haphazard ordering line at Pluto's was replaced with a wonderfully empty ordering counter. In fact, I only saw three other people: two boys and their mother.

"You want to watch?" She coaxed the two boys over to the glass window overlooking the 20+ toppings at the salad station. The two boys toddled over to her, and the mother quickly grabbed a chair from the seating area for her two young princes on which they could view the salad tossing spectacle.

I have to credit the staff at Pluto's tonight: the salad technician channeled his inner Benihana showmanship. He added each item with flair and gusto. He banged his salad tongs on the metal bowl as if beating an ancient war drum. He tossed the salad high into the air; the boys had to tilt their heads back, mouths open, to watch the medley rise and fall.

And the boys loved it. The older one left excited fogs of breath on the glass, and the younger one clapped his hands together, the imbalance almost causing him to fall off the chair.

Afterward, the three of them sat down to eat. Mother with her salad, and boys with their sandwich halves. They were still there when I left. I tried to catch the eye of the younger one, just to say hello, but he was too busy smiling.

Two Orange Starbursts

I knew it was going to be a great day; I ate candy for breakfast. Halloween candy in November is fabulous when you're a child: the lingering elation of the holiday sustaining you just long enough to reach Thanksgiving. But when you're an adult, Halloween candy is dangerous. Those small, "Fun Size" portions call to you like a seductive whisper on a cold night.

Hey. Come eat me. I won't make you fat. Your teeth can survive a tiny coating of corn syrup. What's one tiny bag of Skittles? or an inch of Twix?

Even in the face of that danger, though, I tore into this Halloween left-over Starburst pea-pod, and, even with the permutation odds against me, I found two orange squares coquettishly staring back at me. Orange is the best flavor of candy, isn't it? The exoticism of citrus, and the stimulation of its vibrant hue. Ah, yes. Orange really is a treat for the senses.

I knew it was going to be a great day. Both fate and deliciousness were on my side.

Marry Me

I didn't see it happen. I didn't see the spectacle. I only saw the curtain of rose petals, the half-empty champagne bottle, and the banner reading Marry Me, Pansy—the chocolate-sweet echoes of a marriage proposal.

I stood, with several spectators, gently waiting to feel the aftershocks of their happiness. Over the vermilion pond rubbing the puckering ovals with my shoe tips, I waited in hopes that a voyeur could witness two people's brightest moment.

But they were gone—probably strolled back into the Sunday Farmers' Market in Oakland's Jack London Square. The right knee of his pants, moist from where he knelt in the fresh roses. Her mascara streaked downward like her umber bangs laced behind her ears. In one hand, an organic chocolate cupcake, saved for a celebration, and in the other, he held her syruped hands, sticky from tears and champagne.

But they were gone—off meeting each other for the first time as betrothed and promised. I waited with the children who tossed the fluffy rose petals in the air as if it had suddenly snowed in the East Bay. And the parents modestly joined their children in the rose-carpeted courtyard outside the Waterfront Plaza; they softly rubbed flowers between their fingertips remembering when they too said Yes.

After my dinner, I walked back through the courtyard, still hoping to catch a glimpse of Pansy. But there was only grounds keeper making piles of dead foliage. But as I walked by him, I swear I saw his wind torn lips crack upwards into a smile as he swept the roses into a dustpan.

Guess Who?

I was watching TV today, and I saw an add for (what I assuming is a new version of) Milton Bradley's Guess Who? This new Guess Who? Extra has changeable line-up cards, and electronic timers, and trap doors. This is surely the Cadillac of Guess Who?

I remember the original 1987 version of Guess Who where there were 5 women and 19 men. If you were unlucky enough to pick Jan out of the pile, you were finished.

Is your person a man? No. (The sound of plastic doors and your chance of victory being slammed shut)

And this game is still very relevant for me today. There is logic without the stress of Chess or the annoying pegs of Battleship. A sense of mystery without the inordinate setup of Clue. And there is a quick winner without having to go bankrupt in Monopoly.

Why, just a few months ago, my brother and I were playing, and our questions were updated for adult versions of us.
Does your person look like they are a jerk?
Does your person look like they have an inflated albeit unfounded sense of pride?
If I were a woman, would I want to make out with your person?

Of course the game always devolves into screaming matches about how we have skewed opinions of our cartoon, Guess Who? characters.

But that's what's so great about Guess Who? It is a quick way to have a big laugh. Other games take themselves too seriously. Sure, I love a good game of Backgammon, but my abs never hurt after I finish playing. There is something so wonderfully cynical about playing a game where we are asked to judge the appearances of others.

You might be wondering what kind of show I was watching to have such an advertisement, and I'm not ashamed to say that Spiderman cartoons have really come a long way. And so has Guess Who? Now with Guess Who? Extra, I can add over a hundred faces to my original lineup of 24, and make even more off-color comments with my loved ones.

Ah. Board games. Bringing people closer together through a shared sense of rudeness.

Slow Progress

I have a multi-lingual student in sixth period. He has only been in the States for about four months, and he is struggling to keep up with the language. The private school for which I work is his only education, meaning he is not getting any outside help with learning to speak English.

My private school is pretty fabulous except that it doesn't have multi-lingual program. That means that this student first encounters words like "love" and "desire" in esoteric Romantic poems.

Despite his grades, he quite intelligent. His comments are thoughtful but stunted in vocabulary. I made an impromptu visit to his math teacher, and she agreed with my assessment. The student excelled at the algebra because it is only numbers, but word problems posed a huge challenge.

I've been meeting with him during lunch about three times a week to try to help him. We read from Kindergarten phonics books while we slowly chew our peanut butter sandwiches; it's nice to know that a Russian national and Asian American can find common ground in PB&J.

Then, during sixth period, we jump forward about eight years into high-brow literature like Beowulf and Shakespearean Sonnets. In class though, it's much more difficult to devote so much time. Some students are aching to move faster while my Russian apprentice dissects every word, slowly leafing through his $60 Russian to English tome.

"Mr. Judo, what 'occur'?"

"Like 'happen.' When did it happen? When did it occur? The same." I find myself using an English I've never spoken before. My sentences are terse, and simple in their brevity. It's as if we've come to have a special language between us; a rhetoric somewhere between Russian and English.

He's challenging me in ways I never expected. I often ask him to look up the words, but many times I try to give him real-context examples to help solidify the impersonal text from the dictionaries. Sometimes, words are easily reduced to a simpler form. "What 'frenzy'?" "Like really angry."

The challenge comes when the words have no reduction. Today, "leaflet" really stumped me. I didn't want to concede a Merriam-Webster sterile response, but he didn't know what was "pamphlet" either. After about 30 seconds of rhetorical dancing, and my other native English-speaking students giggling, he finally understood.

Progress is slow, but enjoyable. Today, he read "once" correctly. Just three weeks ago, over lunch, when reading "Once upon a time," he said aloud "Awn-kay ee-pon a tim." Slow progress is still powerful.

Curry Wafting Down the Hall

I don't know my neighbors at all. Because I've never formally been introduced, I've resorted to naming my fellow residents by their defining traits. Guy in 1C is Sweater Vest. Girl in 1D is Orange Cascades. Man above me is Stompy. I'm sure there are some apartment buildings that birth wonderful friendships like Joey and Monica, Jerry and Kramer, but, for the most part, apartments breed anonymity.

This acceptable loneliness is so bad that my next door neighbor, Business Gal, moved out, and I didn't even notice. I finally realized something was amiss when I saw a new girl moving boxes into the secretly vacated room. She was wearing a white sweatshirt billboarding green OREGON. Her jeans were comfortably worn with some white threading hanging like icicles from her knees.

I've since named her Curry.

Now this may sound racist, but I assure you this name relates only to the fact that she frequently makes curry. When I walk into my hallway, the smell often lingers like a single organ note in an empty cathedral. The first time I breathed the aroma, I had to bloodhound my way down to her door just to make sure of the source. And sure enough, the frame of her doorway oozed the viscous spiciness of curry.

I should have been personable and introduced myself the first time I saw her. I should have introduced myself the day I sniffed the lintels of her doorway. Her real name could be like ambergris dissolving the barriers of my isolation.

But maybe I've already met her by inhaling deeply every time I return home. I've grown accustomed to her cooking. I come home, beaten from work, and I imagine her throwing her arms around me and kissing me with a fresh bowl of Curry; smelling the spicy aroma of her flirtation comforts more than reality every could.

Untapped

Literaure? Beouwulf? Spell check?











It would be one thing if this student was at his intellectual limit. If he truly gave his best efforts, I could look upon his works as sweat-soaked proof of his genuine mental exertion. Even if these imperfect works were riddled with errors, I could still bask in the warmth that both he and I were at our outer boundaries.

But this is not the case.

This student is smarter than this assignment depicts. When he does the reading, his comments are trenchant and lucid. When he actually tries on the homework, it often sets the standards for the class. He is smart, but he rarely shows consistent passion.

Learning to be autonomous within the structures of school is part of the educational process. Though very bright, this student is just eking by grade-wise in my class. His homework is late, and assignments, like the one above, are bloated with careless typos and apathetic formatting. Being smart is not enough to be a gifted student. A gifted student uses all their resources: intellect, time management, effort, manners, creativity, accountability.

Getting "F" papers isn't the most disheartening thing; seeing untapped potential sinks me even lower.

Quilt

One thousand dreams woven together
along their seams of reality and faith.

The loops of joy and punctured flesh
sustained the sloping cotton hills
of pastel memories. And streams of stitching
marinated doubts in sweet strawberry jam.

This balanced cloth, honeycombed
of warming past and cooling present,
was sewn in twilight, between secrets
and truths...and for that, I gave my sight
for its intricate beauty.

It's for you: my blindness and my quilt.
My mollified darkness waits for the ridges
of your fingertips plucked by my eyelashes.
And I can love more warmly that wrinkles
of your wind-cracked face are soft like the grooves of your smile.
Red porcelain whispers on my cheek as white porcelain.

Come beneath what I've made for us:
Darkness for both of us, predicted by the matchmaker of thread.

Community Halloween

The air is crisp like the fallen, anthocyanin leaves. The sharp air frostbites the lining of the lungs, and when exhaled, the warm soul escapes in curls of white breath. The smirking pumpkins take up their sentry positions guarding each home from would-be trespassers. Tonight, children take the streets with masked dreams dripping in melted sugar.

Of the final yearly celebrated holidays in America (Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year's Eve), Halloween is easily the least important. Halloween isn't a national holiday. Halloween doesn't get a day off from school. Some years, students pile into their classroom donning their freakish facades only to take a fractions quiz. Most years, kids intoxicate themselves on chocolate only to arise hungover and go to school.

And while Halloween is largely branded as a novelty, I find it one of the most generous holidays. While Christmas and Thanksgiving are based on giving and thankfulness, I find people's general spirit surrounding these two holidays is mostly confined to family and friends. There may be a day of volunteering, a food or toy drive here or there, but this is a rare occurrence for most people.

Halloween, on the other hand, unifies the community through generosity of spirit and candy. For the average American, handing out free treats to tens, even hundreds, of anonymous children is considered enjoyable normalcy. I have no evidence, but it seems that more people pass out candy at Halloween than go to soup kitchens on Christmas.

When I was growing up, my step father would spend hundreds of dollars every year on the newest and spookiest decorations for the front of our house. Coupled with the growing amorphous blob from past Halloweens in the attic, each year topped the previous. I remember one year our entire lawn was covered with black tarps serving as the morass turf of a graveyard. In conjunction with the headstones, fog machine, and strobe lights, one kid actually jumped out of his shoe when my step dad jumped out from inside a life-size coffin.

But oddly, his Christmas decorations were always modest in comparison to October 31st. My step dad chose to support and give back to our neighborhood during Halloween, not Christmas. I think he wanted to spend the most time and money on a holiday that put him in direct contact with Trick-or-Treaters rather than the purely aesthetic spectators at Christmas.

And pending a few bad apples who use this holiday for felonious mischief, Halloween seems to be about direct contact with the children and families of the community. While some, like my step dad, want to bring joy through fear, others generously open their doors allowing a puff of cozy air to warm shivering ghosts and goblins on their journey around their neighborhood. Christmas may be the time of giving, but Halloween embodies, for me, the truest sense of community.

Whiteboards and Toilet Seats

Two weeks ago, the principal approached me and asked if the Extended Care Program (ECP) could use my classroom twice a week after school. Of course, this is her subtle way of telling me that she'd already made the decision, and it was now my job to deal with it and vacate twice a week at the tolling of 3:30.

And of course, I get one of those ECP teachers who lets the kids eat chips and sit at my desk, use my precious pens and rearrange the desks. I tried reasoning with the ECP teacher. Tried logic. Tried pleading. Tried getting angry. My fellow teacher promised change, but nothing happened. Where is the educator solidarity?

Wednesday and Thursday mornings have devolved into moving desks out of "Fort Formation," erasing stars and Spanish words from the board, and cleaning my desk of FritoLay grease.

I never had sisters. I grew up sharing a bathroom only with an older brother. Putting the toilet seat down was never etched into my muscle memory. In a world where angry women bellow wet-butted through the bathroom to PUT THE SEAT DOWN, I never, until now, understood why the women, the ones needing the seat to be down, couldn't accomplish such a simple task on their own.

The ECP teacher may be a bad teacher, but she did teach me one thing: what it's like to be woman plopping down on the cold porcelain instead of the welcoming seat. The menial, maintenance tasks aren't hard, but it's the overall lack of interpersonal consideration that creates the screamable infraction.

To all my past cohabitants: I'm sorry for forgetting, and I'm sorry for arguing with you. I was wrong. You were right. And unlike my ECP fellow, I promise to change for real.

It's Too Windy and Cold Outside

Summer, regrettably hibernating for the next nine months, has passed its crown to the necrosis of Fall. Autumn winds rush into the vacuum Summer left behind. The coup of the cunning Fall has succeeded.

And that is why we detest the surreptitious Fall. That sunlight through our bedroom window tempts us to leave our coats behind, and with Summer's warmth still radiating from within, we forge into the bright winds unprepared.

The wind's eager fingers unbutton our shirts and coil around the torso like ribbons made of ice. In the unfamiliar cold, we walk backwards saving our eyes from brittle leaf shards.

Fall is the fox, the trickster of the seasons. Evil compared to its charming Summer predecessor; invisible compared to Winter's opaque rain. The danger of Fall lies in beauteous colors and frozen whispers.

Lost Duckling

I'd sit on the dock and let my feet dangle two inches above water, kissed by the surface only when a gust of wind crested a wave beneath me. The water is more green than blue, but emeralds shine as tempting as sapphires. My hometown house sits on the artificial shore of a man-made lake, and even though my lake was carved into earth by a mortal, I feel nature's sublimity.

I'd eat wheat toast in the Spring. And always only in the Spring, mother ducks parade their goslings to the bandstands at my feet. I'd take two slices outside with me for breakfast. Most days I ate both slices, but if I was lucky, I would be privileged to feed my toast to the fledgling family.

Every Spring was the same. Eight puffs of wispy down bob passively on the waves as the mother hesitantly approached and gathered torn strips of bread. Two weeks later, the same family, reduced to six siblings, had wisps of brown highlights in their coats. And, at the end of Spring, only four adolescents, rough in textured brown feathers, survived the brutality of nature to accompany their mother.

The family numbers dwindle every year. Maybe a foul-mouth bass swallowed one. Maybe one drowned. Maybe one got run over by a car. I never see the dead ones: only the ones who survived. The dangers of nature took the ducklings swiftly, and I could only mourn by feeding their portions to their siblings.

Today, in the first color changes of Autumn, I felt the cruelty of April. One of my students from third period was expelled. I got the notice from the front office this morning. In response to my lunch-time inquiry, the principal simply stated that the mother of the student was not "on the same page as another teacher at the school." The math teacher.

I knew the student and the math teacher were having issues, but I had no idea the problems were brutal enough to result in an expulsion. The student was not an angel, but he wasn't a devil either. I felt like I failed the student. I was unable to save him from becoming collateral damage in the battle between his mother and the math teacher.

Third period felt noticeably smaller. I made 14 copies of a worksheet as usual, but had one left over. It was then I felt Spring: third period only has 13 ducklings in it.

The Simple Answers

At the end of every period, while the students are zipping their bags and rustling their papers, I ask them, "What's my philosophy?"

"Leave the room cleaner than we found it," they all reply in mantra-like dirge. They may sound apathetic, but truly, they understand this principle.

The "It" girl, the soccer star, the class clown—they all crouch down, equalized by the custodial task at hand. The jock may have dropped the cheeto, but the prom queen stoops down and paints her fingers with carpet grit and cheesy powder. Even I, the teacher, am not above the policy. I too use my bare hands picking up shattered potato chips and edges of paper torn from unsuspecting corners.

The students roam the classroom; no one loyal to their own territory. Trash, regardless of origin, is collected and disposed.

But every day, there is one student, Jay, huddled around his desk at clean-up time. While the others travel the room like nomads, he stays home at his desk picking up pencils.

Jay, like all the students his age, has trouble keeping his pencil on his desk. When he scrutinizes a passage from his textbook, or when he twists to access his backpack, his pencil rolls onto the floor.

All the students drop their pencils at least three times during class, so this isn't a unique problem. But Jay has taken this common pencil problem and created a wildly unique (and hilarious) solution.

Every time he drops a pencil, he simply reaches into his Naruto pencil box and pulls out a new pencil. At first, I thought he was lazy for not standing up and reclaiming his writing utensil. But after careful study, I've noticed that it is more efficient. In the middle of an essay, he would need to push out his chair, crouch down, find his pencil, stand back up, sit back down, scoot his chair back in; grabbing a new pencil circumvents the whole tedious procedure.

And so, by the end of the 50 minute period, Jay is ankle deep in pencils. Then, when it comes time to enact my philosophy, he springs out of his chair and relines his box with 10+ pencils. Of course I've told him that this particular solution is inefficient, and that it makes a mess. But inside, I secretly applaud him. I envy his youthful problem-solving abilities, unmolded by the "right way" of doing things. How can I punish him? He leaves his area in better condition than he found it.

Even if it is silly...it's a simple, simply charming answer.

The Intersection of Spirituality and Reality

I am not an avid baseball fan, but I try to stay up-to-date on the happenings. And while I have no logical reason to do so, I find myself rooting for the Los Angeles Angels this post season.

Nick Adenhart, a young up-and-coming pitcher for the Angels, was killed by an allegedly drunk driver on April 9, 2009. The days after the event, ESPN showed numerous interviews with the Angels, who all expressed their sadness at losing a teammate, but more importantly, a friend.

After a few weeks passed, the media stopped covering the story, and I simply forgot about Adenhart.

Then, on September 29th, the Angels won the AL West. In the customary fashion, the Angels celebrated in the locker room lined with plastic and showered with champagne. But the team, obviously still feeling the void Adenhart left behind, chose to shower their fallen teammate's jersey as well. It was one of those moments you don't expect to see: Baseball locker rooms, foul mouthed and boorish, don't seem like the place for an act both powerfully symbolic and wonderfully respectful.

After trouncing the Red Sox, the Angels are having a hard time against the Yankees in the ALCS. Today, on the verge of going down 3-0 in the series, the Angels looked in control in the 8th, up 4-3. Then, Yankee Jorge Posada hit a home run directly over Adenhart's memorial banner in center field. Angel Torii Hunter futilely chased the uncatchable ball. The Yankees had tied the game, potentially crushing the Angels' hopes of making it to the World Series.

In futile defeat, Hunter slowed to a trot, and placed both hands on the banner, perhaps asking Adenhart for a victory, perhaps apologizing for failing him.

I've seen athletes thank God for touchdowns or for crossing home plate, but this moment was not routine prayer; this was the true intersection of spirituality and reality. Outside of So. Cal, I'm sure much of the world, like me, has forgotten about Adenhart. But Hunter, at the center field wall, showed that life and death permeate even the most crucial moments.

I'm glad the Angels won tonight. I'm rooting for Adenhart and the Angels. How can you not?

It's October!

I don't go Trick-or-Treating anymore, so the shiny plastics and sequin cloths of the costume aisles don't interest me in the same way. I walked the lanes of Target gently perusing the costumes sealed airtight in thick plastic bags. I try to imagine myself looking spooky or festive in the costumes, but all I can see is frivolity and expense.

I know some people really devote themselves to this holiday. They plan their costume on paper, driving store to store unifying disparate pieces into one magnificently wicked disguise. I just don't have that kind of patience.

No. For me, my October pleasure is much more simple. In mid-to-late October, stores like Target realize Halloween is less than two weeks away, and they panic at the Sisyphean mound of Franken Berry, Boo Berry, and Count Chocula. As a result, the prices drop from the $3 range into the $2 range.

When the sales begin: That is when October festivities really begin. I spent $30 buying more cereal than I could carry. The 31st is for the boors. The cheap, spooky cereal...that's the holiday.

Evolving Knowledge

Apes are large animals that are related to...elephants?











I think I'm developing a teaching-induced phobia of paper. There are just so many assignments to grade. I'm organized, to be sure. I have colored coded paper clips (thank you Office Max) and all the papers are in discrete piles per grade. But even the most organized mounds still cause chills.

So when a second-grade teacher sat down next to me at lunch, flustered by a pile of vocab tests, I offered to help correct the exams. "Do you have an extra copy of the answer key?" I asked. She laughed as she slid me half the stack. "What's so funny?"

I unsheathed my red pen and went down to business, and I was soon in on the joke. The test was deliciously easy for me, an adult. Cavern. Torch. Spear. Planet. If only the GRE in Literature was this easy!

Most of the kids got over 90%. But one student really struggled. Spears have blades on the end, not hooks. Torches are used for light, not climbing. And apes are related to monkeys, not elephants.

I remember distinct times in my life where I thought, "I know everything there is to know." I always knew there were random facts outside my grasp, but I thought my main intellectual prowess was complete at, say, age 10. Again at 16. And yet again at 21. It's hard to realize that becoming smarter is not just about facts rattling around in your brain; it's about the actual process of manipulating those facts in intellectual situations.

I looked down at this young second-grader's test. There was once a time when I was unknowingly capped by such a ceiling: a ceiling where simple animal nomenclature challenged the very limits of my knowledge.

We often disregard children as unknowledgeable, but we should cherish that ignorance. Students are microcosms in which teachers have the good fortune to witness, first hand, knowledge in its primordial state: full potential waiting to burst forth into destiny.

Maybe he should have studied harder. Maybe he should have practiced his test taking skills. But really, I have no worries for this student. He's just a mentally clumsy kid waiting to evolve into a genius.

Viewing the Storm

Today was the first big rain of the season, and the world seemed to kowtow to its power. The drive to work was interminable. Traffic splashed along at 35 mph down the 880, and hydroplaning cars geysered leaves and twigs onto my windshield.

My classroom, constructed in the 1950s, provided little shelter from the storm. The roof leaks about 2 feet from my desk, which is just far enough that the school won't immediately rectify the situation but just close enough that tiny beads of splashing water pepper my desk papers.

With every gust of wind outside, the joints of the classroom creaked like an arthritic man easing into a rocking chair. Because there's a hole in the side of the building, the Lucite light coverings flap up and down with each exhaled puff of wind. The lights flickered on and off as the decrepit wiring in the building struggled to keep pace with the vigorous storm.

"Mr. Judo, I can't work on grammar. I feel like I'm in a haunted house." Firetruck sirens from two blocks away alluded to a rain-caused crash. I was safe from the dangers of the slick roads, but even I could not escape the vengeful ghosts who patrol the school.

"Just focus. The storm will be over soon." Nature never misses a chance to make a fool of me.

The wind gained courage and screamed at me to open the door. The thin wooden plank rattled in the door frame like in a Boogie-Man dream. The rain shouted at my students, soaking the windows in its tempest spit.

The students couldn't help themselves. They dropped their grammar books and ran to the window to watch the spectacle unfold. I had to raise my voice to its peak to make myself heard over the cacophony outside. "GET TO YOUR SEATS. YOU'VE ALL SEEN RAIN BEFORE." I had to reprimand them; I can't have students running and gawking at every little hiccup of nature. I felt in control. I felt authoritative.

When the bell rang, the kids armored up in their water-proof coats. Some kids even used my grammar textbook as an umbrella. In the empty classroom, I walked over the window and saw the rain coming in from the side. I imagined myself standing in the horizontal torrent: half my body pelted by slivers of water, half my body dry. I could see the bursts of wind, speckled with rain droplets, pulse and expand like ocean currents across the grass. The amazing powers of nature.

It was a sight worth seeing, and, yet, I had robbed my students just minutes before. My job title has stolen the memories of what it was to be a student: eager, excited, and, sometimes, uncontrollable. In the reign of being a teacher, the unexpected pleasures of students are rarely tolerated.

Shotsuki

October 9th, two days ago, would have been my grandpa's 91st birthday. All through the September of 2003, he kept saying how he wanted to make it to his birthday. He overshot by two days, just to be on the safe side. But that's how he was: stubborn, loud, and true to his word.

The first few months after his death, the pain felt so visceral, so palpable. But after six years, the throbbing has dulled. When I visit Grandma, I often walk through the house trying to relive the moments of grief. I feel guilty, somehow, that I'm able to visit Grandma and smile.

Even though his house has drastically changed, his workshop in the back of the garage remains largely untouched. Even after all the house cleaning and remodeling, no one in the family has had the courage to remove any of the old mechanic's tools.

In his garage workspace, yellowed masking tape labels display his capitalized handwriting. Pieces of fossilized coal in his metal trays keep the tools from rusting. When my grandma sleeps, she still rests on the left-hand side of the bed, an invisible barrier of his territory corralling her to one side. I now know more of his absence than his presence.

Last week, I looked at his photo at the butsudan. It's a picture of him sitting in a chair at an Extended Stay in Fresno. He about 83 years old in the picture. The echo of his voice, the deep grooves on his fingers, the feeling of listening to one of his stories—these weaken with time, and sterile snapshots usurp my living memories of him. That is the treason of photography.

Today marks the six-year anniversary of my grandfather's passing. I missed the Shotsuki service last week, so this is my repent. This is my way of saying that I still think about you...and that I miss you.

Gang Violence

Like all things that start wars, it was beautiful. This was no ordinary soccer ball. The tessellation of metallic silver and luxurious purple hexagons begged to be corner kicked. And every day, during the mid-morning and lunch breaks, students play with this wondrous ball on the soccer field adjacent to my classroom.

Now, by soccer field, I mean a 20' x 20' patch of grass that flanks the side of my classroom. The kids go out there and take turns kicking the ball at the side of the building: their imaginary goal. They always use this Helen of Troy of soccer balls.

Today, I was sitting at my desk grading papers, and the seven students politely knocked on my window asking if they could play soccer. I waved them through like usual. But minutes later, something was amiss. They were missing their ball. Apparently, it had be left outside during the mid-morning break. But where was it now?

I helped them search, and at the exact same moment, like an over-dramatic movie scene, the seven students and I spotted it. The neighboring school, with whom we share the large open field, had our ball. Between the five boys, a ray of purple metallic essence attracted my eye.

At this point, my seven students were pissed. They were itching to bum rush these rivals. But I quickly shepherded my kids back inside, telling them "it's just a ball."

I should have taken my own advice, but I just had to be the heroic leader.

Without my posse of seven, I walked alone to the other school leaving behind the safety of my own turf. At first, the hooligans were only about two inches tall on the horizon, but as I approached, my nervousness and their height grew. One boy, no more than 12 years old, towered over me.

"Excuse me fellas," I said, unable to see their faces back lit by the sun, "but I think that's my ball."

"Yeah? How do you know?"

"Because that's my silver and purple ball." I was trying to defend myself from mere children.

"Nah, man. It's ours."

What a bold-faced lie! That was my fucking ball! And they stole it, and were now lying to a teacher.

"It's my ball. Please return it. You took it from outside my classroom." I could feel my face flushing red from the sunlight and the pressure. I was behind enemy lines. My "teacher" status of privilege and power were worthless.

"Nah, man. It's ours." I saw his eyes drift down to my school crest on my shirt, and I saw the glint of disrespect. It was like were flashing our gang signs. I wanted to find a teacher and explain the situation. But there were no teachers to be found. Apparently I'm a teacher, but I didn't feel like it.

1:10. I had to get back to my class. I could keep arguing and maybe get fired for being tardy to my own class, I could grab it from them and risk having an all out gang lawsuit, or I could retreat. I chose to walk away defeated. I had let the five 12-year-old street toughs dominate me.

I know it would have been wrong to start a fight, but I dragged my feet through the dirt on the way back, nursing the bruises on my ego. I felt inadequate as the leader of my gang. I had let my homies down, and I have to live with that.

Gangs are one scary mother.

Return Address: 24863 W Jayne AveCoalinga, CA 93210

Solid flesh can never live up to the bright shadow cast by its absence. Time and distance blur the edges; then suddenly the beloved has arrived, and it's noon with its merciless light, and every spot and pore and wrinkle and bristle stands clear.

from The Blind Assassin

Dear Jen,

Time moves slower than I thought it would, and time moves even slower since I don't know when you'll come next. You might think that the anticipation of your next visit would paralyze me, but not having you at visiting hours is much, much worse.

I should have listened to you more. I remember waiting for you on stone stairs outside your classes. The class would finish and hundred of scholars, your peers, would stampede their way over me. Even though there were people all around, I felt isolated that they, and you, were living in a different world.

I should have read more books you told me to read. That's one good thing about being in here: I have more time to read. I can't really remember the books you told me about except one by Margaret Atwood. I only remember cause you said she was the only good thing to ever come out of Canada. We were in McDonald's when you said that. You were eating an apple pie. I guess I did pay attention...sometimes.

Jen, I'm sorry. Things weren't supposed to be like this. I think about you all the time. This one guy Ken said that, in here, dreams drive you crazy. Like mirages or something like that. But the two times you came to visit were great. They didn't drive me crazy; they kept me going. I remember you kept worrying about your hair or saying you looked like a mess. But you know? I'm a mess too. Even though you don't look as good as you do in my dreams, I'd rather have someone at the bottom of the dungeon with me, even if it's only temporary. I'd pick your rough hands over the smooth fingers of a phantom any day.

Come back soon,
Brian

Hometown Friends

I haven't been back to my hometown since January but not much has changed. My mom's house is still cavernous in size yet recognizably cozy. My cat Neko still throws himself at my feet. And my old video-game systems are still willing to boot up with nostalgia despite a thin layer of dust over the disc drives.

Everything is comfortably the way it should be.

As part of my weekend in Sacramento, I decided to visit one of my old haunts: Arden Fair Mall. The long corridors of the mall look familiar despite a few store changes. Orange Julius realized it is 2009 and turned into a Jamba Juice. The fancy t-shirt store discovered that people would rather buy overpriced shoes than shirts and turned into a Foot Locker. Going to Arden this weekend was like seeing your buddy right after they lost 15 pounds: noticeable change but comfortable friendship.

And Arden was happy to see me too. It welcomed me with open arms and a Lego event. I felt privileged that the event occurred the weekend I happened to be there. Mall events are always moderately exciting; you see the event posters and say, "Dang! That looks like fun!" but you never actually leave your house for them.

I lucked out: The 8-Foot Lego Yoda was in full production.

There were about 10 tables full of Lego blocks. Each table had instructions on how to build larger bricks that the Lego Expert would then fashion into the Lego Yoda. So we, the Lego laymen, didn't actually build the Yoda, but we supplied the master architect the larger, 7-inch bricks.

I had no other obligations at the mall. I didn't have any shopping mates, so no one would call me asking me to try on pants. I didn't have any dinner plans, so I could stay as long as I wanted. I participated in this community build project and felt not unlike a member of an Amish community raising a barn.

I squeezed between an older gentleman and an excited boy. We worked as a team snapping the blocks together. Once we had a few 7-inchers, the boy would run the blocks over to the expert, who would add to the Yoda.

It was fun. The three of us chit-chatted about how much we love Legos and Star Wars. "Yoda was originally a puppet," the older gentleman explained to the boy. "No way. Yoda is too fast for a puppet." I looked at the older man, and we shrugged, both of us wishing we were so young to know only of a computer-generated Yoda.

I left the mall about two hours later convinced I would return the next day to see the finished product. I noted the time the final unveiling was to occur and planned my day accordingly. It was fun to be a part of a community project.

- - -

I arrived home to San Jose at 5:30. I had accidentally forgotten about Yoda and Arden and Sacramento.

But maybe that's how hometowns are. Hometowns give you comfort when you need them, but they never hinder you from living your new life in another city. Both Arden and Sacto will be there when I go back. It's strange to say, but they're two of my most dependable friends.

Curator

Down familiar curves of the museum,
extinct footsteps echo from two galleries away.
Some days, our travertine floor
sings only for my wingtip shoes
as we waltz around your pedestal.

Your gypsum face won't smile,
but your lips touch softly as flesh.
The white folds of your dress, carved
onto your skin, may not change
with the seasons, but your beauty
is as rare as the day I met you.
You are my alabaster empress—
though you bend the hairs on my arms with sight,
I can feel you like a bird feels a shadow.

Surprising Disappointment

As a Tuesday surprise, I took my morning class a bag of Chips Ahoy Cookies. I thought the students could use a sugar rush before lunch to help them power through the grind of grammar.

The students sauntered into the room, and I greeted them with: "I have a surprise for you today. It's very special." They brightened with the unexpected news. The anticipation caused the students to take their seats quickly and murmur quietly.

I know. The surprise wasn't that good. In fact, I bought the cookies mostly because I like them, and I could eat the extras. But cookies are cookies, no?

As I was reaching into my briefcase for the crinkly, navy-powder blue bag of cookies, I heard one of my students say, "I know what the surprise is." Of course he couldn't know the surprise; Chips Ahoy Cookies are one of the most random things to pull out of a briefcase. But still, I postponed my unveiling to see if his guess was correct.

"The surprise is a Nerf Gun." The pod of boys clustered around him all started shouting with excitement. "Yeah!" "Sweet!" They started high-fiving each other. I was confused. Why would I buy a Nerf Gun for my students? But then again, Chips Ahoy cookies are no more logical for a grammar class.

I heard myself rasp, "Sorry," as I pulled gift from my bag. Most of the kids looked fairly excited, but the group of boys looked noticeably deflated. Their faces left the traces of their Nerf-gun smiles, but their eyes dulled with the revelation of cookies instead of weapons.

The class sat quietly eating their one-cookie ration. While crunching on my cookie, I too felt a bit deflated. Brushing the chocolate bits from my tie, I began to understand how my mother must have felt all those years ago when I shouted to open the big, green present under the Christmas tree. The present that I was sure held a Super Nintendo. The present I shook every day since it appeared under the tree. The present that turned out to be a desk chair.

Retail Trash

I am distressed and ashamed to report that fellow members of my society have been treating the world with intense selfishness and malignant apathy.

I'm not quite sure why, but people in retail stores are constantly leaving their food trash on the shelves. At first it was a simple Jamba Juice cup in Target. Then it was an annoying Target cup in Toys 'R Us. And then my rage boiled over with the free Coscto samples strewn about the warehouse.

Maybe this problem has been around my whole life. Maybe I'm just becoming more aware of the problem like a scab I've been picking at for the last few months, bleeding more with every aggravating scratch.

Retail stores have trash cans to use if we are sensitive enough to take a few seconds and search. And if there aren't trash bins in the store, the cashiers almost always have trash cans under their checkout lanes.

This retail littering is completely irresponsible. Leaving trash in the stores wrongfully assumes that it is the employees' job to clean up after the wanton disregard for cleanliness. When employees are forced to act as garbage collectors, time is taken away from their other, more important, customer-service duties.

I sympathize. It's easier to throw our trash on the ground than to find and touch a sticky waste receptacle. But it's also easier to steal what we want rather than to purchase. To use violence rather than forgiveness. Surrendering to our own selfish instincts leads to a breakdown in functional society. Part of living in the world of Targets and Costcos is sacrificing our own selfish needs for the betterment of the other retail shoppers.