Wedding Anniversary

For: My Wife

November 20, 2011
My master: shackles never shown as soft
until this golden bond enslaved this wrist.
Amid my brightest hours, the cuff embossed
a whitened ridge where sun divorced my skin.

What once was darkest, purest skin, now sends
a warning: all who pass this thrall, the Queen
commands respect. The hearts of lonely men
can find a peace, but sacrifice the free.

Engraved upon my shackle reads, "fin,"
and when I dared to ask the Queen to dance,
a lucid diamond weighed upon her limb.
Some year ago, recalled, we traded vows,

For I'm a King and serf, and she a Queen and wife:
As lords and grunts, we're both enshrined for life.

November 20, 2010
I think of you and see your subtleties.
Your laugh at "taco hugs," my dancing shows.
Your often overlooked ability
To listen to my shouted anecdotes.

And from these small affections choices rose:
To live in San Jose, to dream as one.
To know our passing summer days unfold
In winter's basket, each delight in turn.

And every night, when sleep has caught your eye,
I come inside and whisper sweetest dreams:
"That though I've held another's hand, your smile,
Forever trust, is all of which I dream."

These words, tattooed by faith, are promises:
The greatest day of life has yet to come.

Bye, Murphy

Although he was a member of our family for only a month, the loss of a new friend pulses as raw as the loss of an old one.

My mom formally adopted Murphy just one month ago. In his new Sacramento home, he spent the first week cloistered under the bed in the guest room. I remember crouching on my hands and knees, head pressed against the carpet, coaxing Murphy out into the open. Over time though, it was my mother's affections and gentle voice that conquered Murphy's agoraphobia.

It was here, once Murphy regained his personality, that sweetness and charm bloomed. Like a gregarious puppy, Murphy asked his new family members for belly rubs. He would stretch out, arching his back, emulating the crescent moon. We would stroke his underside white fur, and Murphy would thank us with purring as consistent as heartbeats. And though animals seem more adorable to their owners' egos, I swear Murphy's heart-shaped nose was no mirage of my adoration.

Pets bind to our souls. They honor and cherish the mundane naps and impromptu walks. They depend on us, not as slaves, but as friends who trust unconditionally. Our rage, our tears, our weakness are neither judged nor exploited; they love us simply, without pride.

As the vet pushed the cocktail of euthanasia, I dreamed of all the possible futures, and none of them ended quite like this.

To the skies...

Homage to Michael Jackson: Jason Derulo's "In My Head"

Jason Derulo's "In My Head" is a typical pop song with predictable pitch-perfect auto tuning, bridges nestled in cookie-cutter verses, and anemic lyrics about unintentionally sexist intercourse.

But despite all this, there is one aspect that makes the song more than a repetitive echo in the Top 40 charts: The "In My Head" music video, di­rect­ed by Kai Craw­ford, is a purposeful and elegant homage to Michael Jackson's "The Way You Make Me Feel" directed by Joe Pytka. Though Derulo's lyrics have little connection to Jackson's 1987 classic, the music video is a subtle, almost masterful, update to Jackson's wooing dance tune.

At the heart of both videos, a male character engages in flirtations, dancing, and flirtatious dancing. Though Derulo doesn't solely imitate Jackson's dance moves, the specific cinematics of those dance moves are similarly silhouetted. Derulo's video goes even further to introduce a blue hue to the screen in a similar style as Jackson's dramatic final dance number.

Derulo goes beyond simple imitation though. One criticism of Jackson's "They Way You Make Me Feel" is negative portrayal of the loitering and fraternizing aspects of male society. Jackson's video, in a misogynistic fashion, isolates the female object of affection (Tatiana Thumbzen) in an accosting manner. Jackson chases her around the streets, simulates sex (or rape), but still manages to win her over.

Derulo's video, perhaps trying to avoid this distasteful perception, updates this idea by providing his female character supportive friends from the start of the video. Also, the female lead in "In My Head" clearly enjoys Derulo's advances from the start, while Thumbzen seemed actually to fear Jackson up until the end of the 1987 video.

Though there is an obvious imitation, great steps have been taken to push forward while acknowledging Michael Jackson's groundbreaking, although sometimes controversial, music video style. Filmed in late 2009, still in the wake of Jackson's death, Derulo's eulogy is more than imitation, more than wearing a blue hoodie instead of a blue buttoned-down shirt. The "In My Head" video takes the grandeur of 1987 and rebuilds it in 2010.

Vows to My Wife

I think of you and see your subtleties.
Your laugh at "taco hugs," my dancing shows.
Your often overlooked ability
To listen to my shouted anecdotes.

And from these small affections choices rose:
To live in San Jose, to dream as one.
To know our passing summer days unfold
In winter's basket, each delight in turn.

And every night, when sleep has caught your eye,
I come inside and whisper sweetest dreams:
"That though I've held another's hand, your smile,
Forever trust, is all of which I dream."

These words, tattooed by faith, are promises:
The greatest day of life has yet to come.

Infanticide

With hundreds of students bringing in six periods worth of other class materials, I feel somewhat isolated in the English building. I see enigmatic Chemistry books under their arms and esoteric History books peering out of unzipped backpacks. Earlier today, in a vain attempt to feel connected, I read the cover of a student's math book and said, “What's 'cal-KOO-luss'?” She was more confused than amused.

The grass is always greener...On my side of the fence, King Zeus and Kobo Abe sulk with me as wonderful experiments, exciting projects, and intriguing homework from other classes parade around, flaunting their grandiose mystery.

And the Grand Marshall of the parade, the most educational and most entertaining project, the Flour Child. High-school students are asked to be “simulated parents” by carrying around a sack of flour everywhere they go. The Life Skills teacher at my school took it step further by having the students put faces on their flour sacks.

Some keep their flour sack in their lap all period. Some coddle their faux offspring. Some even made clothes for their simulated child. The simulated parents are passionate parents. With their general apathy for my forced English assignments, seeing their enthusiasm birthed a faith in me that students do have fortitude and “stick-to-it-ness.”

I've grown so accustomed to the flour children that I, too, have now started to personify them. I know Julia has a “child” named Pearl. I know Ivan had his “son's” ear pierced. Though I sometimes lose hope in my students desire for their own education, I've put my deepest trusts in the flour children to teach ultimate responsibility, honesty, and mental toughness. In that way, maybe the simulated parent assignment was more important for me than for the students.

But to my horror, this morning I stumbled upon the scene of the crime. A tiny child brutally torn open by the blunt force trauma of a shoe tip. Smooth baby flesh could not repel the rage and irresponsibility of a failed parent.

The murder fled the scene, leaving the gutted carcass behind. The callous parent tracked sneaker grooves unceremoniously through the white powder during their cowardly escape. Still smiling, the infant looked up at me. Love for one's child or education was not universal. My childish belief curb stomped to death: students cared no more for this beautiful project than they did for any of my sterile essays.

Halo Reach ID

I just wanted to buy Halo Reach. That's all.

All weekend, I planned on purchasing the new Xbox 360 game during my Tuesday lunch break. This would allow me to go home directly after work and avoid the brutal rush-hour traffic around my local Best Buy. I put my "Happy Birthday from Best Buy" gift card in the top drawer of my desk at work. With a $100 balance on the card, the only thing standing between me and Master Chief was 4th period.

The second hand moved with the speed of melting ice on a cool day. Though I usually appreciate student comments, today, minutes from Halo Reach, their inanity grated my patience. I kept glancing back at the top drawer of my desk, imagining the moment when I could fondle the plastic gift card and slide it into the cashier's scanner. So eager for the climax of my day, I held the card in my hand five minutes
before class even ended.

And when the bell finally released me, I shooed the children from their chairs as if the room was on fire. I power walked to my car and almost vehicular-manslaughtered the janitor as I cut through the lines of the parking lot. Down the street, the deep blue of the Best Buy sign taunted me like the ocean taunting a captive goldfish.

In the moment of sweet release, I got into the Customer Service line, stacks of Halo Reach a mere three feet away. "Next in line," never sounded so beautiful. I slammed my pre-order receipt on the counter and said, "One standard Halo Reach please." The female cashier mockingly smirked at my nerdy bravado. I didn't care; I could taste firefight and forge modes, Spartans and Elites.

"Can I see your ID?"

In my feverish haste, I sped to Best Buy without my driver's license on my person. I had no form of identification to purchase the "Mature" rated title with realistic blood and gore. I pleaded with her, showing her my car keys and necktie: "Would someone under 18 be wearing this in the middle of the day?" My fingers grew wet with frustration. Sweat bled onto my gift card. It was no use: the tiny girl would not budge for my logic. I walked back to my car knowing I wouldn't have time to return until after school, when traffic would ensnare me.

Some people like getting carded. In their folksy voices, I hear crinkled women say, "Oh, I take it as a compliment!" People can only be happy when they don't have something at stake. Or maybe old women just don't care about alcohol or video games.

Chalkboards vs. Whiteboards

I was spoiled by the whiteboards at the affluent private school last year. My chisel-tipped Expo pens glided across the boards like a sharpened knife through a peeled banana. Though there was some expense in buying those pens, they were consistent for me: the ink flowed abundant or it didn't. I found comfort in the efficiency of that binary.

But the chalk boards on the East Side are a breeding ground for debauchery. The frail sticks of chalk irrationally break mid-sentence. The pieces roll into the corners of the room, forcing me to bend over and expose my unflattering angles. The friction between pasty chalk and mealy board sends tremors through my whole body. I write the word "warmth" on the board, yet I quiver from an involuntary orgasm induced by chills.

When erasing them, the boards become stubborn palimpsests, unwilling to relinquish the past. I stand in a blizzard of chalk, blinded by shards of diamond dust irritating my eyes. Turning away, my students bluntly state, "You have chalk all over your pants." I look down. White, faded hand prints cover my black slacks. It's as if a phantom fondled me from my blind side, leaving behind a whisper of the one-sided romance we shared.

I cannot have these moments of weakness; I have a fiancée to think about.