史峥之记: Contemplations

Jottings of the Unrequited

Tue, 13 Feb 2007 17:55:56 GMT

Yet again I am at one of the most despised and wretched days of my life, and yet again desperate and in solitude I spend it. Life changes so quickly, yet the one thing that has not changed is my loneliness on this of all days. Whore of all days it is unto those who are devoid, forgotten, unloved, and unrequited. John Lenin once said, “All you ever need is love.” So for those of us who have been without out the least bit of requited romantic affections, do we have nothing we need? For if everything you need is contained in this one emotion, then to be without it is to be without the basic sustenance of that which is required to live, breath, and make merry. Love is what human beings were made for. To be with another, but not in any way, but instead to only look to that one’s care, no matter the pain and detriment to oneself. It is to merger of two beings into one for moments at a time where each others pains are equal, each others delights are equal, each others trials and tribulations are equally fraught. In love, one cannot ever feel alone, afraid, forsaken, and insecure. And so we seek it. I’ve heard it said, “The greatest thing you’ll ever learn is to love and be loved in return.” With that declared, then I am still devoid of the greatest thing. To be lacking something so wondrous and continue to live is hard to imagine when so many speak of it day and night.

Yet what is one to do when one’s affections just return to you always to do nothing to prove your humiliation and failure as a man. How many times have I seen her eyes flinch away from me when I declared my thoughts? Lightly, every time have I taken it, but no more. So tired am I. Tired of her, or feeling down-trodden, rejected, battered, betrayed, and bitter. No more, do I want to feel this torturous suffering. The saddest part is that I dare not part myself from her out of that slightest hope that my sincerity would be rewarded with a window of opportunity. And hence, every moment with her is a sufferers occasion: lust, resentment, desire, and despise all at once in a painful mixture that must, when it comes to bear, eventually bring any man to yield his pain. A pathetic lap dog am I; no, yet worse, the hamster in his cage running his little wheel attempting to reach the top unawares that it is impossible. The hamster is liken unto me, ignorant of his impossibility. He will not be content until he reaches the top and yet never shall he. Nor shall I, no matter how much I treasure, adore, serenade, humor placate, and grovel to this woman it makes no difference; never in my life shall my affections be returned. To her, I am not as I should be to her. I am something else. Nothing has pained me more to suffer such inconsequence in her eyes and in her heart. However, one cannot force another to love, nor can another force one to not love. In the end, they are doomed to be asunder.

The End

Muslim Boy

Sun, 11 Feb 2007 16:13:13 GMT

Clink clack clank! – The clamor of dishes being stacked is what I hear whenever I enter the Muslim Restaurant next to my house. There is a twelve year old boy who is the waiter stacking the bowls, tea cups, and plates while precariously balancing a tea kettle on his finger. He is a round faced handsome lad topped with a Muslim boy’s cap - worn more so for the job than his personal taste I believe. Despite going there often, I never bothered to ask him his name. When I enter the restaurant he smiles to me with his not-quite-man-not quite-boy charm. He immediately say’s to, “The usual?” (as I nearly always order Muslim style fried noodle strips). After I nod my head in agreement, he scoots off to the cook, and then goes about his everyday slaving. When I go there, it’s usually not busy; after all, the restaurant is well in disrepair and dilapidated – few bother to go. Yet, despite being empty, he never is without work slaving away cleaning this, boiling more water for tea, serving the sporadic customer that comes, and occasionally having to cook chuan’r, lamb kabobs, for customers.

I could only imagine how tiring the life of this twelve year old boy is, and yet his employers a man and a woman, man and wife, of Chinese-Muslim descent, also known as Hui, stood around and idly watched. They all hail from Gansu, the impoverished province between the Gobi and Taklamakan deserts. I once asked the wife, a skinny woman of both middle-eastern and oriental features, whether the boy was her son. “Heavens no!” she replied in her Hui accent, “He’s just a boy we hired to help around the restaurant. I hired him because I sympathized with the hardships of his mother back home, but he’s really quite lazy.” All the while, I hear in the next room I can hear the continuous clamor of the dishes beating off.

“Lazy” this word from the woman who spares time to engage a customer in small talk! The boy seems far from lazy. At times he seems normal. On a couple occasions I’ve seen him joke with me. Once he pointed to his boss and said to me in probably the only English he knows, “Big Monkey!” while imitating the call of an ape. He always seems to want to talk to me, but dares not in the presence of his employer. One time, I had gone there for lunch, and I asked him while he was sweeping, “Why aren’t you in school?” To which he replied, “don’t go [to school], gotta work!”

As many boys, he shows the same flaws of carelessness. On one occasion, he gave me my order of Muslim style fried noodles to go without accepting payment. I quickly followed him telling him, “wait! You forgot to take my money.” I probably should have been more careful in calling to him about payment, because when his boss, the tall skinny man in the Muslim cap, heard that, he raced over to scold the young Muslim boy. “No need!” I interceded, “Here is the money. Of course I’m an honest man, and the boy just merely forgot. He must have thought you already got it from me.” I handed the money to the boy as he looked at me with a thankful gaze and I left.

The next time I went to the Muslim Restaurant I no longer heard the clamor of dishes being stacked. And from the kitchen I heard a woman yell, “Hey boy! Get up front! There’s a customer, and get to those dishes too!” Yet out came a different boy, younger, perhaps ten, pale and freckled. He grabbed the menu to hand it to me and said to me, “Have a look at the menu and call me when you decided.” “No need,” I replied, “I’ll have the usual.” “What’s that?” he exclaimed with a puzzled look on his face. “Muslim style fried noodle strips” I said back. When the boss came out, I asked him, “What happened to the young Muslim boy?” “Who? Oh him!” he said surprised at the question, “My wife sent him home. He wasn’t any good at this” I take this to mean he was fired. As I waited for my Muslim style fried noodle strips, I watched the new young Muslim boy sweeping the floor of cigarette butts and wooden kabob sticks. I couldn’t help but think how this boy is nearly the same as the old Muslim boy – they share the same hardships and pains in life only eventually to be replaced by another. I could not imagine the life they face: A childhood without a childhood - spending the days that should be the most carefree and exuberant cleaning, sweeping, and slaving away for society’s betters. Since then, I have not had the heart to return to the Muslim Restaurant. I hope that the Muslim boy finds some smiles wherever he goes.

The Indifference of Good Men

Sun, 14 Jan 2007 17:56:24 GMT

Last Tuesday, late at night after studying with Eric, Laurina, and Jackson, Jackson and I decided to get a late dinner by his apartment. On the way, after passing the subway, we witnessed something that changed my perspective on right actions.

While walking by this restaurant, a man immediately darted out of the store chased by three men and two women. They ran passed Jackson and I. The man being chased seemed to be running for his dear life. It wasn’t just a mere joke, friends rough housing, but as if he was to be murdered. The man ran out of sight still being chased. Just then, from out of the restaurant, another man was thrown through the glass door of the restaurant. The man stumbled out onto his feet. Another man wearing a black leather jacket came out and picked him up to his feet by the collar and began punching him in the face. The poor man being beaten was too dazed to respond. Then the man in the leather coat saw a rack of empty beer bottles to be recycled, picked up a bottle, and proceeded to continuously bludgeon the man. At this point the unfortunate soul being beat began to struggle and grabbed a bottle of his own in defense. From the restaurant a companion to the man in the leather jacket, also wearing black, came to assist his friend. The poor man knowing he was to be outnumbered and out matched went for one good hit in the face of the man in the leather jacket with his beer bottle. So good, that it shattered in it face leaving the man in the leather jacket with a bloodied face.

At that moment, the three men and two women chasing the other individual returned, apparently fruitless in their pursuit. They then surrounded this dizzied man. They hit him from all sides with fist, kicks, and beer bottles. Eventually, the man was knocked to the ground by one well thrown beer bottle. When knocked to the ground, he tried to struggle back up, but then the man in black ran up and kicked his head with a mighty force as if it were a soccer ball. At that point, he appeared to be unconscious. The beating didn’t stop there. It became more ferocious. They continually kicked him. Then one of the women continually kicked him in his privates to the point where he could definitely not father a child ever. The other woman grabbed a beer bottle and continually striking his head into the pavement like hammering a nail. There was so much volatile volicious hate in their eyes and words that these people were as if demon spawn themselves.

I knew not what to make of the fight at first. I knew not and still do not know the reason, who was the precipitator of the fight, or who was “right.” It was not my business, so at first, I had no reason to get involved. Many people began to congregate around these hooligans brawling in the street. Yet the moment the poor fellow began to be besieged by more than one and the rules of the fight were no longer fair. I suddenly felt an obligation to help this person in some way. It was no longer a “fair fight” but a “dastardly massacre.” Both Jackson and I had this feeling, but we also knew that to get involved would mean for us to also be possibly attacked. Also there is the fact that China has no Good Samaritan laws to protect us, and instead we could be charged.

The travesty of this act of pure brutal violence, was that among the several tens of onlookers, not a single one dared call the police; not a single one dared to intervene to end this brutality. All just stood there, shook their head, and thought, “how terrible, poor guy.” When I realized that no one had called the police, I took it upon myself, despite language difficulties, to call the police at 110. I immediately told them that it appeared to be gang violence and they appear to be about to murder this man if they continue to beat him so.

The police arrived after eight minutes despite the fact that we were only 50 meters from the Wudaokou Police Station – an absolute embarrassment and testament to the terrible status of the Beijing Public Security Bureau. Only one police officer in a squad car with, what appeared to be, a security guard from the Wudaokou Police Station arrived on scene. The police officer immediately ran up to stop the violence, but despite his presence, these reprehensible youths did not stop. The police could not handle so many, and so the two women and two or three of the men were able to just walk away. By this time, after a 15 minute brawl, Jackson and I, shocked out of our wits by such barbarous cruelty, left. The ironic thing was that just before we ran into this brawl, Jackson was telling me how kind and gentle Chinese are compared to America. Yet to see this, even he, who had grown up in Washington Heights, New York, a notorious neighborhood, had not seen such bloodily malicious acts. I told, however, there is nothing inherently gentle not violent about Chinese; it is merely a matter of any individual in any corner of the world; one should not concern himself with vague stereotypes of nationality. The individual is what makes good.

Why am I writing about this brawl? Why did this brawl make an impression on me? I don’t remember where I had heard this said before, but I suddenly thought of a speech I had heard at sometime in my life: “What is worse than the acts evil men is the indifference of good men in the face of evil.” Never before had I pondered these words before, but I realize their true meaning now. It is not an abstract concept, but it was something that I should have practiced. In the face of this brawl, I was the good man that cowered in the face of evil out of fear of danger to myself. How shameful was that! To conveniently avoid doing the right thing out of fear! That is the act of a coward - of a cur – of a villain. Villainy comes in many forms, among them is apathy and a lack of sympathy for a fellow man. Was is not many of the Nazi’s in the Holocaust or Japanese soldiers of the Empire of the Rising Sun that cravenly claimed they were not responsible for these massacres, because it was their governments’ orders and they merely followed orders out of fear of punishment for disobedience? Is my sin not akin to their by claiming to avoid resisting what I knew was wrong out of fear of physical punishment? One always has a choice in life. Doing the right thing may not always be convenient – it may result in our demise – yet we always have the freedom to choose what’s right. Were any to stand aside apathetically in the face of evil, then they are evil themselves. To say I am not at fault, because to do the right thing would be to my disadvantage, is no excuse. A good person always stands up to evil, to not do so, is not a good person.

I regretfully admit that my actions were immoral and cowardly. I took the easy way out. I had the freedom to intervene and stop that fight, and yet chose not to. However, I have learned through this event. Never again shall I stand aside again in indifference. Am I to see such a circumstance again and stand and do nothing, then I can truly count myself among the evil in this world. Never mind the consequence, being a good person is more important than my personal safety and convenience.

Old Feelings Die Hard

Sun, 07 Jan 2007 18:33:59 GMT

Sometimes we think the past is behind us. Yet the past is always behind us every step of the way like a wolf hunting its pray. Whenever we stop and turn around to look back, it lurches forward to devour us. We like to think what’s gone is gone, but it always comes back – the ghost of the past.

Recently, without naming names and details, the problems between me and a certain individual I believed to be gone and forgotten after over a year, yet I found last night that nothing was from the truth. Old feelings die hard. Last night I saw I went to see this individual’s house for dinner and because I had worried about them after a bad break up. We spent the entire evening talking like we used to – no – it wasn’t like it used to be. It was better! I realized how much more I understand this person than I had believed. I could, from this person’s eyes, tell their every thought. We laid on the bed laughing, reminiscing, and discussing the problem with their former lover for half a day, yet the time had escaped us as we really liked being around each other like old time.

When it had gotten very late, this person fell asleep. I won’t go into the details, but as this person slept, I suddenly began to remember the old problem with such vivacity that the strength of the feeling was just as if it had been the day before. I sincerely enjoyed spending time with this person all night, I felt happier than I had in such a long time. However, the ghost of the past prevented me from sleeping despite being happy with this individual. Eventually, I became so afraid that old compassions, desires, and animosities would be revived that I felt it prudent to escape immediately.

I tried to slid out of this person’s bed, and attempted as quiet as possible to get my things together in order to leave without waking up this individual. When I grabbed my keys off the dresser, however, I failed. The person tried to comprehend my reason, and I vaguely phrased the problem. The person understood the reason, but told me I was thinking too much about it. Yet I really felt wrong about staying with this person in this way. I didn’t want the problems of the past to come back to mind. If so, I would just be hurt again. I needed to escape. I wish I could make this person understand that the reason I left wasn’t because this individual did anything wrong, on the contrary, I was happy with the person, but I am terrified of either doing something wrong or returning to the state I had been this time a year ago.

Since then, I have been thinking of this person more than I had in quite a long time. Partially, I am worried about this person emotional state, but I am also thinking of seeing this person more; just like a year ago. Which is scaring me, and I don’t know what to do to avoid an encore of the events before. I don’t want the past revived though I do miss the closeness we had. I have learned a lesson though: No matter how much we think we think the past is behind us, it can come up an bite us in the ass when we least suspect it. Old feelings die hard.

Ode to the Year Gone

Wed, 03 Jan 2007 18:40:09 GMT

At these times when we herald in the New Year, we tend to reflect upon the year passed. Looking upon the year 2006, I cannot look upon the events of the year in my life with awe. I have done so much, accomplished so much, experienced so much, and matured so much. I believe that when I am old and gray, that among the many years I’ve lived, I will look back on the year 2006 with nostalgia. It truly was a grand year.

In just one year, I horse back road on the Mongolia steppe lands, sailed across the Bohai sea to Korea, appreciated the beauty of Hangzhou, guided my grandfather through the Forbidden City, and celebrated in Shanghai with old friends; I drove from the East coast of the United States to the West coast in an amazing two week journey where I climbed the second highest peak in North America (Mount Chaplin), Marveled at the grandeur of the of the Grand Canyon, walked the streets of some of the greatest cities of North America – Saint Louis, Denver, San Francisco, Los Angeles. I have seen the Red Wood Trees of the Northwest, the walk-of-fame of Hollywood, the Golden Gate, the Saint Louis Archway, the Sedona Cliffs, and so much more. I look back and wonder was it truly possible for one person to go to all these places in merely the expanse of a few months. Yet I did.

However, it wasn’t just the places I’ve been that made 2006 one of the most amazing years of my life – no. I met wonderful women, new friends, rekindled friendship, and even fell in love. Some friendships did end or fade away, but that is the course of life. Just as children a born, they eventually get old and die. Friendships are no different. It is better though to end gradually and fade than to be destroyed in an instant. I have learned though that although sometimes a friendship may fade, the friendship between lifelong friends can be rekindled. At the beginning of the year, I feared that Wei Wei would ignore me forever and our friendship was gone, yet one year later I still had her over Christmas reminiscing about how last year she got drunk at Christmas. One year later, I’m still the one she come to when she feels blue. Even Jason, after a long abstention, still remember my name and still want to play one more round of Counter-Strike for old times sake. In my journey across America, I got to know Cory better than I ever did despite knowing him since he was an infant in diapers. Phone calls may have become a rarity between me and Alla, but she still writes the same creatively descriptive long e-mails to me just like when we were 15 years old. And Wang Yu, I have found him to be one of the best friends I ever had. It’s amazing how friendship is.

This year I have also had more experiences with women than I would have cared for. I have met some amazing women this year. Whereas in the past I was a loner and always single, this year I have realized more clearly what I want and what I do not want in a lover. I am ever most fortunate to have met to women this year – they helped me learn more about myself and my desires than any other. Fang Su is a name I will utter under my breath most likely until senility. I never felt more close to her than any other woman I have ever met. It is a pain to know the feeling in unrequited – yet I love her is no doubt in my mind. I now understand what love is because of her. It’s a strange feeling. I care for her despite myself in a way I don’t mind. I feel happy knowing she’s happy now, even though it might mean that I am to be the one that suffers. I seriously worry about her; it’s not just a matter of a course of words that you say to a woman to get her to like you – no – I mean I literally have difficulty sleeping when I think of her. I oddly enough want to protect her, to make her happy, to be with her always. I know, however, this is not the reality of our lives; therefore, I can only treasure her as a friend from afar, yet even a half a year after she has left it is still her I dream about, and it is still her voice on the phone that makes me the happiest. I hope she will understand that. Fang Su wasn’t the only woman I met that changed me. There was Lin Min. Trying to date her taught me many valuable lessons, helped me mature, and that trusting someone can be a painful thing. Perhaps I don’t feel as strongly for her as Su, yet I still do care for her more than most other women I have met; why else would I have waited for her for so long, and just brush aside being lied to by her. I had many opportunities to be with other interesting women, but I still tried to date her because I genuinely wanted to be with her. That boat also sailed I believe. Too ensconced in her studies, duties, and preventing change that she seems to ignore me and push me to the side unless it’s convenient for her. I also met many interesting women that have helped me grow and learn what I want from life, such as Wu Zhe, Yang Fang, and Zhang Meng.

I have also met some really great people. I have had wonderful teachers such as Dr. Han Yuguo, Prof. Zhao Dongmei, Prof. Wang Youmin, Prof. Zhao Dongmei (another, same name), Dr. Hu, and Dr. Guo. Have all helped me improve myself. Dr. Han is now in the United States studying, but before he went, he was always someone to lend me a helping hand and treated me as an equal and with respect. I felt he was less of a teacher, and more so a friend. My experiences at the Beijing International School have also helped me grow professionally. Catherine Davis, my former coordinator at BIS, was an inspiration and true friend. Not only did she go above and beyond her duties for work, but also on a personal level. I think that Catherine must be the most morally outstanding person I have met in my life. Even in her work, she did what was right more so than what was convenient, and she was the first to give a helping hand even if it was at her detriment. She has not only won my respect and trust, but also my loyalty as a friend. She is a model for me that I fear I will never reach. I also met Long Weiloon at BIS who was also a wonderful help and friendly face at the company.

My students have also been great. I have had many students this year: approximately 150 students. They have made my work experience seem less like work, and more like fun. Several have also remained loyal students for over a year now, some have become friends, some like family. Li Zitian (Constantine) was my first student back in August on 2005, yet I still tutor him twice a week just as we did before. He is almost like a younger brother, a friend, an apprentice to me. He has also made so much progress since then. When I go to his house, his family now treats me more like family than as a tutor. I even eat dinner with them every week, and they frequently ask me about my life. I know Zitian extremely well now; what he likes, he hates, what he worries about, what he fears, his goals, his aspirations are all known to me. There is also Wen Chunying – bless her soul. Wei Wei introduced me to her in February just before she started ignoring me. There is much I can say about Chunying – all good. She’s a sweet hearted intelligent woman. She has loyally had me as a teacher for nearly a year now, twice a week. She’s been kind and patient with me. She always has tried to help me and been flexible with me. I enjoy teaching her and our political and philosophical debates; I enjoy teaching her so much that I didn’t mind the distance even though the truth of the matter is that I didn’t need the money the past several months and the time really took away from my life. I don’t regret it though. She’s been a wonderful student and friend, so I don’t mind it. And she has improved greatly.

Oh! So many thing have I done in the year two-thousand-and-six. There were more than merely these few things that happened. These are just a few things. The events and people mentioned and those not mentioned have influenced me, taught me to help me mature and grow, but also to give me a time that I will not soon forget. I am thankful for them all – the good and the bad. Thank you Wang Yu, Wei Wei, Fang Su, Cory, Jason, Hong Jonggil, Park Shengil, Zhang Qi Alla, Hsuehcheng, Huiru, Lee Melei, Lin Min, Chyohe, Zitian, Dr. Han, Star, Chunying, Cahterine, Daphne, Julian, Dr. Zhao Dongmei, Cheng Junqiang, Zhang Meng, Big Piggy, Henry, Li Jing, Salvi, Samuel, Liu Wei Julia, Long Weiloon, Rob, Prof. Zhao Dongmei, Jin Xingji, Alice, Aidi, Liu Chao, Li Zhujuan, Eric, Laurina, Jackson, Hanyu, Zhao Min, Wu Zhe, Ainor, Betty, Luo Wen, Shi Ge, GQ, Tang Shuang, Tonoko, Juliet, Wang Yu, Echo, Yu Fei Candy. My only regret of the year was that I missed my family and did not speak to them enough. I love and miss my parents, Jojo, Lauren, so much, even the dogs – Ginger and Sugar. I also miss Su more than I have ever thought it possible to miss someone.

I will remember these things – these people – look back on them with a lamenting tear and look forward to the things and people to come: how else more will I mature in the year 2007? What other amazing people will I meet? What new lands will I explore? Only time will tell.

拉二胡的老头子 The Old Man and His Erhu

Sun, 12 Nov 2006 17:26:42 GMT

Several times a month, I hear the sorrowful melody of the erhu* as I go to see one of my students. Everytime I go to see my student, the sound of the erhu awaits for my arrival - always there and unchanged. The old man who plays it is always there sitting in the same place on the same bridge as you leave the Broadcasting Institute metro station in Beijing. In the year that I have frequented that area, I see him there always as if he is a permanent feature of the bridge: the steps, railings, graffiti, news stand, and the old man and his erhu.

The old man is only one among the myriads of beggars and vagrants of this city; however, his image is burned into my mind for he seems to play the sorrows of his plight in every strike of every cord. The old man sits on his tiny worn-out mazha'r**, places an old rusted coffee-sized can, and plays classic dittys for any change one can provide. He remains the only beggar to whom I give any small pittance I may.

Yet he appears as a wretched soul torn by some unseen demons within. The man is an appalling sight to behold. Hardship has left this man appearing ancient beyond his years. Perhaps he is only forty, but he looks as if in his eightys. He is bald but for a few grey wandering stubs of hair and a long un-gone shaven stuble on his face. His skin is tanned bronze from years under the sun. The man is plump, but not the plumpness of a healthy jolly man, but instead, more like a bloated swollen corpse - an excess of flesh and life hindering movement. His clothes, a pair of tattered leggings, slippers, a Magua'r*** jacket, and a large stained and soiled bib of plastic is all he merely wears. Even his erhu shares the same wears and tears as his clothes.

The old man is haggard to the point that it is difficult to tell whether he is a man with thoughts or a creature just trying to survive till the next day. I have tried to look him in the eyes, yet his eyes seem so swollen with grief that I doubt this man any longer has sight. Were one to look closely in his eyes, there is only a black hollow void as if he is without eyes adding only more to his desperate appearance. Perhaps his misery has left him hollow to the sight of things. His lips dare not move, and he dares not speak as if he were mute. But he needs not use words to speak, for his erhu is his voice through which he communes with all the inner lurkings of his soul more articulately vivid than any painting could depict.

When he plays, his hollow eyeless eyes stare blankly at the sky and sways to the notes he puts forward. Through his music, I feel his desperation, misfortune, and distress. His emotion is not played through his masterful talent on the erhu, Conversely, it is his rough, coarse, screechy notes that evoke the coarseness of his life as he bemuses himself entranced.The high squeels are like the disasters he faced. The wrong notes - the mistakes and misfortunes he experienced. The pulsating out-of-tone keys are like the difficulties he faced maintaining a semblance of life in trying to forge his survival. The result of this composition is the serenade of his life: a gut-wrenching ballad of his suffering. All the power of his suffering can be heard in just a brief passing of him as he plays his life aloud.

His canción is so powerful that I bare all effort to avoid looking at him as I walk by him, for I fear, already saddened by the meloncholy melody, to be overwhelmed by his desperate visage. I pretend I do not see him. I wish to ignore his troubles. We all do. We all walk by him everyday as if he doesn't exist. It is easier that way, isn't it?

Yet I cannot hide from myself the deep sense of shame and the burden within my chest. Am I ashamed that I am more fortuneate than he? Am I ashamed I didn't give him any loose change?

No. I am ashamed because I tried to pretend the old man and his erhu didn't exist. I pretended I didn't hear his song - pretending to not hear the suffering of others. I tryed to deny a human being his right to live in my mind and hear him whail about his life in every note. It is the shame we all feel when we say to ourselves: we shouldn't notice this vagabond, this vagrant, this bum! because there are so many like him with his sorrow. Yet upon leaving, we know this is merely a lie to ploy ourselves. Perhaps there are many who share his plight; however, the individual human feels misery equally as an individual. By ignoring him, we deny his humanity, his feelings, his exsistance, and in doing so we risk the very thing that makes us human. Maybe we cannot solve the dilemas of all those unfortunate souls that wander and scavange the streets, but as one human being to another, we should at least stop a moment to feel their pain with them and give back to ourselves and them what makes us human. And so, I listen to the old man and the cords of his erhu, and place whatever coin I may have in hopes it may in a small way alleviate his material sufferings, but more so, let him know that I heard his human cry.

*Erhu - 二胡 [ARhoo] A classical chinese musical instrument sometimes also called the "horse head violin" or "two string violin." it is similar to a fiddle or a violin except it is played on the knee.

**Mazha'r - 马扎儿 [maJAHR] A small portable fold-up stool common in China for squatting on the side of a street while talking.

***Magua'r - 马褂儿 [maGWAHR] A traditional Chinese clothing that can be translated as a "horse overcoat" They're thick coats that are buttoned together in the center with large knotted strings. Younger people generally will not wear this. Only older people generally wear this.

“fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me.”

Thu, 28 Sep 2006 04:12:50 GMT

Lately I have been thinking about someone who I thought was out of my life. I had thought that I should move on, forget her; for although I cared about her, it wasn’t going to work. I said I don’t care for her as I thought I did before, but perhaps I’m wrong. Old feelings die hard. It’s confusing to say how one person feels about another. Our feelings change so frequently that it’s impossible to say, when looking at one’s lifetime, who they loved, cherished, hated, and despised. At times I adored her, but other times I felt hurt and betrayed by her. I can’t say with clarity what I feel. I know that despite my denials, every time I think of her, I cannot help but let out a sigh and feel my chest clinch up in a feeling of despair. When I see her, I am delighted and entranced by her eyes. Yet this is all contrary to my logic, instinct, and reasoning. I don’t want to be hurt once more. And as the proverb goes, “fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me.”

There are a lot of Uighus in America

Sat, 16 Sep 2006 17:46:25 GMT

We meet interesting and different people on the road of life. I’ve met a lot of new people this week. Friday I met a group of interesting people in my Chinese History class. Apparently, the special semi-autonomous province of Xinjiang in China seemed, for some reason, to find it prudent to send a delegation of Uighur history teachers to Peking University to attend classes. Uighurs are an ethnic central Asian minority in the vast north west desert territory of China. They are mostly Muslims and look much like Arabs. In fact, they use the Arab script to write. There were six of them in my class: 4 men and 2 women. All of them are high school history teachers, mostly in Urumqi, but one said he was in a city called something like Kashgar or something like that.

They all said interesting things to me in their highly accented Chinese. One, whom we’ll call Mr. Sadat, complained about han Chinese discrimination of Uighurs in Xinjiang; how their government is dominated by outsider han; he also complained about a lot of the racist treatment he gets in Beijing as a thief. He seemed quite hostile and racist himself towards han Chinese, because of his treatment. More interesting was Mr. Sadat’s companion said to me in a whisper, “There are a lot of Uighurs in America.” I didn’t get his drift, so I thought about it and said, “Yeah, I’ve seen a few. They’re generally with the Afghan community. There are some Uighur restaurants in Washington.” Then he whispered again in a low voice, “No, I am not speaking of them. I speak of those who aren’t allowed to return to Uighurstan (the Uighur word for Xinjiang as an idependent state).” Then I understand he was talking about the exiled freedom fighters trying to seek independence from han Chinese imperialism. It makes me think of the variety of perspectives and attitudes in the world. Chinese would never call Xinjiang a colony and would refute any claim to oppression in Xinjiang and take offense to any claim of independence. Yet that seems to be far from the truth in the hearts of these Uighurs. They participate in Chinese society, but only out of a lack of choice, but deep down there seems to be a strong sense of contempt. Here was the product of han arrogance: frustrated and somewhat rebellious Uighur intellectuals.

The Barbs of Jealousy

Tue, 12 Sep 2006 23:48:11 GMT

One of those most painful emotions that thorn us all is the knowledge that the woman we love, or perhaps are just interested in, loves another. To see the affection that we believe we are justified to receive bestowed upon another is as if Brutus’ dagger in our back. The problem is who is truly “Brutus”? Who wretchedly performed the betrayal?

She could not have thrusted the dagger into my back. She never committed to me. Ne’er did she promise or swear to me anything. In fact, she made it markedly clear she was never to be with me. She is free to love another no matter how much it pains me so to confess it. What of her lover? I have no reason to be enraged at him. He is ignorant of my existence, kept so by her, either for my protection or hers.

Then who did thusly betray me? The reality is that I am the only one responsible for this “betrayal.” I am to blame for my own jealousy and despondency. I stabbed myself in an emotionally self-destructive manner. I am the one who had lofty expectations of a future counter to all explicit signs of logic. I am to blame because it could never be and I knew so.

Yet the pangs of this dagger hurt just as much as any wielded razor or knife. For although I may have been the one that committed this metaphoric treachery, it is her words, “thinking of u…”, knowing it is not me she refers to, that echoes in my head.

What truly adds a sting to all of this is that on some levels I am happy that she’s happy. I don’t want her to be alone, miserable, and unsatisfied while so far away. I just wish it was I keeping her company, content, and satisfied. Yet when I think that her reasons for happiness is because of someone else it pricks at me strongly – like a long needle piercing my chest plate. It may be small and quick, but it is precisely deadly in its blow striking my vitals with pain. That is the true barb of jealousy.

Human Nature is Evil

Sun, 02 Jul 2006 02:19:20 GMT

I am really naïve. I used to think that most people on this earth are good. Goodness has always prevailed on earth. I even thought that the evil in this world was in minority, and furthermore, that evil could be understood as people seeking their personal gain and putting the effect of their actions in the back of their mind. I always prided myself on forgiveness thinking that people make mistakes and do bad things in their moments of selfishness, and that that was understandable, because I may possibly do the same thing. I thought Jesus message was the right one although I don't believe in God.

However, I can say I was wrong! People sometimes can be cruel hearted, and furthermore, for no reason other than their own sadistic enjoyment will do and say cruel things. I tried my best to be good to Lin Min(林敏). I was patient with her, I put up with her indecisiveness towards me, I forgave her for lying to me, and I took all the emotional abuse she gave me as she toyed with my feelings like a cat striking a ball of yarn. When she told me she had a boyfriend (granted, a net one), I accepted it; I didn't get angry, jealous, or laugh at her; and thought I would give her time to think it over and would just be friends for now until she had to think about it. In the end, despite my attempt to be good to her and trying to be understanding, she for no reason gives me a message saying, “I have a boyfriend, I lied to you, the person visiting me was him, so let's not talk anymore, ok? BELIEVE IT DUDE!” She just threw me away like I am worthless and meaningless; furthermore, was it necessary for her to send that message. I tried calling her, but she didn't answer.

As I took the subway home, the message just rang in my head, “BELIEVE IT DUDE!” How could she be like that to me? Then I thought also about other people in the past. Like Feng, despite how good I tried to be to her, and how hard I tried to be understanding, she never loved me, never cared for me. When I asked for a small favor, she never would do it. Yet despite it all, I did and still do everything she ask of me, I just recently did her whole fucking history test for her. What do I get? Not even a thank you; moreover, recently, she just tells me how she likes some other guy and has no interest in me. Then there are other people who just seem to hurt me for no reason. I mean, did I do something wrong to them? I try my best to please people, but in the end I seem to get spite in return.

When I got home, I didn't care anymore. I was maybe a little suicidal. I wanted to just forget. So I drank all the Soju I had left in the house and beer. I drank it all quickly. I threw up I don't know how many times. But as laid on the bathroom floor dizzy with nothing but the flavor of vomit in my mouth, I realized people are just mean. People are just evil and selfish. So why should I delude myself into trying to be good. By being nice to people, I just allow my good nature to be taken advantage of resulting in me getting hurt. The reality is I'm hurting myself all the time because I just have too much faith in people; that when they break that faith, I feel my image of human relations being broken. Yet, the reality is that I am deluded. That is just exactly how people are: cruel!

My only remedy is to just not care about people, be selfish, and be mean. Mean people are happier than nice people for that reason, because they don't depend on other people to feel good. They don’t need that sense of joy from seeing others happy or helping another, but only enjoy what pleases them; therefore, they cannot be disappointed and hurt. When people are mean to mean people, they just see it as the natural way and they should have seen it coming. So why should I be nice anymore when in return I am insulted, abused, and taken advantage of? No more! I have had an epiphany. Human nature is evil. I shall be evil too.

Waiting in Confusion

Mon, 19 Jun 2006 16:02:04 GMT

This article has been removed.

Rejection

Sun, 18 Jun 2006 10:53:46 GMT

Rejection is all I feel. I just want to be accepted, but all I feel is that I'm not good enough in the eyes of others. I want the feelings I feel for others to be reciprocated to me. Is it selfish to want to feel loved by others? That's all I desire, yet all I feel is that I'm insignificant and an excessive burden to others. What's wrong with me that I'm always rejected? Why am I not good enough?

To my friends, I'm never worth a phone call. I'm never worth inviting to go out. Do they really enjoy my company if they never actively seek my companionship? Am I just a last resort of boredom? I often fear and realize that if I had never been in their lives it would have made no difference to them. If I were to leave tomorrow, no one would shed a tear; no one would notice; no one would care; no one would even bring up my memory. I often feel the inertia of my life is pulling me towards a precipice to just fade away into irrelevance. To others, that's all I am. Why do I try and do all I can for my friends when I am meaningless?

I guess what I want is a feeling of love and appreciation – to be significant. However, I feel nothing back. What hurts me most are my romantic pursuits. It is there that I feel nothing but rejections and failure. When I meet a wonderful girl, despite my devotion, sincerity, and thoughtfulness, I am always not good enough. Am I really that worthless that I am not worth being loved in return? I know I have my flaws; I can be overly sensitive; I am horrifically obese; and I have a talent for making situations awkward. Is it really that terrible? I often hear from girls “It's not your problem; it's mine” or “we're just friends.” When I hear that, it's like a dagger viciously slicing through me. However, no girl finds me worth anything but “friendship” - “friendship” being a byword for “I can stand you awhile if it'll avoid hurting you, but you're just not good enough for me.”The "problem" isn't them. The "problem" lies me. So, what's wrong with me that I'm not worth affection in return? I'm not even looking for marriage. I just want a chance to feel secure, comfortable, wanted and loved and in return to express my affection. Am I really a terrible as a boyfriend? I don't know, because I haven't been given a chance except by one girl, and perhaps she only wanted me out of boredom. It really just confuses me. What am I worth? Am I not worth happiness? I just want to be happy with her.

Everything I want I can't obtain, and when I get exactly what I want, in the end it's something even worse – a greater feeling of loss in rejection when I lose it in the end. I often question why live if all I feel is rejection and deficiency? When I cross the highway bridge to my house, I sometimes think about climbing the rail, and then leaping off the top and let an 18-wheeler big rig slam into me and spread my remains on the asphalts surface like a June beetle splattered on the windshield. I wouldn't dare do so, but not so much out of fear of death or love of life, but more so out of fear of the pain in failure and the shame of being labeled suicidal. I’m not a drama queen looking for attention. I'm not going to commit suicide – don't worry - but sometimes that's my fantasy. I just live on to see how it'll end – how will I fail? How will I be hurt in the end? What new devices of self-torture are there?