Tremendous Adventures

Yesterday was the best day ever. I am a person who has lots of "best days ever," and this is partially because I have a lucky and have a good life, and partially because I’m not afraid to make extreme statements like, "This is the best day ever."

I’m also not afraid to say other extreme things like, "My favourite colour is purple." "My favourite spice is cinnamon." "My favourite sound is bibimbap sizzling." I think this because I am comfortable with being incongruent five minutes later, or a year later, or whenever I feel like it. These extreme declarations have less meaning to me than some people, but still, I mean it. I just know I can change them later because I am a walking contradiction.

For example, it is equally likely for me to drop the F-bomb or say something profound about my Uncle Jesus, and sometimes I do it in the same breath. Yes, I censor myself around certain people, and I think that this is okay, too. I want you to "catch" me making out with someone I don’t know, walking into church, buying a six-pack, using Styrofoam, and reading a book about Uncle, and I want you to catch me doing it all at the same time because I want you to know- I’m bumpy.

So, yesterday was the best day ever. I got up early, and aced an exam. I wrote and wrote, and my handwriting was pretty at the beginning and messy at the end, and I made connections to different theories and sources, and my grammar was correct. I was proud. Then, I met my friend at the library. He is someone who honours his friendships. He actually makes time for people and he listens to them. He also notices if you’re not doing the same thing in return. Anyway, I saw him. And I could tell that he likes me, and it felt good. And I wondered if my friends can tell that I like them....

We walked to his neighbourhood and laughed and bought a tomato and some other things. We ate a sandwich with his homemade bread, and it smelt good. He gave me some juice in a slanted purple cup. Then we set to work, making pastry dough with an entire pound of lard. I am good at making pastry dough. We made cinnamon things and blueberry things and we made a mess, and some of our things were pretty, and some looked like slugs, and some had blue fingerprints on them. And maybe my life is like that messy kitchen, with slugs and slants and fat and fingerprints, and some very pretty things.

We cleaned the kitchen. He washed and I dried, and I put things back in the wrong places, though I think I’m getting better. Some more friends came over, and we went to the Korean restaurant.

I love the woman there with the soothing voice, who is careful to bring us food that we like, that sizzles, and that is vegetarian when it matters, and not, when it matters. And she could perceive that we were celebrating, though none of us really knew why, and it turned out that we were celebrating our "good friendship," and she commented on my hair and my long absence, and I wanted to flirt with this woman, because she made me so happy. I was surrounded with beautiful things. And I really liked the picture with the persimmons, even though I don’t really like persimmons, unless they’re very mushy and eaten with good friends.

Then we took our crazy carpets and went to the hill. My stomach hurt, and my neck hurt, and I felt a little dysfunctional when we got to the hill. But all of that disappeared with one slide. I promise that this happened: I was physically hurting before I took off. And then, as soon as I let go, everything in the world felt significantly better, and anything that hurt went away. Let go.

I went down backwards and on my stomach with my arms behind my back, and we fell and we spun and I won the Farthest Distance Contest.

We went back, and ate some more pastry and some cookies that were German and smelled nostalgic. And we smelled. Like sweat and garlic and matted hair and cinnamon and having fun in the magical snow and winter gear that has been in the closet too long.

And then I went home. My hands were full of things, and I was running up my sidewalk, and I fell...full-running-force, hands occupied, on the sidewalk. My whole front was wet and snowy and desperate. And it hurt at the end of my perfect day. But the pain made the fun a bit more acute.

My bed was my hero like never before, and as I fell into a wholehearted sleep, I could see the sparkled, purple-coloured cinnamon magic floating in the spaces around my bed.

Have you ever seen one of those movies where a whole bunch of people are barely and loosely connected, and somehow all of their lives are brought together to form one storyline?

Every day, when I go to university, I see a man who works in the bank. He’s older than me, he has brown hair, and I have a perfect view of his cubicle from the bus where I sit, waiting for the light to turn. Sometimes he’s not there, and I worry that he’s sick or wonder if he’s on lunch or in the bathroom. Usually he is there, though, and as I whiz by, I try to determine the state of his day, if he’s sitting erect, or if he’s weighed down with stress; if he’s making contracts with a customer, or if he’s dealing with a disoriented homeless person who has wandered in off the streets.

Who is he? How did he find himself working in a bank? What does his laugh sound like? Would he smile, or be frightened by the thoughts which I am having?

These people, whose lives have absolutely no bearing on my own, except when I consider for a moment that they really do matter...remind me that I matter, too.

It’s not really a question of whether we change the world or not, the question is how we have an effect on the world in which we live.

Which reminds me. I like Canada, because of the bus drivers. They are nice, and it’s okay to ask them questions. Even if you’re English is not perfect, they will try their best to help you. I know this, because my friend told me, and many international students think this, too. The other day, I had a bus driver who sang to himself, and every time we pulled up to a bus stop, he would say "Anyone need a lift?" It was so great. And now that I’m having a ‘Canada is Good’ day, here are some other things for which I am thankful:

-family and laughter from children

-seeing people on the street that I know, and I can tell that they like me

-libraries and being able to read

-gingerale

-sandwiches

Twice last week, people asked me, "Are you a feminist?" The way in which they raised their eyebrows when they asked caused me to question their motivation and their definition of the word.

"Yes," I answered, as confidently as I could muster. But through my mind ran all the contradictions I recognized in my thoughts and in my behaviour and I imagined to myself that they must have been obvious to the other as well.

"There are so many feminists here. I’m so sick of hearing them whine about dating relationships," my friend at my former college lamented.

I had to admit that I was fed up with it, as well. Exactly when was it that I chose to be counted among this stereotype of jilted females?

Though it has been a process, it was at exactly the same time at which I realized that I was fully human.

In elementary school, my PE teacher was African-American. He seemed to be twice as large as my father, and he was not quiet. Black and large and I was scared.

My mother recounts a time when he troubled me so much that she went to him to speak with him.

"She’s scared of me because I’m the first black man she has met."

And he was right.

But he had also divided the girls and boys into teams that week to play a game. The boys quickly named their team, and the girls couldn’t decide, and out of a simple desire for us to get some exercise, he allowed the boys to name us. Whatever the name was, I found it to be derogatory, and my poor mother didn’t hear the end of it. She went to him, and in doing so, affirmed a part of my human-ness.

Sometimes it’s hard for me to recognize the human in the other, because when I do, I start to feel a sort of responsibility towards him or her.

This week, I shook the hands of a couple who had been living down town in a bus shack for the past week. The man looked in to my eyes, and the woman held onto my hand for a longer time than I would have expected. Looking into their bruised faces, they were transformed into humans and a lump formed in my throat as I wondered about all the people I had ignored, or perhaps named derogatory names, in the past week. From my privileged position, it’s an easy thing to do.

When I can bring myself to do it, I force myself to look up, away from myself, when I’m walking down the street. Naturally, I resist this behaviour. It’s easier to ignore humans, to relinquish the responsibility of caring for them. But it amazes me how many people respond when I actually look at them. They nod, or smile, and sometimes I question myself as to whether or not I know them personally.

"I am human; you are human," we seem to be acknowledging to one another. This realization has changed the way I view myself and others. Though it may result in misunderstandings and raised eyebrows, I am proud of the way it has transformed the course of my life.

I have never felt more a product of my socialization than in the Taekwondo classroom. My North American sense of equality is challenged as I bow to my teachers and my superiors, calling them by titles. My relatively peaceful, only child, Canadian self struggles with the idea of using my body violently. The Christ-worshiper part cringes at saluting the national flags. My femininity is challenged when forced to let out a loud yell at the end of sequences. The feminist in me is suppressed as I put up with sneers from my male counterparts who ignore me as much as possible.

Anyone who knows me can probably guess the effect that dealing with these paradoxes have. I’m a bundle of emotions, and I’m unable to hide them from anyone. One minute I’m focused and angry, the next I’m blushing and near tears. I smile, I worry. I love it and I hate it. My teachers are a bit unsure how to react, though I can see that they keep me away from the other male white belts as much as possible, wishing I could be just a little bit more lighthearted.

The feelings I have in the classroom are a concentrated example of how I felt in Korea. I wasn’t sure where I fit. I was constantly reevaluating my ethics and ethnocentrism. And now, back in Canadian society, I’m surprised at the fact that I still don’t fit, and I’m not as sure about anything that I believed with certainty before.

This uncertainty is leaking into all aspects of my life. I’m feeling that I’m questioning everyone. I’m uncomfortable with my friends, uncomfortable at university, uncomfortable with my family; with my country; with pacifism and religion; with the idea of going back to Korea.

Maybe no one understands or knows what is happening to me. Maybe they don’t notice. Maybe no one cares; or perhaps it doesn’t matter.

Needless to say, I feel like I’m making important decisions every day.

The nagging one is where to go from here. I’m the product, not only of society, but of two proud blue collar workers who have done some admirable things. They own their home. They have security, and see a happy future for themselves and for their grandchildren. They can buy things for pleasure...their parents dreamed about that at their age.

Wait. This is important. I’ve learned a lot from them. I’ve learned that if you do what you’re told, if you follow the rules, then you are treated well in life. You advance. You can pay for your house and take care of your children.

I’ve learned the value of acquiring skills. Life skills. Tangible things that you can use in the workplace. I’ve learned about a strong work ethic. I’ve learned to dress nicely and do what my bosses tell me to do. This is what is to be done in order to be successful.

I know I could do this well, and they know that, too.

And everyone involved is frustrated by the fact that there is a tiny voice, telling me something else. This voice became apparent, loud in clear, when it surprised a teacher and myself when it said,

"The people who control the thoughts of our society will control the people."

Thoughts. Skills. Balance.

                                                     House.                 Kids.                "Learn to weld."

           Money.               Ethics.                         Knowledge.

I know which path is easiest.  I know where I feel confident.

I’m not sure if the other choice will make me happy, or if I will be secure or if I will have children or be able to buy nice things. But I know my eyes have been opened to some important things. And I’m not sure if it’s a right choice to try to close them right now.

I just had a 2.5 hour interaction with my Dell computer repair man. I called him today because my lap top hasn’t been working for months, and I hadn’t bothered to do anything about it, mostly because I was going home from Korea soon, and I thought it would be easier to deal with it from here.

So, I called him today. At first it was hard to understand him, and our call got disconnected. But we were communicating effectively in no time. As soon as I told him what was wrong, he had me turning the computer over, taking the battery out, and taking it apart with the screwdriver.

Not what I expected.

This was way more than I anticipated, and instead of taking the battery out, I got worried that I couldn’t find the screw that he wanted me to unscrew, not to mention the fact that I didn’t have a screwdriver. After 20 minutes of mapping out the back of my computer, we finally found the screw. I then admitted that I hadn’t taken the battery out...completely...okay, fine...at all, and I had no idea what he was talking about. The first time I broke his trust was when I pretended to be listening to him talk about the battery, but actually I was looking for a screwdriver. I dropped my dad’s drill bits all over the floor, and he asked me, "What just happened, Ma’am?

"Uh, I’m looking for a screwdriver."

"Well, I’m wanting to help you take out the battery, Ma’am," slightly irritated Richeed* answered.

"Okay," I answered sheepishly, returning to the back of my computer.

I had some difficulty getting the battery out, and I was still worried about not having a proper screwdriver.

"Really, I don’t think I can do this. Can I call you back? I really can’t do this..."

"Don’t panic, Ma’am. I’ll rephrase what I’m trying to tell you."(This was only the first time Richeed had to talk me out of not hanging up.) He talked me through finding a screwdriver in my parents’ house.

Somehow we removed the video-something-or-other, which happens to be placed behind the CD Drive.

"You’re doing very well with this troubleshooting, Ma’am."

"You’re very patient, too." We had to encourage one another. My hands were shaking.

Then we removed the hard drive. Richeed was patient with me when I confused all the different screws, and then couldn’t figure out how to put the hard drive back together again. I started to develop an emotional attachment to him, and this was only the first hour. We put the video thing back in, and the battery, and turned on the computer.

It didn’t work. Of course, I have to understand that Richeed had the best intentions in mind when he offhandedly mentioned that maybe, perhaps, I didn’t put all the pieces back together properly. I must admit, it hurt a little bit. And it also hurt when he asked if I still has screws left over, since I was working very quickly...

Together, we went through the process again. His calm voice strengthened me, reducing the tremors in my body, which were a result of seeing the inside of my computer for the first time.

We rebooted the computer, and checked the setup menu. Occasionally he put me on hold to find out the next step we should take, together.

At one point, I thought that the call had been disconnected.

I panicked again. "Sir! Are...Are you still there?" I cried out in desperation.

His unfading voice resounded. Thankfully.

Nothing worked. There was only one more thing we could do. Put pieces of paper in the slots by the screws. We took the whole thing apart one more time. But I wasn’t sure why he wasn’t making himself clear to me.

I put my hands on my hips. " I really don’t understand what you mean about the paper." (Our first fight!)

"Well, if you were going to fix something, and there was no tread on the screws, what would you do? Use another screw?"

"Yeah..."

"And in place of that, you would need to put tape or something by the screw so it would catch."

"Okay, so you want me to put in really small bits of paper in all the screw holes."

"Yes! Exactly. This works almost every time."

But it didn’t end up working. And I had to be placed on hold a few more times so we could get the information we needed to send it to the depot.

Richeed was really in tune with my needs. I really felt it was time to talk about my feelings so that we could progress our relationship to the next level.

At the end of the call, he asked about my emotional state; feedback about our encounter. I told him that I had learned a lot about my computer, and he affirmed me.

I am so blessed to have such an encouraging, patient and helpful man in my life.

*I named my computer repair man based on the sound of his voice.