the people of jiachpi

Well, here I am, back in the real world. I think that's a really funny phrase. When I was at GHP, we kept on referring to home as the "real world." But when I'm back home, I refer to the "real world" as the adult life, the world outside of school, the world of cubicles and sick days. But when I reach that world, I'm sure I'll refer to the real world as poverty, Africa, and war. And when I'm there, I'm bound to refer to the "real world" as back in America, because that's where I'll have spent the majority of my life. So from what I can gather, this real world is unattainable and we're always stuck in a state of fantasy. Right? Right. Anyways.

So GHP. I know that whenever you ask someone how GHP was, you always get the same one-worded answer- "awesome!" or "amazing!" and that ends up being that. Nobody from the outside world really knows what goes on inside of there. It's so mysterious. It's like the liminal phase, a transition of sorts, an unspoken of place. It's not that we traveled to a different world and were forbidden to talk about it or anything like that, it's just that so much happened during those six weeks that it all just mushes together and becomes one big blob of GHP. I mean, come on, they're just days. And each day was fun. And you have all these fun activities, and all these fun people, and all these fun classes, and every day is fun and interesting and fun. And together, that makes something life-changing, because we don't get enough fun in the real world (or we're scared to). At least that's how I look at it.

I learned a lot. I learned things from my Commie classes, things about dead people, undead people, TV shows, literature from different time periods, court cases, the strange conception of reality, myths, Joseph Campbell, the five sole companies that control America's media, advertisements (oh how I don't want to be in the marketing industry anymore), cultures of the world, perfection, eternity, women...

I learned to make my bed every morning and sleep without falling off the bed. I learned how to make it back to my dorm from West Lawn in two minutes. I learned that if you close your eyes, you won't notice all the gnats flying around you outside. I learned that you should just give your empty plates to music majors in the morning so that they can throw them away, since they have fifteen more minutes than any of the other majors. I learned that everyone in your class stares at you funny if you're on time. I learned that some people really have too much power, whether it be in their voices or instruments. I learned who had the ramen and who to raid at night after hall check. I learned that watching movies is not a waste of time, especially when they're Disney movies. I learned that rocks are animate. I learned that it's a lot more fun to go on the computer when there's other people around you (even if nobody is talking to each other). I learned how to slyly hack into somebody's facebook and make the joke just the right amount of funny. I learned that everything is a phallic symbol, practically. I learned about my faith. I learned that it's really hard to have opinions sometimes, because nobody's ever going to be happy. I learned how to stand still and pose (for no apparent reason) for random people walking to Palms. I learned what to do with my broken shades: wear them that way. I learned that I was immune to tickling. I learned how to act like a Power Ranger. I learned how to salsa with incompetent people. I learned how to meet strangers. I learned how to have a conversation with only laughter, no words. I learned how to dance funny. I learned how to love.

And if you were to see me again (which you will), you probably wouldn't see much of a change in me. If I were to look in the mirror, I wouldn't see much of a change either. But I feel somehow different. I feel better. Not new, but better, in all aspects. So cheers to growing up a little.

Bruno Mars- Count on Me

Watch Amelie.

It's beautiful.

(Yes, it's in french; just use subtitles).

I woke up this morning feeling a little bit homesick. GHP is fantastic, but home's pretty fantastic too. I opened my mailbox today and found letters inside and I was smiling all over the place (although I do not know how you could possibly smile in any place other than your face). I've also been going to sleep for the past few nights feeling full of angst, because we're supposed to be having a fire drill at midnight sometime soon and it still hasn't happened. I swore it was going to be Saturday night, so I was tossing and turning waiting for that darned bell to ring, but it never did. The routine happened again last night. So that gosh darn fire drill better happen tonight or I'm going to be very frustrated at this whole ordeal. Haha.

This week at CommArts is going to be a lot of fun. Too much fun. I'm taking "The Pursuit of Perfection" and "Reckoning with Mortality." THE TEACHERS ARE THE BEST. Did you know that males actually care a whole lot, if not more, about their image? I knew this, but we read some pretty interesting articles today. I feel particularly sorry for short guys, because if they're desperate enough, they can go pay seventy thousand to add a few inches to themselves, excruciating pain included. The whole procedure takes like, nine months, and it hurts so much that they can't even go to work. It involves twisting needles that are stuck into the bones. Grody. It's sad though, right? I'm not going to lie, I find a guy a whole lot more attractive if he's reasonably tall. The short ones are just "cute."

Wow, I always have to leave before I fully finish a post.

This is what we've been doing in computers minor:

thereifixedit.com

CLICK IT!

okay bye!

Week ONE!

Hello from Valdosta!
Firstly, I want to say to Jenny Su that I'm still really happy that you made a tumblr, and it caught me off guard when I was looking through my blog feed today and saw it there. The problem is that I can't comment on it, but just know that I'm reading your shallow quotes and laughing/awing at your pictures.


Anyways, it's like paradise here. Except with more work, less relaxation, less sleep, and more sweat. Much more sweat. So, it's not really like paradise, but the palm trees do add to the effect.
So this past week, I took two classes in my Commarts major-
I am Woman, and this Anglo-Saxon Literature class.

The first one was this class that explored women's role in society, and even though the teacher tried to play it off as just that and not a feminist class, it was basically a feminist class. We even rewrote chapters of the Feminine Mystique and the Declaration at Seneca Falls, so yes, it was very pro-female and pro-equality. Surprisingly though, I actually came out of the class less of a feminist, because truthfully, I do like the idea of the stronger male head who comes out of nowhere as the shining knight of armor. The other day, a girl freaked out over the idea of guys holding doors open for females (she found it offensive), but I was silently thinking, gee, I'd love it if I was going on a date and the guy actually thought to hold open a car door for me. All we did was ask questions in that class; we barely came to any conclusion except that we'd just like our own choices. Like, why should we abstain until marriage (why not the try-it-before-you-buy-it methodology?), and why's it not okay anymore for housewiving to be a job, and why has it become practically required for marriages to be monogamous, and why's it not okay for guys to play with barbie dolls and wear dresses? I don't agree with any of it, but you've got to wonder, where'd these notions of "feminine" and "masculine" even come from?

The second class was a whole lot more interesting... which you probably wouldn't expect. But the teacher, Jobie, worked wonders in my head when he taught. There's so much about the Bible that I need to learn. But it's scary though, to think of all the possibilities of mess-ups in translations. I mean, there was like five different languages that the ancient text had to go through, AND it was first written a freakishly long time ago. Oh, and if you're wondering, the Bible related to the Anglo-saxon literature because the Anglos converted to Christianity once upon a time. There's so much interesting stuff about the Anglos, and I wish I could type it all here, but I definitely can't. I've decided though that I will read through all the LOTR books AND watch all the LOTR movies, because that suddenly seems like a very good life goal to have. And here's something interesting. The Catholics made up the idea of "Limbo" (where dead babies go) because the Anglos were like, "dude, what happens to babies when they die unbaptized?" So what do you say, is it ethical to add things to a religion with the purpose of converting someone?

Wow, yeah. Great week. Food sucks. Watched Donnie Darko and Casablanca. Donnie Darko was amazing and eerie (eerie because of the creepy bunny); Casablanca was straightup classy. The dance last night was the best thing I've ever participated in because everyone's really nerdy and awkward. And now we're all getting kicked out of the library because it actually doesn't open until thirty minutes... so. bye!

GHP

I can't wrap my head around anything these days. It all just seems so unreal.

In six hours, I am leaving for GHP.

In six weeks, I will be back from GHP, and apparently, my life will have changed. I can't quite grasp that concept, to walk into something knowing that my life is going to be changed, or at least something close to that. I'm slightly scared that it won't turn out as great as everyone's made it out to be, but I've got my water filter and laundry detergent packed so that's one step forward to having a good experience.

Well. I guess I shouldn't make too big of a deal out of it. I'm just going to say that I'm going to miss both my friends and (non-existent) foes alike, so please write me if you get the chance.

I will text the important people the address the second I get there. Here I gooooo!

Wait, hold on, pause for a second, let me get this straight.

I'm a senior now?

Pinch me. This can't be real.

Depressed people are the worst.

I have a fear of depressed people.

They're scary, just look at how they walk. Look at how the ends of their mouths tug down, look at how empty their laugh sounds, how hollow their eyes look. Is it contagious? Probably, like the plague. I'm the kind of person who likes to have absolute control, but they, they catch me off guard. I find myself stumbling over my words trying to find something consoling to say. I rummage through my head for a personal experience. No? Words of encouragement? "I'm sorry..." as if that helped. A timid pat on the shoulder- well, that was awkward.

And then it comes, and I start despising you, and I start yelling at you to stop hunting for pity, and then I hate you and I hate you and I hate you until I start to slowly transform into another one of you. Oh, how awful. You monster, you, for not swallowing up the rainbows and ponies that were supposed to have been fed to you daily as a child; you abnormal alien, you, for not blissfully living in ignorance, away from the world, evil. Why'd I have to be brought into this?

But why must you focus so stubbornly on your pitiful misfortunes when there's a blue sky above you, a plate of food in front of you, a house on your left and a house on your right, and an easy escape behind you? Why is it so necessary for you to spend that much more energy on a frown?

How I do fear those depressed people. It must be a terrible thing to say, and I'd like to have a disclaimer right now and say that I don't mind if you're depressed every now and then; life happens. I'm just scared, that's all. Scared that it's contagious. I am a very easily impacted person, after all.

But maybe, instead of complaining, I should try helping. Yes, that would be quite a start.

Envy

Oh, I know what it is. I get jealous. Of people who seem to know where they're going, already. Or of people who knew and did something about it.

Both of whom are not me.

Lost (or unfound) Potential

If, in the entire English language, there was only one descriptive word that could be picked out, shined, and be called my own, it’d probably be this: spoiled. I grew up with, essentially, one thousand futures laid out in front of me, with everything in reach and everything in touch. Here this path led to the medical realm, with access to internships and resource books at every bathroom break, there that path led to law, that one to engineering, that one to design, to business, to economics. The possibilities were endless and quite dizzying, as I could turn my head only a half a degree and find another road. That makes 720 intersecting roads in one tiny circle and yet, the number seems miniscule compared to the constant confusion prancing around in my daily life.

In second grade, my dance teacher told me that I had potential. She fawned over how gracefully I clicked my toes together: look at that little Asian girl, a prodigy, she is! And I was spoiled with unnatural hues of eye coloring and lip coloring and every bit of coloring, so long as it wasn’t skin coloring, and I was rushed, rushed, rushed to front and center, but after a year or so I was back in the back with all the other colored dolls, obediently performing my arabesques; can a prodigy child un-prodigy herself?

In fourth grade, my piano teacher claimed to have taken one look at me and known, known what, I have yet to find out. She said it was my eyes. I followed her instructions and hit the note with my hand, loosening my wrist in the same pattern she did, loosening my shoulders, moving down with my hand and swaying as rhythmically as I could. And she spoiled me with extra lessons and extra candy and begged to take pictures with me after my recitals, and she framed those pictures and placed them on the mantle next to the pictures of her daughter and her husband. But I forgot to practice one week, and the next week, and the week after that my photo was replaced with another fancy girl’s and my lessons had deteriorated to shrink appointments.

In sixth grade, my tennis teacher saw me hit a ball and praised me for hitting it within the painted white lines, even though I had only done what he had told me to do. He coached me hard and he coached me often; he marveled at how quickly I mastered the skills. “She’s got potential,” he would tell my parents, “she’ll get far.” The lessons increased as my skill level stayed steady, and my skill level fell as my attendance to the court dropped to near zero. That’s when I learned how to quit.

In eighth grade, my art teacher told me that if I just drew a bit more, I could succeed in the field of art. He sat me down next to him and instructed me little by little, demanding that I understand that painting the shadow did not simply mean to add black, nor did painting the light simply mean to add white. He mixed the blues and the browns, the reds and the purples; he blended them and with a whip of his wrist a beautiful shade of black found itself underneath the apple on the canvas. But the sketchbooks and pencils that he had spoiled me with lay unused and forgotten, week after week, until he, too, gave up on my potential.

And now, I am idle.

Perhaps if I hadn’t been spoiled, I would’ve worked harder, at least, I’d like to believe that. Perhaps if my teachers had challenged me, hurt me, or caused me to cry, I would have sat down and practiced my potential only a little bit more. Perhaps if everything wasn’t so forced.

I only want someone to believe in me, forever.