If it all fell away, I'd be okay.

I am a fairly anxious person; I always have been. When I was little, I would run through a mental list of my worries on pretty much a bi-weekly basis, anticipating natural disasters and scary monsters. Now, I’m less fearful (except for the dark, that shit is scary), but it’s especially on days like today and yesterday, when I’m thoroughly bathed in love and sunshine and wind and good food and beautiful people, that I realize how little I have to be anxious about.

I go through my cycles, but I’ve spent a lot of time sitting with anxiety lately, trying not to be consumed by it, and I think I’m starting to understand a little bit about its nature. It’s an insecure being, clingier than any partner you’ve ever had. It takes control and instills within you the sense that without it to drive you to take action, you are nothing. It is the relentless spawn of fear, and you feed into its daddy issues. It makes it so that if you aren’t fighting and working to live up to a standard, whether it’s one set by yourself or some other entity, you have failed.

Anxiety is a very familiar sensation for a lot of people, especially college students, and especially college students today. Higher education is basically defined as a vehicle to get you to a type of success or lifestyle that we are supposed to covet, so it’s not a place to just sit and be. It is a marathon, with our future dangling in front of us like some flashy banner, and the whole time we’re running, we’re telling ourselves that once we reach that banner--and only then--we will be worthy human beings.

Well, I have asthma and I hate running.

But, my god, those times when I hug a friend, when I just think of my parents, when I FB chat with my cousins, when I talk to my brother--these hold moments when that banner ceases to hold any significance for me. I realize that if everything, all the education and resume-building and achievements and goals fell away, I wouldn’t be “nothing”, I wouldn’t be a failure. I’d be just fine.

It’s funny, because as soon as I realize that my default state of being is NOT failure, instead of relaxing and taking it easy, I’m propelled forward. It makes me fearless, it makes me adventurous, it injects me with life.  With this newfound sense of agency, I can tell myself this: Fight, not because you don’t want to be nothing, but because you want to be something. Work not because you don’t want to fail, but because you want to be fulfilled. It’s the simplest difference of walking right up to what is rightfully yours to have and be, rather than running away from the darkness that the most fearful parts of you believe that you deserve.

I’m not saying that I’ll never flirt with anxiety again, that I’ve abolished it from my life. I’m saying that the relationship is different now. It’s more on my terms. I guess turning 20 really does make a difference.

So I want to say thank you. Thanks to you who, by virtue of your very smile, embody this reminder to me. You know who you are, and if you don't, I'm probably still referring to you.

Woes of the Perpetually Nocturnal

I hate sleeping. Or at least I hate that I need sleep. When I was younger, it was the saddest thing, being tucked into bed and knowing that the day’s adventures (or lack thereof) were ending. My bedtime was like a looming deadline, hanging over my head and filling me with anxiety about missing out on the magical things that happen late at night after little children go to sleep. Like one time, my mom let me stay up and watch Dogma with her. I was barely 7, but I still remember parts of the movie vividly: angels and explosions and profuse amounts of profanities. But that’s what I mean. If I hadn’t been awake that night, I may never have been able to watch that movie, and I count that among one of my more valuable experiences because I’m pretty sure it planted the seed that blossomed into my admiration (…obsession) for Matt Damon.

My attitude is pretty similar today, except I actually feel tiredness now. But no matter how much I need or want sleep, if I feel like my day hasn’t been satisfying-it’s been boring or disappointing or stressful-then I’ll stay up in the hopes that something will come about to round it out nicely. Even if all I’m doing is watching reruns of British T.V. shows on Netflix, I won’t sleep until I feel like I’ve gotten something out of the day.

And then, I hate napping for the same reasons that I hated going to sleep when I was younger. I don’t want to miss out on anything. While I intellectually understand that sleep gives me energy and functionality, the 7-year-old in me doesn’t think that sleep gives me anything; it only takes away more time that I can be living life. Time already goes by so fast, and I hate to think that so much of it flies away with my dreams at night.

And dreams are just a small consolation, because I only have vivid ones in the last hour before I wake up anyway, and my dreams are not the magical ones that create a place I want to revisit. They’re weird as hell. Like one time I dreamt that a giant storm came and wiped out everything, but then it turned out it was only people in China watching a Youtube video about a storm, and when they paused it the storm stopped. Seriously, what?

My subconscious does a bad job of making sleep attractive.

Still, at the end of the day, there I lay on the couch or on the floor, feeling the need to go to bed and hating myself for it. The only time I ever really want to sleep is in the morning when I’m supposed to wake up. Because at that point I’ve already succumbed to the temptress that is slumber, so why leave her clutches now? It’s so warm, and as soon as I leave her, I’ll begin the whole cycle of avoiding her again. Ugh. It sounds like a cheap love story.

But I guess I’ll talk more about this later, because I am honestly falling asleep right now. 

UC Berkeley in 6 hours

There’s no denying it; we’re growing up, and we’re doing it fast. The thing about growing up is that the more I do it, the more I see the value in the things I did when I was younger. What I’m really saying is that it doesn’t take much for me to want to act like a kid.

So, I’m almost 20, and I still want to excitedly share what my first day of school was like with my parents. I’m doing that on here because I know they read it and because I am the worst person to talk to on the phone (it’s like phone earpieces turn off the part of my brain that can hold a decent conversation). But I also think that this is a part of growing up too: expanding the world in which you share things.

Here we go:  

It’s 11:07, I pull open the door to my first class, Peace Theories, and of course I’m one of the last people there. For once, though, the collective and penetrating glare of the 40+ people already there didn’t bother me as I maneuvered my way to the awkwardly-open seat in the middle of the room, successful in my attempt to not booty-bump someone’s face on the way. The professor walks in, and I decide that I like him. I don’t know why, but I do.  

My second class, Islam in India, is literally four classrooms away, so I end up being one of the first ones there this time. Not gonna deny that I’m proud. This professor walks in, understated but magnificently dignified, and starts speaking with a voice that compels you to absorb everything it says about the significance of South Asia for Islam as a whole, and the way that plays out in practice. And there are only 17 students to the one professor. This is the kind of class Cal should use to advertise with.

He lets us out with enough time for me to run to this crazy coffee shop where there are like 15 people behind the counter, no one speaks below a shout, and your food is ready in an unbelievably short amount of time. So again, I’m one of the last to walk into my third class (Conflict Resolution ), brushing pieces of lettuce off my shirt. Within the first few minutes, this professor happens to smash her hand in the window. She handled it gracefully, and all she broke was the ice. And everything she did after that was really endearing.

My fourth and final class of the day, Drugs and the Brain, is also the largest. We sit down in Wheeler Auditorium, and the music video for Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds by The Beatles starts playing. If you haven’t seen this video on a big screen before, let me tell you, it’s an experience. But really, so is this class.  

It was warm and stuffy, and all I could think about was how much it felt like I was in my mom’s womb (because I totally remember what that feels like). I was pretty tired at this point, but the professor was really interesting. So my mind was engaged and alert, but my body was drowsy. Like if I was on drugs. Cheers for teaching through simulation, Professor. 

Our textbooks read like I’m sure potions textbooks do at Hogwarts, with all the ancient Greek and Latin names of plants. One of them even has the subtitle “Stimulating Plants, Potions and Herbcraft.” If you ask me who teaches this class, my answer will be Professor Snape. Always.

I sat through 6 straight hours of class today, and I can still say it’s great to be back on campus. Thank you for being so good to me Berkeley.

Damn. Reading back over through all the details, I don’t know how my parents put up with me. 

I can't turn this in for final credit, but...

God, I've missed writing. I’ve been spending so much time trying to make this other post I’m working on perfect, and I’m just not feeling it, so I haven’t posted anything at all. And it’s been bothering me. Like I won’t feel full until I say something. 

It’s so funny, because I’ve always said that when I don’t finish communicating a thought, it feels like I haven’t finished chewing. 

Just call me a glutton for words I guess.

Okay, I want to talk about something else now. I’m allowed to not make sense, its finals week. I’m saving all my logic for the exams.

Finals season is so weird. It makes the most despairing human beings out of all of us. How can the world be so cruel as to put young people in higher education through a system of pressure and testing like this? Throughout the rest of year, we tell ourselves (or at least I tell myself)  that our #firstworldproblems pale in comparison to what people even younger than us have to face every day. But these two weeks, I won’t try to check myself when I unabashedly complain and dwell in my desperation and frustration and fear and stress.

But at the same time, flowers are blooming better than they do in those generic calendar pictures (and they smell amazing too); birds are chirping like insanely frantic musicians (my favorite type of musicians); the weather is warm enough to only wear one layer, but not really because Berkeley weather refuses to answer to any standard climate expectations (in other words, Berkeley weather suits Berkeley perfectly).  And it all makes me so happy.

So all in the same moment, I am dreading (like kicking and screaming status) facing the amount of material I have to absorb in 3 days, but I am also so at peace with the world and so excited for my future. And then I’m simultaneously scared as hell that my future won’t measure up to what I’ve always expected it to be. Then 5 seconds later, I tell myself that my future is going to be spectacular because that’s the way I look at things: as either SPECTACULAR or on the path to being SPECTACULAR. And then I take a big breath and decide I’m ready to face the workload. Then I go on Facebook. And then when I feel guilty about wasting time, I go on BBC and catch up on world news so that the people in the café around me think I’m a sophisticated, current events enthusiast instead of a no-good, social media zombie.

I’m not sure if all of this is an effect of consuming copious amounts of caffeine. But whatever. 

And now I’m writing a blog. But this form of procrastination I just can’t feel bad about. 

Do you have the Time?

I have this weird fascination with time. First of all, it pisses me off because it makes no sense. It shoots by like the Acme roadrunner on methamphetamines; but when I think about what I did last month, it all seems like a totally different period of time, detached from now. I can’t believe I’m halfway done with college and no matter what I do, time won’t slow down. Seriously, I just sit there without doing anything productive because I think that if I stop moving, maybe the world will catch on and let me take a breather. But it doesn’t.

On the other hand, I love time.  More specifically, I love to think about the progression of time, and what it must have been like to live during World War I, the Great Depression, World War II, The Civil Rights movement. Would I know-as I sat in the crowd and listened to MLK speak, or as I heard about the erection of the Berlin Wall, or as I stitched up a soldier coming off of No Man’s Land-would I know that I was partaking in, witnessing and making history? Or it could have been like it is now, when everything that happens is just a part of life, and it’s difficult to consider it as momentous in history because we can’t perceive how we look from outside this era.

It’s weird, but I read stories that take place during the wars or the momentous social movements, and I feel a sense of yearning. Not because I’m a young, do-nothing who is bored, has no direction in life, and wishes to be given a purpose in order to take away all the struggle in choosing one (well not just because of that). I just want to know what it felt like to be unified behind a common cause—or unified in opposition to that cause.

You know what I think it is? Why I yearn to know what it was like to be someone in that time period? Because I want to know what my identity would be made up of; I want to know who I would be. And that desire is inextricably linked with its sister desire of defining my place in this world, this era. It’s like, because that time has passed, we know who those people were. But this is now and boundaries of identity are already so fluid as it is…so who are we? Who will we be when our grandchildren learn about Occupy and the Arab Spring and the election of Obama? Will those events seem as momentous to them as the Civil Rights Movement, Decolonization, and the election of JFK do to us?

I want to know who I would be to them because I want to know who I am now. But let me clarify: I don’t think this is a desire to classify myself in a rigid definition. I think it’s rooted in curiosity. And it’s so exciting to think about: my present identity is going to be my future children and their children’s history. All I can really do is make it a history worth retelling. 

Redefining Feminism

I am a Woman, and I am proud.

Empower me, love me, be in awe of me.

I am powerful enough to serve as a conduit for life

And gentle enough to let that life bloom.

I know the dark side of oppression. I understand.

My spirit is my beauty

And that is the only definition of beauty I wish to live by.

I am emotional. Inexplicably, all-consumingly, passionately emotional.

And that’s how I see sense, how I make logic.

I am a Woman and there is wonder everywhere inside of me.

The amazing thing is, if I replace the word “Woman” with “Human,” everything in the poem still holds true. Women are humans, and this is an expression of humanity.

I sing the praises of women because I am one and I take pride in my identity. You, a man, are welcome-nay, encouraged-to do the same thing. Perhaps the reason my voice of empowerment sounds louder is because yours has continuously been heard throughout the epochs of history. “The history of mankind” establishes the power of humans, but for the most part those humans are men.

But today’s day and age is not simply about being a part of “mankind.” Sure, people gravitate towards their role in society-women as nurturers, men as workers. But those boundaries are so fluid now, and I think that is a beautiful thing. Feminism, for me, is not about lifting up women by stomping on men. It’s about the right to cross those boundaries. It’s about our dignity as humans. Feminism is then, not simply a women’s movement, but a movement of humanity. You are human. I am human. I will empower you if you empower me. Revealing my light does not diminish the light within you. It just helps make the world brighter. 

An Affair with Exceptions

I call myself a liberal, but what irks me the most is not conservative values. I HATE it when people shut others down or disregard someone’s thoughts completely just because of what party or political side they identify with. Think about it: You aren’t being written off because they don’t agree with what you have to say. You are being shut down because they don’t agree with who you are. And the idea of that disgusts me.

Growing up in an pretty conservative community, I was frustrated that a lot of people never wanted to hear me out because I’m pretty liberal. I called it ignorance, but I only associated it with conservative values.  Coming to Berkeley, the alleged land of the leftists, I thought I would get away from all that.  But I found myself feeling unsettled again. For a while I thought: “Am I not as liberal as I think I am? Am I really a centrist or something?” But I’m realizing that the rub lies in the fact that even here there is still a substantial amount of blind support (Kony 2012 anyone?) and an unwillingness to acknowledge the other side. The only difference now is that conservatives are in the minority.

Now, I’ve done my fair share of Republican-bashing (Sarah Palin was my kryptonite; she was more appealing than Hillary Clinton because she was “sexier”, never mind the fact that her arguments were composed 75% of winks to the audience, while Clinton was just “too aggressive”. Because of course only men can be aggressive and still be likeable...Sorry, I digress. And feel free to disagree with me. ) But I do NOT, like some people I’ve come across, think that the Republican party should cease to exist, while only the supposedly “sane” democratic party exists. I’m pretty sure that’s the definition of an oligarchy anyway.

It would be ideal if party alignments didn’t have as much sway as they do, so that people would consider the actual issue or candidate, rather than the color of the campaign.  Ron Paul was on campus today, and I listened for a few minutes. While I didn’t agree with some things, I was happily surprised to see that I resonated with more than I expected.

But here’s the thing. Generalizations are just so easy, and they help us make sense of the world. Still, it’s good to know when to let them go. So my humble suggestion is to have an open relationship with generalizations; be aware that they exist, but don’t be afraid to have an affair with the exceptions. In less euphemistic terms, it’s as simple as this: whether you think you will agree or not, listen, really listen to what is being said. Either you’ll learn something new, or you’ll gain a stronger sense of what you already believed in. Win-win.

It's a Love/Hate Relationship.

It seems to me that people my age are hanging in the middle. I still remember what it was like when cellphones were bulky, my computer was as twice the size of my head, and floppy disks were technologically progressive (and came in badass neon colors). But now advancements in technology are expanding exponentially.  Younger and younger people have a better and better grasp on harnessing the so-called “mechanisms” of the future. Like my 9-year-old cousin and his friends. He was showing me his yearbook a while ago, and giving me the breakdown of who was who:

“This guy’s nice, but we don’t talk that much…That girl has a crush on me…Oh yeah, that kid’s my friend, he reprogrammed my computer chip…”

“Oh yeah? One of his parents works with computers, they did that?”

“No. He did it.”

What the hell?

We may be of the same generation, but his age-bracket has a completely different perspective on the way the world works. For them, computers and all their various capabilities are just a way of life, but I still feel like I’m getting used to it.

I don’t quite know where I stand. Sure, I know computers better than my grandparents and waste an obscene amount of time on them. I own a smartphone, and I can comprehend the potential at my fingertips every time I open my laptop. But I’m also slow-moving. I mentioned before that I lagged behind in the race through social media. I don’t believe in e-readers because I love books and papers and dog-ears and cover art and fading pages. I’m blogging, but I think that social media can be just as detrimental to the social fabric as it is instrumental in globalization. Sometimes I look back nostalgically at the days when people spent less time with their faces in their phone, blocking out the world with music blasting in their earbuds (I can hear that you’re listening to Justin Bieber), and more time making eye contact with strangers and striking up a spontaneous conversation or listening to how loud those birds actually are. Even as I myself half-run across campus listening to my old i-pod nano, checking my mail on my phone, and mentally cussing out every bicyclist that almost runs me over (This happens in Berkeley WAY more often than it should.) I’m basically contradiction personified.

And I guess I’m wondering if anyone else feels that way too. Which reminds me, I didn’t mention it before but I’d love to hear what you have to say in the comments. 

I seriously can't think of a title for this.

I wasn't among the first to join Facebook, it took me until the end of last year to join Twitter, and now I'm here, catching up to the times and keeping a blog. Out of all forms of social media, blogging is probably the best suited to me. I love writing, but I never do it because writing assignments make me anxious, and it doesn’t occur to me to write for the hell of it. But I do talk. A lot. And every once in a while I say or hear something that I think is worth preserving forever. So now I write. 

Even as I’m writing this, I keep thinking of it like an assignment, referring back to an audience I think I have to please. And then that keeps me from wanting to even write anything at all, because I don’t know what any of you want. Like right now, part of me thinks that this is going to be boring as shit and you’re going to read the first few lines, call it a noble effort, and then go read some memes that are actually funny. The weird thing is that I haven’t even defined who “you” are. I have no idea who is going to read this (besides, of course, my parents).  So why even bother with a blog? Why not just write down those thoughts I want to preserve in a personal journal, and do away with an audience and therefore eliminate any standards that make me anxious?

I guess this is my way of putting myself out there. Of releasing whatever it is my mind concocts for anyone to agree with, disagree with, ignore, ridicule, or publish into a book that garners a cult following which desires something more than sparkly, parasitic love. You know, hypothetically speaking. Essentially, I’m stretching out feelers for a community. I don’t claim to speak for my generation, but we share the same time period, the same global events, the same cosmic frontier, the same polluted air, the same doomsday deadline in December this year, the same knowledge that the world keeps spinning, whether we know our place in it or not. I could very well be singularly insane, but even then I think there is something to gain from those—especially from those-- we think we can’t relate to.