tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19112245050707670632024-02-19T09:01:06.925-08:00That Portuguese KidThat Portuguese Kidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18262726925945035370noreply@blogger.comBlogger38125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1911224505070767063.post-68004045868533510452014-02-18T02:09:00.002-08:002014-02-18T02:10:38.058-08:00My Brother: The Boy Who Overcame It All<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Brian James Thompson. Born February 22, 1993.<br />
<br />
What is there to say about Brian? Everything and nothing. Everything because there is so much to his story. Nothing because it's near impossible to formulate words that accurately express all there is to his existence.<br />
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Throughout his entire life, we've always been told what he couldn't do, the things he'd never be able to accomplish. As a kid, he was diagnosed with Autism Spectrum Disorder (ASD), among other things. Doomed, as the experts would say, to a life of struggling through school, not understanding social situations, being unable to see outside his "own world" (a characteristic of ASD) and relate to other people, not expected to graduate from high school, not expected to succeed. As a family, none of this was easy to swallow. No family wants to hear the levels of supposed ineptitude their child possesses. Nobody ever really bothered to tell us his strengths, how he may be able to overcome any of these deficits. Sure, inevitably people would tell us things we already knew like "he's a sweet kid", "you're lucky to have him", etc. But that never really lessened the sting of the negativity that comes along with the labels they put on him.<br />
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Brian's an interesting person. Always has been. Growing up, he kindled an intense interest in Star Wars, Star Trek (yes, he subscribes to both fandoms, don't ask me how), the Titanic, Pompeii, and anything sci-fi related. He'd always take it upon himself to "research" these things on his own time, checking out books from the library, watching documentaries, asking people questions, etc. Pretty soon he became quite knowledgeable in these fields of interest, and could easily hold informative conversations with people about these things. In the early stages, it was easy for him to tell you things, but reciprocal conversations were a struggle for him. The fact that he was so apt to learning about these topics of interest to him was an initial indicator that maybe he wasn't so cognitively impaired as the experts would have us believe. That wasn't supposed to happen.<br />
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As he aged, his interests remained the same, although he did become quite an avid video gamer. He took to gaming like a fish to swimming. Interesting, because playing video games involves a fair amount of fine motor skills, an area that he was always supposed to struggle in; that wasn't supposed to happen. As he got older his conversational skills also improved; he became less and less shy, and began to understand turn-taking within conversation, allowing the other person to take part rather than just being an informational monologue. Improvement in relational/conversational skills? That wasn't supposed to happen.<br />
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In high school is when he really started to come out of his shell. He was flourishing in his classroom at school, both socially and academically. He was now actually initiating conversations, and conversations regarding the other person rather than himself or his own interests. He was asking people how THEIR day was going, what THEY thought of whatever movie they saw on the weekend, etc. Strange, because the experts always thought that it was an insurmountable barrier, for Brian, a kid with ASD to think outside of himself and be able to express his care for others so explicitly as this. It wasn't supposed to happen.<br />
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One day, Brian was sitting in a chair on a football field. The football field at Chatsworth High School. He wore a burgundy cap and gown, and sat in the back row with two other classmates. The announcer calls his name, and Brian walks up and receives his high school diploma. According to the experts, that was never supposed to happen. The year is 2012. The day is approximately a little over a month after he received a heart transplant.<br />
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Oh yeah, that's another thing about Brian. In April of 2012, Brian had viral myocarditis, a rare disease that basically destroys your heart. He was hospitalized; his kidneys and liver stopped functioning; his heart was enlarged to 3 times the size it was meant to be, and was functioning at just 15%. After a stay in the ER, a geriatric floor and a psych ward (the only rooms they had available for him), and ICU, he was transferred to USC Keck Hospital. The outlook was bad. With a heart functioning at just 15%, and other organs shutting down, there was nothing the doctors could do for him. I got a call one night; they'd put him on the list to receive a heart transplant. The doctors said he had maybe a few weeks to live, if things didn't get worse. My world came crashing down upon me. The wait time typical for a donor heart to come through was 6months to a year. He had weeks, if that. Basically, he wasn't supposed to survive.<br />
<br />
3 days after I got that call, a donor heart came through for Brian. That night, they did surgery. They transplanted an entire human heart into him, removing his old dead one. They gave him a second chance at life. The surgery went well, there weren't many complications. He made it, he survived. That wasn't supposed to happen. <br />
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He stayed in the hospital for about 15 days or so. Many times throughout the entire ordeal, I spent the night there at the hospital with him, sleeping in a chair next to his bed. In his critical conditions, nurses would come in at all hours of the night, hourly, in fact, to check his vitals and draw blood. I'll never forget it; when the nurse would come in to take his blood or check his vitals, he'd look at them and smile, and ask them how their shift was going. This kid was dying, he wasn't supposed to be smiling. This kid had ASD, he wasn't supposed to be initiating conversations about how someone else's day was going. The nurses would always be taken aback by that; they'd tell him how their shift was going, and tell him it was sweet of him to ask. He'd just smile and nod, typical Brian style.<br />
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When the nurses would come in during the middle of the night, they'd ask him a series of questions. If Brian thought they were being too loud and might wake me up (he thought I was sleeping, although clearly I was not), he'd put a finger to his lips and make a quiet "shhhhhhh" noise, then point to where I was sleeping. He'd tell them in a whisper, "Don't wake her up. That's my sister. She's studying to become a special ed teacher; that's a really tough job, but she can handle it." The nurses would look somewhat perplexed at this unnecessary information, but tell him that he must be so proud of me, to which he'd grin smugly and say "Yeah, she's a great sister, she's so smart.". To have pride in me, to talk about MY life to someone who was currently inflicting the pain of a blood-draw rather than focusing on himself and his current circumstance; that wasn't supposed to be possible. In any circumstance for any person, it certainly isn't normal.<br />
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One day, Brian was in a wheelchair. I stood next to him, outside of Keck Hospital, along with his nurse. Holding a huge bouquet of red heart balloons, both of us donning USC sweatshirts, we were there at the curb, waiting for the car to pull up. Our mom brought the car around eventually, the passenger door was opened, and we helped him into the car for the first time since we drove him to West Hills hospital over a month prior. Brian was going home from that hospital. That wasn't supposed to happen.<br />
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The thing with Brian? He's always been the most sweet-hearted, kind, loving, and interesting kid. That never changed, that never "developed". What changed was the ways he was able to overcome the things holding him back from expressing those feelings and actions. The more he was aware of what was holding him back, the more he was able to come up with strategies to overcome those obstacles and learn to relate to others, to express interest and emotion in relevant ways. Once he overcame those obstacles, he became an unstoppable force of absolute humility, kindness, and love towards others. <br />
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His ability to overcome the limitations set upon him by others has inspired many. Ask anyone that has worked with him in any setting; they all have nothing but good things to say about him, and they'll tell you, too, that his story is one of inspiration and uplifting motivation. He's an encouragement to many, including parents of children with ASD. The things he's overcome shed light on the fact that not everything about ASD is concrete, and obstacles previously believed to be impossible to overcome can, indeed, be overcome. This hope, this precious light and insight to this issue is invaluable to parents of, and even individuals themselves with ASD. Brian's story is a story of hope and inspiration.<br />
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For me, as his older sister, I've had the absolute privilege of watching him grow up, watching him overcome these labels and diagnoses firsthand. I was there with him when he was dying in the hospital, I was there the night they put the new heart in. I was there the day we took him home. I was there the day that he graduated high school. I've been there and seen everything that wasn't supposed to happen, happen. And through it all, I've been inspired.<br />
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Brian is my inspiration, my driving force for the career I'm pursuing. I'm pursuing a bachelor's degree and teaching credential in special education. I want to teach special education at the high school level. Why? Because I've seen what someone who's been labeled and restricted by things that aren't "able to happen" for a kid with a diagnosis in special education overcome all of those things. I've seen my brother overcome it all, I know that he's not the only kid with special needs that can accomplish this. I'm in this for the success of the students; I've gotten a small taste of what it looks like to see someone succeed in this situation. I'm starving for more. I strive to see these kids freed from their labels, accomplishing what they're able to accomplish, regardless of any diagnoses or restrictions in ability imposed on them by "experts". Seeing my brother shirk the labels, disregard the diagnoses, ignore the implications of his inabilities; that has inspired me to do what I'm doing.<br />
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I've never met anyone like Brian. He is the kindest, most loving, most loyal brother to me. And not just to me; he's an absolute saint, the way he treats others and even goes out of his way to ask how they're doing. He asks me to take him shopping for gifts for people on holidays, completely his idea, with no prompting from me. When deciding what to eat for dinner, sometimes he'll ask "well what do YOU feel like?" He goes out of his way to give homeless people a dollar and change. On Thanksgiving, he asked me if we could buy a homeless man a hamburger from McDonalds, because "nobody should go hungry on Thanksgiving". Brian is a kind and charitable human being, and a person that the world can learn so much from. Brian thinks beyond himself, and concerns himself with the well-being of others. That's not supposed to happen.<br />
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In a few days here, Brian's going to be 21 years old. The doctors never thought he'd see this day; heck, for a while there, WE never thought he'd see this day. Currently, Brian is in his second year at West Valley Occupational Center (community college) in a vocational studies program. He has a job, working for an auto-insurance company. He takes the bus to school and work, and lives a happy life, doing things for himself that nobody ever thought possible. Brian is a success. Brian is an inspiration. Brian is a testament to the ability of God to work through anyone, any situation, any time, and just do insane things that by all rime or reason, <i>aren't supposed to happen. </i>Brian realizes this, and will even refer to himself as "the miracle child". He knows that where he's at is not where anyone ever expected him to be able to be at. He knows that he broke the mold when it came to his diagnoses and labels, and he knows that he definitely shocked and defied medical science when that donor heart showed up just in the knick of time. He knows it's all a God thing. And he's proud to share his success stories with anyone who wants to hear more.<br />
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As his sister, I couldn't possibly be more proud of Brian. The things he's overcome, the insanity he's survived, the person he's become; I can scarce believe it to be true. My brother is absolutely amazing. And throughout it all, he remains so humble about everything. Just talking to him, you'd never know the kinds of things he was told he'd never be able to do when he was younger. You'd never know the horrors this kid endured as his heart failed and then got transplanted with a new one. You'd never know that this kid had the odds stacked against him. But if you did, you'd know that this is one kid that overcame all the odds. This is one kid that can accomplish anything. And you'd know that there's hope, for anyone in any situation. If this kid can do all that, so many things are possible.<br />
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The experts never told us that Brian would be the kindest, funniest, sweetest kid in our lives. They never told us that he'd be my best friend, the one that I'll defend with my life. They never told us that he'd be an inspiration, that he'd by MY inspiration. They never told us that he'd go to college and have a job and independent transportation. They never told us that he'd be a success. None of that was supposed to happen. But it did. And thank God that it did. <br />
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Brian James Thompson. Born February 22, 1993. The boy who overcame it all. <br />
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</div>
That Portuguese Kidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18262726925945035370noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1911224505070767063.post-930266258197509682013-12-06T01:59:00.000-08:002013-12-06T02:07:03.792-08:00Closure<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
So at the beginning of the fall semester (2013), I was taking a probability and statistics class, as well as 6 other classes at the time. I would show up to class, sit in the back, quietly complete my work on my own, turn it in and leave. Nobody really said anything about that, nobody really noticed or cared about my existence, just the way I like a class to be.<br />
Things changed mid-semester, when my grandfather died. I was very close to him, and helped to provide care for him over the past few years as he dealt with Alzheimer's and dementia. His death hit me hard; I just couldn't stop crying and grieving. The heartache from losing him was almost tangible; I was an emotional wreck.<br />
So in the middle of the fall semester (2013), I was still taking that probability and statistics class. I would show up to class, usually in tears, or face all red and swollen from crying so much, and I'd sit in the back, quietly crying to myself while completing my work on my own. Once finished, I'd wipe the tears off my face, walk to the front of the class, hand my paper in and then leave the classroom like some kind of melancholy zombie.<br />
Things changed. People noticed that. People will notice you if you consistently cry in the back of class. They may never ask a reason, they may never ask if you're alright, but they'll notice it.<br />
Suddenly, I'd hear the row of 3 girls at the front speaking in Spanish and laughing. At first it was just an annoyance to me (I was in the anger stage of grief, probably), but then I realized what they were laughing about, and it cut me like a dagger. They were talking about me, "La Chica Llorando", or "The Crying Girl". They were making fun, saying maybe my boyfriend dumped me, or maybe I got a bad grade on my lab report, etc., trying to find reasons why I would be crying, and laughing about it. They did all this in Spanish; a language they (incorrectly) assumed I couldn't understand because I look white.<br />
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At first, I was enraged. Not only do I have this stress and emotions already, but now they mock me for my grief? How could they! Why would they even think to do this; why wouldn't they just ask me what's wrong! How cowardly, to hide behind a "secret language" that I wouldn't understand to talk smack about me! How much lower can one go than this?!<br />
Eventually, I grew accustomed to it. They'd talk about me, make fun of me, etc. I grew to accept that. As the semester progressed, I grew stronger as a human being, I overcame my grief and stress, and began to thrive in school again. No longer did I cry in class, no longer was I heartlessly angry at these girls for what they had said about me. And as long as I wasn't crying, nothing was said about me, other than simple musings about how the "chica llorando" got the highest grade in the class while they failed that assignment.<br />
None of them ever knew I speak Spanish; none of them knew that I understood every mean-spirited word that came out of their mouths.<br />
I contemplated speaking to them in Spanish; confronting them wasn't on the forefront of my mind, but just make a passing comment to them in Spanish, just so they'd know, and maybe feel ashamed. I thought better of it; I didn't want to stoop to their level. Instead, my heart softened towards these girls. I wanted to care about them, and just shower them with love and kindness, which would inevitably evoke feelings of guilt for what they had done. Ultimately, though, whether they felt guilt or not, I wanted them to experience the great love of the Saviour that I personally have. When the Lord loves you so much, it sort of overflows from your heart into the lives of others. That's what was happening here; this was of no goodness of my own heart. <br />
<br />
My opportunity came one day. I overheard one girl, freaking out because her father was having a partial heart transplant in a week. I thought to myself "This is it. Go tell her it's gonna be ok; tell her about Brian." And so I did. I sat down next to her, and said "I couldn't help overhearing, your father is getting a heart transplant?" "Yes" she said, with absolute sadness and fear in her voice. "You know, my little brother had a full heart transplant a year ago. Everything went incredibly well; the technology in the medical field is amazing these days. The success rates for these types of surgeries have skyrocketed! I have no doubts that your dad will be well taken care of; the doctors know what they're doing, trust me. But I also know how scary it is, and how difficult it is to wait around for the transplant to occur. I just want you to know that I'll be keeping you and your father in my prayers. Here's my number in case you have any questions or just want somebody to talk to. I'll be praying for this all.". Her face was shocked; she could hardly speak. She managed to utter a stunned "thank you" as a tear rolled down her cheek. My heart was at ease, for the time being. I knew I had done my part. I had shown her, previously unlovable to me, the love of Christ, and I had attempted to encourage her. Clearly that was so out of the norm for her, to have a stranger say all that, especially a stranger that she had been "secretly" making fun of and saying hateful things about all semester. <br />
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Time passed. It was the last day of probability and statistics class, my only class with her. I sat in the back, working alone as always. I wanted to ask about her dad, how the surgery went; tell her I've been praying for her and her dad and the whole situation, just like I said I would. The entire class, I just sat back there and thought about how to approach all that with her. I was planning out what to say, how to say it. For maybe 5 minutes, I bent my head down, focusing on my work. When I looked up, she had left. This was the last day of class. My last chance to find out about her dad, to let her know that I have been and will continue to be praying for her dad and her family during the recovery process. The last chance I had was gone. I felt a strange sense of regret; "Why didn't you just go up there and ask, idiot?! Why did you wait for a perfect time?! Why did you waste time planning that?! Now she's gone and you'll never see her again.". Needless to say, my heart was greatly burdened, and I was quite vexed with myself. I missed a great opportunity to share the love of Christ with this girl, who had been previously so blown away that any person would show interest and compassion to her. A marvelous opportunity: gone. My heart was heavy.<br />
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I received an email from the professor of that class, saying she had lost one of my labs, and I needed to come in during office hours and redo it. So after the last class, when I missed my opportunity, I went to the office hours and redid my lab. Again, head bent over my work, focusing on getting my work done, I heard the door open. Somebody walked in, put their stuff at the front desk, and started working on something. It was office hours; anybody from any of the probability and stats labs could come in or out at any time. I looked up, eventually, not thinking much.<br />
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It was her.<br />
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A second chance! That God would allow this second chance at closure with this girl, whom I had previously harboured hatred in my heart for, who had previously made fun of me, talked smack about me, and shown nothing but hostility to; this girl was in the classroom again, and not by chance.<br />
I wasn't gonna mess up this time. No planning. Nothing of the sort. "Just get up and ask her, Chibz. God will give you the right words." I pushed my chair back, which startled everyone else in the room, and I marched up to the front, and crouched down in front of her desk so I was at eye level. I asked softly, "Hey, I never got the chance to ask you, how did your dad's surgery go? I've been praying about it, and for your family for weeks now, but never got the chance to ask you how it went." Again, she looked shocked, but pleasantly so. She told me that he's recovering quite well, and that it looks like he may be home for Christmas. I said "Oh, praise God! What an answer to prayer! Well, I just want you to know that I'll continue to pray for a speedy recovery for him, and strength for your family during this holiday season; I know how hard it is in the holidays with a loved one in the hospital. I've got to go now, but please take care and have a wonderful Christmas! Hopefully your dad will be home to join you!" And I smiled at her genuinely, hoping that the words I had spoken encouraged her.<br />
A tear formed in her eye again. She just said "Thank you so much, it means a lot. Thank you so much... Merry Christmas and God bless you!" And then she smiled, too.<br />
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Second chances like that are rarely afforded, especially when it comes to talking to strangers or people we don't know. My mind is blown that I had that opportunity to hopefully bless her and encourage her and just show her the love of Christ. <br />
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The Chica Llorando may be strange, and easy to make fun of, but the crying girl wants more than anything to share the love of Christ that she's found with everyone now, even the people that laugh at her. God is so good and faithful to provide, even rare second chances like this one. My interactions with this girl are complete. My heart is at ease, no longer burdened for things unsaid to her. I have obtained closure. God is good. </div>
That Portuguese Kidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18262726925945035370noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1911224505070767063.post-60020032692991822222013-10-01T01:11:00.000-07:002013-10-01T01:11:01.250-07:00Mysterious Encounter<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
So today, I was at school, walking towards the bookstore in a mass of students. It was lunch time, so everyone was either leaving class and going towards the food court or leaving the food court to go back to class. As I was walking towards the store, someone called out through the crowd. I looked to the left, where the voice had come from. There, sitting on a bench, was an old man, who looked quite similar to the man on the boxes of Uncle Ben's rice. He had nothing with him; he wasn't reading the paper, or on a phone, he was just sitting there, apparently watching everyone coming and going. I looked at him, on the off chance that he was addressing me. He nodded and motioned for me to come nearer. I thought maybe he'd ask for money (there's another old african-american man on campus who looks like the Zataran's guy who usually asks for money), or maybe tell me that my backpack was open, or something like that.<br />
I walk over to him, dodging students to get there. When I was standing in front of him, he said "There's something kinda tragic about you..." I sort of looked down, muttered an apology, for some reason, then said "I guess there's something kind of tragic about the world..." He shrugged his shoulders and nodded his head, saying "True, true..." For a while I stood there in front of him, in silence, neither of us looking at the other. As I was about to take my leave and go get my food, he stopped me and asked "How do you smile?" Not understanding the question, I said "I'm sorry?" "How do you smile... What it look like when you smile?" Not feeling like smiling, I just sort of half-smiled embarrassedly at him. "No no no, <i>SMILE </i>... Your face won't break, I can promise you that!" His accent made me genuinely laugh, and I smiled for real that time. I made eye contact with him; I realized for the first time that one of his eyes was completely glazed over... Or at least it was made of glass or something, but it definitely wasn't functional. His reaction is something I'll never forget...<br />
His good eye lit up, his hands flew to his face, and he exclaimed "OH sweet Lawd in Heav'n! It's as though the Heavens' themselves've opened up and all the wondrous light within's come shinin' and radiatin' from your face!" I had no idea how to reply to this unprecedented reaction, so I turned my face to the ground, cheeks reddening from the attention this was drawing from surrounding students. After he had recovered from his shock, he said "Child, it's no wonder you hide that smile. The world ain't ready for that kind of brilliance! What is your name?" I told him my name. "It's a pleasure to meet you. My name is Terrance. I want you to keep on bein' how you are: beautiful, tragic, and sometimes showing the world the radiance you possess from within." I thanked him kindly, and proceeded to go inside and get my food. As I was walking in, I turned back to get one last look at Terrance, but he had vanished. I went inside, pondering the incident and what it all meant. <br />
This day had been particularly rough, emotionally, due to current circumstance and events this past week. The bizarre encouragement this man, Terrance, had offered me warmed my heart and boggled my mind as to why someone would take time out of their day to have an odd conversation like that with a random girl. At any rate, his kind words and his mysterious understanding of the brilliance of heaven both warmed my heart and boggled my mind. It was perfect timing, though, because I was feeling pretty low, but that cheered my heart greatly. Maybe Terrance knows about Heaven and the wonderful things there; I hope he does, and I hope he knows how to get there to experience that brilliance for eternity, although that brilliance far surpasses any tragic brilliance that I myself may possess. God is good to bring people like that into my life at the most perfect time, even when it seems most random.<br />
Terrance, if ever I see you again, I want to talk to you and find out more about your story. You're an enigma. Maybe it'll always be that way. You have a beautiful soul to be encouraging random people like that. I want you to keep on being how you are: kind, encouraging, and understanding.<br />
Best Regards,<br />
~Chibi</div>
That Portuguese Kidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18262726925945035370noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1911224505070767063.post-42081372965697841552013-08-22T01:53:00.000-07:002013-08-22T01:53:02.407-07:00Another Year of Life<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
So today is my birthday. When I was a kid, roughly age 0-16, I would always get excited about my birthday because of two things: gifts and attention. Not to say that I was neglected by any means, but my birthday was about ME, and all the attention was directed at ME. And gifts. What kid doesn't love gifts? And ice cream. Never cared much for the cake, truly, but ice cream. Oh goodness. And cheesecake. I was an odd duck; since I hated cake I would always ask my mom to get a cheesecake instead. My birthdays were always days of indulgence. My parents would throw me the nicest parties, buy me the nicest gifts, invite my friends and family over to celebrate ME.<br />
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That's pretty typical for children to view their birthdays as such. Age 17-21 were just sort of blurry and odd years. I was still thankful for gifts, and I didn't mind the attention, but I was too old for parties, and I had no interest in toys, and it's practically impossible to buy me clothes that I'd like or would fit, so I wasn't too thrilled about the gift aspect. Honestly, it felt a little bit burdening; why should all these people go out of their way for me? I know it's my birthday, but I don't want to cause anyone to spend a ton of money on me, or, heaven forbid, spend TIME with me, because that's just a terrible punishment that nobody should be made to endure. Why would people bother to celebrate <i>me?</i> What was I contributing to life that was worth celebrating? I don't want that kind of attention anymore, garish and OBVIOUSLY forced attention from people... Why couldn't I just sort of hide away on this day? I didn't get it. It was an annoyance; I wasn't worth the time or money. I felt bad for burdening the people around me.<br />
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What about 22? Well, what about it? It was my golden birthday. I turned 22 on August 22nd. A lucky golden birthday! Wow! This time around I didn't care at all about gifts (although I received many thoughtfully-chosen golden ones), but something changed: I viewed the attention aspect of it all differently. Did I crave the attention like I did when I was a child? Did I dread and abhor the presumably burdensome attention as I did when I was older? No. This day of attention could be used for good. Instead of it all being about ME, I could use this time to celebrate with my friends and family, and <i>share </i>the attention. Right? Yeah, I think so. My 22nd birthday was really quite lovely, by all means. My favorite one so far.<br />
<br />
So how about 23, then? How am I feeling towards this day? Well, I was thinking about it tonight. What is a birthday? It's a celebration of life. The day someone was born. Looking back, when I was in the stage of age 0-16, I thought as a child; I was egocentric and materialistic. At that point in my life, I wanted THINGS and I wanted life to be about ME. Age 17-21, I had no self confidence and didn't think I deserved to even be on the planet. At that stage, my life was troubled with depression and self-hatred; I didn't want anyone to give me gifts or attention, because I felt I didn't DESERVE it, that I wasn't WORTH it. By age 22, my life had begun to settle down; I'd matured a lot, and I knew that I was worth something, and that something was worth celebrating.<br />
<br />
Well how about this year? I can tell you this: I'm excited to celebrate my life this year. Not excited to celebrate ME, mind you, but my life.<br />
The people in my life. I'm so excited to celebrate <i>with </i>the people that I love, and who love me back. Love is such a wondrous thing, truly. Once you realize that you are capable of being loved and loving others, life changes. It's a more beautiful and tolerable thing; to live, to be alive, to love. I love people. Many different people. Different types, different walks of life; I love people. And for the ones that love me too, I'm grateful for that love. I accept that love now, I know it's not a burden to love someone, nor is it a burden (hopefully most of the time) for others to love me. This year, I'd really like to celebrate that love that others have shown me in my life, and I'd love to be able to shower you all with my own love for you. <br />
The stories in my life. My life has been a rollercoaster. A crazy, beautiful, blessed rollercoaster. Oh have I got stories. Stories not glorifying to myself, but testifying to God's neverending goodness, love, and mercy. Stories of what God's done in my life. Stories of what God's done in the lives of my family. Many many stories. Some sad, some joyful, some hilarious, some heart-wrenching. All, though, ultimately glorifying God, and growing me for service in His kingdom. I had opportunity to share some of those stories tonight at midnight with two of my friends, right when the clock turned and it became August 22nd 2013. How blessed an opportunity to share what the Lord has done in my life recently, and is continuing. I want to celebrate and share the stories in my life.<br />
The circumstances in my life. My goodness, how things turn out. Everything that happens just seems to effortlessly weave together in some sort of mysterious dance; threads of life that have seemingly nothing to do with each other combine unexpectedly to make the brightest and most beguiling of colours, flowing together like two rivers meeting at a forked point. Everything does truly work out for good, no matter how awful it seems at the time. Life is so lovely, there are so many unknown aspects to it. I've become very grateful for that. Have you ever been perplexed by some puzzle, then finally figured it out? There's a moment of relief and triumph, but it's fleeting; you move on to the next puzzle after that. What if life was like that? What if there was a way to figure it all out? What then, after one figures it out? There's no next puzzle to figure out after you figure out life (unless the afterlife, which requires death). How dull would our existence be, going along in something we completely understand. Where would the mystery be, the intrigue? Why continue life when there's nothing left to pursue? God is the same way, except infinitely more-so. He is infinitely multifaceted. There is no such thing as having God "all figured out" in this life. If there was, why then pursue Him once we had discovered all of His wonderful aspects? How boring it would be! God is so good to leave us some mystery in this world and life to keep us on our toes, to keep us pursuing answers.<br />
The life I've come to live, love, and embrace. It's taken me years to come to the place I am now. Able to love and accept myself, able to accept the love of others, able to embrace adverse circumstances with joy and hope in the Lord, and most importantly, to accept the love of the Saviour. My heart has been radically changed over the past few years, and I pray that it keeps changing to become more and more like Christ. My capacity to love has increased so much, and my tendency to hate has diminished even more. My life is not my own. My life is God's; to love Him, to serve Him, to serve His people, and to reach out and love those who do not yet know Him. This is what my life is now. This is who I am. This is what I celebrate this year. I love you all so very much. My wish and prayer is that you know and tangibly feel that God loves you infinitely more than even I do, and that He loves you enough to forgive anything you've done and accept you into His loving arms for the rest of eternity. You, too, can have a life worth celebrating. </div>
That Portuguese Kidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18262726925945035370noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1911224505070767063.post-76190118856894806162013-08-11T01:01:00.004-07:002013-08-11T01:16:51.600-07:00What Happened To Me At Hume<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
This past week I volunteered to work as a cook at my church's high school summer camp at Hume Lake. I had a very difficult time convincing my <strike>overprotective</strike> loving parents to allow me to go, as I would be the only girl on the cooking team, and I would be driving alone, and I would be sleeping in a tent alone, and I would have to do everything for myself and by myself, and I have a 4mm bulged disc in my lower spine and shouldn't be working hard, and I'm terrified of lakes because of PTSD from an incident in a lake when I was 15, and the list goes on and on and on. But I earnestly prayed about it, whether I should stick to my guns and insist that my parents allow me to go, or humbly accept their parental advice and stay home. I prayed that the Lord's will would be abundantly evident, and any bias, rebellion, and selfish desires be removed from my heart in order to make the right decision. Obviously, by the title of this entry, I DID in fact end up going to Hume. My heart was greatly burdened to go and serve, so I respectfully told my parents that I would be going, and by God's grace they allowed me to go.<br />
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I had a few specific goals in mind for going up to Hume. First and foremost, obviously I wanted to serve God and His church through cooking (and any other applicable way that He would use me). Second, I wanted to get away from everything and everyone for a while and just spend time alone with God, talking with Him, getting right with Him, praising Him, thanking Him, etc. I did miss people while I was up there, and my desire to leave home wasn't one of escaping or getting away from people that were frustrating me (read: I didn't want to get out of my house and away from my family because I hated them or any such thing), but I honestly just needed time away from distractions and technology to become totally focused on what I needed to be focusing on. The third and least of my goals was to push myself out of my comfort zone. My parents were right to worry about me and how I would handle working hard all week with a bad back; I can hardly do dishes here at home or work without having tremendous pain afterwards. They were right to worry about how I would handle being at a lake with specific lake-related PTSD; for the past 8 years of my life I haven't been able to look at a lake, even on TV, without spiraling into flashbacks and anxiety and suffering nightmares for some length of time. I really wanted to push myself, though; I could feel something (the Holy Spirit) prompting me to go and confront my fears and disabilities. I had to go; there was no getting around it.<br />
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I will address how these goals were met in the most logical way that I can, which is not in chronological order. First, my third and least goal was met in a big way immediately. I went up there expecting to deal with back pain, anxiety, and nightmares all week. I didn't really care; I trusted that God would get me through it, even if it was the most difficult week of my life, I knew I had to try. On the drive up, when we arrived at Hume Lake, and I first caught sight of the lake itself, something strange happened in the core of my being. Usually I would have plunged into an anxiety attack and start having disturbingly vivid flashbacks upon just looking at a lake, let alone being on a road right next to one. Instead, my consciousness was flooded with a peace that cannot be explained but by the Holy Spirit. I looked on that lake, and I had no fear. No flashbacks. No anxiety. Only peace, and absolute shock at what I <i>wasn't </i>feeling. I was sure that I'd be suffering later; surely I would have nightmares. Throughout the entire week, I didn't have a single nightmare. Not a single flashback, not a single anxiety attack. Even when I saw the lake for a second, third, and fourth time, nothing. Nothing but peace and absolute gratitude to God for what I was not experiencing. As far as my back is concerned, I worked hard all week long. Things weren't necessarily difficult, just tedious at times. Cutting fruits and vegetables, washing dishes, putting food away and taking it out, etc. Even that sort of thing at home kills my back; at Thanksgiving I tried to peel potatoes at the sink and ended up laying down on the couch because I was in crippling pain. I worked all week, I slept on an air mattress all week, I drove all the way up there and all the way back home, and my back was fine the entire time. I had some minor pains while washing dishes, but nothing paralyzing. When I would go to sleep at night, I would always think that I would probably wake up the next morning in pain, but it never happened. The whole time I was there, I felt fine. God is so good to have allowed me to not only push myself so much, but be rewarded in such a big way by not suffering the usual trials that come along with the tasks and circumstances I was attempting.<br />
<br />
The second and first goals go more hand in hand, so at this point I'll just start talking about the long story that most of you reading this blog have heard about/asked about/already heard how it goes. On Wednesday, the third day of the trip, I told the lady supervising us cooks that I was going to go look for a shower (our campground had none, not even sinks) 25 minutes away from the camp, and if I couldn't find one I was going to Three Rivers (a place in King's Canyon) for the day to just sort of relax. My supervisor said that was fine, but she was a little distracted with something going on with her kids at the moment, so she only heard that I was going to take a shower 25 minutes away. I go looking for a shower, I go into different campgrounds looking to park and sneak in and grab a shower. Nothing. No luck anywhere. I decide "Ok, well I'll just have to man up and deal and try to be as clean as possible since I'm cooking and serving food." and I left for Three Rivers. I drove past the gate to the National Park, handed the ranger my pass. He asked what time I would be returning. I told him around 5pm-7pm I would return and pick up the pass again. He wrote a note down regarding my return time, taped it to the pass, and told me to have a nice time. I made my way down the mountain, which takes about an hour or so and headed toward Fresno. I pulled into the Valero petrol station at the bottom of the mountain. This is where my day started going downhill (apart from the time that I literally began descending from the mountain).<br />
As I pulled into the station, making a right-hand turn, another guy was driving out, coming straight at my car. We both swerved sharply away from each other; I scraped the right side of my car against the protective poles next to the petrol pump, he drove off out of the driveway and went on his merry way. I turned off my car, slightly shaken but not all that disturbed. A guy that was at the pump across the way came over and knocked on my window. "Hey miss, you ok?" Startled, I looked up, rolled down the window and told him that I was fine. He asked if I was sure, I replied in the affirmative. He walked away. In less than a minute he came back to the window (I was still in the car, fiddling with my wallet to retrieve my debit card) and says "The entire right side of your paneling came off! The pieces of it are back there next to the poles! Are you sure you're alright?" Not entirely surprised, but instantly aware of the fact that my dad would most likely be very upset with me for this, I told the guy "Yes, I'm sure that I'm okay. Apparently my car is not so much okay... Thank you for your help, though! Have a good one!" He doffed his cap and went back to his truck. I got out of my car after finally locating my debit card, and went to the right side of it with a bad feeling deep in the pit of my stomach, worried at what I would find. Like the guy had said, the entire right side of paneling had fallen off and was lying on the pavement next to the poles. I walked over and picked up the pieces; they were intact, but scraped with the hideous blue-green paint of the trademark Valero colored poles. The poles were likewise scraped with the beige pain of my paneling. I picked up the pieces of the paneling successfully, but the pieces of my broken heart were not so easily located. As silly as my car is, as simple and humble a vehicle as that Kia Sorento is, I love it very much. I'm grateful to have a nice car, and I usually try and keep it decent looking (on the outside at least). Now my lovely blue SUV was ghettofied, and I was saddened and wondering how I'd explain this to my parents. Deciding not to deal with it at that time, I put the pieces in the back of the car, and proceeded with the filling of the tank. At this point, I had cellular service again, so I looked up directions to Three Rivers on the Maps app on my phone. Knowing that I'd lose service when I got into the mountains again, I screencapped the directions and saved to my pictures file for reference when Siri would inevitably stop directing me. I followed the directions, and got to Three Rivers in one piece (the car, not so much). It was beautiful, as always, although the rivers were mostly dried up. I breathed a sigh of relaxation, and drove through town, listening to my music and just unwinding. I took the road to follow the Northern fork of the river, which I had forgotten leads up a mountain onto a one-lane dirt road on the side of a steeply plunging cliff. Not entirely deterred, and knowing that if I continued on that road that I'd get back to the National Forest from whence I came, I kept on driving. The winding nature of the road didn't bother me; I drive Box Canyon here at home all the time, and my car is quite adept at handling sharp turns in the road. The road was in awful condition. Like I said, it was a dirt road, on the side of a mountain, in the middle of nowhere. There were ranches with cattle (and one with bison) up there, but not a human soul for miles to be seen. At the highest point of the mountain, there was a little sign, saying "End of County Maintained Road". "End of County Maintained Road"? The county sure wasn't doing a very effective job of maintaining that road, let me tell you. I could only imagine how much worse the road ahead would be. I decided to turn around and return to camp the way I had come. No big deal, I turned the car around and proceeded back down the road. I knew that once I got back down the mountain I could go into town and have cellular service again, so I could use the Maps app to find my way back to camp. I was driving back down the one-lane, poorly-maintained road, when all of a sudden, my parents' worst nightmare came true. There was a horrid smell of burnt rubber. The car pitched to the right side. Obviously something had gone terribly awry, so I pulled over as far away from the cliff as I could. I got out of the car and walked towards the burning smell on the passenger side. What my eyes saw next sent my heart up into my throat. The rear passenger tire was completely shredded. I was alone, on a mountain road, in the middle of nowhere, with nobody around for miles, next to a cliff, and the sun was going to set in a few hours. I just stared at the destroyed tire in disbelief at my poor luck for a good minute or two before snapping a few pics of it, just in case I survived to brag about this later.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRwpW2LIeLFOpY_gDy3v0SfaRrqohPq3k9erPsZert3VTbmrpzH6Sjz-MIyqoXBDt0AnMD5ez_1eScuRupFKp_5wJj5uhdBeet9M6OuiajJftB1LoF9ZXLrIoRvdxeAYGYodxywZKjRVQ/s1600/Hume+014.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRwpW2LIeLFOpY_gDy3v0SfaRrqohPq3k9erPsZert3VTbmrpzH6Sjz-MIyqoXBDt0AnMD5ez_1eScuRupFKp_5wJj5uhdBeet9M6OuiajJftB1LoF9ZXLrIoRvdxeAYGYodxywZKjRVQ/s320/Hume+014.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Shredded Tire</td></tr>
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Lucky for me, I do know how to change a tire out, so I began getting the necessary tools from the back of the car. I got it jacked up, and started loosening the bolts on the wheel. I was under the car, messing with the spare, which was a bit stuck and reluctant to come down from the undercarriage, when the thing my parents fear most in life occurred. A white truck pulled up behind me and parked. I heard the door open, two boots crunched the leaves and needles on the ground and started walking towards me. I looked out from under the car to see who was coming near. A tall white guy with dreadlocks and wearing a dirty white t-shirt with a picture of two naked ladies and a marijuana leaf was approaching. First thought that ran through my mind: "This is the part where I get raped, chopped up into little pieces, and stored in this guy's freezer." Second thought: "Hahaha my parents were right all these years about getting a flat in the middle of nowhere and getting raped, chopped up, and stored in some guy's freezer". Third thought: "This is really ironic. I'm actually laughing nervously on the inside because of the morbid irony of all this." Fourth thought: "God if this is the way you want me to go out, so be it. I deserve it for being an idiot and ignoring the advice of my parents." By the time all these thoughts had run through my mind, the man asked "Hey, you okay?" I replied with the standard greeting of the day: "I'm fine, the car? Not so much." He walked around to the side while I got out from under the car. His hands flew to cradle his dreadlocked head. "OH MY GOSH what a gnarly blowout! You sure you okay?" "Yeah man, I'm fine. Just trying to get this tire fixed." He looked at me in disbelief and said "Poor kid, you must be shaken up!" He obviously wasn't understanding that it wasn't the dead tire that was tripping me out at this point. "Nah, I'm okay, honestly. I know how to change a tire, I'm just having a bit of trouble with the spare..." Immediately he got down on the ground and under the car, looking at the troubling spare. "Ahhh yeah, it's stuck! We gotta pry it loose!" I was thinking "Okay, well at least the raping and chopping me up and storing me in a freezer isn't going to take place until <i>AFTER </i>this guy fixes the tire..." so I handed him a crowbar and he started to pry it loose. In the meantime, I thought maybe I should talk to him, make friends with him and maybe I won't end up like my parents always imagined. Maybe it was just Stockholm syndrome setting in early. Either way, I told the guy "Yeah, I'm actually from Los Angeles. I'm up here working at a Christian camp as a cook." From underneath the car I heard a muffled "Oh man! You up at Hume?" "Yes! Exactly." "That's so righteous! It's beautiful up there. How'd you manage to get all the way here, though?" "I had some free time today so I decided to come back to Three Rivers. I vacationed here often as a child. Nostalgia and all that, y'know." A loud clanging sound was being emitted now from under the car. "Awesome sauce." "Yup. It's been really great to get away from the city and technology and just sort of reflect on stuff. Pray, meditate, get closer to God..." "Oh totally! It's the best to be up in the mountains, finding yourself and everything." "Well I seem to be getting more lost than found at the moment..." Raucous laughter and a loud thud from under the car. "Got it! You're pretty funny!" He took the now free spare from under the car and rolled it out. I told him "Today's not really my day, I guess. See the lack of paneling here? This just happened today, too. Accident at the petrol station." "Oh man! What a bummer! We all have bad days, don't sweat it, kid. There's always tomorrow to make it better." "True story. I just wish it was tomorrow already; I've had enough of these shenanigans for one day haha." By this time the shredded tire was off, and the spare was being put on. He held it while I screwed in the bolts. "So that's pretty cool of you to drive all the way out here to work at Hume for a week. What made you do it?" "Well, I just really love serving, it's my spiritual gift, and I just felt like God was calling me up here for some reason. It's been an awesome opportunity to serve God and the church up here." "That is so cool. Hey we gotta screw these in in a pattern, otherwise it'll go on all wonky." "Oh right. What about you? You live up here?" "Yeah man, just right up the road! I'm an 'active retiree' haha. I have horses and a ton of dogs, and a nice little garden to take care of. It's a really small community, we all know each other. I was actually on my way to my mom's house when I noticed you here." "Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry, you don't need to stay I can get this fixed by myself, no worries! I'm so sorry to make you late..." "OH NO NOT EVEN! This is way more important! Mom can wait. If anything she'll be proud that I helped out a damsel in distress hahahaha!" "Are you sure? You can totally leave and I'll be fine." "No way. This tire is low in air, let's see how much we got here. Hand me the gauge, please. Dang! Only 20lbs. That's dangerous, especially on these roads. Tell you what, I'm gonna follow you into town. There's a Chevron station. Matt works there. Tell him that you need to fill your tire up and you should be good to go." "Oh no, you don't have to follow me! I don't want to make you any later than you are already! I can find the station by myself, it's fine..." "Nope, not happening. I don't want you getting another flat on the way down with no spare. Besides, my mom's place is at the end of the road anyways. We're cool. My name is Ken, by the way." "My name is Kris. It's a pleasure to meet you, thank you so much for everything you've done here. I was definitely blessed to have someone come by and help me; it would have taken me a lot longer to get this done without you! Please, it's not much but it's all I've got in my wallet... Please take this as repayment, I owe you a lot." I try and hand him $40, but he throws his hands in the air as if I've just pointed a gun at him. "Nonononono! No money! Knowing that I helped you out on a bad day and made you smile is more than enough repayment for me!" "Are you sure? It's not a big deal..." "I'm sure. But thanks, that's way generous!" "You're welcome. Well Ken, if you won't take my money, I just want you to know one thing today: Jesus loves you, no matter what..." He just nodded his head slowly for a few seconds and then a single tear rolled down his dirty cheek, leaving a trail. "I know, sis. I know." At this point we hugged it out and then got in our cars and went down the mountain. I now smelled like weed, but I didn't care. I was safe and not raped or chopped up or stored in a freezer, plus I had been able to talk about God to this random guy. I thanked God so much for sending him, and in such a timely manner at that. I made it to the chevron station, went inside and talked to Matt, an all-American looking guy about my own age standing behind the counter. "How's it going?" "Ok. Hey do you have an air compressor?" He just sort of stared at me for a while, not saying anything. "ummmm do you have an air pump or something that I can fill my tire with?" He still stared, but said "Oh, yeah, it's on the left side over there... Where are you from? You have an accent..." "Huh? Oh I'm from Los Angeles." "Doesn't sound like it..." "Umm how much do I owe you?" "Oh the air is free." "But the sign says 40 cents..." "Nah, 's free." "Oh, okay... If you're sure." "Yeah. Here you go, take the gauge." "Thank you." I filled the tire, returned the gauge to the bewildered Matt, and got back in the car to get directions from the Maps app again.<br />
I did so, but after all that had transpired, I was absent-minded and forgot to screenshot the directions this time for when the service would be out of range. I followed the directions, but the service cut out without me noticing. I continued on a long dirt road for many miles before realizing that Siri wasn't going to give me any directions because the phone had no service. I pulled over, desperately trying to refresh the Map app, asking Siri for directions, calling my parents, texting anyone, but nothing worked. "Maps is not available". "Siri is not available right now". "Error: No Service". Etc. I was in the middle of nowhere again, surrounded by farmland with no recognizable landmarks. I kept driving around for a while, desperately trying to find a highway or anything familiar, but to no avail. After about 30 minutes of this, I just start praying. Not praying to be saved from this predicament, not praying for directions, but just talking to God. Thanking Him again for sending Ken at the perfect time. Thanking Him for keeping me safe and giving me opportunity to talk to Ken about God. Talking to God about what my struggles in life are, what I want to change in my life, etc. 20 minutes later, a voice: "In 4 miles, make a left on Millwood Drive." What? Siri? But there's no service... Must have been a fluke, maybe a farmhouse nearby had cellular service or something. In 4 miles I made the suggested turn. I kept praying the whole time, just pouring my heart out to God as I drove. After I made the turn, again, the robotic voice came forth from my phone, telling me to stay on that road for 10 miles and then make a left. Well okay then... But how? There's no service, and it's not running on satellite because I'm using a non-satellite directional system that runs on 4G only... Oh well. I follow the directions and keep on praying. 3 hours later, all of which I continually talked with God and Siri gave me directions, I pulled into my parking space at camp. The entire time, the phone gave me directions, even though it wasn't possible. I have no GPS, no satellite apps on my phone. There was no service at all, I couldn't call or text or even ask Siri anything or type anything into the Map app. Everything just told me it "wasn't available" or "error: no service". I put the car in park, turned off the ignition, and thanked God again for everything that had just transpired. Especially for the opportunity to just talk to Him freely and with no distractions. My mind and soul were at total peace after talking with God; my spirit was renewed. It was exactly the opportunity I had hoped for before coming up to Hume.<br />
I got out of the car and started walking back to camp. I'd been gone for about 7 hours, but I had been hoping and praying that nobody would notice, that I'd conveniently slip their minds and not be a burden or a worry to them. Nope. One of the counselors walked up to me, wide-eyed and said "Oh my gosh you're back... We've sent out 3 search teams looking for you..." I just broke down crying. The entire time through the ordeal I didn't cry, I wasn't worried (except initially with Ken) I wasn't anxious or scared. But now, I cried, because my heart was overwhelmed with the love these people had for me. Someone in the camp saw me approaching and yelled my name. Immediately a stir began in the camp, I heard things like "she's back?!" "where is she!" "Oh my gosh I'm so happy!" etc. I went to my tent before going down to see everyone; I was a coward, I didn't want them to see me cry, and I was so scared and embarrassed to tell my supervisors what had happened. I had missed dinner that night, I felt so bad for missing work, even though I know they could (and obviously did) manage without me. I didn't want to look irresponsible. After 10 minutes or so of tears streaming down my face, I decided that it was pride that was holding me back, so I prayed for courage and humility and went down to camp, where I was greeted with tearful hugs from my supervisor and friends. I started crying again, for the same reason. Absolutely floored and overwhelmed by the love these people had for me. And I realized how very much I loved them, too.<br />
The third search party returned later that night. I felt so bad and ashamed that I had caused so much trouble to these kind people... One of the three men in the search party was my supervisor, one was the youth pastor, and another was a guy that works in the youth ministries. They walked down the hill to me. All of them hugged me, I tried choking out apologies but I don't think I can ever convey how sorry I am, or how grateful to them that I am for everything. I told them my story, everything that I've written above. I think they were very happy and overwhelmed that I was safe, and nobody had to make the call to my parents telling them I was dead or lost or anything. That whole situation was so crazy and so hard on everyone (except me, really, which is ironic), but so much good came of it for me personally, and as I would learn later, for others as well.<br />
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After the worship set and sermon that night, the youth pastor got up and made the announcement that I was back safe, and told everyone that I had an amazing story, and suggested to them that they talk to me about it. I was humbled and happy that he would say that, but didn't really expect any highschoolers or anyone to talk to me about it. Who cares what happened to me? I'm just the girl in the weird hats that serves the food. After it was all over, we were all walking back to camp in the dark. Two girls stopped me and asked what happened. I told them "Well, it's a long story... You okay with that?" They replied enthusiastically "TOTALLY!" Shocked by their enthusiasm, I started telling my story. A few more congregated over as I was talking. Then more, and more, and more students and people were surrounding me. I found myself talking to a small crowd, telling my story and what God had done for me. After I got done with that, I asked them if they wanted to hear another story about how God had done incredible things in my life. Everyone eagerly asked me to, so, in shock, I told them the story of my brother and his miraculous heart transplant. Then after that, I told them how God had worked with my PTSD on this trip. I told them everything about me, even deeply personal struggles I have, I told them, so they could be encouraged and maybe would be able to come talk to me if they wanted or needed to. I asked them if I could pray over them when I was done talking. Nobody objected, so I prayed earnestly over them, thanking God for everything He'd done, praying for the hearts of the students, asking God to bless the time of fellowship and create a unity within the group to become the church that He intended, etc. I talked and prayed for what seemed to me like hours, but at the same time felt like only minutes. Thankfully it wasn't truly my words, but the words of the Holy Spirit overflowing from me to the crowd. Otherwise, if it had been just me talking, I would have messed everything up and been a complete idiot instead of a semi-idiot with the perfect Holy Spirit within me. Afterwards, I had a few kids tell me that night how what I had said impacted them, and I was able to pray individually with them. Over the next few days, I'd be asked "Are you the lost girl?!" And when I'd say "Yes", they'd usually say "OH MY GOSH TELL ME WHAT HAPPENED!" And I'd launch into the whole thing over and over and over again, each time doing the best I could to glorify God and praying that they would see through me and see Christ through me instead of the fallen human being that I am. I was able to talk with and encourage/be encouraged so much with so many people this past week because of my misadventure. I'm still so blown away that God would choose to use me in such a way; it's truly such a blessing and extremely humbling to be used in such a way. A story about me being an idiot and getting lost to be used for God's glory, for the encouragement of others, for mending my relationship with God and others; how good is God's grace. How big are His plans. How much He loves us if even a small and insignificant person such as myself can be used to impact so many for His glory. God is so good.<br />
<br />
[Note: I write this not to glorify myself or to sound spiritual or as though I have life all figured out and have it "all together", but rather because I feel like such a story as this is meant to be shared, not for MY glory but for the God who got me through it all. I'm overwhelmed by the love everyone has shown me this week, and I'm overwhelmed by God and all His aspects. I pray that this entry will evoke only happiness and joy, perhaps a little amusement, and immense awe at the mercy and goodness of our God. I apologize if I come off as being "holier than thou" or self-righteous or pious, because it is not my intent at all. Much love, and I commend you if you've actually read the whole thing down to this point :) ]</div>
That Portuguese Kidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18262726925945035370noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1911224505070767063.post-34329018266235949282013-08-03T23:17:00.002-07:002013-08-03T23:17:49.709-07:00Morbid Opportunity<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
So most of the incidents I write about typically involve awkward or awful interactions with past customers. People throwing marzipan at my face, people telling me about voices in their head instructing them to punch me in the face, etc. But not all customers were bad, or even neutral. Some customers were regulars, and they were super friendly and nice. This entry is about one such customer.<br />
<br />
This guy used to come in about once or twice a week. He was about late 30s early 40s. He had an accent, but I understood him alright. He'd typically buy snack foods, like Boy Bawang and Muncher Peas, that type of thing. One time, he came in wearing a shirt with the flag of the Philippines embroidered on it. I politely asked him about it. "Oh, the Filipino flag! Are you from there?" "Wow! You recognize it?! Yes, I'm from there!" I smiled and said "Oh, what part?" He told me he was from Manila, but he presented the information as though I wouldn't be familiar with it. I told him "Ahh, I have many friends from there! They work in the building across the street!" He shot me an astonished look and said "Really?! How rare!" I laughed and asked if he spoke Tagalog, to which he applied in the affirmative. I asked "kamusta ka?" Again, totally shocked, he replied "Wow! That's amazing! Mabuti! Ikaw?" To which i replied "Mabuti". After much amused laughter and discussion of other languages we spoke, (for me, Spanish, for him, Spanish, French, and Tagalog) I finished the transaction and handed him the receipt, making sure to thank him in Tagalog. "Salamat, po!" "Ahahahaha! Salamat din ko!" And he left.<br />
<br />
Each interaction with him from that day forward began with greetings in tagalog, and then chit-chat conversation about life. How was my day at work, how was his, etc. He was a very kind man, very fatherly toward me. He noticed my back brace one time and asked about it. He mistook it for a girdle, and said "Why do you wear that thing? You trying to lose weight?" I informed him of my injury, to which he became very concerned. He asked me many questions, he asked me if I had hurt it at work. I told him I had to move furniture sometimes, and that's how it became injured. His typical carefree countenance changed to one of determination. "Where is your manager?" he asked, firmly, but not with anger towards me. "Bakit, po? What's the matter?" "I need to give them a piece of my mind for making a tiny girl do such work!" I told him it was okay, that the issue was being resolved. He calmed down a little bit, and told me "You should find another job. This is not suitable working conditions for you. I worry for your health." I told him that I was on work restrictions, and was not being made to work very hard like before. He told me "If I find a job, I will let you know." I thanked him, touched by his fatherly protective care for me.<br />
<br />
The next time I saw him, he was his usual cheery self. Greeting in Tagalog, then proceed with transaction and chit-chat, just like normal. He sighed audibly. I asked "Tough day at work?" He laughed unconvincingly, and told me "You could say that." "Busy?" "No, not 'busy', just no 'customers'". "Oh, you prefer busy days?"<br />
He became very awkward at that, and said "I don't really prefer any days. Days come, days go. It's just my job." Deciding not to press the issue any further, I just said "I see." There was a long pause as I rang up his dried mangoes. "Chibi..." he started out (he knew my nickname and referred to me as such) "Yes, Paul?"<br />
"Remember how I told you if I find job opening, I'd let you know?" I laughed and said "Yes, I remember. Why?" More awkward silence. "I could hire you at my job. I would pay you double what they're paying here, and you wouldn't get hurt... You would be a greeter, if you wanted, or a secretary, handling phone calls..." "I don't think I can leave here... Where do you work?" Here he laughed very oddly, a laugh I had never heard him laugh before. "Aiiiiiii... I work at the mortuary." I replied incredulously "Whaaaaaaa? Chismis?!" And he said "No, really, the mortuary on such-and-such street. You wouldn't be touching the dead bodies, Chibi; I wouldn't make you do that. But I could hire you as secretary, or as greeter to console the mourning families... You have such a kind heart, you would be perfect. I know it's a creepy job, but it's safer than here, and I would pay double whatever they're paying you here. I just really don't want you to work here, it's not safe conditions..." His eyes were tearing up at this point... I didn't know what to say. "Wow... Thank you so much for the offer, I don't know what to say... I'm being as safe as I can here, I don't think my back is getting any worse..." here he interjected "Chibi it breaks my heart to see you in that thing ::indicates back brace:: you are so young, you should be happy and carefree, not binded and being overworked..." a tear rolled down his cheek. I opened the drawer under the register and handed him a tissue so he could clean his tears. "Thank you, Chibi. You are so thoughtful..." I told him "I really appreciate the offer, but I don't think that I can legally quit working here right now, Paul... It's a very complex situation... Thank you so much, though, it means the world to me. Wow, the mortuary, huh? No wonder you have rough days... That must be very difficult, to work with dead bodies and bereaved families." Then he said something interesting, but he said it in Spanish. "The saddest part about my job is not the dead bodies, it's not the sad families, it's the people that have no understanding of the afterlife... They think everyone goes to heaven, or maybe that dead people go nowhere but the dirt. Worm food. They don't know how to be saved from eternal death. That's the sad part of my job." Curious, I asked (also in Spanish) "And how do you think one can be saved from eternal death?" He replied with all confidence: "Only through forgiveness of Jesus for our sins. Do you know that, Chibi?" I asked "Paul, you are a Christian?" "Yes, are you?" "Yes. What church do you go to?" He told me the name of a pinoy congregation that met in some other church facility. He asked me the same question, I told him the church I was attending at that time. Again, his eyes filled with tears, "Oh, Ate Chibi, my heart is overcome with joy to know that you know Jesus! He is the ultimate Healer, I know He can help your back!" "Ahhhh, Kuya Paul! No more tears, be happy! God is good, He will work all this for His glory. God is so good to bring me a Christian customer! It's a good change from mean people." At this point the transaction finished. I handed him the receipt, which he wrote his phone number on in case I changed my mind about taking a job at the mortuary and handed it back to me. I said "Salamat, kuya Paul!" and he said "Salamat din ako, ate Chibi!" and then he said something he'd never said before. "Mahal kita, Chibi. Jesus gusto ka din." I smiled as a tear rolled down my cheek and said "Mahal din kita, kuya, at mahal ko si Jesus, din."<br />
<br />
I don't remember if I saw Paul much after that. God was good to provide me transactions with him when the store was dead, so we could talk freely. When we conversed in Spanish it was when the boss or a coworker was around, because speaking about religious things with customers was greatly frowned upon, and Paul knew it too. It still boggles my mind that such a cheerful, happy-go-lucky guy like Paul works/worked at a mortuary. Such a dark and morbid job. I think the only way he could handle it was by the grace of our God.<br />
<br />
Kuya Paul, if you're out there somewhere, I hope you are doing well, my friend. I wish you to know that I am happier than ever and in good health; my back pain is stabilized. Thank you, kuya, for everything you did for me. For your kindness and fatherly love you showed to me. For working a difficult job but not letting it bring you down. Thank you for your encouragement. Mahal kita, kuya. At si Jesus gusto ka din. :) </div>
That Portuguese Kidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18262726925945035370noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1911224505070767063.post-20090109331276964832013-07-29T23:07:00.001-07:002013-07-29T23:07:36.850-07:00Terrifying Class of Terror<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I think most of us have had those teachers/professors that just simply enjoy pushing the envelope. They have, what some call, a "power trip"; they enjoy lording their power over their helpless pupils, inciting fear and disdain amongst the class. And for what reason? Who knows. Maybe they thrive off fear. Maybe they're just mean people by nature and have no motives. Again, who knows; in the end it doesn't really matter, because any way you slice it, it's still an awful situation to be subject to that kind of authority.<br />
<br />
A year or two ago, I had one of those professors. At the beginning of the very first class, before even reading the syllabus, he promised that he would personally offend each and every one of us by the time the semester ended. As the semester progressed, his promise began to come true. Slowly but surely, he'd cuss some student out, disregard someone's idea as being "complete rubbish" and even insult people based on appearances. Every single class I would walk in basically paralyzed with fear; "Would this be the day he takes ME down?". Class after class, nothing happened. The fear grew... Even as I gripped the doorknob leading into that classroom the fear gripped my heart twice as strong. It was on one such day that my fated encounter with the professor occurred...<br />
<br />
I was late to class. He always ribbed on the kids that were late to class. He'd make a spectacle of them, make an example of them. Knowing that to be my fate, I looked through the window in the door into the classroom. Good; he was writing on the board; if I could just manage to get in quietly enough he wouldn't notice me... This was gonna take skill.<br />
<br />
I turned the knob expertly, avoiding the inevitable "creak" it produced if turned too quickly. Slowly, I pushed the heavy wooden door open, so as not to catch his peripheral vision. The whole time, he was focused on what he was writing on the board, while talking to the class. He didn't notice me! I'd done it! I had just silently shut the door and finished sneaking to my seat, I was just about to sit down, when, without turning from the board, I hear him.<br />
<br />
"THOMPSON."<br />
Uh oh... Fear pierced my heart like a fiery arrow. My stomach churned. I knew I was gonna get it. My time was up. So long, pride. Time to brace for humiliation...<br />
I pivoted around on my heel slowly to face the direction the voice had come from. "Y-yes, Doctor?" I managed to squeak out in my sheer terror of the situation. I was dying. The whole class was staring at me, mouths agape half from horror and half from the sadistic expectation of the scene about to unfold. I was beginning to wish I had played truant that day.<br />
<br />
"Thompson. Did you get a haircut?"<br />
Oh no. Here it comes. He's gonna make fun of me now... The eyes of my classmates were as big as saucers, they were practically drooling over the whole thing (classmates are sadistic and will take all manner of pleasure from the misfortune of one of their own, you see). "Yes sir... Yes, I did." Surprisingly I managed to say that with a mite of confidence. <br />
<br />
Everyone was on the edge of their seats, waiting to see how horribly he would insult me, how he would destroy every last bit of self esteem that I had.<br />
<br />
Not once during this whole charade did the professor avert his eyes from his task at the blackboard. Not once did he turn his head to see me enter the room, it was impossible that he had been able to see me and realize that I had gotten my hair cut.<br />
<br />
A few moments of silence as he continued to write on the board. The tension in the air was so thick, and oh was he loving it. The power he had over me, over the whole class, as he simply stood up there writing on the board... He was loving every second of it. Sadist.<br />
<br />
"Thompson, you got a haircut?"<br />
" Y-y-yes... Doctor... Yes I did..."<br />
"Looks good. Suits you well. Sit down and open up to Don Juan." <br />
".....Yes, Doctor..."<br />
<br />
I slowly turned around and took my seat. I looked around at my classmates; not very surprisingly, they all had looks of intense disappointment on their faces. They had wanted a yelling match. A scene. They didn't want to see the Doctor compliment me and then continue about his business. Heck, even I didn't really want that. But that's what we got. I got out my book, turned to Don Juan, and sighed the biggest sigh of relief I possibly could. Life went on.<br />
<br />
I only had one close call with him after that. I was turning in a late paper. I had to go up to his desk, in front of the whole class, and turn it in. I was expecting him to yell at me for it, since he technically didn't accept late papers.<br />
I walked up to his desk. His nose was buried in a stack of lesson plans, he seemed really quite vexed and flustered. I thought it might be best if I return another time, perhaps after class, when all of a sudden I hear a sharp "What?" I looked down at his face, now fully out of the papers and glaring at me. I made sure to make eye contact and try to appear confident. "Hello, Doctor, I've got an assignment I'd like to turn in... I know it's late, but I emailed you about it and...." It was at this point that I noticed him staring at my face.<br />
Oh no. Here it comes... His eyes were locked with mine, his mouth agape with what I took to be disbelief at the audacity of my turning the paper in late. I stared back into his confused gaze. We looked into each others' eyes for a really uncomfortable amount of time, before I asked meekly "ummmm... Doctor, are you okay?" As if snapping out of a trance, he shut his previously agape mouth, kind of shook his head a little, and averted his eyes from mine. He sort of muttered "I'm sorry, it's just... your eyes..." Confused, I said "umm.. I'm sorry..." He looked back into my eyes, and almost fell back into that trance-like state, and said "your eyes... they're grey... intense... beautiful..." At this, my cheeks instantly reddened and I felt the need to get away from that desk. I could hear my classmates snickering behind me. I awkwardly apologized again and put the paper on his desk and returned to my seat. The Doctor still seemed a little out of it, distracted. He sat at his desk in silence for a while. My classmates gazed from him to me and back to him again. Nobody could figure out what had just transpired. I just sort of slumped down in my seat, hoping nobody would notice me for the rest of the class. Eventually the Doctor regained his composure and began class. I was worried that the girl sitting next to me could hear my heart beating out of its chest with terror. She asked me what he said to me. I just told her "he got freaked out by my eyes." She turned around and we all opened our books to Ozymandius.<br />
<br />
He never did humiliate me. Confuse me, yes; humiliate me, no. He broke his original promise, and I'm thankful for that. But every class, I lived in terror, waiting for the day that wouldn't come. </div>
That Portuguese Kidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18262726925945035370noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1911224505070767063.post-15990322870489131382013-07-18T22:47:00.002-07:002013-07-18T22:47:48.278-07:00Humanity in Remission<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Humanity (the state of being human, not the institution itself) is something that plagues me. Being human makes me lose the will to live. It attacks my soul, it deteriorates my moral condition, it kills all potential of goodness within me. Yes, to be human is to be cursed; it's been fate ever since the incident in the Garden of Eden. To be human is to be selfish at all times, even when you feel you're being selfless. It's being arrogant even though you feel humble. It's being self-righteous and hypocritical, even while you feel that you've gotten it all figure out, you're living life the way you <i>ought </i>to. Humanity is something that will devour you. Much as cancer attacks its host's body and kills it, so, too, does humanity, in an alarmingly literal way. Unlike cancer and other lethal diseases, though, humanity has a treatment that can be quite effective, even more-so than radiation or chemo therapy. <br />
<br />
When a person has a terminal illness, there are perhaps no sweeter words to be uttered by a doctor than "it's in remission". Remission. It's going away; retreating, diminishing, the very harbinger of death is itself dying away. How wonderful to know that there's hope, that life will get better, maybe even easier. This demon disease that's been gnawing at your insides, devouring your hope and will to go on, it's retreating. Remission.<br />
<br />
I'm here to tell you that my humanity is in remission. Yes, the thing that has plagued my life for 23 years now, making me selfish, hard-hearted, impatient, harsh, hateful, controlling, spiteful, arrogant, self-righteous, and many other hideous things, this disease called humanity is in remission. It's retreating. Going away. Every day, I find myself thinking less of myself and more of others and how I can help them. My empathy and compassion increases steadily. I find myself more willing to take time to understand people, I'm now able to wait much longer without complaining or feeling angry. I find my speech becoming less hateful, less negative, and more positive and loving. I no longer hate anyone, even those I once considered enemies. I have a much easier time surrendering control of every aspect of my life, I no longer feel as though I'm spiraling out of control when things don't go as I expected or planned. I find myself forgiving more readily, and holding grudges less and less. I hesitate to mention anything about pride, because almost by default when one claims humility they display arrogance, although I do find myself more willing to take correction and input about my life from others. Best of all, self-righteousness is fading away. How can I possibly be self-righteous when I have nothing to offer? I am a human, a member of this cursed institution known as "Humanity". There is nothing good in me.<br />
<br />
There is nothing good in me, save for the One who saved me. The treatment I spoke of earlier, the one even more effective than radiation and chemo therapy, the treatment that has sent my humanity into remission; this treatment is the cleansing blood of Christ, which atones for my humanity and takes my sins to the grave. This treatment is the Holy Spirit, which floods my soul and lends peace to my troubled and anxious mind. This treatment is the unending, eternal love of God, which offers me escape from humanity. I have done <i>nothing </i>to deserve this opportunity. Nothing I can or could ever do would qualify me for this. As I said before, I have <i>nothing </i>to bring to the table, I have <i>no good thing </i>to offer that would atone for the cursed sins of my humanity. Before receiving this treatment, I was a hopeless wretch, fast succumbing to this disease, humanity. There was no good thing in me. My soul was destined for Hell. Now that I have this escape, though, now that I'm covered in the blood, flooded with the Holy Spirit, and enveloped in the great love of the One True God, my humanity is in remission, and I'm seeing the results. This is not by anything I have done, this is solely the result of the treatment.<br />
<br />
Relapse. A disheartening term in the medical world, relapse is practically the opposite of remission. Relapse is a falling back into the old problem. Relapse is when the disease gains ground again, rears its ugly head, and causes problems once more. How heartbreaking, to have been making progress, but then experience such a setback, a setback called "relapse". This happens not only to patients with cancer or other illness, but it can happen to struggling with humanity, too. In fact, while not guaranteed for patients with cancer or other illnesses, relapse IS guaranteed for everyone struggling with humanity. Humanity is a state of being, one that cannot be fully transcended until death. Cancer and other terminal illness are just that: illnesses. Potentially lethal, but not always permanent. No, sadly, with humanity, even when it's in remission, even those who receive treatment, all will eventually fall again. All will relapse into sin. Even those with the most successful reaction to the treatment, those people who appear so spiritual and as though they've got their life all together, they are destined to succumb to humanity again. For while we can become Christians from non-believers, we cannot become non-humans from humans.<br />
<br />
Another difference between the remission of humanity and that of cancer and other illnesses, though, is that while remission cannot always be possible for patients with cancer and other illnesses, it is always an option for those struggling with the burden of humanity. God's arms are always open, the Holy Spirit will fill your soul if you ask, and the cleansing blood of Jesus has been spilt on your account and He has risen from the dead, defeating death and humanity itself so you don't have to. Even after experiencing relapse, remission is always possible again.<br />
<br />
My humanity is in remission. It cannot be cured while I'm on this earth. I'm destined to experience relapses many times over. But with remission comes <i>hope.</i> My life isn't perfect. I don't have it all figured out. I'm still a human, so by nature, I'm still a bad person who sins daily and struggles with various inner demons consistently. The only difference is, I'm a human filled with the Holy Spirit to guide me, the blood of Jesus Christ to atone for my sins, and a God that loves me enough to send His son to spill His precious blood and conquer death for my benefit. Yes, my humanity is in remission. And yours can be, too. </div>
That Portuguese Kidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18262726925945035370noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1911224505070767063.post-11368204547391992342013-06-04T00:41:00.002-07:002013-06-04T00:41:13.178-07:00Bitter Recipients<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Over a year ago, my younger brother had a heart transplant. So, as you can imagine, we've spent quite a few hours in transplant clinics, specialized doctor's offices, etc. We've met many people along the way, of course; some very kind people, but others quite unsavory in their words and conduct. It's the latter of these two types that I wish to address.<br />
<br />
I understand that it's tough having an organ transplant. Really, I get that. It's very unfortunate that people have to go through all the nonsense that comes along with getting a transplant; doctors visits constantly, unending amounts of medications that can have hideous side effects, pain and suffering, emotional trauma, etc. I don't discount any of that at all. But how on earth someone can have the gall to complain endlessly about their misfortunes in that situation boggles me and at times, vexes me.<br />
<br />
If you had a transplant of any kind, most likely that was the last resort. You were on your way out. Dying. The chances of actually getting the transplant are always slim; you wait many days, weeks, months, even years, slowly wasting away, with frail hope that something will come through. And then, if that magical day does happen to come, your life changes; you're thrust into a new world of medical jargon and pills and treatments, but you're <i>alive.</i> You get another chance at life, a chance denied to far too many waiting on the transplant registries. How grateful should you be, that you're the lucky one out of thousands, that the heart/lung/other organ fit YOU perfectly, it was meant especially for YOU, so now YOU can live life again. No more dying, hospital stays, no more waiting... You get to be with your family again, they don't have to be so stressed and worried about you. Maybe now since you've got the reassurance of being alive for a while, maybe now you can marry the one you so dearly love; previously while your life was up in the air, it was difficult to commit to someone, knowing that most likely you would die and leave them alone in the world. How lovely for you, how great that you get this second chance at life. Isn't it worth the extra pills and doctors' visits, just to be alive again?<br />
<br />
In the waiting rooms for the transplant clinics and whatnot, I hear a lot of conversation. Some of it is merely overheard, other times it's directed at us. Some people have told my brother such negative and hideous things, like how unfortunate that he has to go through that at such a young age. Of course it's unfortunate! But it's a heck of a lot better than being dead; he can attest to that. I've heard people complain against doctors mercilessly, saying despicable things about the very people that saved their lives. How can you be so vehemently against anyone that helps you so much, anyone that gives you a new chance at life... I don't care if the doctor doesn't have the best bedside manner, they saved your sorry life and you should be grateful to them and not disrespect them.<br />
<br />
Finally, and to me the worst of it all, how dare you complain about the small details like increased medications and difficult doctors, how dare you complain about your poor "quality of life", when someone died to give you that very life you complain about. You're alive because someone is DEAD. Organs don't appear out of nowhere. Somewhere, a family lost their child, a spouse lost their most loved one, a child lost their parent... And because of that, you have the ability to be alive, and, unfortunately, you also have the ability to take that for granted. You think you have it hard? You're alive. You're not grieving the loss of a loved one that donated their organs to people like you. Life is so precious. You should know that, you were dying at one point. At some point, you decided that life was so precious that you applied to be on the transplant registry. Nobody forced you, you could have declined if life was so difficult; you could have lived out your days in the hospital and then died; someone else could have had that heart or lung that you took, but instead you thought life was worth it, and you took it for yourself. That's fine, you're entitled to that. But don't you dare ever utter such words as "I wish I had just died back in the hospital", because for far too many, that's the reality. Waiting, dying, hoping, all for nothing in the end. You were fortunate. You're entitled to your difficulties, but you are not entitled to incessant complaining and gross ingratitude. You don't get to be bitter, because far too many bitterly weep for those lost while waiting, those lost who gave their organs up, far too many people wish they had your luck. Don't be a disgusting human being. Be grateful for the sacrifices made, the doctors skilled hands, the modern advances in science and technology that allow you to be breathing today. Be grateful for your second chance.<br />
<br />
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~<br />
note: this in no way has anything to do with the attitude of my brother towards his transplant. He and many others I've met are so ultimately thankful to the doctors, donors, and ultimately God, for their second chance at life, and they're living their life in happiness and joy, as second chances are meant to be lived. </div>
That Portuguese Kidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18262726925945035370noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1911224505070767063.post-90277188482400966812013-02-22T01:53:00.000-08:002013-02-22T01:53:15.192-08:00On Brian and his Greatness<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
My brother is on a very high pedestal, everything he's overcome,
everything he's gone through and literally survived... So many people
look up to him and respect him. His story has reached people all over
the world, and serves as excellent testimony to God's goodness.<br />
<br />
Today my younger brother is 20 years old. 20 years. It's really gone by so quickly, and yet at the same time it feels like an eternity. This year is particularly special in light of everything that went on in Spring of 2012. Last year, it looked like he wouldn't have another birthday. It looked like the end. His heart ruined by viral myocarditis, he didn't have months to live without a heart transplant, which takes about 6+ months usually to get a donor heart. He didn't have that time to wait, it wasn't possible. Then the miracle happened. Just 3 days after being put on the national registry to receive a heart, the call came in. We had a heart for Brian. Long story short, they put the new heart in, and now he's alive and really quite well. I promise you, not a single day goes by that I don't thank God so much for giving my brother back to me. Not a day goes by that I don't tell my brother that I love him. I am so overwhelmed with joy and gratitude for his life, and ultimately so blessed to be able to celebrate his 20th birthday with him now.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
My brother is very unique. He's the most humble person I know; just earlier I was having a conversation with him about the whole heart thing. I told him that his story has touched the lives of so many, I told him that I'm so proud of him, and I told him that God is so good to provide us that miracle. He got sort of red, and then mildly told me "It's funny... Everyone always says that I'm a 'miracle child', but I don't feel like that at all... I don't feel special, it doesn't feel like I did anything great." I was just sort of taken aback by this statement; the kid had heart surgery, he's been through SO MUCH... How could he not feel some sense of pride and accomplishment for that? My own heart is overwhelmed with pride for him, how can he not feel some mite of the same for himself? I prodded a bit further. "Why not? How do you not feel like some kind of hero after everything you've gone through? You've overcome so much, kiddo; you're not the victim here, you're the victor!" He knit his eyebrows together in his signature expression, indicating that the wheels are turning in his head. After a moment, he told me "But I DIDN'T do anything... I didn't put the heart in, I didn't donate a heart, I didn't do anything special." Again, I'm astounded. I said "But you survived... You lived, and because of that so many people are inspired, Brian; so many people thank God because of it!" And then he said something very wise, something I should have thought of. "I guess that's the thing. I didn't do anything; God did all the work. I'm not a hero..." and his eyes filled with tears, and so did mine.<br />
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~<br />
Throughout everything, my brother remains so incredibly humble. He doesn't want his trials to define him; he's told me that explicitly before. He doesn't want respect and honours for what he's been through. He doesn't want attention; in fact he rather disdains it. He just wants to be a normal kid. And he is. So let me tell you about him, with nothing to do with his trials. Let me tell you who he is, and what makes him tick.<br />
<br />
He has a great love for video games and anime. So many hours have been spent over the years playing Legend of Zelda, Super Smash Bros., Gundam, Dynasty Warriors, Mario Party, Halo, and even Harvest Moon. Many hours have been spent watching Gintama, Sgt. Frog, Bleach, Naruto, One Piece, DragonBall Z, and Hetalia. Lately, evenings are usually spent in my room. He sits on the end of my bed and either plays video games or watches anime on netflix while I work on the computer and the cat chills on the bed. It's just the three of us, Brian, myself, and the cat, usually silent, but all enjoying each others' company. It's this really simple thing, but it's really beautiful to spend time like that. My brother is a huge Nintendo fanboy, and even has a bookbag in the style of an old NES controller. <br />
<br />
Brian loves to go for drives. Not like roadtrip status, but just a simple drive around Chatsworth Reservoir. We get sodas, and I drive him around. Sometimes I drive him to Chinatown/Little Tokyo, where we get ramen and indulge our love of anime and Asian culture. Anywhere we go, though, I hand him the MP3 player, and tell him "you're the DJ, find us something good to listen to", and his face lights up, honoured to be assigned this most important task, and he puts on the stuff he likes to listen to. <br />
<br />
Like most young people, he loves music. His taste is just as varied and eclectically odd as my own, which I suppose makes sense, as his musical tastes have been largely influenced by me, I guess. Sometimes he listens to motown. Other times he listens to K-Pop. And still other times, he listens to hip-hop, rap, 90s boy bands, and even power metal. One thing's for sure, though; that boy loves his music. Almost weekly, he asks me to update the music on his ipod/iphone for him. Heaven forbid if he gets an itunes gift card; I don't hear the end of it until every last cent is spent and all songs have been successfully uploaded onto all his devices.<br />
<br />
My brother simply adores pugs. And kittens. And really all cute animals. He practically melts if we run into a pug while walking someplace, and we always ask the owner if we can pet it. If the owner gives us permission, instead of petting the pug's back like he would do with any other dog, Brian caresses the wrinkly face. After running his hands across the crevasses of its face, he then goes for the tail. He loves the curly tails pugs have. As he's doing all this, all 6 feet of him hunched over giving the pug attention, you'll inevitably hear him going "awwwwwwwww" and sometimes saying "this dog is SO CUTEEEEEEEEEEE" which is sort of heartwarmingly and adorably amusing to see a guy of his stature saying and doing.<br />
<br />
Brian loves to cook. This is somewhat unexpected, and I think this hobby came about during my days of wanting to go to culinary school. He started out with making "additions" to the ever-so-humble pre-packaged ramen. He'd try putting onion and garlic powder in, sometimes he's try scrambled eggs in it, etc. Eventually he branched out, and began making other things, like omelets, rice with toppings, panini, etc. Some of what he makes is quite good, actually. Sometimes it's inedible, though. I try and eat anything he makes me, though, because ultimately, when he makes food for me, it's not so much that I have something to eat, but rather it's to try and impress me and make me proud, and maybe even one-up me if he can cook something even better than I can. <br />
<br />
My brother is a gentleman, and an all-around good guy. He always opens doors for people (a skill acquired in the past few years, thankfully), he's very polite and respectful to everyone, and he'll go out of his way to help people. I remember one day, he had just gotten home from riding the municipal bus from school (a good 30-minute ride, if not longer). He informed me casually that he was very tired, and his legs hurt him quite a bit. I asked him "what's the matter?" "I stood the whole time on the bus home." "Oh my goodness! there were no seats?" "Well when I first got on, there were seats. But on the first stop, a girl got on, and there was no place to sit, so I got up and let her sit down." "Brian, that was so good of you!" "Well it was the only decent thing to do, right? You always get up on the bus if old people get on, right?" "I'm proud of you, that was very kind of you. Go lay down and rest your legs." Yet another time, he was sent to school with 20 dollars in his pocket, and told to bring the change back to my parents. When he got home, there was no change. "What happened? Did they not give you change for your lunch?" "No, my friend didn't have any money, so I bought him lunch." His spirit of kindness and generosity is very beautiful; I wish more people could be like him.<br />
<br />
There's not too much in this world that he dislikes, really, but the two things that he probably hates the most are cheese and dubstep. I have no idea really why the extreme disdain for cheese, especially because he eats pizza (go figure). But he absolutely WILL NOT TOLERATE cheese on anything else. As for dubstep, it just sort of freaks him out. I had the same reaction when I first heard it, honestly. But he really just won't put up with it; even if just a short part in a song has dubstep in it, he demands to change the channel. Which is fine with me.<br />
<br />
Perhaps the oddest thing about Brian, though, even odder than abhorring cheese, is his absolute love and loyalty for me. We get along excellently now, we really couldn't be closer, but back when we were kids I couldn't stand him. That sounds odd to hear me say now, because I love nobody on the earth more than I love my brother. But when we were kids, different story. He annoyed the living daylights out of me. Following me around, always wanting to be in the middle of everything I was doing, butting in when my friends and I would hang out; he was nothing but a pest to me, and I resented him. I was such a jerk to him, I really was. I'd make fun of him, yell at him, hide his stuff, etc. Really just an awful older sister. The weirdest thing about all that was that he'd never get mad at me, he'd never stop trying to gain my love and attention, he'd never retaliate. He always looked up to me and adored me, even when I hated him. One day, quite literally overnight, something inside me switched over. I can't really explain it, it was truly so abrupt and without precedence. But one day, I just sort of decided/realized "I want to protect this kid. I want to take care of him always, and do my best to make him happy." And I did. The thing I'm really grateful for is that the scars of my awfulness to him during our childhood seem to be a lot worse on my soul than his; he seems oddly unaffected by my hideous behaviour towards him in our youth, and I couldn't be more grateful for that. I don't have many regrets in life, but treating my brother like that is most definitely one of them. What I really love, though, is how his love for me parallels Christ's love for us. 1 John 4:19 says "We love Him, because He first loved us". Even when we were against Him, even when we hated Him and were His enemies, God loved us. In no other circumstance have I better seen such love displayed and paralleled as with my brother. Even when I hated him, he still loved me, he still craved my attention. Just as I'm not worthy of God's love, neither am I worthy of Brian's. But I so gratefully and humbly accept both, and it's my greatest desire to do my best to serve God, and glorify Him through my love and service to my precious brother.<br />
<br />
My brother is on a very high pedestal. I so very much look up to him, he's my hero, he's my earthly treasure. Nobody on this planet am I more proud of, nobody on the earth do I love more than I do my dear little brother. The world is looking up at him, yet he still looks up to me. And that is honestly the most humbling thing I've ever experienced in my life. Why he thinks I'm so wonderful, why he ever thought that to begin with when we were kids, it's truly beyond my comprehension; it defies all human logic. And I suppose that's really rare and beautiful. I am just so very humbled by him, though. In hospital settings, while he's having his blood drawn, he'll introduce the nurse to me, and tell her about how great I am, what I do with my life, etc. Not about himself, not "oww this hurts", not about anything else when I'm there. It's immediately "Oh, this is my sister, Kris!" And it's as though for him, he's just had the immeasurable honour of introducing the queen of the universe. And for me, I embarrassedly smile, say "how do you do" or some such appropriate greeting, and then glance at my brother's sweet, beaming face, and wonder why. My brother adores me, and I adore him. But I think his adoration for me is far more than mine can ever be for him, believe it or not. As silly as this analogy may be, it's honestly quite relevant to how I feel about the situation of him being on a pedestal while simultaneously putting me on a pedestal. You know that scene in "The Lord of the Rings: Return of the King" during the coronation of Aragorn? Well, Aragorn has just been crowned king, and is walking through the crowd. He gets to where the 4 hobbits are standing. (For those unfamiliar, the hobbits are arguably the main heroes of the whole story, and they go through most of the hardships, at least physically, especially Frodo). The 4 hobbits bow low to the now-king Aragorn, but Aragorn tells them "No, you bow to <b><i>no one.</i></b>" And the hobbits slowly stand back up, and Aragorn bows to them, and the entire population on the terrace bows to them as well. Brian is the hobbits. The TRUE hero of the story. The one who had it the worst, the one who miraculously survived, the one who accomplished the task, and yet the one who is still inexplicably so humble. I am Aragorn (this part of the analogy doesn't fit quite so well, because I'm nothing special or so important as a king, but bear with me). The hobbits looked up to Aragorn, even from the beginning they knew he was different; similarly Brian has humbly looked up to me from the beginning. While my brother would be so quick to praise me to other people (equivalent to bowing to Aragorn), I wish so much to have people see the true greatness, which is in BRIAN himself and not me (equivalent to Aragorn telling them "you bow to no one").<br />
<br />
I really just want the world to see how wonderful he is. He's such a beautiful person, he honestly is, but he's so humble and so quiet about his own life. So, in my absolute and unabashed pride in him, I will be his advocate. My great love for him is a testament not only to how wonderful my brother is, but also how good our God is. First, God's love for us is so good and pure. Even when we hated God, He loved us. (even when I was the worst sister in the world, Brian sought me out and adored me as his big sister) We don't deserve God's love, but through His saving grace, we are free to accept it. (I couldn't accept my brother's love without forgiveness. I had to make things right with him [which was ridiculously simple, because he held no grudges] before I could even think about accepting his beautiful love). God has been so ultimately good to my family; to be able to celebrate Brian's 20th birthday is a blessing that none of us expected or even deserved. God gave us the miracle of my brother's life, but more importantly He gave us the miracle of the death and resurrection of His own son. God's great love for us was indeed SO great, that He would give His son as a way for us to claim His love. Whether my brother likes it or not, his story is one of inspiration; it's a story meant to be told, and not hidden away. And while my brother is still amazing, he's right; he's not the hero of the story here. It was all God.<br />
<br />
I'll end this with one of my most precious memories from last year. It was October, he had been re-hospitalized due to bizarrely high CPK levels. I was staying at the hospital with him, per his request, and it was my honour to oblige. It was about 2am, the room was completely dark. He quietly asked me "kristin, let's listen to some music on the ipad so I can sleep" I told him "sweetie, it's 2am, the lady is trying to sleep in the room next door... We can't listen to music tonight." Silence for a little while. "Kristin?" "Yes babycakes?" "........will you sing me a lullaby?" Silence again. I don't sing... I didn't know any lullabies, I didn't know what to do. The chair I was sleeping in faced the window looking out over the city. I looked out into the dark city, took a deep breath, and softly began singing "Hey Jude" to him. I was scared, to me it sounded awful, how on earth would he be able to sleep through that?! Then after a while, I quietly sang "Yesterday" to him. Surprisingly, my singing skills had not improved at all, and this was a trainwreck as well. When I began to attempt singing "Strawberry Fields Forever", I looked back at him. He was sleeping, gently snoring. What touched my heart, though, was what I could just barely see: his face, dimly lit by the monitors and scans plugged into him, resting peacefully, with the sweetest, most angelic smile as he slept that you could ever hope to see. I can't sing. At all. But to him, the songs I sang him were perfect, soothing and sweet. And later that next day, I would be told enthusiastically by him "you should try out for American Idol". <br />
<br />~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~<br />
Brian, my dear, darling brother, happiest of birthdays to you! I really just want you to know that I am so so so beyond blessed and honoured and privileged to be your big sister. I want you to know that I truly do love you more than anything on the planet, and I want you to know that I'm proud of you. I'm so so proud of you, Brian. You've done so much more than I ever could, truly. I hope I can be as amazingly great of a big sister to you as you've been amazingly great as a little brother to me. God has used you in such incredible ways, my dear, and through you has taught me so many valuable life lessons. You're my inspiration, for everything I'm going to do; it's you, kiddo. It's all you. I love you to the moon and back, and can't wait to celebrate your 80th, 90th, and even 100th birthdays with you! (I know we can make it! :D) Brian, my babycakes, I adore you, and everything our great God has done through you and for you. <br />ALL my love,<br />
~Kristin<br />
<br />
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<br /></div>
That Portuguese Kidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18262726925945035370noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1911224505070767063.post-81440347934854957112013-02-18T00:45:00.000-08:002013-02-18T00:45:03.543-08:00Ladybug Man<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
As most businesses do, the place where I used to work had a lot of "usual" customers; people that would come in every day, or every week, and recognized the employees and had very casual acquaintanceships with them.<br />
<br />
I'll never forget, there was one customer in particular who would always come in while I was working. I guess he learned which car was mine (he was incredibly intelligent) and would only come in while I was working. He would also only be rung up for his purchases by me; he would wait specifically for me to ring him up. <br />
<br />
He was always dressed the same; button-down short sleeve shirt tucked into khaki pants. His face reminded me vaguely of William Hung; he had a sort of perpetual small smile on his face, and also had similar hair. Every time he would come in, he wore the same attire. I think he was an engineer, he said. He was very smart, and could figure out the total of his purchase before I even rang it up by calculating the taxes and CRV rates. Maybe that's an easy feat and I just don't know it because I'm terrible at math. I don't know, but it was sort of impressive, in a creepy are-you-a-robot kind of way. <br />
<br />
In the beginning when he first started coming in, conversation was kept to a minimum, if not altogether nonexistent. He would mumble to himself as he added up the total, making his robotic calculations. He would smile and hand me the total in exact change, take his receipt and things and leave. As time progressed, though, I guess he became intrigued with me. He started coming in more often, and became more personable, asking me how my day was and simple things like that during his transaction. He was very strange, almost disconnected with reality.<br />
<br />
Things became really odd when he would come in, and sort of hide behind the aisles and just watch me while I worked at the register. It was almost like a child playing peek-a-boo; he would conceal himself behind the aisle and then peer around the corner, and when I made eye contact quickly duck back.<br />
<br />
One time, he came in, and just simply got his things and came to the counter, without playing his usual odd game of hide and seek. He put his things on the counter and I proceeded to ring them up. I noticed him digging around in his pocket; I just assumed that he was fishing around for the exact change that he would inevitably pay with. I looked up at him, told him the total, which I'm sure he already knew. He hadn't been mumbling to himself, though; he hadn't been calculating anything this time... He was even more disconnected from reality than usual. Finally, he produced something from his pocket that I would never ever forget...<br />
<br />
He looked me right in the eyes, smiled his odd little smile, and, while maintaining eye contact with me, raised his closed fist slowly to my eye level, and then opened his hand... On the tips of his fingers was a tiny red ladybug. As if it sensed some cue from the pulsing blood in his fingertips, the ladybug immediately took flight and flew off into the store. I just stood there staring at it, watching it leave the bizarre scene. The man never stopped staring at my face the entire time. Finally, I snapped back into reality, slowly and confusedly looked back into the man's eyes, searching for some explanation of the surreal and bizarre even that had just transpired. The man said in the strangest voice I've ever heard "make a wish..." and his mouth curled slightly into an even odder smile than usual.<br />
<br />
Slightly jarred, I told him what his total was. He payed with a credit card that day. He had never done that before. I handed him the receipt, he took his things without saying a word, and he left.<br />
<br />
I never saw him again after the ladybug incident. I'm not sure where he went, or what happened to him. Maybe he evolved into some kind of monster, parallel to his evolution as a customer, getting odder and odder until one day he broke the scale of oddity, his sanity flying off into the world in the form of a humble ladybug. </div>
That Portuguese Kidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18262726925945035370noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1911224505070767063.post-22918454696960828182013-01-17T02:22:00.001-08:002013-01-17T02:32:04.026-08:00Encounters With My Own Kind<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Today, I went to the beach. It's the middle of January; most kids are back in school, everyone's gone back to work, and it's a little known fact that beaches are, in actuality, even nicer in the wintertime than the more prominently assumed summer. So, despite everyone here in Los Angeles complaining about the "big freeze" as some are calling the unusually low temperatures, I decided to go to the beach today.<br />
<br />
I had no problem finding parking; the place was empty. Parked the car, dragged the beach blanket that's twice bigger than I am out onto the sand rather close to the shoreline, and set up camp. I laid down, closed my eyes, and began absorbing vitamin D and proceeded to meditate/drift off to sleep as the sun warmed my face, the cries of the gulls and snowy plovers created my lullaby, and the rhythm of the waves crashing to the shore soon matched that of my heartbeat.<br />
<br />
I was like that for quite some time, without incident. As I said, there was no one really around too much. Maybe 100feet away, an old man was fishing in the surf, trying to catch the little surf perch. The lifeguard leaned against the old wooden rail with the blue paint chipping off, looking out on the horizon; perhaps wondering what the future held in store for him, maybe questioning his life choices, maybe searching, looking across the waves, thinking fondly of his long lost love in another country, far across the ocean. Or he could have been thinking "Should I get Taco Bell or El Pollo Loco after my shift...". It's nearly impossible to tell what kinds of things one ponders while one is wearing sunglasses. <br />
<br />
So there I was. Sleeping on the big blanket. Secure in the knowledge that the enigmatic lifeguard was near, and the old fisherman was off catching dinner for himself; otherwise, alone. I enjoyed that, being alone. It was nice. So it went like that for at least an hour.<br />
<br />
At this point, I had drifted to sleep. The wind playing with the tendrils of my hair, the warm glow of the sun on my face, it put me to sleep. So I was there, sleeping. I heard a faint sound behind me, the sound of a few people shuffling through the sand. I figured to myself "Oh, a family has arrived. They're setting up camp behind me. That's fine." and went back to my sleepish state. I could hear snippets of whatever it was they were saying; sounded like they were speaking French. Interesting. I never looked back to see what they looked like; it really didn't occur to me to do that, for some reason. They were there, and it didn't bother me, so I went back to my meditational-sleep mode. Their voices were carried by the wind, carried far down the beach, away from my sun-warmed ears.<br />
<br />
A little while later, I was roused from my sleep when first, I heard many excited exclamations (in French) about something or other. Then, the tell-tale shuff-shuff-shuffling of people walking in sand. I just assumed they would be walking to the shoreline to dip their toes in the surf; I closed my eyes again. Well, the shuff-shuff-shuffling came to a halt, right at the edge of my blanket. What on earth could these people want... I very sleepily looked up to see what the matter was. What I saw was quite amusing to me.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://s7v1.scene7.com/is/image/JohnLewis/000368000?$product$" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" id="il_fi" src="http://s7v1.scene7.com/is/image/JohnLewis/000368000?$product$" style="padding-bottom: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px;" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">seersucker boxers. picture this material, but in SPEEDO form. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Three people. Apparently the people speaking French behind me were what appeared to be a mother and her two sons. Mother appeared to be maybe 50, but looked fabulous for her age, and was rocking a little black bikini. Two sons, one about 30, the other mid-twenties. Both sons were wearing seersucker speedos; one white and pale blue, the other white and some sort of reddish colour. The younger one, in the blue seersucker speedo, he was wearing some kind of straw hat fedora. I mused that this fashion must be big over in "The Motherland", because it was certainly odd garb to be wearing here. The younger one, the one in blue; he stepped forward a bit, and asked "parlez vous francais?"<br />
<br />
It took me a minute. I was still pretty much in sleep-mode, a bit groggy. And now I've got three French people asking me if I speak French. What on earth could they want... And why are they dressed like that...<br />
<br />
My well-thought out and supremely groggy response to his query? "Lo siento, solamente hablo <span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="es"><span class="hps">español e </span></span><span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="es"><span class="hps">inglés...." </span></span><br />
<span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="es"><span class="hps"><br /></span></span>
<span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="es"><span class="hps">Blank stares all the way round. </span></span><br />
<span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="es"><span class="hps"><br /></span></span>
<span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="es"><span class="hps"> Blue seersucker speedo boy seemed to be the spokesman for the group. He paused a moment, then said "English?" To which I only slightly more normally replied to with "Sure!".</span></span><br />
<span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="es"><span class="hps"><br /></span></span>
<span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="es"><span class="hps"> The three looked at each other and smiled, apparently greatly relieved to have established some form of communication. The mother rattled off something to the boys in French, which blue seersucker speedo son relayed to me, in very broken english. All three motioned emphatically toward the shoreline, indicating with pointed fingers a certain area of the ocean. Blue seersucker speedo said, with absolutely no confidence, "Ahhh... They are... whales?"</span></span><br />
<br />
<span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="es"><span class="hps"> I looked out to where they were indicating. A pod of dolphins was feeding not 20feet off the shoreline. I looked back up at the boy "Whales? Um no, those are dolphins... There's a pod of dolphins that feeds right off this shoreline every day. They're dolphins." The boy nodded his head, indicating that he understood at least some of what I said, then translated back to his mom and brother. A chorus of enlightened "ahhhhhhhh"s arose from the group. I smiled at them. They were greatly intrigued by the dolphin pod. After a minute or so of us all looking at the dolphins, I asked them, "So are y'all from France?" Mom and older brother nodded, and said "oui". Younger brother in blue seersucker speedo looked at me and asked "you? You are ahhh... from where?" I replied simply "Los Angeles". Again, the chorus of ahhhhhhhhhhh's arose. "Los Angeles" needs no translating into any language; a fact I'm rather proud of. </span></span><br />
<span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="es"><span class="hps"><br /></span></span>
<span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="es"><span class="hps"> The mother then began speaking to the younger brother, quite rapidly. The younger brother seemed reluctant to comply with whatever it was she wanted him to ask me. The lovely little mother seemed very insistent upon having her question answered, though. The younger brother in the blue seersucker speedo and straw fedora turned slowly back around to face me. He looked apologetically in my eyes, and said "We would want to know... ahhh... You are French?" </span></span><br />
<span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="es"><span class="hps"><br /></span></span>
<span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="es"><span class="hps"> This took me a while to understand. I thought it was just some more butchered English; a question that made sense to them but probably not to me. I repeated what I last said, "Ummm... I'm from Los Angeles... LA? Born there.". Confused looks on the boys' faces. The mother became more insistent; the younger boy turned again and asked "No, she wants know if you are french... Mother? Father? French?" Oh... I understood now, I thought. "Oh! You want to know if I'm French?" The chorus of "oui!" rose up emphatically. I paused for a second, pondering the strangeness of it all. I replied "...Yes, I am French. I'm French Portuguese. How did you guess?" Blue seersucker speedo boy turned around and translated all that to mom. A flurry of fluid French words, motions made around the eyes, then the "turn around" signal was made, indicating that he should turn around and tell me. "She say you have French eyes and..." here he motioned to his cheekbones, apparently not knowing the English term for it. I filled in for him "cheeks? cheekbones?" "OUI!" I smiled at them, they were so very happy to be having a conversation, it seemed. At this point, red seersucker speedo boy stepped forward and spoke for the first time to me. "You appear very French... The eyes, the how you said? cheekbones! very French. We thought it so when first we saw you." </span></span><br />
<span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="es"><span class="hps">This was intriguing, although not the first time someone has correctly identified my nationality. I replied with "Oh yeah? Thank you!" (not sure if it was INTENDED as a compliment, but I'm not sure what else to say in these situations). More French from mom. Both boys' faces reddened, both denied her request for translation. She insisted on having what she wanted said translated, so red seersucker speedo boy turned around and very reluctantly, very shyly said "our mother wishes to tell you you are most beautiful, and very French.". At this point, the three of us youngsters all turned red. The mom had a good laugh; we apparently must have looked funny, acting so awkward as we did. I turned directly to the mom, smiled, and said "oh, merci beaucoup..." They all applauded my attempt at french. I just sort of laughed it off and took a mock-bow. </span></span><br />
<span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="es"><span class="hps">Then I guess they had asked all of the questions they had for me, complimented me to their satisfaction, and they decided to go back to their towels. I bid them "Have a great day, take care, now!", smiled, and waved. They smiled and waved to me, and blue seersucker speedo boy said "you take care now...!" in an obvious copy of what I had just said. </span></span><br />
<span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="es"><span class="hps"><br /></span></span>
<span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="es"><span class="hps"> After the shuff-shuff-shuffling faded off into the distance along with the French conversations transpiring between the three, I smiled, closed my eyes and went back into sleep-mode. "you are most beautiful... very French..." those phrases echoed through my mind. What a sweet and well-intending mom. The poor boys, though. They had a bit of a hard time of it. Not only did they have to speak in broken English to me (which they were very self-conscious of), but the things they were having to translate were very awkward, indeed. I laughed slightly, and went back to sleep. </span></span><br />
<span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="es"><span class="hps"><br /></span></span>
<span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="es"><span class="hps"> In this weird experience, I had some kind of bizarre kindred connection with my fellow French people. They accepted me as French, even though I'm from LA. That was really very nice of them, I will treasure their words and willingness to accept an American as their own always. </span></span></div>
That Portuguese Kidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18262726925945035370noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1911224505070767063.post-64960342751697567532013-01-10T23:33:00.003-08:002013-01-10T23:42:04.409-08:00Mistake<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
When I was younger and just began working in the world, often times I'd stumble over my words, speak too softly, mumble, speak too fast, or just flat out say things that made no sense to normal people. This got me into trouble quite a few times with customers when I was first starting out working retail.<br />
<br />
The store that I worked at had a very strict no-pets-allowed policy that we were told rather emphatically to enforce. We sold food, and coffee and whatnots, so legally, we couldn't have animals in the store, except for service dogs. I always did a pretty decent job of enforcing that policy. Someone would walk into the store with a little dog (where I worked was a high-end neighborhood; most of our customers were the wealthy hollywood-wannabe types, with little dogs in their gucci bags and things like that), and I would politely but firmly tell them "Oh, I'm sorry, we can't have animals in the store... It's a legal issue with the state." and either they'd get really mad at me and I'd have to call the manager, or they'd simply comply and go away with their dog. Now, as I mentioned, the people that would typically try and bring little dogs into the store were the wealthy-types. Or they were the "natural" types of people, the ones that carry their children in slings around their bodies and only eat organic, gluten-free food and refuse to purchase anything produced in China. Back when I was working, there was a funny trend; there were these silly little harnesses that people could wear around their bodies, like the ones to carry babies, but instead, you could carry around your dog or cat. Many, many people tried to enter the store with these devices, carrying their little dogs (and once, a cat, I kid you not), and I'd have to give them the speech about the legal issues and blah blah blah. This was a very, very common occurrence back then. I'm not entirely sure if that's still a popular thing that still goes on these days, but back then it was an epidemic.<br />
<br />
One night, I was working the register (most interesting things happened when I was at the register), and this lady comes into the store with one of those harnesses strapped to her chest. The store was pretty much dead, as usual (this was when the economy first really tanked), so I was the only one at the front of the place. So the lady comes strolling in with one of those harnesses with what appeared to be a black pug residing within. I tell her "Oh, I'm sorry, ma'am, but we can't allow animals in here... The state won't allow it because we sell food products..." She looked at me very oddly, and said "Alright..." and continued walking into the store. I could tell this was gonna be a tricky battle, she seemed stubborn; she had a lot of gall to just keep on marching into the store like that after I so politely-yet-firmly explained our policy to her! Thinking that maybe she didn't hear me, I told her again. "I'm really sorry, ma'am, but we really can't have animals in here... We'll get into a lot of trouble if we let it happen, I'm sorry but I'll have to ask you to leave your dog in the car." This time, a bewildered look from the lady. Silence. She grabbed a cart while still making eye contact with me in what was probably one of the most uncomfortable silent moments in my career. She began wheeling it into the store. This was getting out of hand; at this point she wasn't merely breaking the rules, she was disrespecting ME, after I had worked so hard to be respectful to her whilst explaining the store policies! And that look she was giving me, that wasn't going to fly.<br />
<br />
"Ma'am, please... I don't want any trouble, but we simply cannot allow dogs in here! If this continues I'm afraid I'll have to bring the manager..." I was still polite, of course, but getting ever firmer in my pleas and explanations. Now, things got really scary. The lady, who was previously about 20+ feet away from the counter walked over to me. She asked me "What on earth are you on about?!" Just as I was about to explain the policies for the 4th time, I took a good look at her silly harness.<br />
<br />
The thing I thought to be a black pug turned out to be a black infant. Human. She had a small human in that harness. Granted, this was the most hideous child I'd ever laid eyes on; something was the matter with its face, it was very wrinkled and quite grotesque. I found out later that she had got the child from Africa; a legitimate African orphan with a myriad of various problems, one of which was apparently having the appearance of a pug or very small shar-pei dog.<br />
<br />
I looked up at her face; she was really quite angry looking, and I can't honestly blame her, I'd made an idiot of myself, and quite literally called her precious child a dog, and told her to take "it" out of the store. I had no idea how I was gonna get out of this one. I began with a feeble attempt: "Oh, my stars, I'm so sorry... I really thought your baby was a dog, you see there's this funny trend where people wear similar harnesses as yours, but instead of carrying babies they carry dogs and cats, and well the store has quite a strict policy on these things... can't have animals running around, because of legal issues with the state; we'd be absolutely shut down, and none of us would want that, right? Right... Well there's really no problem, since this isn't a dog, it's a real live human baby, so please feel free to shop around, I'm terribly sorry for all this, I thought it was a black pug..." And so it went, run-on sentence after run-on sentence. My face grew redder and redder throughout this train-wreck of an apology, while her face grew more and more confused, and then eventually amused. She could tell that I was genuinely in distress over this hideous mistake, that I truly felt awful, and like a class-A idiot.<br />
<br />
Her face slowly broke out into a smile, a kind, gentle, understanding smile. Not a "I hate you, you called my precious human baby a dog and told me to go leave it in the car" evil grin, but a sweet, reassuring smile. She then said "Oh, that's alright, sunshine. We all make mistakes. I do suppose it would make sense, if you say that so many people come in wearing dogs around themselves as though they were humans! It's only our nature to assume these things. You should commend yourself for your dedication to keeping up company standards, though.". This did nothing, I still felt like scum. "Ma'am, I want to tell you that I am SO. SORRY for insinuating that your baby was a dog. My eyesight is not that great, and from afar, well..." To which her reply?<br />
<br />
"Oh, no, don't stress over it! It's an unexpected sight, I get a lot of questions about little Dalili here. People are naturally curious about how a white woman [with dreadlocks] would come by such a dark-skinned child. Well, I adopted little Dalili from ::such and such:: orphanage in ::such and such African country:: a year ago". She then explained to me all the various conditions her Dalili had; it was really sad, but I knew the baby was in good and loving hands with this eccentric white lady. (The lady was one of those naturalists; she had long white dreadlocks, and she only purchased organic foods from me, and was apparently an avid believer in the wear-your-baby-in-a-sling sort of parenting). For quite some time later on during her transaction, after she had shopped around and gotten her goods, we talked about adoption, and orphans, and she regaled me with her tales of her work overseas, helping the starving children in Africa, and how it had so impacted her and changed her life, that she decided to adopt an orphan baby. Of course the subject of my own domestic adoption came up, in which she was very interested. As the transaction ended, she encouraged me to adopt foreign, if ever I decide to have kids. She said it was the most rewarding thing she's ever done, was to take care of Dalili and get her back to health. She laughed ever so slightly, and stared down at Dalili's face, almost scrutinizingly. She then looked back up to me, smiled, and said "You're right; I can see the pug now" and had a good, jolly laugh on it. I joined her in laughter, and apologized yet again for my stupidity. The naturalistic woman said "hey, no worries sunshine. Life happens, yeah? We're all laughing now and that's all that matters. You meant well; you have a very kind soul". Then she smiled her kind and genuine smile, and we said goodbye,<br />
<br />
I never saw Kate or Dalili again. But I certainly will never forget the debacle I had gotten myself into. I was so endlessly grateful that it ended in the way it did, and not with me being yelled at for my insolence and possible racism. Through my stupidity, I had inadvertently made a friend. Further proof to me that all things work out for the best in the end. </div>
That Portuguese Kidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18262726925945035370noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1911224505070767063.post-80825396184732420972013-01-10T01:55:00.001-08:002013-01-10T01:55:39.545-08:00Deceived<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
There was this one time when I was working retail. Well, there were many "this one time"s... but anyways. One time I was working the register, and this lady comes up to purchase whatever it was she was purchasing (I can't remember everything, you know). She was, to me anyway, quite obviously pregnant. Huge belly protruding, had that certain walk/swagger that pregnant women take on in the later months, seemed tired and worn out, hair done up messily in a do-rag type thing; all the usual signs. It was a quiet day, so it was just her and myself at the register. I decided to make small talk. It was a long transaction, because whatever it was she was buying, she was buying a lot of it. I asked her all the usual questions; if she found everything alright, how's your day, etc. Then I did a rather stupid thing. In some lapse of complete judgement, I asked her the dumbest question you can ever ask any stranger. Ever. I asked her "So, is it a boy or a girl? Or do you know?" and indicated towards her stomach.<br />
<br />
The look on this lady's face is something I'll never quite forget. Horror. Humiliation. Resentment. Anger. All of it, all rolled into one look on one face. Her reply after a few seconds of making this awful face?<br />
<br />
"I'm not pregnant".<br />
<br />
Now, I sort of wish I could have seen MY face at this point, because I'm quite sure that it was ten times more expressive than the hideous expression this lady had just made. I was horrified. Instantly, I felt a wave of shock and a jolt of humiliation and remorse shoot straight to my heart. I just about wanted to melt under the counter. How could I have been so STUPID?! Well, she really did look pregnant, but still; that's not something you ask a STRANGER. Ever. And now I was gonna pay for it.<br />
<br />
At this stage in the game, I finally managed to regain some mite of composure, enough to stammer "I'm so sorry, ma'am... Are you sure?"<br />
<br />
Another winning line from the world's dumbest cashier. I was pretty close to reaching for my boxcutter to just commit seppuku right there on the spot; anything to escape this disgraceful situation I'd gotten myself into. After I'd uttered that last line of brilliancy, I immediately realized that yet again, this was not something you say to anyone. Not strangers, not family, not friends, nobody. My hand flew to cover my mouth in embarrassment; what on earth had I gotten myself into here?! How could I be so continually idiotic? I tried again.<br />
<br />
"Oh, my stars... I'm so sorry, that's not what I meant at all... ::sigh:: I'm so so sorry, this is really just not going well for me, now is it..." I could feel my cheeks burning with the humiliation and sorrow for what I had just done to this poor, unassuming and non-pregnant woman.<br />
<br />
A few seconds went by. I was terrified; I thought she was going to cry. I thought I was going to cry. We stood there, me looking at her apologetically, her looking at me so hurt, so dejectedly...<br />
<br />
Then she burst out laughing. That's right, absolutely burst out laughing. Not a simple chuckle, not a small giggle; a big, beautiful, sassy, magnificently musical laugh that can only be produced by those people with excellent senses of humour and a great love of all things funny.<br />
<br />
Again, I wish I could have seen my face at this point. Confusion, most likely, and probably concern. I honestly thought that I had insulted her so badly that she had snapped, cracked; the poor woman had probably just absolutely snapped after battling obesity for 30+ years, probably had a childhood full of bullying for it, and here some cashier asks if she's pregnant? Yeah, i would crack, too. Instead of the usual crying or screaming kind of cracked, though, she was laughing.<br />
<br />
After this went on for some time, I very timidly asked her if everything was alright. Tears were now streaming down her face from laughing so hard. She slapped her hand onto my shoulder quite familiarly, and said to me: <br /><br /> "Oh girl, I just messin' with ya! Of COURSE I'm pregnant! Due next week! BUT YOU SHOULDA SEEN THE LOOK ON YOUR FACE!". Another fit of laughter. Wheels were furiously turning in my head, in an attempt to process what had just transpired. Not...fat... Is...pregnant...<br />
<br />
It finally clicked, I had been tricked pretty hard by this sassy lady. She was the sweetest soul, though. Excellent sense of humour. I give her mad props for that; she truly got me good. Warm as a ray of sunshine, she just kept on laughing, and I eventually joined her. I told her "My gosh, you got me GOOD. I was so scared!" To which she replied "Oh sugar, I'm sorry I scared you and did that to you, but I just can't resist a good opportunity like that! Once in a lifetime, y'know?" To which I said "No, no, it's quite alright; I had it coming, asking a dumb question like that!". The transaction eventually ended, tears streaming down both our faces from the crazy laughing fit. I handed her the receipt, she thanked me so much with all the good old fashioned southern hospitality in the world.<br />
<br />
As she walked out the door, she turned back, grinned real big and jovially said to me "It's gon' be a boy; his name will be Joshua Ray!" I smiled bigger than I had in a long time, and said "Congratulations! It's a beautiful name! You take care of yourself, ok?" "Sho' thing, sugar, you do the same!"<br />
<br />
We both waved, and she left. When she was gone, I slumped back against the counter, and just sighed. Dodged a bullet there, Chibz. Then I fell into another fit of laughter about the whole incident, which still happens when I think back on it, even now. <br />
<br />
</div>
That Portuguese Kidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18262726925945035370noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1911224505070767063.post-43383087252369733632013-01-06T18:31:00.001-08:002013-01-06T18:31:07.467-08:00Heartbreak<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
What is heartbreak?<br />
<br />
I think most people will agree that heartbreak is the state of emotional distress that occurs when one person deeply hurts, or "breaks the heart" of another person. Often, people will say "yes, he/she really broke my heart..." or "he/she is such a heartbreaker!".<br />
<br />
I'd like to challenge this idea.<br />
<br />
I don't think it's fair, or even really humanly appropriate, to allow or assign another human being the power to cause such emotional distress to another human being, at least not in the realm of "love". Why should someone else, equally vulnerable and weak as we are, be able to hold the power to destroy us emotionally by "breaking" our hearts? I don't want to live in a world where someone has that power over me. I don't want someone who is absolutely no better or worse than I am to be able to cause such destruction in my emotional life.<br />
<br />
So what is heartbreak, really, then?<br />
<br />
I would say that people don't break other people's hearts; people break their own hearts. When some person leaves another person, when some person cheats on their significant other, when some person tells another "it's not you, it's me...", when some person says "you're just not what I'm looking for", what's really happening there? We all assume that either that person is a jerk, or has commitment problems, or we may even say that they deserve better, and that's why they "moved on", that's why they broke the others heart.<br />
<br />
What about the person who got their heart broken? What do we assume about them? Either they must have done something wrong, or they were too boring, or they deserve better than to be stuck with a jerk like that, or maybe even that they deserved to have their life left in shambles for being so weak. Either way, we assume that the person is, indeed, heartbroken. They're in pain. They're the victim. We sympathize with them, we empathize with them, we even pity them.<br />
<br />
What if I were to suggest that the heartbroken person did it to themselves? What if we were to take the victimization process out of the entire ordeal. Then nobody's the "bad guy", nobody's the "victim", but everyone's on equal ground. Sure, the person that broke it off may legitimately be a jerk, they may have royally messed up with cheating, or lying, or any number of bad deeds. But maybe it was a good thing what they did. Maybe they did the other person a favor by leaving. Because, in reality, the "victim" is now free from living a life stuck with a jerk, or a cheater, or even simply someone that didn't truly love and appreciate them the way they deserve. The heartbreaker is no longer the bad guy.<br />
<br />
So does that make the heartbroken "victim" the bad guy? What did they do so wrong to wreak this emotional havoc on themselves, then? Maybe they didn't do anything at all. <br />
<br />
I'd like to postulate that people don't break other people's hearts, people break their own hearts. I believe that heartbreak occurs when someone fails to live up to someone else's standards. What happened with the two people where one cheated on the other? Why did the victim get hurt? It wasn't because the cheater has such human power to destroy another human being; the "victim" expected the person who cheated to be a decent person, and the cheater violated that expectation. What happened with the couple where one person decided to move on because "it just isn't working out"? One person expected the other to love them, in whatever way, and the other person failed to live up to that expectation. Heartbreak is about violated expectations.<br />
<br />
Is it wrong to have expectations for other human beings? Absolutely not. It's wrong to have NO expectations for other people. But is it wrong to be so utterly destroyed when someone violates our human expectations? Yes; I would say it is. It's normal to be hurt when someone deceives us, intentionally hurts us, cheats on us, etc. But to go so far as to say your heart is broken? Why would you want anybody to have that power over you? What makes them so much better, so much more powerful than you that they have the RIGHT or ABILITY to break your heart? Absolutely nothing. Nobody should have that power over another human being. This transcends social class, race, religion, age, and everything else. We are all PEOPLE, equally fallen, equally made; nobody has the power to destroy anyone else emotionally. We as people shouldn't ALLOW anyone to do this to us. Temporary hurt is alright and healthy, but heartbreak is not. Once we realize that what we're feeling is simple betrayal of our human expectations, we can overcome that sickening fear that we're not good enough for that other person; we're no longer the victim. Would we really want it to work out with someone that cheats, someone that doesn't love or appreciate us as we deserve, someone that thinks they're better than us when in reality, they're nothing more or less than we are? Heartbreak is when we put all our eggs in one basket, all our trust in the ever-deceitful, ever-so-fallible human race, and we're inevitably crushed when reality crashes upon our heads and we're made to see that the person we thought was so perfect and magnificent and wonderful, well, that person is human, too. Heartbreak is NOT when one person is so much better than the other, and they decide to bring down their mighty foot and crush the heart of the weaker and lesser human.<br />
<br />
So how should we cope with heartbreak? We need to realize that when we're so hurt by another human, that that's just the thing; it's another human. Of course they're going to mess up. Of course they'll betray our expectations. They're human. No one is so much higher than anyone else as to be able to transcend human nature and NOT hurt someone else. So when we feel like our hearts have been broken, we need to step back and analyze the situation, and understand that we're no lesser, and the person is no greater, than humanity in its very essence. We all make mistakes. We all hurt one another. Once we can come to terms with this, we can take rest in knowing that it isn't by some fault of our own that we find ourselves hurt, it's just "life", it's just humanity. Once we take away the power that we assign others to be able to hurt us so deeply, we can heal so much faster.<br />
<br />
How can we PREVENT heartbreak? Some people will say it's inevitable. I would disagree; getting hurt is inevitable, but heartbreak is not. Everyone will get hurt by another person at some time; similarly, everyone will hurt another person as well. But heartbreak; that absolute and utter emotional destruction caused by putting all our faith in humans and being betrayed, that can be avoided. Simply don't put all of your hope, faith, and love into humanity. Why fully trust something so flawed, so weak, as humanity? You're setting yourself up for disappointment. So don't do it; don't put all your eggs in humanity's basket. I'm not suggesting that you close yourself off from humanity, that you never trust any person ever again. I'm just saying that we shouldn't place such high expectations on people when it's impossible for anyone to live up to them all the time. Trust in something infallible, something not capable of deceit and cheating and failure. Something that won't, that can't, let you down. Put your faith in that first, and humanity second. For me, that something is God. To me, God is that infallible, loyal, eternally loving "something" that I put my trust in primarily. Once I came to understand that humans are humans, and that we're all equal, all in the same boat, it became so much easier to cope with my betrayed expectations. Nobody's the bad guy, nobody's the victim anymore. Everyone is equal, nobody's better or worse than anyone else anymore. We're all just humans, and once we realize that humans make mistakes, humans hurt other humans, then the blame and responsibility aspects of "heartbreak" can be removed, and we can heal much more adequately and quickly while taking solace in the Rock in our lives, the infallible, incapable-of-deceit Entity that will never betray us. For me, as I said, that Entity is God. There's nothing quite so amazing as being able to take peace and comfort from the One that created the universe, even when times seem impossibly hurtful, even when my heart feels so broken by the flaws of humanity. I would encourage anyone and everyone to try and seek Him in times of trouble. But at the very least, don't have such impossible expectations for humanity; we're all irrevocably flawed, we're all human. Don't let anyone break your heart; it's not their right, it's not even their ability. </div>
That Portuguese Kidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18262726925945035370noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1911224505070767063.post-40084089972798981882012-12-29T02:31:00.003-08:002012-12-29T02:31:45.123-08:0010 Ways to make a Brian Smile<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
So you want to make Brian smile and/or laugh. You long for the sunshine thrown forth from his radiant smile. You yearn to hear the melodious laughter that could only have been composed by angels. You just want to see his soulful blue eyes squint up, his nose crinkle, and his hands fly up to modestly cover his laughter. Here are a few easy ways to elicit the pure and simple joy my brother exudes when he's happily laughing.<br />
<br />
1.) Sing to him. No, not like a lullaby; that will only produce a polite and gentle smile. Sing your heart out to him. Sing really loudly. But most importantly, replace disyllabic nouns with his name. For example, "Firework" by Katy Perry (I know...) is a surefire way to make him grin. Instead of saying "Baby you're a firework", you say, with all confidence, "Brian you're a firework!". Or, another good one, "The Way You Are" by Bruno Mars; instead of "because you're amazing just the way you are", you sing "cuz Brian's amazing, just the way he is". This is obviously a more complex lyrical re-structuring, but I'm sure you can figure something out. The best place to engage in singing to make him smile is in highly public places.<br />
<br />
2.) Make a scene. Be tactful about this; Brian doesn't enjoy attention, but he does get amused when you involve him in funny stunts in public where YOU are the focus and are simply including him in your shenanigans. For instance, one of my favorites to enact in semi-public places: Brian typically will walk behind you. While having long legs, he enjoys taking his time, and will NEVER be caught rushing. When he's walking behind you, turn around a few times, looking nervously at him. (this in itself will make him laugh). Then, say in a voice loud enough to be heard, "Stop following me.". He'll laugh at this. Turn around again while still walking, and say "This is not a laughing matter, sir. You need to STOP following me". After a few more steps, stop walking, turn around, and say very firmly "STOP IT, ESTEBAN! I DON'T LOVE YOU ANYMORE! GO HOME, LEAVE ME ALONE!!!" At this point, he'll be in riotous laughter. You should stop the stunt now and go give him a bear hug in order to reassure the people standing by listening to this madness that you do, indeed, not only know him, but also love him very much.<br />
<br />
3.) Walk up to him and tell him you love him. But don't be sentimental about it. Walk up to him in a businesslike manner, as if you're about to engage him in a serious conversation. Look him in the eyes, and firmly say "Hey". He'll most likely giggle and avert his eyes. Tell him "Look at me." More laughter. "No, look at me. Look at my face". At this point, he'll be giving you eye contact, and trying to contain his laughter. "I need you to know something". He'll nod his head and continue stifling his laughter. "No, LISTEN to me. This is serious. This isn't a laughing matter." He'll be basically crying with laughter now. "I need you to know that I love you. No, pay attention. Brian, I love you. Don't you DARE ever forget that". Now you smile and act like none of that just happened. He'll be cracking up, and he'll quietly say that he loves you too. Now give him a bear hug.<br />
<br />
4.) No matter what day it is, tell him "happy birthday!". Even if it isn't his birthday (there's a large chance that it won't be) he'll smile and say "thank you". While this doesn't elicit laughter, it will amuse him, and it's especially good if you follow it up with "JK I know it's not your birthday. But I still love you". Always tell him that you love him; he's a precious treasure and deserves to be constantly reminded of it.<br />
<br />
5.) Sing with him. This is different than #3, although you can still incorporate the element of the disyllabic noun replacement. Turn on a song he likes, turn it on loud. Proceed to sing loudly, like a maniac. Look at him while singing loudly, he'll likely laugh, then join in with you. He may even play air guitar if you get into it enough.<br />
<br />
6.) Show him pictures of pugs. He simply adores pugs. Pugs wearing clothes, pugs at pug parties, pugs with their tongues out, old pugs, baby pugs, white pugs, black pugs, sleeping pugs, pugs doing stunts, any kind of pug; show it to him. He'll grin really big, and probably laugh. He loves pugs.<br />
<br />
7.) Tell him to calm down. There's never really a moment when Brian ISN'T calm, so that's why this is hilarious to him. When he's sitting there, quietly watching TV and doing nothing, say firmly "hey, you need to calm down, sir." He'll laugh. Take it up a notch "hey, you're out of control. You need to get a hold of yourself. Calm down." More laughter. End with firmly saying to him "Sir, you need to check yourself before you wreck yourself! CALM. DOWN." He'll be cracking up, and at this point you should smile and laugh with him, because that was pretty funny.<br />
<br />
8.) Tell him you love him. But be hyperbolic about it. Brian is literally most likely the last person in the universe that actually appreciates the perfection of hyperbolic speech. Honestly, he would so much more appreciate a good hyperbolic complement than if someone were to hand him a billion dollars. Assure him that he's the best person to ever live. Ever. Tell him that his eyes are the most gorgeous and luminous jewels in the world. Tell him that his smile is the most perfect and wonderful smile of all time, and that it's literally better than all the puppies and kittens in the world. Go ahead and use the word "literally" liberally; that's the beauty of hyperbole. This sort of goings-on will not only evoke a warm smile and laugh, but occasionally, if you do it exactly perfectly enough, you may get his cheeks to turn red.<br />
<br />
9.) Dance. Dance with him, dance around him, dance while walking in front of him. If you make any sort of a scene like this, it makes him happy. He doesn't like to dance, though. But he likes to watch YOU dance and make a fool out of yourself. So do that. He'll enjoy it, and laugh immensely.<br />
<br />
10.) Tell him you're going on some banal errand that he'll have no interest in going with you. But make him come with you, even though he won't be getting anything out of it, tell him you just want to spend some "quality time" with him. He'll usually comply; he'll take his sweet time getting ready to go, but he'll go with you. Get in the car, tell him the errand you're running. i.e. "We're going to Von's. We simply don't have enough cans of green beans in the house, we need to pick up some more." He'll agree to that, somewhat bewildered, but he'll go along with your bizarre errand to obtain even more cans of green beans. DON'T ACTUALLY GO TO VONS TO GET GREEN BEANS. Don't go to Von's at all. That is not the point of this whole scheme. Make sure you drive PAST Vons, though. As you drive past Von's, he'll be concerned, and gently tell you "oh, you missed it... Von's is back there..." He won't be annoyed or frustrated by your apparent lack of navigational skills. He won't be amused. He'll want to help you get back on course. But no, say nothing. Drive on, on past Von's. Let him come to his own conclusions. "Oh, I guess we'll just go to Ralph's, then. That's okay." Say nothing. Pull into a parking lot for any fast food restaurant, at this point, he gets it. Excitement is mounting within him. He says, "wait... WE'RE GOING TO MCDONALD'S?!?!?!?!" To which you simply reply: "I thought it would be a nice time for us to spend together. I missed you a lot, and I want to catch up. Let's sit down, eat your favorite food, and just be together. ::smile:: " Delighted clapping and laughter will follow this. He will come up and hug you very tight. For a moment, though, a dark cloud appears on his brow. You ask "What's wrong, love?" He'll tell you he has no money to pay for us. You say "This one's on me, sweetcakes. My treat. You deserve it!" Here he will employ a bear hug and then go back to clapping. Tell him you love him, straight up just tell him that you love him, and are grateful to have him in your life. He'll very genuinely return the sentiment.<br />
<br />
:::::note::::: Unless you are me, these techniques will most likely disturb him, or he'll ask you "how much did my sister pay you to do this?" So, the ultimate warning: DO NOT ATTEMPT UNLESS YOU ARE HIS KRISTIN :) <br /><br />I love making my brother smile, so much. That smile is priceless to me, his laughter is like music to my ears. His happiness is my eternal joy. I would die a thousand deaths just to ensure that his life would always be healthy and happy.(And that's not me being hyperbolic!) It is my hope and desire that I can bring happiness and laughter into his life at least once a day. Most importantly, I truly do need him to know how much I love and appreciate him. Every day, I grab him, hold him close, and tell him I love him. Flattered, he will blush and smile, and then, best of all, he embarassedly mumbles back "i...love...you...too..." I then pull his head close, and kiss his forehead, fringed by his dark blonde hair, pull him back, and simply say "good. I'm glad" and smile. He'll smile back, and we'll go about our day. But a day seems incomplete without that tender transaction of words between a brother and his biggest fan in the world, the person that loves him the most, the girl that loves her brother more than she loves herself; a sister so utterly and completely humbled to be blessed with this amazing young man for her brother, a sister that would do anything just to see this brother smile, a sister that cannot imagine a day without her Brian in her life; a day is not complete before the sister tells the brother "hey, I love you, and I thank God every single day that you're alive, and that you're my baby brother. I'm so honored and blessed to be able to be your big sister. But I love you so much, and I will do my best to always love and protect you, no matter what happens. And don't you dare forget it". Not until that transaction has transpired can it be called a day. </div>
That Portuguese Kidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18262726925945035370noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1911224505070767063.post-6435061642401882282012-12-16T23:21:00.003-08:002012-12-16T23:21:45.784-08:00Paul Simon<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Everyone remembers their first CD. Or cassette, or beta, or LP, or what have you. I remember my first CD. Someone from my dad's work had given me a walkman CD player at the tender age of 5. I had nothing to put in the player, so I looked through the few CD's my mom had. Billy Raye Cyrus. No. Phantom of the Opera soundtrack. No. Beauty and the Beast soundtrack. No. Sandi Patti. No. Random CD of piano music. Ehhhh. Paul Simon. HECK YES. I listened to the entire CD (Graceland) countless times on that walkman. I loved everything about it. Mom eventually "gave" me the CD, and I had my first album. Paul Simon's "Graceland".<br />
<br />
Now, I love all the tracks on that album (even still today), but one of my favorites has always been "You Can Call Me Al". Something about the intro, something about that bass, something about the lyrics, something about that SONG has always just drawn me in. I love it. Always have, always will. The chorus still gets stuck in my head, sometimes. "If you'll be my bodyguard, I can be your long lost pal! I can call you Betty, and Betty when you call me, you can call me Al!" (I still remember singing this at the top of my lungs as a young child. [I still sing this at the top of my lungs to this current day]).<br />
<br />
One day, several years ago, I was working at my place of employment. It was an extremely, excruciatingly slow day, I recall. The only people working were my boss, one of my coworkers, and myself. I was working the register, my coworker was off stocking shelves in the back of the store, and my boss was working in the back office. Since I was stuck at the register, I really couldn't do too much. I had already cleaned the surrounding area, organized the drawers, cleaned the workstations, etc. My boss had delegated the most asinine task of cleaning the register keyboards. Not just taking a cloth and wiping them down, mind you. He instructed me to pry up all the individual keys, clean the lint from under them, and scrub each and every key in a bucket of water until they were clean. Not having anything else particularly better to do, I did what he requested. I must have been too busy scrubbing the keys to notice when a customer walked in, because when he got to the register, it completely took me of guard and I nearly jumped out of my skin. (Note: I only cleaned one key at a time; I'm not so daft as to take the entire lot of keys off of the keyboard; I'd never remember the correct order to replace them in. Just thought I'd mention that).<br />
<br />
At the time of the customer's arrival, I remember I was scrubbing the "B" key. It was particularly darkened with gray sludge, as I recall. As the customer began putting his things on the counter, I replaced the now-clean "B" key back on the keyboard, where it got stuck and promptly caused a line of "bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbb" to appear on the little screen until I could pry it up again. While I was busy with all of that nonsense, the customer finished putting his things on the counter. After I had finished fixing the keyboard, I looked up and apologized to him for the delay. He met my gaze, laughed, and assured me that it was quite alright. <br />
<br />
Normally, I would be incredibly timid with male customers my own age. (At the time I believe I was 18 or 19). But something about this guy made me feel at ease. He had dirty blonde hair, dark rimmed glasses, and a very friendly smile. He had quite a laid-back, yet fun-loving, aura to him. The closest thing I can compare him to is the character Tombo from "Kiki's Delivery Service", pictured below. He had a striking resemblance to him, both in personality and appearance. Momentarily I pondered if this guy had modeled himself after Tombo. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcYxD75hBGtjgvgHN36j0JknV2TuIaAlUIqpwD7qsmGsStSILXdkGWjVVJ8tUZtzRvDNPmeWL7xwqeAI841wJ-YBQeyXgpQ5pogaA71XB0bhO3yu8ANhkL93g8Kkg45SH3RJUNCcvVF3A/s1600/_tombo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcYxD75hBGtjgvgHN36j0JknV2TuIaAlUIqpwD7qsmGsStSILXdkGWjVVJ8tUZtzRvDNPmeWL7xwqeAI841wJ-YBQeyXgpQ5pogaA71XB0bhO3yu8ANhkL93g8Kkg45SH3RJUNCcvVF3A/s1600/_tombo.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tombo, from Kiki's Delivery Service</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Definitely not the sort of guy that girls would be chasing after, but he was adorable in an awkward sort of way.<br />
<br />
I absentmindedly asked him if he had found everything alright as I began ringing up his purchases. The counter was covered in packages of Japanese candy. "A man after my own heart", I thought to myself, amused, and now hungry. He replied "Oh yes, I know exactly where you guys keep the good stuff!" and grinned broadly. I found myself enjoying this guy's company. Not in a "I'd like to be your girlfriend!" kind of way, but in a "Hey, you know what? You're alright by me. Let's be pals." kind of way. He seemed harmless, too. Very friendly, but not in the usual flirtatious way. Deciding to make small talk, I asked him what his favorite flavor of "Hello Panda" was, as he was buying 3 different flavors of it at the time. He told me he had a soft spot for the strawberry ones, but actually preferred "Koala's March" to "Hello Panda". My gosh, do I EVER share the same sentiment! Koala's March is infinitely better than Hello Panda, hands down. Alas, the store only sold Hello Panda, though. He asked if we ever carried KM, I told him "sadly, no; we only have Hello Panda. I just have to make do and eat this on my break" and smiled. Sensing my sincerity and understanding on this topic of Asian snacks, the conversation carried on for a while. Eventually, I had rung up all of his food, and the register prompted me to ask for his email address in order to register him in the mailing list system. I hated to ask him for it, I really did; he was such a nice boy, I hated to seem so impersonal as to ask him for permission for my company to spam his email with ads and offers. Nonetheless, I was a decent employee, and put work first, so I asked him. He told it to me, it was something along the lines of "alansomething@yahoo.com". I said "so your name's Alan, huh?" just trying to make small talk. This guy amused me; he was easy to get along with, and it had been a long and dull day. I figured I should take the opportunity to enjoy human interaction while I still had it. He replied "Yeah, I'm Alan, but you can call me 'Al'". Without even thinking about this, for some reason, I said "Well, then. You can call me 'Betty'".<br />
What on earth are the chances of any NORMAL person my age understanding that reference? I had just set myself up to look like a complete idiot, and probably having to explain the song I had just referenced.<br />
<br />
He smiled his broad grin, then looked a little confused. I saw his eyes dart towards my apron, then quizzically back up to my face. He said "But your name-tag says 'Kris'..." My face reddened, I took a breath, about to explain the reference, when his eyes lit up behind his dark-rimmed glasses. "Wait a sec! Did you just reference Paul Simon?!" He looked at me expectantly, almost urgently, awaiting my answer. I said "Yes, yes I did! I'm glad you got that reference!". We both smiled, then laughed for a while. He told me that he LOVED Paul Simon, and greatly respected him as an artist. I told him I felt the same way.<br />
<br />
The racket of the printer spitting out the receipt interrupted our blissful connection over Paul Simon, and our discussion of favorite tracks from "Graceland". I reluctantly tore it off, and handed it to him. He asked to borrow a pen for a second, I obliged him. He scribbled something on the bottom of the receipt, tore it off, then handed it to me. It was his phone number. I looked up at him, he just smiled, sideways, and just a tad coyly, and he said "In case you ever need a bodyguard", and winked. I laughed and laughed, and reciprocated with "I'm actually in the market for a long lost pal..." and winked back at him. He grinned jovially, and said "see ya later, Betty!" and I said "Take care of yourself, Al".<br />
<br />~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~<br />
<br />
I lost Al's number. Which is a shame, because I actually would have loved to get to know the guy beyond the few minutes we shared during his transaction. He came in one other time while I was working; we parted the same way as we did before. I never saw him again after that. The second time, he referenced "Diamonds on the Soles of Her Shoes". I asked him to take me dancing, he said we'd just end up sleeping in a doorway. I never saw him again after that.<br />
<br />
Al, if you're out there, I hope you know you're fantastic. And I fondly remember our short conversations and references to the genius that is Paul Simon. ^_^ <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
That Portuguese Kidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18262726925945035370noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1911224505070767063.post-67618756332244755292012-12-10T00:25:00.000-08:002012-12-10T00:25:22.896-08:00Strange Boy<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
As most of you probably know by now, I love taking the Los Angeles Subway. It's cheap, time-saving (usually), and you encounter so many different and interesting people. I know I've "showcased" a few of the more...colorful... types of people that I've encountered on here before, but this time I want to talk about an entirely different sort of experience I had. This one was different than any other I've ever had on the subway or metro... This was surreal, and entirely inexplicable, and it's worthy of a post on here.<br />
<br />
About a year or so ago, my younger brother and I were on the subway, en route to Little Tokyo for a bowl of ramen. Now, prior to taking the subway, we first have to arrive in North Hollywood, which we accomplish by taking the Orange Line. At the time this story occurred, the new stops in Chatsworth didn't exist yet, so we boarded the Orange Line at Warner Center, which was originally the first stop of the Orange Line. So that meant that we had spent about an hour on the Orange Line before arriving to the Subway. (Nothing of real interest occurred on the ride on the Orange Line this time around). So, we get to the Red Line (subway) at last. We board the train, but since we were a little late, we had to scramble on board. After nearly getting decapitated by a closing door (yes, this happens to me frequently on these excursions), we made it into the packed train car. Obviously, there were no seats to be had by this point, so we made our way to the center pole. I wrapped my arms around the pole and held myself close to it. My brother, who, although being 2.5 years younger than I am, is about 6ft tall, grasped the pole with one long arm above my head.<br />
At this point, I was sleepy. Subway rides are practically the equivalent to the Poppy Field in the "Wizard of Oz"; almost instantaneously upon setting foot in a train car, I begin to fall asleep. Now you can imagine that it's difficult to sleep in a standing position while clinging to a pole in a car full of people. Not to mention fear of pick-pockets. So I clung closely to the pole, with my brother standing behind me, arm over my head, standing in close proximity in order to protect me. I turned my head up to see his face, got his attention, and notified him of my intent to sleep on the pole, and instructed him to be on the lookout for any funny-business, and told him to watch my stuff if he could. He vehemently agreed, apparently honoured by his new position of being my "bodyguard". I knew I was in good hands, so I drifted off. We had a long ride ahead of us; our stop was the second to last on the Red Line, which meant I had ample time to sleep. I closed my eyes, and allowed myself to drift off as the telltale signs of the train taking off began to stir.<br />
First, there's this sort of exhaust sound. Presumably that's just the engines getting started or something of the like. Then the lights sort of flicker on. (This has little effect on the actual lighting situation; the lights are very dim and almost yellowishly dull). Then, a woman's voice comes on the intercom, pre-recorded of course. "Doors are now closing". A little bell dings twice, the doors shut, just as the robot woman warned us of. The car shudders, then starts up. It slowly lurches forward, the whirring of the motors and engines creating a sort of dull, mechanical lullaby, percussed by the buzz of the electric lighting. It was to this mundane, banal lullaby that I fell asleep for a while.<br />
About 2 or 3 stops in, the car slowly came to a stop. I'm not entirely sure why I awoke upon this arrival, but I looked up as the car pulled up to the stand, my eyes adjusting to the dull lights now contrasted with the fluorescent lights of the station itself. I noticed something strange, something almost surreal, as the car came to a full stop... A boy, or maybe a young man, seemingly ageless, standing on the platform.<br />
Now there are typically many many different boys, guys, men, etc., on any given platform at any given time. Never before had one stood out so starkly to me. This boy, this being, he had the kindest face of any person I have yet to encounter in my life. I glanced at him momentarily, not wanting to gawk. He smiled the gentlest, most sincere smile, and tipped his fedora-type hat to me. I blushed, put my head back down, and attempted to go back to sleep, figuring that he would board the train and take the single open seat that had just been vacated by the old lady who had been previously snoring.<br />
I rubbed my eyes with my left hand, while I continued to grasp the pole with my right. I let my left arm drop to my side, tired from clinging to the pole as I had been. I closed my eyes, fully intending to sleep again until our stop arrived. After about a minute or so, again, the robotic voice comes over the intercom "Doors closing!" ::ding ding:: "Next stop, such-and-such station". By this point, i was half asleep again, not paying attention to the next stop signal. After the train had begun its course again, about a minute in, I felt a warm hand slip into mine.<br />
I drowsily looked up, turned around to confront my brother on this uncharacteristic and bizarre display of affection. I was going to tell him "you're doing fine protecting me, but don't you think this is a bit much?". But before I could utter anything, I glanced at the hand so softly placed in my own, I followed the arm attached to the hand up... It didn't belong to my brother, which was somewhat of a relief. But what was this, what kind of forward stranger gets onto a train and holds hands with a sleeping girl?<br />
The slender arm was encased by a light blue long sleeve... The arm was attached to a shoulder, about level with my eyes. The shoulder led to a neck, and the neck to a face... What on earth. My heart leapt to my throat; the angelic boy from the platform, the arm, the shoulder, the neck, the face, and the warm, soft hand... All belonged to him.<br />
Our eyes met. I scanned his face, at a loss for words. He had the most lovely complexion I've ever seen; it was fair, but not pale, with the slightest misting of light freckles delicately arranged over the bridge of his nose and just cresting his rosy cheeks. His hair was the color of the golden straw that grows on the hills around here during summer. He wore a most interesting hat; it appeared to be some sort of straw fedora, which ordinarily I would find completely odd, but he wore it so well. The way his cheek bones were set made him appear so boyish, so kind... Even in the hideous lighting, this boy appeared radiant, almost glowing.<br />
After scanning his face for any sense of his intentions, my eyes met with his again. His eyes were perhaps the most intriguing. Dark brown, like the color of freshly ground coffee, but with almost a rust tinge to them... Perhaps the most adequate description of the color of his enigmatic eyes would be something akin to cherrywood, although entirely more full of life than that. I searched his eyes for some motive, some intention, but I could find none. He was looking deeply into my own eyes as well, but didn't seem concerned as I was with motives. He smiled ever so slightly at me, almost reassuringly. We held our gaze for much longer than I would with anyone. I have never seen such kind and honest eyes in anyone before. His eyes were devoid of deceit, greed, lust, violence, and every other form of malignant human intent. They were pure, they were innocent. They were very rare.<br />
After this searching of faces occurred, as he smiled ever so gently at me, I could find no words, no objection to this bizarre scenario. I smiled at him, my cheeks flushed with confusion and slight embarrassment, and I did something strange then.<br />
I lowered my head, which is typical response for me after prolonged periods of eye contact. But this time, it wasn't out of shame, confusion, or awkward self-awareness. This time, I lowered my head out of contentment. I grasped the pole with my right arm as the train continued on, and my left hand still contained the hand of my new companion.<br />
Silently, we traveled on through the corridors and tunnels, standing on the shuddering floor of the car. I shut my eyes and smiled, still holding the strange boy's hand.<br />
A few stops later, the train slowly came to a stop at another platform. I felt the slight hand slip out of our gentle grasp. I opened my eyes, and looked up just in time to see the strange boy departing. He exited the train, without saying a word. He turned back, smiled his gentle smile at me one last time, and slowly waved to me as the train lurched forward, embarking to its next stop. I smiled back at him, and returned his gesture. He doffed his cap, and bowed slightly, then looked up with his kind eyes gleaming, the apples of his cheeks flushed, his amber-coloured hair now slightly tousled. I just looked at him and smiled, waving goodbye, knowing I would never encounter this ethereal character again.<br />
My brother looked down at me and asked "what just happened..." and I looked back up at him and said "I'm not very sure... But it was nice". <br />
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~<br />
<br />
To this day, I can't entirely explain this event. Normally, I wouldn't tolerate holding anyone's hand on a subway. I wouldn't tolerate someone looking deeply into my eyes, searching my soul like that; I would avert my eyes and try to avoid that person, awkwardly. And, if anyone tries that type of thing, I would normally say something to them. <br />
This entire encounter, not one word was shared between the strange boy and myself. Maybe that's what made it okay. Maybe that's what made it beautiful.<br />
I can't explain my connection with this strange boy, either. It certainly wasn't one of attraction; I had no notion of flirting with him, and neither did he with me. There was no real intent even, for friendship... No words were spoken, nothing about this experience was made complex by the use of the human language. There was no need involved, either. He didn't want money, he didn't want to hit on me, he didn't have any ulterior motives. And neither did I.<br />
In those moments, while we silently held hands and enjoyed the subway ride together, it's as though we transcended the social norms of humanity. Neither of us wanted or needed anything from the other. We simply and silently formed trust between us, and lived that moment in the most beautiful and comfortable silence I have ever experienced with a stranger. We enjoyed simple human companionship, perhaps as it's meant to be, and then parted ways, with no sadness, no regrets, only a beautiful and lovely memory of the simple and short time we spent together, enjoying our silent, simple companionship. <br /><br /> This all sounds so odd, but truly, this is one memory that I will cherish forever. This is the standout memory I have with regards to the most silently salient experience with a stranger. And I will treasure it always. <br /><br /> To my strange-boy with the straw coloured hair: if you're out there, I hope you're doing well. I hope your life is as beautiful as your soul is. And may you never stop giving people like me hope in the human race. </div>
That Portuguese Kidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18262726925945035370noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1911224505070767063.post-1139886539322348542012-12-07T00:45:00.001-08:002012-12-07T00:45:14.560-08:00Arachnaphobia vs. Paranoia. <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
What do most people think when they see a large spider while they're in the shower? Probably something along the lines of "OH MY GOSH KILL IT KILL IT NOW!!!!!!!!!!!!!" Or, maybe they're a screamer, creating a scene rivaled only by that infamous one in "Psycho". Perhaps they just get down to business, and silently kill the thing in a rush of adrenaline-fueled terror. They could just throw water on it in hopes that a sudden deluge will cause the monster to reel in its foul appendages, curl into a ball of horrid arachno-meat, and simply wash down the drain.<br />
<br />
What do I think when I see a huge spider in the shower?<br />
"I hope that's not one of those government-run arachno-cams..."<br />
<br />
Now you must be saying to yourself, "Chibi! I thought you were a semi-normal, reasonable person! Why on earth would you entertain that crazy notion that the government is watching everyone with cameras everywhere, especially with cameras hidden in the form of spiders?!" And the answer to that is that I don't totally believe the whole government-big-brother conspiracy theory. Not totally. Now, where would I get a silly notion such as the one mentioned above? I'll tell you.<br />
<br />
One time, on the subway (all crazy stories start like this, on the subway. That's how you know it'll be crazy, because it was on the subway.), I was sitting next to this homeless guy. That's fine, that kind of thing doesn't bother me. The guy then turns to me, though, and of course that's when things got interesting. He asked me what I thought of spiders. I told him ordinarily I'm not too concerned with them. To which he responded, quite enthusiastically, "But spiders are the things to watch out for! You can't take them too lightly!" At this point I assume he's an arachnophobe, and will warn me on the dangers of stepping on poisonous spiders and the like, and assumed he'd tell me how all humans swallow at least 8 spiders while sleeping in the course of a year. I told him "It's alright, I don't mind the non-poisonous ones, and I'm careful with the dangerous ones". His eyes widened, apparently incredulous to my naivety regarding the issue at hand. He proceeds with "It's not poison-non-poison that you have to worry about! IT'S THE CAMERAS!!" Now whenever a transient-type mentions cameras, you can brace yourself for a deluge of paranoid talk about the government, occasionally spiced with tinges of racism. But this was a different twist; spiders? Really? Not knowing how to proceed, I just said "oh yeah... the cameras...", sort of hoping this would pacify him for a while. No dice. He piped up again, "YES THE CAMERAS! The government created the idea of spiders as a cover-up for their hidden camera program. ::it should be noted that here he told me the exact name of the program; however, I cannot recall it, as it was both a lengthy and ridiculous name::. All these years, the government's been telling us in schools that spiders are 8-legged creatures that eat pests, they help gardeners, yada yada yada. WELL THERE'S NO SUCH THING AS SPIDERS!!! The government only wants you to THINK there are so they can plant cameras in robo-arachnids everywhere to monitor the civillians!" ...This went on for quite some time in an alarming amount of detail. At first, I was incredibly amused as to this man's seemingly inane ramblings. But as his spiel progressed, I became more and more intrigued. The amount of thought and detail this guy put into his theory was fascinating, and, I found myself allowing my thoughts to entertain these crazy ideas for a while. If you sort of shut off part of your brain, it all sort of makes sense, it all seems entirely plausible. For a moment, I allowed myself to believe in this idea that there are, in fact, no spiders, just millions of little government-run robo-arachnids with little cameras attached, monitoring civilian life. Why they would want to watch civilians everywhere as they shower is beyond me; this is America, there are many people that you would NOT want to see in the showers. But what if...<br />
<br />
Eventually, my stop arrived (last stop of the whole subway ride, as luck would have it). I said good-bye and disembarked from my delusional friend. I walked through Union Station, decided to have a drink and sit in those lovely, ancient chairs. As I slumped down into the chair, enjoying my complimentary ice-water, I looked to the chair next to me. In the bottom corner, right near the floor, one of those tiny little red "spiders" was weaving a web between chair and floor. I looked at it, watched it silently for a while as it spun it's "web" (most likely a surveillance network of tiny wires transmitting satellite signals, possibly doubling as a charging station. These robo-arachnids don't have unlimited energy, and they're not fueled on flies like the gov't would lead you to believe, you see.) The crazy-talk that I had just listened to for almost an hour on the train rolled around in my head as I watched the little thing, tottering around on the web it was making. I sipped my ice water, and decided to head out. As I walked out of Union Station, I laughed to myself at the absolutely complex insanity that the man had led himself to believe; I marveled at his misled genius. I dismissed what he said as just that, insanity.<br />
<br />
But I suppose you could say that there would always be remnants of the cobwebs of the theories in my mind... Because every time I encounter a spider now, my immediate thought is "Oh gosh I hope that's not the government...". Right after that thought leaves my mind, I laugh to myself, recalling the ridiculous incident on the subway, and find myself amused that I would fall into that paranoia, even for a second. I immediately kill the spider, though. Half because I don't want those things running around my house, robotic or carbon-based may they be. The other half is because if that guy was right, about the robo-arachnids, I don't want the government robo-spiders roaming my house and watching me shower. <br /><br />Mostly, though, I kill them because whatever they are, they certainly don't belong in the shower.<br />
<br />~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~<br />
<br />
Note: The above stories are completely true, I have not exaggerated the content, merely paraphrased where necessary due to failing memory. </div>
That Portuguese Kidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18262726925945035370noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1911224505070767063.post-9845235059541549062012-11-01T22:18:00.001-07:002012-11-01T22:18:54.219-07:00Smooth Operator. <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Last night, I spent the night at the hospital. I got 1.5 hours of sleep. I left the hospital at 6:30am. I threw on the clothes I had brought, put my hair up, put my shoes on, and headed out in somewhat of a zombie-like state.<br />
<br />
Nothing's too interesting about all that. The interesting part is when I got out of the elevator.<br />
<br />
I boarded the elevator on the 7th floor, and descended to the ground floor. Now, at 6:30am, all the doctors and nurses are rushing in for shift change. They enter the hospital in hordes, swarms, and droves. Hurrying along in their burgundy scrubs, all climbing down stairs, all rushing.<br />
<br />
Ground floor arrived. I was carrying many bags, and, as I mentioned before, was still practically half-asleep. The elevator doors opened. I stepped out into the lobby, and ran smack into this adorable, blonde- haired blue-eyed nurse. He dropped his stack of papers, which scattered onto the floor close by. I absentmindedly apologized, he did too; we proceeded to pick up the papers. That's when our eyes met.<br />
<br />
He looked at me, seemingly bewildered and confused. He smiled at me, I felt my cheeks redden. As I looked into his eyes, I said something that no guy wants to hear. Ever.<br />
<br />
"You remind me of my brother". Bewilderment and confusion levels skyrocketed. A look of disappointment dawned on his face. He thanked me, with a tone of confusion behind his husky voice. I told him he was welcome. By this time, we had finished cleaning up the papers. I handed him the stack I had collected, bid him have a good day, and he said "take care of yourself..." and boarded the elevator.<br />
<br />
As I walked outside, I couldn't help but laugh at myself for what I said, and his reaction. What made me laugh even harder was what would have been my other response to him.<br />
<br />
"You look just like that German guy in that one movie about the Nazis!"<br />
<br />
Not sure which would have been worse, but I'm sure neither are what he wanted to hear. </div>
That Portuguese Kidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18262726925945035370noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1911224505070767063.post-44643664750835541182012-09-26T01:57:00.000-07:002012-09-26T02:04:43.782-07:00Rights and "Politcal Correctness"<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
LGBQT rights.<br />
<br />
Animal rights.<br />
<br />
Civil rights.<br />
<br />
Women's rights. <br />
<br />
These are just 4 groups of MANY in our country alone that are "fighting for their rights". We all know language that pertains to the three groups mentioned above, some language that is quite unsavory and "politically incorrect", and appropriate and approved terminology regarding these individuals/groups of people. Animals don't really care what you call them, but apparently there are people that stick up for them and their inherent "rights" as well. (I heard something about the whales at SeaWorld having a lawsuit or something? Odd.) Any way you slice it, these groups have been quite prominent in the media and news coverage over the past few years, trying to gain the respect and rights they feel they, as human beings, deserve. Now I'm not here to take sides on these issues, my purpose here is to highlight the terminology that is NOT APPROPRIATE to these groups. We all know the "bad words" that aren't okay to say regarding them. We all get that, MOST of us respect that and don't use offensive language that would offend anyone, and most of us wish no harm to these parties. I don't see anyone campaigning out there to PROTECT animal abuse, for instance.<br />
<br />
No, these groups most definitely get a lot of attention in the media coverage. There is no shortage of articles regarding these issues, and if someone dare say one of the forbidden and offensive terms, by golly you're gonna hear about it! (and you should; that sort of behavior is not acceptable for anyone). But what about other groups? Sure, we have LGBTQ rights and civil rights and pro-choice/pro-life rights debates, and people are even fighting for animal rights now. But what about the groups that get under the radar, so to speak? Is there terminology still being used today that is strongly offensive to some people, but not being reprimanded and corrected?<br />
<br />
Answer: heck yes there is.<br />
<br />
Firstly, I'll address one group that is recently getting more notice and more respect, and is facing more reforms and revolutionary new ideas. You hear about it every so often, but definitely not as often as you'd even hear about animal rights. The group I'm referring to is the Special Needs community. These kids and adults don't always have a voice for themselves, so for many years, they have been treated as second class citizens. The individuals that were literally institutionalized were often times subjected to cruel experiments and trials, and were quite literally tested and used as guinea pigs in the early fields of modern day scientific brain research. (circa 1930's) Morally back then, people regarded them as "vegetables", and somehow justified treating them even worse than animals in "the name of science". I'm quite certain that we're all aware today that these individuals are not, in fact, "vegetables", but can be valuable and contributing members to society. Today more than ever, there are special programs and educational options for people with disabilities, so that they, too, can receive a normal and fulfilling education and learn to function socially, academically, and emotionally as best as they can.<br />
While great strides have been made in the field itself, awareness of these individuals and giving them the "rights" that so many other groups fight for is not quite to my satisfaction. Once in a great while, you hear of some event for Autism Awareness. Which is great, don't get me wrong. What disturbs me is that for every Autism Awareness ad, about 15 of those horrid, depression-inducing Sarah McLachlan animal abuse videos air, sending viewers on a frenzied scramble to find the dang remote to change the channel to escape the torturously sad pictures of abused animals on screen. Anyways, I digress. Another thing that bothers me regarding this "subculture", or however you want to refer to it, is that the terminology is still largely unchanged. For people involved in the field itself, or with relatives that have various disabilities, or for individuals with disabilities themselves, hearing such obscene terminology makes us all cringe.<br />
For example, the biggest offender: the "R" word. To us, the word "retarded" is just as appalling and wretched and absolutely EVIL as the "N" word to the civil rights movement, and the "F" word to the LGBQT movement. THIS NEEDS TO BE STOPPED. It is not okay to call ANYONE "retarded", whether they have learning disabilities or not. Let me repeat: THIS TERM IS EXTREMELY OFFENSIVE. DO NOT USE IT. It hurts my very core when I hear kids say this to each other, or if someone describes something as being "so retarded". A while back, people made a huge deal about the offensive phrase "that's so gay" (synonymous with "that's so stupid"), and the problem was largely contained. They ran ads on the TV about the saying, urging kids to be mature and not say the offending phrase. And guess what? I have not heard that phrase NEARLY as much these days as I did a year or so ago. (I spend a lot of time around kids/high school students, so I sort of know what goes on around them). I really wish someone would put an end to the R-word epidemic, as it truly is so hurtful to the individuals with disabilities and their families, and anyone that works with these individuals to hear that awful phrase. I beseech you, if you find yourself using the phrase, make a concerted effort to put an end to it. It's a bad habit, and even though you may not realize it, it's incredibly offensive.<br />
Other terms to avoid? Mongoloid (referring to individuals with Downs' syndrome), Sevant (referring to "genius" individuals at high end of the Autism Spectrum), handicapped (this is a golf term, not a term to describe people. People have DISABILITIES, not handicaps. unless they're playing golf :) ) wheelchair-bound (instead use "person that uses a wheelchair" or something similar), autistic kid (this is another big one, it is a CHILD WITH AUTISM. Not an autistic kid), mentally retarded (went over this before, but correct way to say it is "person with mental disabilities"), a SPED/ED kid or class (It is not a SPED/ED kid, it's a kid that receives special education), etc. This is called using "person-first" terminology, meaning that the person is NOT EVER presented as a victim, but instead presented as a human being WITH a disability. It'd be the equivalent stupidity of calling someone a "glasses man" because he's wearing glasses. It's just not something you do in the regular community, and it's not something we should do with the individuals in the special needs community. There are many many more terms that need to be changed out, and slowly things are progressing, but I just wanted to try and raise a little bit of awareness to my friends and family members out there that may be unaware of this "group of people not receiving equal rights", unlike many of the more outspoken groups.<br />
<br />
Another group near and dear to my heart, you've heard me rant about it before, but ADOPTION. Now I speak of this on a much, much lighter note, although there are still some serious concerns about this as well. Orphans. Where do people get the idea that all of us are orphans? Ignorance, the media, who knows for sure. Charles Dickens had a huge part in this, I imagine. BUT nevertheless, if you hear that somebody was ADOPTED, DO NOT ASSUME that a.) they are an orphan, b.) that they came from an orphanage in a distant country c.) that they know, or even care about, their biological families, d.) that they were adopted when they were 6 years old out of some orphanage e.) that they secretly resent their "legal" families and want to run away back to their biological parents and/or their original non-existent orphanage.<br />
You have no idea how many times I've had conversations about ALL of the aforementioned assumptions with naive people. And that's fine, I don't expect everyone to understand what normal adoption looks like. It's just always sort of odd to me when people either imply or ask me explicitly if I know my "real" parents (don't ever call bio parents "real" parents; our "real" parents are our legal parents. End of story.) or want to go find them, or if people ask me if I'm an orphan, or any number of the cliche questions people ask. Curiosity is curiosity, but it always astounds me when a seemingly sensible person asks such absurd questions like "what chores did you have to do in the orphanage?" etc.<br />
Terminology for this group isn't as blatantly offensive as with the other group, but obviously, we don't like to be called "orphans", because usually, we aren't. Oh yeah, the term "forever family" really bugs me, too... You've all seen those Sarah McLachlan commercials for animal abuse that I mentioned before, the really depressing ones. The ones where they show pictures of brutally maimed and abused animals with the words "I just want a forever family/home". Okay. That language is appropriate for animals. They're animals. People? No. That creeps me out. That's Sarah McLachlan's gig, that "forever family" thing. We can't apply that to people now; it's just creepy. A child in foster care is in need of permanent residence. Not a "forever family". The child in foster care is not a puppy, or a kitten, or a cabbage patch kid. It's a human child. The term "forever family" sentimentalizes the whole issue, and injects unnecessary emotion into the process. You go to the pound and find a dog to "adopt" into your forever family. Do you go to a foster care clinic (or maybe in some people's terms, an "orphanage") and go through rows of kids, deciding which one to adopt into your "forever family"? Chances are no, you don't. Hopefully you think that's as creepy as I do. You don't "pick" a kid. You adopt them. Into your permanent residence.<br />
I think i've gone on about that quite enough now haha... But seriously, folks. We're not orphans. We're not all related. We don't want "forever families". We're human beings, usually not orphaned, most of us have never set foot in an orphanage. We don't ask "please ma'am, i want some more" in british accents (well, some of us do within our own group as a joke. But that's an insiders only thing, y'hear me? haha). Point is, we're all just normal kids living normal lives with our "real" families. End of story. :)<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSGO5yD1aENyDq2V5nkLsTrahrrrAvy60eB6LvNlQ_Qv-hvtds2FUkUzbewBwMJ11n9HDbb2_7D2zFDTzi-q6sNGHGuM6wCwETq-8nzxKoTfXtJdy-egKpdotGzfsjS_GfkVYy5sRfv4U/s1600/sara.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="315" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSGO5yD1aENyDq2V5nkLsTrahrrrAvy60eB6LvNlQ_Qv-hvtds2FUkUzbewBwMJ11n9HDbb2_7D2zFDTzi-q6sNGHGuM6wCwETq-8nzxKoTfXtJdy-egKpdotGzfsjS_GfkVYy5sRfv4U/s320/sara.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"'forever family' is my gig, yo. Find another catchphrase, you street urchins!" </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
::disclaimer:: sarah mclachlan does not claim that "forever family" is her gig, nor does she refer to adopted children as street urchins.::<br />
<br />
^_~<br />
<br /></div>
That Portuguese Kidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18262726925945035370noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1911224505070767063.post-65138353898278657262012-08-27T22:23:00.001-07:002012-08-27T22:32:19.636-07:00What I Learned the First Day of School<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
1.) The level of annoyingness of Freshman behavior increases exponentially with every year spent at school.<br />
<br />
2.) I prefer a class that is intense intellectually-wise with a lot of work as opposed to a moronic waste-of-time class that's simple, but absolutely asinine.<br />
<br />
3.) Other people have long days, too. I went to McDonald's after school (10PM) and the guy in the drive through welcomed me to Burger King. After realizing what he had done, I asked him if he had just transferred to McD's from Burger King. He said no, he has, in fact, never worked a day at Burger King in his life, and it's just been "one of those days", to which I reassured him and told him he's definitely not alone.<br />
<br />
4.) The recorder, as an instrument, is incredibly annoying. I don't care what your level of "skill" is, "Hot Cross Buns" on a recorder can never sound good.<br />
<br />
5.) Some people don't know who David Bowie is. Also, some people think that Jareth from "Labyrinth" is the same person as Captain Jack Sparrow from the Pirates of the Caribbean franchise. A guy tried to make small talk with me about my shirt, featuring the below image of Bowie, saying "Oh, you must really like Jack Sparrow!" to which I was obviously confused. He then indicated the image on my shirt, to which I explained that I was not a fan of Johnny Depp, however, David Bowie captures my fancy. <br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4pPiQOOerWYYDjEE-nGFlIT20ZWARE9GGlNJJJNZllsM1ol80MFxbLcFtkIYchVei3UHDtSN9MxsMRQOb9nc5oz6JVKHyhLo-jpDwTbv9IfI0M6eWexH7vba1ohF1-UjS4Nrq0YZ6QOA/s1600/jareth+ballroom.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4pPiQOOerWYYDjEE-nGFlIT20ZWARE9GGlNJJJNZllsM1ol80MFxbLcFtkIYchVei3UHDtSN9MxsMRQOb9nc5oz6JVKHyhLo-jpDwTbv9IfI0M6eWexH7vba1ohF1-UjS4Nrq0YZ6QOA/s320/jareth+ballroom.jpg" width="245" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Faith in humanity: Destroyed</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
5.) Not everything always sucks. Woke up, frantically attempted to get my act together before school. Tried to print a temporary parking permit (my legit one hadn't arrived via post yet), wasn't able to, so I was going to have to purchase a day pass, which is $6 or so. That was a drag. Spent 1 hour, not exaggerating, on the phone with the financial dept at school. Ran out of time, had to hang up and leave for class, having wasted one hour. As I was walking out to my car to leave for school, mailman pulled up, gave me the mail. Top of the stack? My parking pass. Later in the day, checked my email, and got a random email from the financial dept; the issue had resolved itself, without me ever having actually spoken to a human being about it. Randomly. <br />
<br />
6.) God is good. (see above)</div>
That Portuguese Kidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18262726925945035370noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1911224505070767063.post-5819074195805391572012-07-28T17:14:00.002-07:002012-07-28T17:15:05.003-07:00Encounters with Target Pharmacy<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
So last week, i got a call from Target Pharmacy, saying my rx was ready. Cool, I have no time to get it cuz of summer school. I'll just get it on saturday.<br />
<br />
Saturday rolls around, I was out doing errands and figured I'd go to Target Pharmacy and get my rx. I go there, get up to the counter, tell them my name and date of birth, and the pharmacist says "there are no rxs here for you. Uhhhh okey... I just figure they must have made a mistake with the previous call and I go home.<br />
<br />
I'm home now, making dinner for myself. Dad says Target Pharmacy called me.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAozrP74CkygEK6zUekzkYFFVYu8o1NsbOPCuFswnRE3Wm_KvpVrHNtBOqPzK3aEmiNPI7OSNbjIn6HJE6kAg8n5yRF8NElFMOuuPqUrZe0XXveulapZJtE2E-cTnCuLBQBavXJJchfNk/s1600/are_you_kidding_me_rage_face_meme_poster-r3726a85aa584458cad9751d80824bbf6_jih_400.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAozrP74CkygEK6zUekzkYFFVYu8o1NsbOPCuFswnRE3Wm_KvpVrHNtBOqPzK3aEmiNPI7OSNbjIn6HJE6kAg8n5yRF8NElFMOuuPqUrZe0XXveulapZJtE2E-cTnCuLBQBavXJJchfNk/s320/are_you_kidding_me_rage_face_meme_poster-r3726a85aa584458cad9751d80824bbf6_jih_400.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">mfw:</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
So it's about 4:30pm, I'm stirring a pot of food, and I call Target Pharmacy again. Tell the lady I got a call from them, blah blah blah. She then says "oh hi! yeah, you were just in here, and we told you that we didn't have a rx for you. Well, as it turns out, we DO have your rx, it was just on the back shelf because we're getting rid of it today. Did you still want it?" "ummmm yeah..." "oh, great. Well we need you to come get it today, otherwise we're gonna throw it out. We close at 5." "Uhhhhh I'll be right over..."<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFwhZH_p7uZGDEyzg0m0rMaDKrm-VfmDzoad7mIiGw76ZEHS-2UyPRG-fxCpG9xoX9GFS7yqEvTqSN1vzakIQO2B1TxkSoc0qnN60SZVqhoJihxr0W6YMbFkk9IB9was3GPD1iJK6xomc/s1600/Jigsaw_character.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="222" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFwhZH_p7uZGDEyzg0m0rMaDKrm-VfmDzoad7mIiGw76ZEHS-2UyPRG-fxCpG9xoX9GFS7yqEvTqSN1vzakIQO2B1TxkSoc0qnN60SZVqhoJihxr0W6YMbFkk9IB9was3GPD1iJK6xomc/s320/Jigsaw_character.jpg" width="320" /> </a></td><td style="text-align: center;"></td><td style="text-align: center;"></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Target Pharmacy: "Let's play a game!"</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
So the time is now 4:35pm. I've got like, 25 minutes to go back to Target and get my rx before they so sadistically throw it away and make me reorder it and all that rigamarole again. I abandon the food I was cooking on the stove, get back in my car, and drive back to Target, where I have to battle for parking all over again (it's saturday, which apparently is Christmas at Target.) I finally park way out in the boondocks, get out of the car, and walk briskly back to the pharmacy, where the pharmacist grins sheepishly and says "sorry about that..." and gives me my rx. Thanks, Scumbag Target Pharmacy. Thanks so much.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Problem, Chibi?</td></tr>
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<br /></div>That Portuguese Kidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18262726925945035370noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1911224505070767063.post-15760795810202071822012-04-29T03:21:00.000-07:002012-04-29T03:31:10.477-07:00A Thing Worth Mentioning<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
It was the day after my brother's heart transplant surgery. Up until this point, I had been calm, collected, uplifting and encouraging to those around me who needed it, and kept it together remarkable well considering the fact that my beloved brother, almost a son to me, was going through unspeakable traumas and procedures and having a staring match with death, practically. Yes, up until that day, i had been just fine and dandy. I knew I was in shock; i wasn't so naive to think i could deal with all that so well. My brother's heart was practically useless, we were looking at having to wait months to get a transplant, maybe even longer, and the prospects were grim that he could even make it until then.<br />
BUT miracle of miracles, only 4 days after being put on the transplant registry, my brother received a heart. I was thrilled when i got that call, saying he was having surgery that night to get his new heart. I'm not sure of a moment in time when i have felt happier and relieved than i did at that moment when i received that call. Complete joy and happiness, no complaints, no fear, no worry.<br />
I spent a large portion of the next day after his surgery sobbing in a crumpled mess in the backseat of my car.<br />
The procedure had gone perfectly well, his new heart was beating like a champ! my parents and i wanted to be there when they "woke him up", took him off his sedatives. So the three of us arrive, and don surgical masks and gloves (after sanitizing hands more than once) and brush past the curtain to see him. There he was. There. He. Was. Tubes protruding everywhere, bandages, monitors, PIC lines, you name it, he had it. He was "sleeping" under the sedative still, so he was incoherent. Looking at him, lying there, so huge, so pallid, so weak, so entangled in all this medical tubing draining gastric fluids or blood, or pumping medicines into his veins, and then there was his breathing tube. The savages left the breathing tube in while they tried to wake him up! imagine the terror that would ensue upon waking up with a pipe down your throat.<br />
I gazed upon this sight, taken aback by it all, really. Could this be the same little boy i used to run around with at the park when we were kids? Could it be the happy little child, always quick to smile and be of good cheer? i slowly walked over, arms shaking, and held his hand. Tubes that were draining blood were right at my feet. I shuddered and tried not to look. After he came-to a little bit and stopped flailing around trying to get the tube outta his throat, he calmed down, lay back down, and held my hand. I looked at his face. His gentle eyelashes were matted together with his wet tears... A single tear rolled down his cheek, and I knew he was in misery. Arm shaking, i stroked his forehead, told him things will be alright, and that i would return, and i loved him, and left to the lobby.<br />
Walking through the lobby, i could feel the tears streaming down my own face. I tried to walk quickly to my car so nobody would notice or stop me, but the tears just kept coming. To see him like that, my precious little angel from Heaven, in that state, it was too much for me.<br />
<br />
I BROKE<br />
<br />
All the confidence and calmness went out the window. Even though i knew he was in no real danger anymore, to see him suffer like that is what killed me. and so i lost it. I got to my car, crawled in the back seat, and i lost it. Why couldn't it have been me. It should be me on that hospital bed recovering from surgery. Why did this happen to begin with. I also have PTSD from medical traumas, so hospitals terrify me something fierce. i was also having flashbacks pretty badly that day, and had nightmares the previous night. It all became too much for me to bear, so i just cried and cried in my car. Crying out to God, beseeching Him to intervene and give brian the comfort that only God gives, to give my parents the strength they needed, to help me get over my own idiotic problems so i could better help my own brother. I thanked God, too, for all that He had done for my brother and family, and for all the opportunities that had been provided to share His glory. But i cried and prayed for a long time, and generally felt worse than i had felt in a long time. Time dragged on, eventually tears subsided and my eyes shut and fell victim to exhaustion. I slept for a while. Never very peaceful sleep, but when exhaustion sets in, you'll sleep anywhere.<br />
2-3 hours apparently pass. I'm still sleeping. All of a sudden, I get a knock on the window. Mind you, I'm in a parking structure in East LA. My first thoughts are "OMG it's the cops!" or even worse "Oh man i'ma get SHOT!!!" slowly and sleepily i looked out the window, only to behold the face of an angel.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc4AYs8NA8wDl2yvD4YlQ2Ed5_kyt3umCET84ERVGnnh3aQMt7nPHDhxuHOWQrOGmtYgbSugRO-uREdtyr2bWnRIghy6smDlQprNzP1hw61tihZlD3lrwb-wA2YwmcRxED9lVLJxzwNTU/s1600/sar.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc4AYs8NA8wDl2yvD4YlQ2Ed5_kyt3umCET84ERVGnnh3aQMt7nPHDhxuHOWQrOGmtYgbSugRO-uREdtyr2bWnRIghy6smDlQprNzP1hw61tihZlD3lrwb-wA2YwmcRxED9lVLJxzwNTU/s320/sar.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
::knock knock::<br />
<br />
Sleepily i brushed my disheveled hair out of my face and slowly opened the door. In shock, all i could stupidly say was "what are you doing here?" and she replied with "i came here to give you an apple pop..." at which point tears welled back up in my eyes. She handed me the beloved caramel apple pop and sat in the back seat with me, and we talked for a long time. She put up with my nonsensical complaining and fears, and just listened, cried, and prayed with me. I never asked her to come down there that day. She showed up at perfect timing. Just when i was at my very lowest point, she is there, ready and willing to love and support me. I was overwhelmed with gratefulness that she is my friend. To be able to talk to someone openly, to vent, even, was such a relief to me. To feel that someone cared for ME was a huge relief to me. My parents were too stressed out with everything with my bro, it would have been tacky if i had gone to them with my problems. And i typically don't like talking about my problems to anyone else for fear of burdening them. But no, Sarah approached ME to make sure I was alright. And i was able to speak freely with her, listen to her input, take her advice, and get a grip again.<br />
<br />
I'm back on track again now. I have no fears, no worries regarding my brother's condition. hospitals still scare the bejeezuz outta me. it still hurts my back a lot to drive all the way down to USC and back every few days. and i'm still keeping up with school to the best of my abilities. but i'm back on track, and not letting it all stress me out anymore. I try and visit bri when i can, providing of course that i have no major school assignments due or my back isn't too terrible, i go and see him in his room. It still hurts me a lot to see him like that, in so much pain, so miserable... but God is good, and has restored control in my life again, and i think i can manage now. Also, God is good to bless me with such amazing friends as Sarah, who show up at literally JUST the right time. I will never forget that day, when an angel bearing a caramel apple pop showed up and made my life bearable again. <3 </div>That Portuguese Kidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18262726925945035370noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1911224505070767063.post-48975650312583785262012-04-23T22:15:00.004-07:002012-04-23T22:15:43.765-07:00Hero<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-size: 28pt; line-height: 115%;">WHY MY BROTHER IS A HERO</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">A COMMENTARY ON THE AWESOMENESS OF MY
BRIBRI BABYCAKES</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW7zaY1HhUoe5dZfjYNR_HyzavJ7fblfuzCzQFUpWewKPclln0S8dtKSoGfL0KHwP4Lkq2FJ2Ll3PpsI0KyIa0xzFimurYBNznQDGI2pesff_FhzM0Ydxpag6IqEZqhtjgF75TLSwIcAg/s1600/bribri1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="232" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW7zaY1HhUoe5dZfjYNR_HyzavJ7fblfuzCzQFUpWewKPclln0S8dtKSoGfL0KHwP4Lkq2FJ2Ll3PpsI0KyIa0xzFimurYBNznQDGI2pesff_FhzM0Ydxpag6IqEZqhtjgF75TLSwIcAg/s320/bribri1.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"> Spiderman got bit by a spider. It
made him real sick. You got real sick, too. But spiderman got real cool powers
after he finished being sick. Spiderman gave hope to a lot of people, just like
you. Everyone thinks you’re awesome (I know I always tell you this anyways) and
everyone loves you. We all want you to get better so you can do cool stuff.
(maybe once you’re healed you can climb walls or something, that’d be cool.) </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmw8fiT4dU3J5IoDEytYfzH2eoEojHAry44oNBlP_83fLR4fH8LY_y4RaEaqJDC8y-1xfZMkxoAY3g61s1nQvZRTcoeXjp0OlUV8FRVC3LmLSbtafQTQewZRy0Wz8_gnJaO03WjPFXbd0/s1600/BRIBRI2+copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="230" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmw8fiT4dU3J5IoDEytYfzH2eoEojHAry44oNBlP_83fLR4fH8LY_y4RaEaqJDC8y-1xfZMkxoAY3g61s1nQvZRTcoeXjp0OlUV8FRVC3LmLSbtafQTQewZRy0Wz8_gnJaO03WjPFXbd0/s320/BRIBRI2+copy.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">You’re super cool like General
Grievous from Star Wars. General Grievous also had a weak heart, but he was
still awesome. (except he was bad. Don’t be bad.) General Grievous was a
fighter, just like you. He never gave up, he just kept on fighting. That’s what
I want you to do, just like you already are. Never ever give up! </span><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsDEYpBnFC1sje03pjuvhjpWEDRXxoL-8UuY2cdqIVLdvhiOOy5DydQJspeifkbT-RASru-fbnqZInLh3gW4AvVXPs50qWo3E3n9YwBe9o032ZDJUl2y8TOVZ5-SYsP8k1ZpAc6SERA4s/s1600/BRIBRI4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsDEYpBnFC1sje03pjuvhjpWEDRXxoL-8UuY2cdqIVLdvhiOOy5DydQJspeifkbT-RASru-fbnqZInLh3gW4AvVXPs50qWo3E3n9YwBe9o032ZDJUl2y8TOVZ5-SYsP8k1ZpAc6SERA4s/s320/BRIBRI4.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Darth Vader is famous for having
breathing troubles. You’ve got asthma. Darth Vader never let that stop him from
being the galaxy’s coolest villain ever. The force is strong in you, my boy. Do
or do not, there is no try. You must get better. The Galaxy needs you. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrI7c3DYZBXdVvUz6dIdd04eG2xuM7IBNv-KH2SRjaBBO3BdfEpk58-gwxfsdHqSgNehOab1FyQV5PK-cn9pRQTQMZGm3LYVkYyrCNS1QlMvMep1qoOV6vH-VArFs1yV-dsnGZTK2W2mE/s1600/bribri5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrI7c3DYZBXdVvUz6dIdd04eG2xuM7IBNv-KH2SRjaBBO3BdfEpk58-gwxfsdHqSgNehOab1FyQV5PK-cn9pRQTQMZGm3LYVkYyrCNS1QlMvMep1qoOV6vH-VArFs1yV-dsnGZTK2W2mE/s320/bribri5.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Cyborg is part human, part robot.
You’ve got a bunch of screws and stuff in your knee. That’s pretty cool. You’ve
got so much hardware in ya, you’re like a walking home depot. But that’s pretty
cool, you’ve got some pretty cool battle scars to show for it. Cyborg uses his
powers for good, and doesn’t complain about his robo-parts, just like you
don’t. you’ve got that crazy knee, but it doesn’t bother you. It just makes you
cooler. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkMD-i-wXm4KmuBPWmCCtusNQ5oZIRyc3ZHcOg5grWblcHoR5mXOQ6iTAu6fH4WiKgmU9OZTpYj_d2S9mRtJL-ZLeqxdlkDt4rsPi4FFXjComOun12kF8Vj4M9CfRePpHTBB3yL8Dh3Lc/s1600/bribri3+copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkMD-i-wXm4KmuBPWmCCtusNQ5oZIRyc3ZHcOg5grWblcHoR5mXOQ6iTAu6fH4WiKgmU9OZTpYj_d2S9mRtJL-ZLeqxdlkDt4rsPi4FFXjComOun12kF8Vj4M9CfRePpHTBB3yL8Dh3Lc/s320/bribri3+copy.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Last but not least, Iron Man. Iron
Man gets all the ladies (just like you!) AND he had to get a new heart (again,
just like you!) Iron Man protects himself with his awesome suit, kind of like
how you protect yourself with the armor of God. The difference between you and
Iron Man, though, is that Iron Man is arrogant and selfish, but you’re the
sweetest and most selfless person on the planet. You are so sweet and loving,
even when you’re going through rough times, you still manage a smile, you still
crack jokes, you still care about other people. And that’s why you’re better
than Iron Man. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"> Brian, you’re better than all those
superheroes combined. You are so brave and courageous, you just keep on
truckin’ through all of this without complaining. I am so proud of you, you
have no idea. I always call you the baby, but you’re more of a man than anyone
I know. You’re the kindest, sweetest, bravest, most courageous guy out there,
and I’m proud of you for not losing hope through all of this. I know it’s scary
sometimes, but please always know that God is there for you, to comfort you and
support you. Stay strong and remember what Jesus went through on the cross for
you; He died and suffered for YOU, my dear. He knows everything you’re going
through, He’s always in control. Don’t lose sight of that. I love you so so
very much, please always know it. I will ALWAYS be there for you, no matter
what! You’re my beloved bribri babycakes, and you always will be. But you’re also
my hero, and I want you to know that, too. You inspire me to be strong, even
when it’s scary. I will always love you to the moon and back! You’re my
precious angel from Heaven. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;">Love
Always,</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> ~your sidekick, Kristin</span></div>
</div>That Portuguese Kidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18262726925945035370noreply@blogger.com1