quelquefois

I recently read this article in the NYT on the popularity and exclusivity of a Teach for America teaching position. I’m still adamantly opposed to TFA. So some overachieving kid with big dreams of world change gets thrown into an inhospitable atmosphere and tries to make good of all that’s bad. With little training, he tries to create a positive impact, but before he can achieve that, his stint is over and he leaves after two years with a sense of moral righteousness. Kid, now with a “prestigious” bullet point on the resume, continues to build his future career, likely unrelated to TFA, make big money, leaving underperforming students feeling abandoned yet again by the system.

A simple Google Scholar search shows more results that undermine the notion that TFA brings “positive” change to underperforming schools across the country than supporting it.

One study says:

Findings for 5 school districts, roughly 300 new teachers, show that students of under-certified teachers (including teachers from the “Teach for America” program) make about 20% less academic growth than do students of regularly certified teachers.

While I believe the underlying philosophy of TFA is still honorable, the pageantry and self-righteousness involved on the applicant side has turned me off from the whole thing. Do students avoid independently searching for jobs because it lacks the prestige associated with TFA? Is there a sustainable solution to bring positive impact to low-performing schools?

In thirty-three days, I will be boarding a flight back to California, and I don’t know when I will be back. Though I have endless memories, both happy and sad, I still feel as if I hadn’t written down as much as I’ve wanted, I hadn’t taken enough photographs, I hadn’t seen enough things, made enough friends. Between finishing up my Fulbright grant, studying for the GRE, applying for graduate school, and starting full-time work, the past few months have melted away without a chance for reflection or relaxation.

While I am ready and excited to start the next chapter of my life, a part of me is sad to leave China. Luckily, once I get home I’ll have more time for myself (and graduate school applications!!), for photography, for fast and uncensored internet, for all the other things I enjoy in life.

One thing I’ll miss about China: women in pajamas and hair curlers on a
public street playing with dogs (and naturally with 10+ people
crowded around taking pictures and gossiping)

When I first arrived on the east coast for college, I wrote, “I live on the east coast, but I left my heart in San Francisco.” Now, after spending over four years in the northeast, I feel oddly attached to the deadly hot and humid summers, the deadly cold and frigid winters, the congregation of several states in close geographical proximity, and the prominence of artistic culture and influence.

I came back to California yesterday and I felt like I was in a strange, foreign land. If anything, it seemed like the countryside compared to walking-friendly Providence and New York City. Granted, not much has changed, but the minute changes made it seem like this wasn’t exactly home. In addition to that, it was on the east coast that I discovered the most about myself, thus creating some sort of attachment to the region that has defined my interests, shaped my views, and roughened me up for “real life.”

Still coming to terms with the fact that  I’ll be gone from the east coast for a long time. In fact, in a few weeks, I’ll be gone from America for a long time.

I can’t believe that this time next week, I’ll be home in California. I have so much left to do here, so many things to see and do–too many. Although the city and I started off rough, we’ve since then been able patch things up a bit. The city has grown on me, and it has also made me grow. (More on that later.)

Look at all I’ve done in just one week! This past week I have: survived sickness in multiple beds/vehicles/toilets; seen Louis’ tour at the Met for the third time (though it’ll never get old); spent time with my favorite Rukesh. I went to trashy bars with Julien and Rukesh, ate delicious Korean food at Kun Jip, saw Priscilla Ahn in concert with Paroan and Julien, took beautiful photographs of beautiful classmates, explored the New Museum, dined in Central Park, among many other things.

This week I have these to look forward to: Kanye/Lupe/N*E*R*D concert, seeing the photographer’s studio at the Met, finishing my last day at the Council, go to P.S.1 and picnic with my favorite flatmate in the world, Sophia, seeing wonderful friends before I leave, and brunchbrunchbrunch!

There isn’t a shred of doubt in me that will keep me from coming back (unless a hoard of cockroaches erect a wall of themselves, weaved in some sort of porous material with their legs waving through one side). I really hope that does not happen.

I have taken hundreds more photos in July thus far than in all of June. Now that I’m back in the groove, I am looking at everything with a critical eye again. I was disenchanted with photography for a while–a combination of both exhaustion (from my RISD class) and skepticism about my talent. Through museums, galleries, compliments, and classes, I have rediscovered and even emboldened my passion for it. I can’t wait to take more photographs as I learn more techniques and expand my knowledge of the art form. You know, get some hardc0re l33t skillz.

Unfortunately, I still have severe writer’s block. New York and photography drain so much from me that I can’t muster anything else up for this.

Between ten-thirty and midnight, on my hour and a half commute back home to Queens from the Lower East Side, I saw a beautiful man. Not sexy, not hot–beautiful. His skin was tan, with a sheen of orange brushed over his skin. It contrasted well with his light blue shirt. His hair seemed to bounce freely with the shakes and sways of the subway, but carried enough weight to drop down to his brow bone. It was slightly greyed, yet that seemed justified, evidenced by his commuting home at this hour. His facial hair had already started to gather at his chin and cheeks after just shaving this morning. But it was his bright blue eyes (the prettiest blue I have ever seen) that made him seem at least fifteen years younger than he probably is. When you make eye contact, they pierce you.

He paid no attention to anyone else on the train, completely immersed in the morning’s Wall Street Journal. A new one would hit the streets in less than five hours, and I wondered when he’d be able to read it. His cool demeanor contrasted with his cuff links–a silver starlike shape bursting across the fabric. Similarly, chest hairs creeped from where he took his tie off and unbuttoned his shirt.

I imagined what his life must be like. He’s at least modest enough to live in Queens and not in the Upper East Side, where I imagine all Wall Streeters and the other suits must live. Perhaps he does live ther. His fingers were bare. He could just as well be staying with a significant other, lover, partner, fling. Perhaps an artist, someone who could balance out his 70-hour-workweek-caffiene-addicted-money-obsessed lifestyle.

He could cook fancy meals, but often opts for the quickest solution to his hunger–perhaps a microwave dinner. His home has art. Paintings, oil. He wishes he had a dog–Golden Retriever–but does not have the time for one. He must be simple and undemanding in some aspects, but very high-maintenance in others…

From 43rd Street until my stop, I kept thinking about what this man could be like. By 36th Ave, I was already forgetting why I was even thinking about this in the first place. I had no interest in him, personally, emotionally, sexually, or otherwise. Perhaps I needed to take my mind off of myself; perhaps because he was the first beautiful man I’ve seen in New York City so far; perhaps it was simply those blue eyes.

The subway stopped at 30th Ave. He didn’t look up from his paper, and it was time for me to go.

Am I seriously incapable of sleeping earlier than 3 a.m. on a day when I could have been in bed by midnight?!

This is a blatant testimony of my procrastination ability. Of all things I could be doing, I thought, “Hey, what type of person am I?” So I took a Myers-Briggs personality test, and I am an Extroverted iNtuitive Feeling Judging personality type. After reading a description, I’d say that’s about right.

Haha, and the author of this description’s name is “Joe Butt.”

Okay, enough! Back to work.

5th anniversary of Iraq invasion.

Even as a remote ordinary citizen far from the grueling reality of war and endless fear, I could easily be brought to tears/anger by the words and images from documentaries, news, speeches, books, this Iraq war timeline. And what I see is not even the half of it. Not even close.

When I can, I will do what I can to help. And I hope the rest of my generation does, too.