Thinking

"I swam across
I jumped across-- for you
oh what a thing to do
Cos you were all yellow" -Coldplay (Their simplicity is legendary)

I want to go kayaking. Kayaking seems fun, free, even a little dangerous. I want to bartend, for at least one summer and talk to people in their drunken state when they're most honest. I want to observe; I want to figure out why people go; I want to learn how to make drinks and have awesome conversations. I wonder if bartenders have to be a bit thinner though.

I'm up to a size six. My brother plays with my arm like it's a pendulum. Maybe perfect teeth and size four would get me a somewhat suggestive bartending job, but I may just be thinking about hooters. But that's not a reason I wanted to run a marathon. I want to do it because I don't think I can do it and the idea of running 26 miles is odd to me, like a waste of time, but freeing, fulfulling, thought-evoking. There's something about being drenched in sweat, heading toward a destination that just seems too far away, and not doing anything with yourself but running appeals to me.

Just some of the things I want to do before I graduate Colby. I have a lot to think about; I like to find escape routes but at the same time I like the idea of having escape routes that make me stop and think. Hmm.

I suppose anything I do would be alright with my mother and brother. But then there are others, namely my grandmother. Sometimes I wonder what that decision; to move here, is like. I guess she fears that the Vietnamese people here will get the wrong impression and think that I'm biased against them. Maybe she thinks I would be more protected and have a better sense of belonging if I were to care about and get along with more Vietnamese folks here. Or maybe what's more depressing is that I found a niche somewhere else and that everything here is Americanized, except for that generation-- and it's not their home here and their grandchildren aren't doing much to change that. I wonder what that might be like- not being able to stop what's inevitable. She knows she's leaving, she knows what she's leaving behind, she knows she can't change it and she's the only one that wants to.

Things to think about. We're branching out, in 60 years this branch will all be American. So I want to go bartending, running marathons and kayaking to have a bit of that control for myself. Do things I want to, control my own ambitions before others around me can drown out my ambitions with their newer, more real ambitions. I guess my mind is putting the pressure on me to grab it while I selfishly still can, when I matter so much to myself, and where my opinion of what to do with me, while I'm still young and confused, still makes up the majority of the vote.

Crazy ambitions like being with someone in his 30s.

Immersed in the eyes of actors.
portraying Nicholas Sparks novels.
A voice raspy yet calm.
A smile, soft, yet it is the eyes that lead to it
to differentiate his yearnings from mischief
my romance from lust.

Sometimes the rain is too much but every once in a while I adore it. It's cold and its noise is so serene, no one minds or pays attention to it at first but if it lingers for hours and days, somehow it makes us feel its sadness.

I want to know what it's like to be with a man that's older, to feel the potential wisdom of it all, to know what it's like to be with someone who is at a place of stability and knows himself well. I want to be in contact with life wisdom instead of the confusion and the playboy behaviors people my age enact in.

I wonder what it's like be in your 30s and not have had a relationship that's lasted yet still be okay because I want to see that perspective, seeing the strength of people and unconsciously hoping that it may strengthen me.

It's August 30th, I'm good with landmarks and dates. It's a special day and one meant for these types of thoughts.

Rain

'And foreva in debt, that's neva a good thing
To the pressure for success can put a big strain
On a friend you call best and yes it could bring
Out the worst in every person, even the good an' sane'

Strawberries and grapes dipped in peanut butter is divine after a six mile jog in the rain and cold shower. That aspect of life brings so much stable relief after a stressful summer where I've decided to entirely overhaul my plans and start anew.

The MP3 is blasting. The destination is marked and there's nothing that can stop me from getting there. Sometimes I wish life was a little like that.

Three years ago, I wrote about how my life feels unfulfilling in Portland. I'm sitting at my parent's laundromat today, feeling the exact same way. There's so much I want to leave behind and nothing I'm afraid to leave behind. At 21, being unproductive, secure by the care of my parents; my life is wasting away.

My parents are happy with the quiet life; I'm happy for them but I'm not in my 40s, I haven't found love or developed a family.

It makes me wonder why it often takes a life threatening situation to get people to go out and want to live their lives to the fullest. People settle for so little. It's either that or I'm impossible to please, I desire so much that my mentor warns me that I never live in the moment, never enjoy everything I'm given, I may never be happy.

I won't settle for journalism, it doesn't bring a smile to my face. I've been thinking about teaching, law school, or social work a lot lately. The premise of journalsim is great, studying and writing about different cultures, but it seems like many newspapers are none too interested; social issues are for social scientists I suppose. As long as it bleeds it leads.

Maybe after Colby, it's time to leave Maine once and for all. I'm afraid of limited possibilities. The saying goes "Live life with no regrets" but if I'm immersed in one career that only makes me partially happy-- what if I leave behind a list of other possibilities. The yearning of course is to eventually be happy and satisfied.

Robin wonders if it'll take a relationship to satisfy me. The answer is emphatically no. I think she brings it up because I never seem to enjoy much of anything and I seem to be moving backward. I think the very concept is unfortunate but I can't say that it's not a peice of the puzzle.

All of a sudden there's a lot going on, a lot to figure out and a feeling that I need to move because I can't seem to find my happiness and myself here.

Bubble gum

"I'm happy to find someone to be mine,
not a virgin not saint but she mine,
nobody's perfect so just give me something to work with,
good conversation, hesitate in the first kiss" -Nas

It's 5:34 in the morning. At 3 a.m., I was scrambling throughout the house looking for my immunization records for this upcoming world trip after looking up a few dentists and adding a few things to my to-do list. As I've been for the past couple of weeks, financial pressures, bills, and a long/undesirable to-do list were taking up all of my head space.

Before I got to the immunization records on my desk, I scrambled onto my thin green diary with a picture of a rose on the cover- It was my 5th diary, I was 16 going on 5.

I went in the cabinet and flipped through about 3 of them.

When I think about the past, it's usually negative because it helps me believe that I've now left the negative behind, but to skim through those badly written journals, I couldn't find anything negative.

My 17 year-old self was detailing everyday of the colossal crush. From curiosity to anxiety, counting each hour, staring at someone from distance, watching him stare back. The way I described back then and to now read it; it had to be the cutest thing in the world.
"10 more hours until I see him... OMG OMG anxiety."

There was no judgment and apprehension, it was brand new, scary and exhilarating. Dissecting every little detail, every word, every flirtatious move, everything right down to the day and second- drawing hearts in my diary and copying down lyrics to love songs; I must've been the most spazzy, passionate, anxious and happiest girl in the world.

I look at that and part of me naturally says, "wow, what a naive, stupid, young kid." But part of me marvels at its innocence and beauty. Never in my life had my smile been so wide and my silliness been so obvious. It's nice to unexpectedly look back and notice that period; an adorable infatuation and a young girl that was just beaming because for those 4 months, he was the prince that swept her off her feet.

Four years- as a young girl transitioning into being a woman- I learn so many strategical tips, things to look out for, what not to trust, low expectation, and all men are dogs. The innocence decreases and the wall keeps growing along with the hurt. There's always second thoughts; cheesy Jessica Simpson songs no longer make me dance in the living room.

Like a corny Taylor Swift video, adorable. Every second with this dude, treasured, an unquestioned miracle to me. Now I'm available, kissing guys I'm not with and sometimes not caring if I ever see them again.

Realizing that all they think about is sex while I'm hopelessly trying to converse, so unromantic. Having the birth control talk with my mentor and nurse- so unromantic. No letters- all everyone does now is aimlessly try to flirt through facebook- umm... unromantic. No hints, no small games, no jokes-- no laughing at stupid shit without worrying about people's perceptions- no quirky pursuits. It lacks romance.

Of course the prince is also the devil, and as the story goes, more devils followed right behind him.

I don't know, there's something so unsettling about these guys being either people who temporarily please me when I'm lonely or horny, or being guys who I have to analyze from every direction, take every precaution, understand each limitation before I could let my guard down even slightly.

So...

There's something innocent, and beautiful, and fun-- like a fairytail about falling helplessly in love. I read those diaries and I don't worry about finances for a little while. So many (admittedly very naive) "awwwww" moments, but they make my day. It's nice to look back at that and realize that the first months of being 17, and the first half of the colossal, confusing, daunting situation, was actually really kickass. The romance of it was kinda nice.

Passion and Perception

"Confidence is a must,
Cockiness is a plus,
Edginess is a rush,
Edges I like 'em rough"- Britney Spears.

I always wished I had grown up more cultured, especially musically. Music, even Britney Spears music, has a purpose and evokes an emotion or personal characteristic that a mere conversation often cannot. If I could go back, instead of sitting at home as an awkward middle school student, I wished I would have emerged myself in learning how to play the four most beautiful instruments I know of: the piano, violin, flute, and guitar.

Sometimes one hears a song, and regardless of whether there's a singer, she feels entrenched in the power behind those instruments. Yo Yo Ma is an ordinary man, but once he picks up his cello-- the world stops; he becomes extraordinary. Each note is not only wrenching but it tells of years of dedication put into perfecting an art that is so elegant, that once a listener takes notice- she could cry.

This entry will be done in several parts.

I remember an acquaintance telling me that I wrote eloquently the first time we met. I remember answering in a very un-eloquent manner that I don't really believe so. Truth is, it takes an extraordinary amount of effort to write any piece I can be half proud of; the culprit is a combination of effort and passion rather than mere luck and talent.

Writing, whether it is for a feature which captures a person's essence, a love letter when hand written can be a thousand times more genuine than any e-mail or phone call- the act of writing the letter itself, even if it says nothing, has already made the message clear. Then there are the thesis and opinion articles which scream at the world to listen.

But I don't live for it. I do it in my spare time when events bring me joy or sadden but I don't wake up for. Nor does it run through my veins the way one can simply tell, with one look at Yo Yo Ma, that playing the cello is an art he treasures. I like writing, I can almost say I love it, but not in the way Langston Hughes loves Harlem, not in the way Stevie Wonder loves to sing, not in the way Michael Jordon gets up at 4 in the morning to play basketball, and not in the way Yo Yo Ma loves his cello.

One fear- possibly my biggest.

What if I don't find that one thing that gets my heart beating fast, gets my blood boiling and takes up every minute of my day voluntarily? What if I don't find that thing which I miss when I can't do, which I sacrifice for, and which I will always strive to become better at.

One fear- being passionless. Living simply to exist.

If I dabble in piano, it's so beautiful but will I love it? I am a very selfish individual. I may love my man, my mother, my children but I also wish to love something simply for me, which defines me and brings me an unconditional joy.

Writing is a tool to erase shyness, to compensate for being less articulate than I wish to be, and to help my brain sort through a discombobulated thought process for a peace of mind.

Like prayer, I turn to it in a time of need but before a blog, a story, a poem, and after the blog and story and poem are written- the very element that feels crucially incomplete within my being fully remains.

The thunderstorms are relentless here and I'm playing Alchemist's "Hold You Down".

This blog comes about because I haven't had a conversation with anyone who's made me think in a minute and in turn it makes me reflect back on myself and my expectations and outlook on life. What mail-delivery man loves his job? What accountant is fuming to go to work and work with more numbers? What publicist enjoys kissing up to rich celebrities?

They do it because they love their family and they're putting food on their daughter's plate. They do it because the world does not revolve around them but they're surviving in part to enrich the lives of others. The world is not this blog, it doesn't revolve around my ideas of wrong and right, my complaints, or what I feel should happen.

I fear that being so picky might leave me lonely and passionless. If the world revolved around me passion would be the only thing that mattered but since it doesn't and since perception is damn near everything to me, I have to take race and class into consideration as I think about my career and the person I'll be with.

People ask why I don't ever speak about Asian men and Spanish men. I think it's the experience that somehow dark skin makes you less in Viet Nam, and in America my family is quick to label ourselves as only Asian. If the prejudice spreads across continents, if we don't see ourselves as part African American back home- then obviously there is some innate issue that needs to be addressed and some visceral reaction within me that wants to empathize so deeply with black males, the most discriminated against group in this country.

July 31st.
Race Talk

Another question is "Am I above it?" In a clear cut situation, "it" would be society and judgment while "I" would be social conscientiousness. But the circumstance is not black and white.

In an entry a while back, I stated that I had always loved minority and especially African American males because I see a very conflicted struggle they face on a daily basis. I was raised by an African American male who never identified as African American but was so intensely proud when Barack Obama ran for president that he and I got into many spats over our political differences. (I am a staunch Hillary Clinton supporter.) Give a black man an opportunity, he said. He said he didn't keep up with politics as much as I did and is probably not as aware of up-to-date details and positions that the two democrats held, but he said, give an intelligent man, who represented people like himself an opportunity to prove that advancement is possible.

When Mrs. Clinton was eliminated; I went into the booth as a first time voter and cast my vote for Mr. Obama.

But is it really progress? I will try to watch my words.

With the endless stereotypes and staggering amount of statistics which to some extent enforce those stereotypes about black men; I'm almost certain that the first image that enters an American's mind, even for those who study the issue, is not of President Barack Obama.

He is confident, strong, intelligent, charismatic, caring, well-dressed, well mannered. He hales from Harvard and Columbia and he speaks eloquently and with perfect standard English. He has a beautiful wife and two adoring daughters.

America elected a man who met every credential it took to lead this country.

But there lies the issue as well. Barack Obama is damn near perfect but when we think black man, we don't think damn near perfect. Barack Obama is almost a welcomed exception rather than the rule. Barack Obama is elite and while it is nice to see him commanding the office, he hasn't changed the perception of the black male in America.

I almost believe we love Mr. Obama because he is that exception. Have we ever loved a blue collar ordinary black man in America?

I digress.

I've sprouted off a thousand times, even on this forum, about how intelligence is my main attraction. CICC Confidence. Intelligence. Charisma. Character. They're all that matters. Intelligence is the combination of wit, intense book smarts, intellectuality, dedication, and street smarts. I've also laughed with friends, "I sure love me a black man.:

No.

I love myself a Barack Obama, a Denzel Washington, a Colin Powell. I love a black man the way Oprah loves a man like Stedman. I love the black men at Colby College. If I were to step into a poor neighborhood, however, I'm not sure that I can love a black man. I'm almost sure I couldn't.

A couple things I always say to my brother are 'speak well, dress well, be successful so that you can be respected in society.' What I mean might be more like 'speak well, dress well, be successful so that you don't get discriminated against by people including your sister.'

I love black men. I find them incredibly charismatic especially those who've risen above hardships and the innate racism in American society and who are brilliant in school.

I empathize with their struggles, I mean I'm spending my education studying it, but I don't love black men who aren't respected by society yet. I can't love a man who's ever been in jail. I can't love a man who's ever sold drugs. I can't love a man who might make less money than me. I can't love one who is too flashy, I can't love a black man who dresses inappropriately or has too many tatoos. I can't love an unmarried man with a child. Can I even love a black man who can't converse with me in standard English?

My preference is the norm.
Lawyers, doctors, professors, teachers, writers, researchers, businessmen, CEO's, activists, ala those on track to have careers not jobs.

And what's wrong with that other than it being a bit stuck up? I've always been immensely picky and a bit stuck-up.

The issue isn't that the stance is stuck up; it's that it lacks understanding, sympathy and empathy. As I've said before, in a college of 2000 students, there are 17 who meet that description at Colby but even then, it isn't to say that they don't exist-- in fact, they exist everywhere.

It's me having an internal prejudice against people who are almost helpless and put in a position because of a system that many cannot escape from. If you're in a neighborhood where drugs are a certain way, where schools are unimpressive, where the slang is no where close to standard American English, and a lot of people don't go to college, why is it completely up to you to dig yourself out of the hole without guidance when you've known nothing else, and where do you start?

The truth is that America is lagging behind in the education department. We only graduate about 70 percent of all students from high school. When it comes to black students, that number drops to about 55 percent. And with the gender gap where females are outperforming males at an alarming rate, America is likely not graduate 50 percent of black males from high school. Prisons are filled with 2 million inmates. Most of them males, and most the males in prison, two-thirds of them, are black. It's not something we can run away from.

I love Obama, my friend loves Obama, my father loves Obama. Who, (besides conservatives of course,) wouldn't love Obama? We look at the president and say "here's progress", racial issues will be solved, we're electing a black man into office, things will be better.

But that argument has so many holes. Of course we love Obama but until Obama (who represents African Americans in this country regardless of whether he likes it or not) is a representation of the average struggling black person, what's the point? Progress would be if most black men were like Obama and the love we have for the president could extend to everyone else in his race.

But that's like being a Haitian in Haiti who is a millionaire trying to represent the country's starving people. Sure he's still Haitian and can probably relate to the people of Haiti more than, say Americans, and sure he probably isn't the only exception as there may be other rich people in Haiti- maybe even a large pool of rich people in Haiti, but how can he possibly represent and empower the person we think about when we think about the country's disastrous conditions?

I have no doubt that there's a slew of future Obama's lining up. But for the percentages of black men who aren't, for a poor child who may not be raised in suitable family environment, he looks at Obama who is luckier than he is, who had a chance at college, who was probably middle and upper class for most of his life, who has guidance, he looks at Obama and then he looks at his surroundings and what he's always known--- sometimes it's about circumstance more than just race.

Digression.

I guess it wouldn't be fair to say that I'm as socially conscience as I wish I were. It wouldn't be fair to say I love black men. Sure I understand to a slight extent. Sure I am more attracted to a black man than a white man. But in reality, I'm attracted to a very small percentage of black men, the same percentage which people are beginning to give some respect to rather than the percentage of men who people have already counted out.

How does that make me progressive, caring, or non-judgmental? How does my mindset contribute to societal change or another step toward ending racism at all?

Last digression.

It's immensely bothersome that I even find an intelligent , kind, and confident black man more desirable than a white man --- as though it's more rare and therefore somehow more special. It speaks volumes actually, because there are plenty of black men who match that description and it's not really a diamond in the rough or meant as an accusation to the black male race.

I like a black man because he's more relatable and I'm definitely more proud but of course that isn't the whole story. Society says that an eloquent black man is the diamond in the rough and therefore more exceptional, almost unbelievable.. thus he should be admired. "Wow look, they produced a smart one." It's actually a form of racism, we should see it as the rule. It should be, and hopefully one day this will happen, where it would still make people proud, but above the pride an understanding that this is in no way unusual but expected.

When people are proud of black college students in the same manner as a white middle-upper class parent are proud of their children, then that's progress. Or else it's still an unfortunate form of pride.

August 8, 2009

"Sisters up in my hood trying to do good given choices
When pregnant drop out of school or have abortions
Stop working hoping that they find a man that will support them
Up late night on they mothers cordless, thinking a perm or
Bleaching cream will make better when they gorgeous
White girls tanning, lypo suction
Fake titties are implanted, fake lips thats life destruction" -Nas

Money Talk. It's not an eloquent subject matter, excuse the un-eloquent writing.

It coincides with the race talk of course.

I'm reaching a stage where I'm completely terrified of me. The internship did not spring the passion, the joy, and the answers that I had hoped it would. When I write about subjects I care about, the feelings are visceral- but I can't picture myself wasting away at it when the feelings are not.

The 'uh oh' moment is shooting right at me. I've checked off writer. I've checked off architect. I've checked off nurse. I'm about ready to check off journalist as a future career. I can't half-ass the passion and live my life like a step by step manual, doing all the things I'm supposed to do without considering what it is that makes me smile.

So what's next? Teacher? Mentor? Councilor? Sociologist? My graduation is less than two years away but as quick as time passes, it's staring straight at me. I'm not a wandering hippie, free-spirited do-whatever-moves-me-even-if-it-means-I-could-live-on-the-street-type-of-chick. That idea in itself is nauseating.

I'm still the goofiest, craziest, blondest chick I know. I am a kid with brainfarts left and right when I'm trying to have an articulate conversation and make a point. But responsibility is there. Twenty-one means I have to get my own health insurance. Graduation means at least $30,000 that I must face head on. Colby might switch from a grant based tuition program to a loan based tuition program and I don't have that extra $50,000 on my slate if it does. With braces and the responsibility of a car coming up-- all of these things scream "make a fucking decision MyTien!"

Make a fucking decision. I can't just ride with the current, this is my life that I need to grab hold of.

I'm terrified. Terrified because I want to be happy. Terrified because I don't want my parents working when they're 60. Terrified because I don't want my kids to grow up poor. Terrified because I haven't figured out the things that will lead me on the right career path and make me happy.

My parents do well enough to make a living but they don't have the extra money. I never grew up with bonds and stocks set aside for me or thousands in the bank account. My parents are the type of people who work twice as hard and twice as much as other middle class parents for less pay. I'm in college on a generous scholarship that is not a full scholarship by any means of the imagination. The parents are helping me but in no way can I put that burden on them-- they have another child going to college in three years.

I have friends whose parents are lawyers, brain surgeons, and plastic surgeons. I have friends who have parents who own jets and fly to Greece on vacation. They shop Anthropologie, Calvin Klein, 7 Jeans. They expect a certain thing for their child and they have the $200,000 to put in to ensure that their child becomes someone and that the old money traditions continue.

First day I stepped into Colby, talked to my half-Greece, half-French, 16-year-old freakishly smart roommate whose mother and father are both almost old enough to be my grandmother and I'm like "shit, do I belong here?"

Money isn't everything but it makes a difference. I have friends who make fun of the stereotypical "Wal-martian" people. The "loud and sketchy folks one could only find at a place like Wal-mart"

Colby is great but sometimes I think that when I become a parent; I want to be stern and expose my kids to all the cultures that make them fit right into an old-money prominent school like Colby. I want them to grow up with piano lessons and braces when they're 12, reading Shakespeare and doing community service all their lives, and embracing the arts. I want them politically active.

I love Colby but I have to overcompensate because I didn't grow up with professors as parents. I didn't grow up having newspaper subscriptions or reading a book each day. A lot of these kids want to be doctors or lawyers or engineers.

It sounds a little silly to say I want to be a nurse or a journalist. Those careers make no money. I love kids-- I love boys and especially with the education gap between boys and girls, it might be nice to teach middle school kids in underprivileged neighborhoods and somehow teach them to embrace education and believe in themselves. Teach boys that education can also lead you into being a man and a provider and it's not necessary to forgo school, give up your childhood and be a man at such a young age, because your children will also likely follow that path if their parents don't finish high school.

But...
Am I going to go to one of the hardest colleges to get into for 4 years, get a masters, and then teach for $30,000 a year? And will it keep me satisfied when I'm 50 and I look back and ask, "well what the hell have you done to make an impact on the world, are you happy, and have you done everything you wanted to do?"

How will I start my life if I'm paying off debt until I'm 40? My father and I don't have the healthy father-daughter emotional relationship. But there are things that he says that always resonate with me. He and mom have had to swallow their pride for 20 years carrying a lunch box into a manual labor job filled with minority workers. I don't want my 60 year old father walking into Barber Foods at 6 a.m. doing fucking manual labor for no one. I would be in a lot of shame if he did. I want him to chill in Viet Nam or Miami and I want my mother to shop.

That's what some of this expensive education and some of the sacrifices are for. They're certainly not for me being in the same class as my parents are in, granted, I won't be working as hard but the class will be the same.

I hate depending on people, I hate the idea of depending on a man to help me with my expenses. I can live with very little money but I also can't stomach being looked down upon; people pretend society's views don't matter--- that's all that it is, pretending. With earning a middle class living and having a home-- it garners respect. I know so many people who are my age and look like me who'll never get there and I don't want to be that statistic.

My brother came home from the mall two days ago with his friend and he told me how the bus driver addressed them as though they were stupid or gangsters just because they were two minority boys. Even a 15-year-old carefree boy gets frustrated by that shit, there's too much hidden racism that people don't recognize, every time we bring it up people think the race card is being pulled. Ummm..

I hope over time more minority affluence and presence in big business and academic fields helps erase some of that ignorance. Certainly it can't do that entirely, but I hope that it's one of those pieces to a solution. To thus state the obvious, I don't want to be poor. I don't want to be another minority poor person. Shit makes me mad to the point where I don't want my kids to have to ever ride a fucking bus, who at Colby rides a bus, most have $20,000 cars at 16 years of age.

"I like this boy," I said. And the woman asks, "Is he white?" I say "No ma'am." She gives me an odd look as though she's disappointed-- as though he's a bad boy with no future and if I were with him I'd have no future either because I'm not interested in a white boy.

"Do you go to college?," they ask. "Yes, ma'am," I said.
"Where?"
"Colby ma'am."
"Ohhh... wow... really?"

Race and class are so intertwined. I want to do well not just for me and my parents and my future babies but because I'm a little tired of the stereotypes and I don't like the trend where I see of people like me having low expectations for themselves because America has low expectations for them.

So there's a motivation to get my act together, make my mind up, and still be politically active and "change society" but with a career that will pay off my bills, make me affluent, and set an example for people like me to say that they can do it too.

I don't think a struggling journalist or a 6th grade teacher making $30,000 a year quite cuts it. I certainly don't want my kids going to college feeling a sense of not being as good as the rest of them. I don't want them to have to worry about my money situation either.

I guess I'm freaking out because there's fun and games, passion, figuring things out, and being an adventurous kid on one hand.

Then there's growing up and yearning to grab a piece of the American pie that I deserve knowing that I don't have that much time left on the other.

Often I think the second one is more important. Sometimes I think 'why not go for something that guaranties a lot of money and never worry about living paycheck to paycheck?" There's nothing wrong with being a doctor or a lawyer.

And 21 is young but also old. I know people starting families at 21, working 60 hours a week at 21.

But there's of course the affluent kids who know what they want, will follow their careers until they've become someone, and then start a family. It's an entirely different world from kids working too hard at 21-- it's not the right age to work so hard, it's not the right age to have kids and get married.

Part of me thinks that being an indecisive hippie who is never satisfied can't possibly land me into the first description. I have an opportunity but the window is closing, so maybe I should push emotions aside and just grab it.

Safety

"I want a good girl, she want a gentleman,
We're saying the same thing like a sinner man" - Kanye West

Everyone knows the story. On Thursday President Obama, VP Joe Bidden, Sgt. Crowley and Harvard Prof. Gates got together to "have a beer" and the discuss the events that transpired 2 weeks ago which has sparked a national debate on race.

The distinguished black Harvard intellectual was arrested at his home by a white police officer and charged with disorderly conduct on July 16. A neighbor had mistakenly thought a break in was underway as the professor was attempting to nudge his door testy door open. The two accounts that ensued and played out in the national media could not have been more different.

But one thing. Everyone, including President Obama, is missing the point.

Professor Gates' arrest took place in Cambridge, home to Harvard and MIT. People are paying attention and speaking about race because he is beyond a distinguished individual who, regardless of whether he was yelling, should not have been arrested for occupying his own home. It isn't a crime.

But he was and people talked, some even questioning why this regional incident created national headlines. Those like Colin Powell, who placed some of the blame on Gates himself, said the incident would not have gone as far if it wasn't for a clash of the egos and if the professor would have been completely cooperative.

Mr. Powell neglects to mention the 400 pound elephant in the room. How often do we see white men get suspected of a crime simply for occupying their own home? I forgot my key last week and had to break into my own apartment-- I was not suspected of an attempted robbery.

The statistics of black men being under suspicion of a crime, being arrested, and occupying America's jails and prisons are staggering. But it took the newsworthy act of a well known Harvard professor being arrested for people to talk, for whites and even blacks to act "shocked" at everything that transpired.

No one takes into account the value of each human being. Professor Gates, as prominent and intelligent a man as he is, is just a human being like every other human being. He is a black man in America just as millions of others are. But when this daily event happens to ordinary people who aren't celebrities or powerful figures, nobody gives a shit. Nobody is up in arms.

Professor Gates can ask, "do you know who I am?", because he most likely can foresee some kind of outcry or retribution. Most black men who are falsely accused of a crime know that they should keep their audacity under control if they don't want to experience the negative consequences that will likely follow.

Shocked that this would happen to Professor Gates? Sure. Shocked that this is happening? How naive can we get? We're searching for a scintillating, in the moment story, while this trend continues to face ordinary people, who may not be your scholar, who may not be your doctor, who may not have the opportunity to fight this.

It's not about Prof. Gates . It's about why America as a nation cares so much about important figures (or pretends to in the in-the-moment kind of way) and not about our very own neighbors. It's us reducing the concept of race into a 5 minute CNN news clip. We're a country that is eager to move onto a new and exciting story. We see the news worthy events; we don't take a look at the socio-concepts and realities which caused it and many events like it to happen.

Why might there be an innate defensiveness in Professor Gates? Why might there be an innate anger toward law enforcement in a great number of black men who are consistently being suspected of crime in large part because of the stereotypes America (and police in America) are being force-fed about them? And within that anger, does it take away some percentage of their masculinity, and makes them submissive, which subsequently leads back to the scene of a powerful white cop taking control of an unarmed black man. It's a microsm of the majority group being consistently more powerful than a minority group that is being silenced and it's a fabric of racism in American society.

Sgt. Crowley probably didn't have time to think about all this while trying to do his job to the best of his ability. But again the question is, when does white America ever think about these issues without having to? When do ordinary people who make up this national issue start to matter and when do we speak on these issues beyond the superficial newsworthy layer?

A beer in hopes that a national fiasco might go away? It won't.