Life of Alvin

SUPERPOWERS

2010-07-20T23:54:00.002-04:00

I was 6 when I discovered the growth behind my ear. It was disk-shaped, about a centimeter wide.

I was fascinated. I wondered if this thing was the source of a secret superpower. So over the next year, I occasionally tried to do superhero things — you know, like fly. I taped a kitchen towel to a rubber band, and then put the rubber band around my neck, like a cape. Then I climbed our kitchen counter and jumped, Superman-style, onto the couch — where my great aunt was recovering from surgery.

Flight was not my superpower.

Much to my satisfaction, the growth got bigger. Soon, it was the size of a penny. I figured my superpower was ready to bloom. But I didn’t tell anyone because, in the most genuine way, I thought they’d try to do something silly — like cut it out.

I continued my superpower experimentation and, soon, my teachers thought I was suffering from a developmental disability. I was called into the counselor’s office and was asked several questions.

“There is no right or wrong answer,” she said. “So tell me what you did at recess today?”

“I tried to make fire with my hands.”

Kids are, to be blunt, stupid. They do stupid things, like mistaking a possibly malignant growth for superpowers. But back then, everything I did seemed cosmically important. I was discovering my superpower — an ability that could save humanity.

About when I turned 7, my mom discovered the growth midway through a church service. She dragged me out of the sanctuary and to a doctor. He snapped on rubber gloves and touched the growth. It hurt, it was tender, so I slapped his hand away. But he told me this was really important, and he looked really important — like he could possibly send me to jail — so I let him examine it.

“We should cut that right out,” he said. “Let’s schedule a procedure.”

Mom asked, “Is it dangerous?”

And he said, “It’s a minor surgery.”

Kid translation: You’re gonna die.

I knew there were risks with superpowers, so I accepted my fate and prepared for the end. I made a will — toys to my brother, the Super Nintendo to my dad and math homework to my mom. I stole my favorite food from the pantry — a can of Spam — and spooned it into my mouth while sitting on top of our jungle gym, watching the sunset. I was a poetic child.

A few days before my scheduled death, I went in for a preliminary exam. The doctor touched the growth; it still hurt. But then he said, “Great news! It’s shrinking. That means it’s a harmless cyst.”

Kid translation: You ain’t a superhero.

I was devastated. For one year, I was special — I had an undiscovered superpower, and I was about to become a martyr for it. But now I was just a regular kid, an irrelevant 7-year-old who would vanish in the context of this infinite universe.

The doctor gave me a cream to apply to the cyst. He said it would shrink my cyst. He kept saying the word cyst. The word cyst just sounded so ugly. I felt deformed.

I just wanted to feel like a superhero again — I wanted to feel important, powerful, strong. But I spent half the day covering the back of my ear, which didn’t help convince my teachers I was normal. It was hard times. My pog game was off, the kids forced me to be Rita when we played Power Rangers and my Tamagotchi died every other day.

Whether we want to or not, we develop a self-worth at a young age — we latch onto earthly things that give us confidence and safety, like superpowers.

But amid all that, I learned superpowers were not real — that no one had them. And, soon thereafter, I learned that I didn’t have world-class talents or stunning beauty. I was, like most people, nothing special. And that seemed unfair. Everyone deserves to feel like a superhero; everyone deserves to be able to jump off the kitchen counter and, for one ephemeral moment, float.

In sixth grade, I encountered superpowers again. My science teacher assigned me a lab partner, Jonathan, and he was one of those kids in the “special” class. The first thing he told me was that he could freeze water — with his mind. “That’s why white snow flakes come out of my hair,” he said, scratching dandruff onto the black tabletops.

That semester, we didn’t finish a single lab. It was the “buoyancy” unit. He wanted to freeze everything. I played along.

Then, at the end of the unit, it was time to switch lab partners and Jonathan got real sad, almost teary.

“You’re my friend, right?” he asked.

I nodded.

“Good,” he said, trying to smile. “You’re my first ever friend.”

There are times we think we’re special — that we have superpowers. But life is humbling. It reminds us each day that we are ordinary, that we are insignificant, that — compared to superheroes — we are broken. Then there are these moments, these incredibly ordinary moments. And we are repaired.

related: RWC's Repair

SAFETY

2010-07-10T21:27:00.002-04:00

I started packing today. I’ve done this 14 times before, but I still get emotional — sad. Home is the place where you can hang up old ticket stubs and creased love notes, and it’s OK — it still has meaning. But every time you take them down to pack, you worry that they won’t find a new home. You worry that things will change — that you’ll lose the context which made these things poignant.

Last winter, I drove to my old house in Kansas and, through the window, I saw our staircase. I ran up those steps thousands of times; I know exactly where it creaks. But I couldn’t go in; I can never go in. The feeling of going up those steps was agonizingly familiar, but it wasn’t mine anymore. This meaningless memory was a symbol of what I could no longer have.

That is why, each time, it is sad.

It’s not about home, though. That’s not what I long for. This is about safety. It’s about knowing that, when you sit at your kitchen table, you’ll know exactly how it will feel. It’s the assurance of a gravity, of a sunrise, that makes life somewhat ordered.

But I think the moment a child becomes an adult is when he realizes that life is not ordered — that safety was an illusion. Growing up, you usually assume that wiser people are doing what is best for you. Then at some point you realize that people are flawed, and the parachute on your back disappears. You’re forced to acquire your own safety — things that make us functional; things that we know are mirages. So we create things like routines, keepsakes and a home.

I’m moving for the 14th time in 23 years. Each time, my world has felt disorderly. In three weeks, I am leaving this place, full of my stench, and I’m going to a place that carries its own history, devoid of me. Sure, it’s a blank slate — but it’s a blank slate.

When I moved to my current apartment last fall, I felt uneasy for two months. It was a room with my stuff in it, and nothing more. That’s what I fear this time — it’s what I’ve feared every time.

But I calm my anxiety by remembering how this place became home. My mom and my brother visited, and we ate a make-shift Korean dinner on a coffee stand; my girlfriend visited, and we pinned more corny love notes on the cork board; my dog came, and she dragged her butt across the floor. And those things make an empty room truly safe, because those things — those feelings — are not illusions.

As we grow older, we become more comfortable with the fabrication of safety. But the moments in which we are safe become greatly fulfilling. And the people who make us safe are cosmically appreciated and divinely loved.

So I guess all this is to say, I don’t want to pack. But I’ll be OK.

BEAUTY

2010-06-30T03:02:00.002-04:00

At 1:14 a.m., I had the urge to create something beautiful. So here I am — 2 a.m., Wednesday — trying.

We all want to believe we can create beauty. We want to think that, for a self-contained moment, we can stop entropy and organize the world.

A few times, I’ve stumbled upon it — a glimpse between independent clauses, a hint amidst mindless humming. It’s intoxicating, and cruelly addicting.

But, more often, I’ve felt it around others who methodically navigate toward this beauty, finding it at will. These are singers who channel unadulterated human emotions through sound waves, or artists who connect colors and shapes to create an image better than reality.

As the world disintegrates around us, these people create a symbol of what it is like whole.

The past week, I have tried so hard to unlock beauty within these words. But it became solely about creation, so I failed — I failed to the point of sleepless frustration at what is now 3 a.m. on a work night.

I forgot that beauty does not come from us. Instead, it comes from the honesty with which we represent the world around us. That is why it’s beautiful when the Beatles sing about love, or when Van Gogh visualizes sadness. They don’t create love or sadness; they just narrate it, with unfettered bravery.

And that’s another thing I forgot: bravery. I’ve been filtering. I don’t know how to write about my world right now — about the things I think about each morning.

A few days ago, my girlfriend visited me. She stayed a day — it was great — but then we parted again, leaving behind an emptiness that was unsatisfyingly soothed by text messages and phone calls.

That’s my world — I miss her. I miss my parents. I miss my friends. Really miss them.

It’s a normal human emotion. But I don’t know how to make sense of it. It’s so raw, so chaotic. It doesn’t fit into a theme; there is no epiphany. I just miss them; I just want them back. And maybe one day — after we reunite — I’ll find the beauty in that.

E-MAILING NORTH KOREA

2010-06-17T21:35:00.005-04:00

The other day, I was reading the official webpage of North Korea. And saw something so incredibly normal: contact information.

I thought, for sure, this e-mail address was fake — an attempt to show transparency, in hopes that no one would actually contact them.

But I just had to make sure, so I sent this e-mail:

To: Special Delegation -DPR of Korea
From: Alvin Chang
Dated: June 16, 2010, 3:02 p.m.

Hi,

I visited your website and was fascinated by what I read. On this page, it says if a South Korean tries to visit North Korea, they are shot by U.S. troops. But I have not heard about this. So I was wondering if you, or someone else you know, can tell me if this has occurred in the past.

Thank you so much,

Alvin

Holy crap, I just sent an e-mail to North Korea ...

To: Alvin Chang
From: Special Delegation -DPR of Korea
Dated: June 16, 2010, 3:26 p.m.

Dear Sir,

Yes it happened before when trying to cross the DMZ. But surely US will deny it. But anyone departing from South Korea can try to cross the heavily militarized DMZ area and experience it by himself. He will be shot from US or South Korean soldiers, and if he escapes the shooting, then will be captured and interrogated by our guards in the Northern side.

If they South Korean try to visit North Korea via a third country, then they are jailed when they return to Seoul.

Example:

http://english.yonhapnews.co.kr/northkorea/2010/06/12/0401000000AEN20100612002400320.HTML

This South Korea pastor was jailed in the past and will be jailed again as soon as he returns, under the National Security Law (Anti-Communist Law), created by the USA and still enforced in South Korea.

According to the law, people supporting communism or North Korea can be even executed.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/National_Security_Act_%28South_Korea%29

Best regards,

KFA

22 minutes. That’s how long it took someone to respond. It’s taken days for small towns to respond to my e-mails; weeks for NYU; months for the U.S. government. But I e-mailed North Korea and I got a response in 22 minutes.

I need to write back ...

To: Special Delegation -DPR of Korea
From: Alvin Chang
Dated: June 16, 2010, 3:40 p.m.

Thank you for your prompt response.

So what happens if a North Korean citizen tries to cross the DMZ? Do the US or South Koreans shoot at those people too?

Also, I am curious: Are you based in North Korea or elsewhere?

Thank you so much. These are questions that are not answered clearly anywhere else.

Alvin Chang
913 244 5557

Crap! I forgot to take off my e-mail signature. I guess it’d be a cool story if North Korea called me. ... I hope they don't.

To: Alvin Chang
From: Special Delegation -DPR of Korea
Dated: June 16, 2010, 3:43 p.m.

Depends on the area.

If in the sea, normally they are captured by US/South Korean soldiers.

If by land via DMZ, shoot down after a first halt.

We are based in North Korea, but for international activities and internet connections have foreign bases in Thailand and Spain.

Best regards,

KFA

This guy is signing every e-mail “KFA” — Korean Friendship Association — so he’s obviously trying not to be personal. All I want to know is if he’s a North Korean, or a foreigner working for North Korea. He uses the “royal we” when talking about North Korea, so he could be a native. But he could also be one of their delegates -- my goodness, the pictures of these guys make them look like a criminal gang. And the Malta delegate is Ron Jeremy!

A quick IP-address check says he’s in Malaga, Spain, a big city in southern Spain that’s the birthplace of Pablo Picasso — and Antonio Banderas.

Time to ask some more questions.

To: Special Delegation -DPR of Korea
From: Alvin Chang
Dated: June 16, 2010, 3:57 p.m.

I heard on TV while watching the World Cup that North Koreans do not have cellular phones or internet access. Does the government prohibit these devices? If so, why are they not allowed? It would seem to be a useful device these days.

To: Alvin Chang
From: Special Delegation -DPR of Korea
Dated: June 16, 2010, 3:50 p.m.

Dear Sir,

Sorry but we cannot answer every question personally.

We have mobile phones in DPRK and INTRANET access.

Best regards,

KFA

That is such crap. First off, he said before that the KFA has foreign bases for the internet access!

But I guess he did say “INTRANET,” which connects computers within certain networks, but not necessarily to the internet. So maybe he’s saying that North Koreans have the technology to communicate with each other using computers. And even if those exist, civilians don’t have access to the computers or the internet. Why?

Also, reports from the country say that they have mobile phones — but only for top government officials and, possibly, an invisible mobile phone for the North Korean soccer coach. But some reports say civilians caught with mobile phones are executed.

This pisses me off. I don’t care that he can’t answer every question. I want him to answer mine:

To: Special Delegation -DPR of Korea
From: Alvin Chang
Dated: June 16, 2010, 4:04 p.m.

Yes, I know you have mobile phones and telecommunication access. But why do your citizens not have access?

I understand you cannot answer every question. So I only have one more question: Do you work for North Korea? I understand you are based in Spain. But how does one end up answering e-mails for the DPRK website?

One hour later, no response.

Two hours later, still nothing.

I feel like getting angry with this man, but I know it’s misdirected. I don’t know who to be angry at — I don’t know who to hold accountable. It’s frustrating, so frustrating.

HATE MAIL FOR JONATHAN SAFRON FOER

2010-06-15T21:27:00.003-04:00

Dear Jonathan Safron Foer,

I suffered a lot the past two years. But it almost ended it — until you came along.

My vegetarian girlfriend and I would eat tofu dinners, and the whole time, I’d dream about steaks and burgers and bacon — oh, my sweet bacon. It got to the point that, after dinner dates, I’d run to a McDonald’s and eat a Big Mac. I didn’t care that it had 27 grams of fat, or that the cheese looked like plastic. It was animal.

So, eventually, I decided a meat conversion was necessary for my girlfriend. Slowly, I introduced the idea. We talked about it and, about a month ago, I got her to the brink of pescetarianism. She was ready.

Then she read your book, “Eating Animals.” And it all came crashing down. Now, she is a more committed vegetarian than ever.

I hate you.

But while she was reading your book, I also got my own copy. I needed to know what arguments you would make so I could counter them. But while reading your book, you caught me under your spell. Your pretty words and sound logic brainwashed me. So I fought it. I figured I had the power of meat in my brain, so I could beat your veggie-filled cranium.

So I started a list titled: “Why I am should be a meat eater.” And since you used clever subtitles in your book to catch me in your spell, I decided to do the same. But, of course, you and your book interfered with this project, too. The ghost of you, Jonathan Safron Foer, got into my mind and ruined this list.

And now I’m left with this:

Humans are omnivores

Me: In the words of Ron Burgundy, “It’s science.”

We need protein from meat. That is why we are omnivores. That is why it tastes good to us. And we’ve been eating meat since the history of man.

Ghost of JSF: You eat far more animals than you need. These days, you eat animals for pleasure — not health.

Also, studies show we can get enough protein from a meat-free diet. In addition, the factory-farmed meat you eat is not good for you — it’s a danger to your health.

Basically, I’m saying humans have been eating and producing too much meat. That has forced us to take something with feelings and emotions, like our dogs, and “grow” them — and “harvest” them. Almost all the animals you eat have had a horrible, painful life.

I don’t need to know

Me: Last year, my family went to an ostrich farm in South Africa. They sat us down at a table and fed us ostrich steaks. They were delicious.

Then, we walked outside and met ostriches — many of whom had names. And, man, that ruined the steak.

Things is, I’m a eater. I need a wall between the food and the animal, because I don’t need to think about death when I’m enjoying food.

Ghost of JSF: I know you want your ostrich steak without the death. But that’s not possible. Your ostrich friend, Jean Claude, had to die for you to eat that steak.

Now, many people know that animals and meat are the same thing. But, when they eat, they have been conditioned to forget that. In their minds, the cute animal and tasty meat exist simultaneously. Well, the Law of Conservation of Mass says otherwise.

It’s the farmers’ fault

Me: If farmers treated these animals well and stopped making this all about money, this wouldn’t be a problem. This isn’t not my fault. It’s the farmers’ fault.

Ghost of JSF: You want cheap meat. You want more of it. So their job is to make the animal-to-meat process cheaper. And that means animals suffer.

For example, slaughtering cows is an imperfect process. For one, there are often poorly trained workers — a money issue. Secondly, the line speed has increased eight-fold in the last 100 years — because we want more beef. That means cows aren’t killed instantly.

I found an affidavit of a worker saying that “thousands and thousands of cows go through the slaughter process alive. ... The cows can get seven minutes down the line and still be alive. I’ve been in the side puller where they’re still alive. All the hide is stripped out down the neck there.”

Also, as I wrote in my book, some cows are still conscious when they go to the “head-skinner.” That’s when they start kicking wildly. So workers stab the spinal cord to dispatch it, but some still survive. So a live cow is then sent to get the lower portion of its legs cut off. One line worker told me, “As far as the ones that come back to life, it looks like they’re trying to climb the walls.”

You share the fault.

Circle of life

Me: Animals eat animals. That’s how nature works. Lion King taught me: Mufasa chases down an antelope and feeds his family. I’m cool with that.

Ghost of JSF: We often raise animals with only profit in mind. That’s not natural. That’s like Scar keeping thousands of birds in cage, making them mate with each other, snapping their necks and selling them to the hyenas. Not cool.

The difference between Mufasa and Scar is simple: It’s about life, not death. That antelope lives a happy life until death. That bird lives to die.

A culture that respects life should not make it about death.

My great aunt won’t stand for this

Me: When I visit my 90-some year old great aunt in Kansas, she feeds me.

But, for her, it isn’t about the food. It’s about getting people to her apartment so she can talk to them — and make them happy.

In the 1950s, shortly after she escaped from North Korea, she lived in a poor neighborhood where most people were chronically hungry. She was poor, too, but she would make lots of food and invite friends and neighbors to eat with her. During those meals, meat was a prized portion — it represented the sacrifice she was making for you to be healthy. Turning it down was not just awkward — it was insulting.

So you’re going to make me turn it down? Not a chance.

Ghost of JSF: This is the hardest reason why giving up meat is hard — because it makes relationships more difficult. When meat is already on the table and everyone is in a festive mood, it’s hard to be the guy talking logically about why we shouldn’t eat meat. So the culture of eating meat needs to change.

Me: But I don’t have a problem with eating meat. I just have a problem with how much we eat, which causes cruel farming practices. In Korean culture, meat is often a treat — a small side dish. I think that’s how it ought to be.

I deserve meat

Me: When I was little, we ate very little meat. It was expensive. My parents were poor.

As we moved up in the world, I wanted what I couldn’t have — and lots of it.

Now I can eat it anytime. Sometimes, I feel it’s my right.

...

You still there, Jon?

Fish is OK

Me: Fish are fine, right?

Ghost of JSF: Thousands of dolphins, whales and other wildlife are killed while mass fishing for our fillets.

We’re doing this whole fishing thing wrong. In trying to meet demands, fishermen are doing massive damage to the environment.

Me: I guess it’s time to get my fishing pole and catch my own in the East River.

Meat satisfies me

Me: I have a hard time cooking a vegetarian meal as satisfying as a meat-filled meal. It’s just hard.

That’s not to say I haven’t had satisfying vegetarian meals. I just don’t know how to cook them because I’ve always been taught that a protein, veggie and grain make one good meal.

Ghost of JSF: Time to learn, grasshopper.

I am man. I eat meat.

Me: Pussies and PETA don’t eat meat. I eat meat — red, bloody, extra rare meat.

Ghost of JSF: So you’ve devolved to insults? You need to stop defending your way of life with blind, lazy stubbornness.

Learn about the impact your decisions make. A steak doesn’t just cost $7.99 a pound.

It tastes good

Me: OK, all your arguments make sense. But I’m gonna be entirely honest: I eat it because it taste good. Especially bacon, my sweet bacon.

For me, flavor is sacred. Don’t get in the way of flavorful foods. Because flavor makes me happy.

Ghost of JSF: Isn’t it wrong to always do what feels good? Human have the power to act outside the biological need to feel pleasure — it’s called morality.

Pleasure is not a bad thing. But how you attain that pleasure — and the consequences of it — matter.

---

So, JSF, you had an answer for everything. It angered me. You were asking me to limit my indulgence in something that feels just so good — something we’ve always done.

And standing up to that: It’s brave.

You’re fighting tradition and pleasure, two of the most powerful forces in today’s culture. Though you spend much of your book showing people the health detriments of eating these factory farmed meats, this isn’t just about our own health — it’s about our humanity; it’s about what’s right.

And it’s hard to do what’s right when what’s wrong feels so good. But it’s even harder to ask people to change because people, like me, will hate you for it. So thanks.

Sincerely,

Alvin Chang

MY WORLD CUP WISH: A NORTH KOREA WIN

2010-06-02T15:55:00.008-04:00

In this upcoming World Cup, I only ask for one thing: a North Korean win.

It would mean a lot to them — and me, too.

But, first, how we both got here:

About a 15 years ago, a whole bunch of North Korean kids who were good at soccer turned 11. Except instead of going to sixth grade, they were selected to go to soccer academies. Then, the best of those players were sent to big cities so they could undergo an intense regimen in what were essentially soccer-player factories. All they did was soccer; no school. But, chances are, no one complained. It was a rare way to dig their families out of widespread poverty.

The best of those kids eventually made the North Korea national team. Then last June, they lined up against Saudi Arabia. They played their hearts out and the game ended, 0-0.

But after the match, those kids sprinted onto the field, ripped off their shirts, yelled to the heavens, cried to the hells and smiled. This draw had qualified them for the World Cup — their first since 1966.

...

About 60 years ago, my grandparents escaped from North Korea. Some of their relatives stayed, and are probably still there now.

Forty years later, I was born. And, to me, North Korea was just the place ancestors were from — like Albuquerque. There was no mystique about it.

But as I grew older, I had questions about my heritage — about North Korea. So I asked my great aunt, who lived there for 30-some years. Yet she couldn’t answer most my questions. To her, North Korea was the place she used to have a home and a small business. It was the place she got married, the place she grew up.

And only then did the Hermit Kingdom truly feel closed off. It went from something I thought I could always have, to something I could not have. It tortured me.

I asked my grandpa about it, and he told me the North Korean government listens to his phone calls. In fact, he changed his name because he thought they were after him.

The aura formed, and I felt detached from North Korea.

What I wanted to know — and perhaps what everyone wants to know — is what normalcy is like there. I thought that would connect me to those people.

...

Last year, I was watching the North Korean soccer team on TV. When they won, I saw these extreme emotions and I only had questions.

How much did this win improve their lives?

Were they giving all the credit to Kim Il-Sung?

Was this pure, unadulterated emotion?

I was looking for something genuine — something normal I could relate to.

It’s ironic, because the one thing that’s not normal in North Korea is soccer players.

Most people are starving. But soccer players are well fed and nicely housed. Former North Korean coach Moon Ki-Nam, who escaped to the South in 2004, told the Daily NK, “Special treatments are reserved for soccer players.”

Another thing that’s not normal: North Korea on the world’s biggest stage.

It is rare for them to join the world in anything. And it’s even rarer when its people get to take part. North Koreans don’t get normal TV broadcasts, but they will get World Cup games. And, make no mistake, they’ll be watching.

So, in my search for a connection, I found this — soccer.

Even though I can’t picture my North Korean brothers and sisters, and even though I have no idea what their day is like — where they sleep or what they eat — I do know they are ecstatic their home country is in the World Cup. And I do know they’ll go crazy if they win. I know that feeling. I can relate.

And I think what frustrates us about North Korea — we usually can’t relate. They’ve had such a different life than us.

But maybe for a moment, we can feel something similar: The exhilaration and pride of watching one’s countrymen win.

Of course, there are a lot of reasons it might not happen.

1. They’re in Group G, with world powerhouses Brazil, Ivory Coast and Portugal.

2. North Korea plays an extremely defensive game, so goals may be rare.

3. They have no real fans in the crowd. Instead, the North Korean government has hired 1,000 Chinese people to go there and cheer for them. Pisses me off.

4. There are distractions. There will be a lot of political tension around these games. Some people want to ban North Korea from the World Cup, which would anger everyone in that country — and me. Others want to use the games to spread messages to the North Korean people, since these matches will be televised there. Fine by me, I guess.

But if they can overcome all of that — the fierce opponents, the fake fans, the political tensions — and win a game, just one single game ...

Man, that would be special.

8 REALIZATIONS OF A STRUGGLING WRITER

2010-05-28T16:03:00.010-04:00

My writing is struggling.

I long suspected it, but last week a friend pointed it out — he said my writing had been “shot with an elephant tranquilizer then buried in Benadryl.”

He said it wasn’t the words — they’re still in the right place. It’s that my stories could be distilled down to: “Something weird happened today. I cried. Then I realized something.”

I always fear I am not good at this — that I was never good at this. It’s like, when I was in middle school, I had a sneaking suspicion I was a loser. High-rise socks and a Pokemon obsession should’ve given it away. But I always managed to convince myself I was very cool, until someone told me I wasn’t by saying, “You’re not cool.”

But, before that dork bomb, I mentally listed all the reasons why I may not be cool so I could change. Well, I haven’t changed much — not only am I still a dork, but I still make lists. So here’s the mental list for why my writing may be struggling:

Identity

I don’t write for a newspaper anymore; I write on Blogger, which also hosts “Life From A Cat’s Perspective” and “My Tango Diaries.”

This means: 1) I don’t have an editor. 2) I can’t be successful simply by juxtaposing my voice to the serious newspaper tone. 3) I don’t have a deadline. 4) I have to earn authority, because, instead of a fancy newspaper logo at the top of the page, I have an animated elephant.

But these are crap excuses. The real problem:

When I wrote for someone else — for a publication — I separated the real Alvin from the columnist Alvin. I built up a character who was bold, loud, radical and passionate. And if anyone attacked it, I funneled the criticism and vulnerability to my alter ego.

In a personal blog, I have no excuse. I do this because I want to. There is no character protecting me. It’s just me.

Poignancy

I always felt the strength of my writing was poignancy: I knew what I was saying and I said it with conviction. But that was before — that was my character. The real me is unsure of many things — even life’s most basic questions.

I have doubts, I doubt about my doubts and that makes it hard to be brief and to the point.

Focus

An example of my brainstorm:

In this piece, I need to figure out how to make this homeless man sympathetic — that way, he’ll become more real to my readers and they’ll understand why we need to do something about it. But why don’t I just do something about it? It seems dumb to just sit here and tell other people to do stuff. But I wonder if those people think they were unfairly screwed in life — I wonder what some of them think about their circumstances. And I wonder if they question a God that allows them to suffer like that. Or I wonder if the hope they gain from their faith allows them to live happily, despite their bad situation. ... Is that bacon I smell? Man, I love bacon. But it’s so inhumane how they are raised and slaughtered ...

I can’t focus. My mind wanders too quickly from the micro to the cosmic to the pork fat. I know they are interconnected, since my mind is racing through the junctions. But I can’t encompass enough of it in my mind to write something with true meaning.

Community

When I covered the city of Liberty, Missouri, for The Kansas City Star, I went to every school board meeting. And once, I observed a woman at the back of the room who was knitting — and I wrote her into my piece.

The next day, I received several phone calls about that detail. They loved it because, despite some of the heated arguments at these meetings, they were all fascinated by this green scarf she was making.

I’ve always had an audience to write for. But here, some readers are facing gunfire, while others are facing layoffs. Some are going to school, while others are pondering retirement.

In trying to be relevant to everyone, I’ve become irrelevant.

Purpose

Before this blog, I used to tell stories for the purpose of delivering a message. They would always be metaphors to deliver a point, hopefully to help people. But I fell into the habit of telling a story because it was cool, then forcing a message out of it.

That’s like staging a blooper for “America’s Funniest Home Videos.” Not cool.

Interactions

I’ve been working from home the past six months. I wake up at 6 a.m., begin working at 6:30 a.m. and finish anywhere from noon to 6 p.m. My schedule is different from most other people’s. This means that I interact with very few people each day. It sucks.

This also means I’ve become uncool, in the middle school kind of way — video games, TV, nerdy obsession. Not things that lend inspiration.

Transition

I am stuck in life. I’m working from home, waiting to go to grad school, far away from people I care about — hundreds of mile from my girlfriend, thousands of miles from my parents. And I’m trying to push myself to get healthier, smarter and humbler — yet generally failing.

The hardest part of being in transition is that you quickly run out of things to look back on. The “remember when” moments whither away, and those are things I can be most honest about.

Humility

When I wrote my first column in high school, I approached it knowing I wasn’t good at this. (My first SAT verbal: 500.) With practice — and reassurance — I gained confidence. That turned into pride, and that pride turned into delusion.

A few years ago, my friend, Adam Playford, nominated me for an award and wrote that my pieces “remind us what it means to be human.” And a huge part of that: relationships. C.S. Lewis once said, “Friendships is unnecessary, like philosophy, like art ... It has no survival value; rather it is one of those things that give value to survival.”

(Spoiler alert: Realization coming.)

My writing is special because of the way I can describe relationships among people. But I can only do that because of the way I was treated by others. People in my life have loved me, despite my struggles with identity, ineptitude in social situation, doubts on faith, and an overwhelming pride.

My ultimate mistake has been thinking that the source of my success comes from within myself. But it turns out it’s within the people around me.

LIBERTY CITY

2010-05-22T11:03:00.002-04:00

On the east coast of Manhattan, there are hundreds of street signs that say “Dead End.” This island’s grid system is a lot like a tic-tac-toe board; the street ends are unattached.

So I always wondered why people walked down these roads; it’s not on the way to any place, or a destination for any one. It is, after all, a dead end.

But a few months ago, I walked down a dead-end road, and I found the most peaceful nook in New York City overlooking the river. And, there, I was almost fooled into thinking there weren’t three million other people on this island.

I was addicted. I went back a few times. Until, once, I saw a middle-aged couple having a picnic there. And with that moment, I became sad, and whatever claim I thought I had to that place went away.

I discarded the idea of “my nook.” Instead, I started building a library of several nooks. That way, if one was filled, I could go to another.

For the next few months, I walked up and down the east side of Manhattan, exploring dead-end streets, looking for peace in the most physical way possible: a lack of noise.

During my first adventure, I ended up in a small nook overlooking Brooklyn. Before I even reached the river, a chubby toddler boy charged at me, away from his mother who was in pursuit. She looked at me, almost begging for me to stop this speedy chunk. So I did; tackled him, actually. But, no worries, he just bounced off. In fact, he thought it was funny so he smiled. And in his smile, between his teeny little teeth, was a crushed up yellow crayon.

All I remember is neon drool — oh, so much neon drool.

Not my nook.

Speaking of drool, these dead ends are a favorite for elderly people. It’s quiet, and there’s plenty of shade. Lots of people in wheelchairs end up dozing off to sleep in the same nook, day after day. And several times, I’ve caught them drooling on their shirts. But, once, an old man woke up and caught me staring at his drool. (Side note: Watching a droplet of drool balancing on a lip is like watching two trains about to crash: It’s hard to look away.) Anyway, I tried to make him feel better by saying, “It’s OK. I drool in my sleep all the time,” which is true. He looked at me, as if he was going to charge in his chair and push me into the river. But I realized he was just trying to re-close his eyes. When he did, the drool fell, the excitement was over and it wasn’t one my nooks.

Eventually, I gave up on this idea, as well. Because every nook I visited was not as good as the first. And the first was not as good as I thought.

Still, I continued to adventure down dead-end streets — for exercise, I told myself — and, over time, I found a few more nooks, met a few more people and learned a few more awesome stories. For example, there’s a man in the East 50s who goes to a nook every morning and transforms himself into a woman.

And, quickly, I realized that, what I like about these places is that no one ends up there on accident. It takes effort to find a nook; it requires you to go out of your way — and take time out of your day — to go down a dead-end street. And that means everyone is there for a reason, whether it’s to be contemplative or to play with their kids.

One day, as I watched an Asian man performing tai chi in a nook, I realized why I ended up there — what my reason was.

Thing is, I am the kind of person who mistakes indecision for options, and options for hope. So I stay in the rhythm, too afraid to syncopate, taking refuge no further than the fork in the road.

But when I walk down a dead-end street, it is a rebellious decision that takes away options. And it is so freeing.

MY FLOOD

2010-05-16T02:00:00.001-04:00

"Let's see what happens if we flush," Mom said.

So we flushed.

BOOM! Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

My toilet pipes exploded. Water shot out. Within seconds, there was a violent river from my bathroom, through the bedroom and into my living room. I tried putting my hand over it, but the water just shot through. I tried clogging it with a towel and sitting on it, but the water just ... shot through. So I called 9-1-1.

It reminded me of "Home Alone," when Kevin tries to escape through the neighbors basement, which is flooded with water. My things floated out from my bedroom to the living room: pencils, toilet paper, tooth brushes, my dog. I thought, for sure, my apartment was ruined.

But, eventually, firemen came and shut off the water. Eventually, we cleaned out my apartment. And, now, I am ready to sleep in my dry apartment under warm covers.

I am so blessed. The list:

1. When the pipes exploded, it shot off a huge metal cap which shattered a piece of tile. In my tiny bathroom, it entirely missed my mom.

2. I moved into this apartment on August 15. On August 16, I noticed huge cracks in the wooden floors. I always hated how poorly constructed this unit was. But today they served as a great drainage system. Without them, this apartment would be under two feet of water.

3. My apartment is crooked. I feel like I'm always tipping over. Today, the tilt of the floors guided the water away from anything important and straight out the door.

4. My parent live in Vietnam now. There are visiting for one week. If these pipes exploded when I was home alone, I probably would've cowered in fear and drowned. If I survived, I would still be cleaning up.

5. No one was on the toilet when it exploded.

6. Nothing was in the toilet when it exploded.

7. My dad wanted to go to Niagara Falls during this trip. But we decided it was too far away. Today, we brought the falls to him.

8. The fire station is right behind my apartment.

9. My dad saved a power strip right before it was engulfed by water. That strip was plugged into my computer, monitor, speakers, TV and cable box.

10. My mom rescued the toilet paper. So we can still wipe.

11. Two hours before this "pipe leak," I mailed a letter to my landlord saying I will not be renewing my lease.

12. As water burst into my living room, my family rushed to block the water and redirect it. Oh, and they did it while making jokes. Poop jokes.

When the flood was over, I was amazed that nothing -- absolutely nothing -- was damaged. I went downstairs to see how the people living below me were doing. And when I saw their apartment, I struggled to comprehend the disaster.

An old woman lives downstairs with her husband, who struggles to walk by himself. He uses a walker, and she stays beside him for support.

They have been here since 1977.

All the water from my room drained into their apartment. Their ceilings had fallen; the electricity had shorted out. All their belongings were soaked in water. It already smelled of mold.

They looked all over the city for a hotel room, but everything was booked because of a UN conference. So they stood outside their door, soaked in water, saying, "Don't worry about us. We will be OK."

Eventually I found them a hotel room, but several miles away in Chelsea. It cost them a small fortune. It is unclear how long the will be there.

Today, I feel incredibly blessed. They are incredibly unfortunate. We did nothing to deserve it.

Blessings are gifts. And it's always nice to acknowledge how they come about. But I think it's more important to see how we can help those from our position of power. Because, the way this world works, floods have to drain somewhere. And the reason for our fortune may be that our floods are draining on others.

MOMS

2010-05-10T12:48:00.006-04:00

Yesterday was Mother’s Day. My mom was on a plane over the Pacific Ocean. When she landed in Los Angeles, she called and I wished her a Happy Mother’s Day.

She said, “Oh, it’s Mother’s Day here?”

This happens every year, for every holiday. My family forgets them, we do them half-heartedly. I always resented my parents for it — resented how all these celebratory moments were whittled down to an annual ritual of awkwardness. These holidays were forced, and we only celebrated because we were afraid that ignoring them would signal unintentional neglect. So I always watched how other Korean families interacted, hoping to strike that harmony with mine.

So a few years ago, as I tutored a Korean kid who recently came to America, I made him learn English by having conversations with him about his family. And almost always, these conversations ended up being about how he couldn’t play soccer or he couldn’t get out of the wrong math class, all because his mom couldn’t speak English very well. He told me his mom was too afraid to go to the school and convince the teachers that he didn’t understand polynomials yet. He said his mom didn’t know how to ask for the soccer registration forms.

And that used to be my mom — the English part, at least. But my mom overcame that fear.

Once, my teacher accidentally took off too many points on a math test. My mom marched right into the classroom after school, and she fought for those points. She tried explaining it in English, but that failed, so she worked the problem on a piece of paper, scolding her for making a calculation error. I was so embarrassed that I yelled at her in front of my teacher. But Mom kept talking.

Her words were tattered, cryptic and loud — a lot like a 5-year-old’s outfit. So eventually, I avoided these moments.

In fourth grade, when I showed up to soccer practice and realized I was on a team of random kids, I told her I wanted to quit.

“I hate soccer,” I told her.

But, really, I wanted to be on the same team as my friends. I only told Mom I hated it because I didn’t want her to call the league and try to get me on a different team. It seemed too confusing for her — too embarrassing.

But the next week, Mom said I needed to go back to soccer practice. “I already paid for it,” she said. I cried, but, eventually she dropped me off at the park.

So there I was, facing the field, holding my size-4 soccer ball and donning oversized shinguards. I saw a random kid on the team run toward me, probably trying to get me to join the drill. But I felt myself about to cry, so I bent down, hid my eyes, and acted like I needed to strap my shinguards tighter. I wiped my tears, cleared my throat the stood back up.

But it wasn’t a random kid on the team. It was my best friend.

“You’re on our team now,” he said, smiling.

Years later, I found out how hard it must’ve been to make that happen. Mom had to call my friend’s parents to find out what team he was on. She had to call the league and convince them to let me change teams, which was against the rules. And she had to convince me to go to soccer one more time. On top of that, she had to know that I didn’t really want to quit. She had to read my mind — my anxieties, my fears. She had to take a risk.

I never thanked her for that, or the thousands of other times she quietly made my life better. Because she is always so subtle; she always passes it off as something moms just do.

So maybe that’s why Mother’s Day is so awkward: Because it’s the day she gets caught, snooping around my life, nudging little mistakes, fixing little blemishes and making sure I get a childhood with soccer games and best friends.

The thing about moms is that they work in the background. They do the little things we barely notice, like making sure there are napkins in our lunch sacks.

And, almost unfairly, by the time we notice how extraordinary this is, we are closer to parenthood than childhood. It just doesn’t seem right, being unable to thank them in the moment.

But perhaps that’s a mom’s ultimate gift: showing us how to love, quietly and humbly, so we can do the same.

JOURNALISM: RIGHT & WRONG, THEN & NOW, ANGER & CONVICTION

2010-05-06T21:25:00.011-04:00

A story of a plane crash, a fake bomb

and a real one far too close to home.

Ever since I covered my first breaking news story, I always wondered how far a reporter should go, and when to stop.

It was 2004, and I was a senior in high school. My ideas of journalistic right and wrong were still malleable. But I was already addicted — ready to devote my life to this mystic calling. I'd regularly skip class to report stories. I'd stay hours after school to finish the school paper. And, of course, I took my lunch to the newspaper room each day because I just knew that our story about underage drinking would change the world.

But on this particular day, I walked into the room with lunch — mini corn dogs — when my journalism teacher told me that a plane had crashed a few miles away. I grabbed my notepad and a camera, and I drove to the crash site.

I navigated through a quaint, high-class residential neighborhood. Every lawn was green, every house was pristine. And on the corner of a particularly nice street, there was a particularly nice house — a mansion, almost. Dozens police cars and fire trucks surrounded it. So I figured this was it. I got out of my car and began exploring — reporting.

This house had huge columns on either side of the front door, and the driveway was framed by neatly trimmed bushes and a small tended garden. But unkempt police tape lined the perimeter of the backyard, tarnishing the home. I followed the tape from the front yard to the back, walking along the edge of where I was allowed and where I wasn't. And that's how I discovered the crash.

A small plane, smashed into the back of this house. Three people dead.

It shook me, but only briefly. I ignored the instinct that told me to stay a safe distance away. I ignored the police officer who told me that, if I kept taking pictures, he'd get someone to confiscate my camera. And I ignored a gut feeling that told me it was wrong to ask questions while firefighters tried to secure the scene.

I felt brave.

I think every reporter has moments when they have to ignore gut instincts and do something unpleasant — for the sake of journalism. And over time, those gut instincts are overcome by a conviction and curiosity to get more information — especially the nuggets of information that are hard to reach. For me, uncovering these buried treasures were exhilarating. It was like finding puzzle pieces.

So there I was, 17 years old, standing 40 feet from a fresh plane wreck. I chatted up police officers and neighbors, trying to figure out how this happened — trying to get details. They all looked at me the same way: This is something the adults need to handle. And perhaps they were right. But at that moment, I was a reporter and I more questions to get answered.

After an hour, the house owner showed up. He was a tall, well-built man. He looked awfully familiar, but I couldn't place him. He kept his head down, his face hidden under his cap, and walked right past me. That's when I caught a glimpse of his eyes, and I immediately knew who he was: Jason Grimsley, a pitcher for the Kansas City Royals.

A few yards away from me, some TV reporters had already gotten wind that this was Grimsley's house. So they patiently awaited this man, who came home to find a plane crashed into his kitchen. And as Grimsley passed, one reporter asked, "Jason, did you lose anything valuable? Anything baseball-related?"

He kept walking. I don't know if he didn't hear the reporter or he was ignoring him. But, at the time, I thought the question was incredibly inappropriate. Three people had just died in his house, and this reporter was asking if he lost baseball memorabilia?

Shortly thereafter, a fellow newspaper student arrived at the scene. She had a high-powered lens that could zoom in on the crash from the police line. So I led her to the spot with the best angle, and we snapped some photos. You could see everything: The shattered cockpit, the intact tail section and even a silhouette of Grimsley's kitchen behind the police tarp.

It felt like such an accomplishment to get so close with something that the police blocked off. It was as if we outsmarted them, doing something that they didn't want us to do, all in the name of journalism.

When we returned to the newspaper classroom, we got plenty of positive reinforcement. Later that day, the local newspaper, The Kansas City Star, bought those photos and they ran them on the front page the next day. It was the ultimate approval of what we had done.

But when I looked at that photo, the 17-year-old me had a brief moment of uncertainty. I wondered whether we crossed a line. It felt so invasive to take a photo of such a traumatic event in these people's lives — something that landed right in someone else's kitchen.

Eventually, I decided it was OK — that this wasn't too bad. (I still stand by it today.) But something else happened that day: I turned down the volume for the voice in my head that told me not to do these uncomfortable things. And since that day, the knob kept getting turned down until all I heard was journalism gospel about getting scoops, being a watchdog and ultimately getting a good story.

***

About a year after that, I was at NYU and in my third week at the student newspaper, I was sent to cover a bomb threat at a dorm. I briskly walked — no, ran — to the scene and, when I got there, security officers were everywhere. I walked right into the front door of the dorm and sat in the reception area. And from there, I listened to these officers talk.

I soon learned the bomb was put on an RA's door. And I learned it was on the first floor. And then one officer said, "Yeah, thank goodness this thing was fake."

That was the first moment I realized there could've been a real bomb there. I realized I ran toward a potential explosion while everyone else was escorted out. I realized I clawed myself into the place that everyone was trying to leave, and I had no second thoughts about it. In fact, I did it with conviction.

It was the first time I realized that I'd turned the volume on that "gut-feeling" knob too far down. But that didn't stop me because, when I returned to the newsroom, I was again bombarded with positive reinforcement for getting the story.

And since then, there have been moments I have failed to think — and, more importantly, feel — my way through a story before jumping in to report.

Of course, there have been several times when I had information and chose not to share it. And there have been times I could get information, but chose not to pursue it. And I want to say I have toed that line of right-and-wrong perfectly. But I can't help but think I have crossed it at some point.

***

This week, I felt some journalists crossed the line — and it made me angry.

They were reporting on the Times Square bomber story, which I've been following closely because it was close to home. That man parked his bomb-rigged Pathfinder a half-mile away from my apartment. When I first realized the proximity of this act, I got the chills.

Anyway, these reporters got some leaks and learned that the SUV belonged to a Pakistani man of American descent — and it was all over the news. That tipped off the bomber, Faisal Shahzad, that he was under surveillance. Then, reporters learned where this man lived. So they went to his house and waited for the police to come arrest him.

I can only imagine how exhilarating that must've been — waiting outside a potential terrorist's home, one step ahead of law enforcement.

But there was only one problem: Officers were watching this man, as well, and he had yet to be arrested.

And when I later learned that Shahzad had made it all the way onto an airplane headed to Dubai, it made me angry. This man tried to blow up a car a few blocks away from me, and these reporters were too busy chasing down a story to worry about whether the FBI or NYPD was going to catch him. They had in fact made it tougher to catch him. (To be fair, it was law enforcement officials also had a part in this, since they leaked info to the media.)

It angered me that this man nearly got onto a plane, possibly because my fellow journalists didn’t think through the consequences.

***

As I prepared to write a scathing piece about these journalists, I remembered all the times I made this same blind mistake, albeit on a much smaller scale. I also remembered all the times that this lowered "gut-feeling" volume had helped me gather crucial information that actually helped people. And I remembered all the gray area in which I operated, not knowing whether my actions were right or wrong, but knowing there would be positive reinforcement at the end.

I've been out of hard news reporting for a while now, somewhat by choice. I always thought the that volume knob was never turned low enough for me to be a great news reporter. Because that voice always existed, no matter how confident of a front I put up. But perhaps now I'm realizing that it had nothing to do with that volume knob, and everything to do with my lack of wisdom to decide, for myself, what is right or wrong in journalism, without the support of positive reinforcement back in the newsroom.

When I was in a newsroom, the line for what was OK and not OK was very clear; we discussed it, but every reporter had a decent idea of how far they were willing to go. I did too, but I never knew where to stop.

Now that I'm removed from that world, that line is unclear again. If anything, it's receding. And I like it that way, because I think it's more in-touch with reality — at least the one I’m in right now.

INSIGHT

2010-04-29T00:03:00.005-04:00

His name was Henry, and I met him at the optometrist’s office. In the waiting room, there were only two chairs — 10 feet apart, facing each other — and that’s where we first talked.

He was maybe 70, and his pale face — coupled with large indigo eyes — made him look like a Tim Burton character. His waning white hair was evenly combed over, and he wore a red Mr. Rogers’ cardigan over his white shirt. Classy, I’d say.

I first saw Henry before our appointments. He sat there, real still and quiet like old people do, and soon closed his eyes and whacked his palm over them to block out the florescent lights. It was a good thing he didn’t have glasses, because the dude would’ve shattered it right into those wondrous indigo spheres. But the optometrist soon came and said, “Henry,” which slowly woke up the old fellow.

He trotted into an exam room and, soon, I trotted into mine.

It’d been three years since my last eye checkup — mostly because I hate it when they puff air in my eyes — so the doctor scolded me. After a few questions — “One or two? Three or four?” — the doc said I had entirely the wrong prescription. And when he gave me my new contacts, my life was upgraded to HD. I didn’t realize I’d been living with such horrible vision.

Then the doc sent me back to sit with Henry, who was now wearing gold-rimmed glasses. And he was smiling.

So I asked, “How’d it go?”

He didn’t respond. Instead, he stared at my face, then at my cheeks and up and down my shirt. I just assumed that, since he was old, he was staring at the only moving thing in the room: me. I smiled a polite smile. But the old man kept eyeing me. So, louder, I articulated, “How — did — it — go?”

And in a crackly grandpa voice, Henry said, “Very well, thank you.”

His voice sharply echoed in the empty room.

“And how did yours go?” he asked.

“Good,” I said.

I thought this would stop him from awkwardly looking at me. But he continued to smile and looked at me with almost googly eyes. This creeped me out, an old dude checking me out.

So I said, “Henry, right?”

“Yes, I am Henry,” he said.

“Henry,” I said, “do I have something on my face? Is that why you’re looking at me?”

His smile broke apart: “No. I am so sorry. That was a bit rude. It’s just that ... oh, you probably don’t care. My apologies.”

“No, no, what is it?”

“Well, as you can see, I am quite old. And these are my first pair of glasses!”

“Oh,” I said, “are you far-sighted?”

“No, apparently I don’t have much sight at all. That’s why they got me these. And, boy, does this world look different. That’s why I was looking at you — just amazed by all the lines I can see on your shirt, and the shapes I see everywhere. I can’t seem to stop smiling with these new things! It’s really quite amazing.”

This intrigued me. I wanted to write about Henry — probably something corny about how even an old man could see life with new eyes. The usual. So I asked him questions: “What’s the most interesting thing you’re seeing with your new vision?”

He said, “I never knew how scratched up my shoes were.”

I figured this would serve as some grand metaphor for life’s journey — this guy was pure Life Of Alvin gold. I kept pushing.

“What else, Henry?”

“I’m just amazed by the stitching on your sweater. I can see exactly how the yarn was put together.”

It was almost as if this man was given to me, by God, so I could have material to write a trite piece about something quasi insightful. He also said, “The lines in the world now are so clear.”

Yes! Yes! Keep going!

Then, Henry paused and looked around the room for another observation, desperate to feed my excitement. Finally, his eyes stopped on my face, and he excitedly — and so innocently — yelled:

“You have slanted eyes!”

...

And that was awesome.

EATING THE THING THAT COULD KILL YOU

2010-04-26T18:56:00.012-04:00

The perfect boy held something that could kill him.

It was a clump of spongy white material, kept in a freezer for stability. And, at exactly the right moment, we brought it out.

Carefully, we cut five slices, one for each of us. And we held it in our hands, smiling, laughing and living on the edge of life, like teenagers should do.

Just to be safe, we searched the box for a description of what this thing was made of, but there was none. We sniffed the outer layer and bisected the material, but it all seemed fine.

So I tested it.

”Kinda taste like peanuts ... or maybe caramel.”

Isaac, the perfect one, looked at his slice — the thing that could kill him. Then he whiffed up a cloud with his fork, and put it behind his teeth. I worried a little, since it could’ve killed him. But he tasted it so casually, so carelessly. To further quell my anxiety, he quickly spit it out and told us he was fine. And, soon, the stuff was gone without any casualties.

So we sat back in big leather couches, watching basketball and talking about which girls we would ask to the high school dance. We all gave hints about our chosen girl, making sure to defend the choice with a conclusion that ended with, "She's cute, and really nice." Then, finally, we asked Isaac, because it would be the most comical of answers: evasive, indecisive and uncertain — the kind of things teenagers like to mock. Plus, we liked to tease him because he was the perfect kid: straight A’s, great athlete, National Honors Society president ...

But he was gone.

We found him a few minutes later, the perfect boy. He was upstairs, stabbing himself with an EpiPen, injecting medicine into his leg.

Just a precaution, he said.

And then we heard emergency sirens screaming throughout our suburban Kansas neighborhood, which was almost a caricature of upper-middle America.

Just a precaution, he said.

Ever since we’d met in fourth grade, I’d been warned of this moment, almost like a prophecy. And I was told how to prevent it. But the sirens told us we were too late. So we waited on the stoop outside — Isaac in the center, us around him — and, like teenagers, we joked around as poison was potentially spreading through our friend’s body.

“Imagine what tomorrow’s paper will say: ‘Perfect boy dies.’ ”

“No, no! It’s gonna say: ‘Humans kill Jesus again.’ ”

Amidst our laugher, we saw an ambulance — and a fire truck and a police car. Seemed like overkill, but they said it was normal. Isaac was plugged up to machines. Uniformed men took him away into the cluster of bright lights. They drove away. It was quick. It was mechanical.

We went back into the basement where birthday balloons hung. And we were caught between festivity and worry, unsure which direction to sway. But then we saw it — the logo on the ice-cream cake box: Reese's.

He ate the thing that could kill him — lost a game of Russian Roulette with ice-cream cake.

Still, we convinced each other he’d be OK, smiling with our mouths but lying with our eyes. At that moment, life was about worrying about the future, not about enjoying the present and knowing the future would be fine. It was a rare sensation for our young hearts — one lacking the certain hope that regularly fueled us.

But soon, the phone rang. He was fine.

And right then, our worries lifted. Quite quickly, we returned to joking, teasing and living on the edge of life. Sure, we had one of our short episodes of adulthood. And, of course, eventually — a few years down the road — those episodes would get longer and longer until it would reverse and we would instead have short episodes of carefree moments during which we would be free to not only dream, but to achieve those dreams.

So when we got that call, we returned to being teenagers. And with that came a powerful mix audaciousness and hope — something we're only getting glimpses of now.

IN TOTAL DARKNESS, STARS

2010-04-17T23:33:00.004-04:00

I asked her to turn off the headlights.

She asked why.

“The stars,” I said.

The beams clicked off. The engine exhaled to a stop. And in this complete void, the speckles dusted the heavens — red, blue, even green.

It didn’t matter that we were 50 feet from wild lions, or that the only thing keeping us from being stranded in this South African jungle was a rickety Hummer running low on gas.

My world was the stars.

But, soon, images of New York seeped into the void. And I felt a sudden panic; it was the juxtaposition.

Just five days before, I was washing dishes in my New York apartment. I stacked them on the drying rack — plates upright, cups facing down — like it was natural instinct. Then I went online and talked to my friends about journalism, food and politics, using a tone that gave it great importance. Man’s creations gave structure to my life, and I worked 22 years to build upon it.

With a flick of the light, it all disappeared.

Sometimes, I wonder what would happen if all the buildings in New York vanished, and the people found themselves stranded on this island. I wonder: Would the Wall Street brokers would still try to make money? Would we, journalists, still try to gather and report information? Would New Yorkers still act like New Yorkers — in a hurry to do something and everything — even though there’s nothing to do? Would we still value what we did before?

With a flick of the light, I knew.

Sometimes, I find myself acting my life. The script says I should learn, so I learned; then it says I should work, so now I work. It says I should put dish soap on the plate, scrub until clean and rinse out the suds. So I do. But, amidst the gaps between scenes, I find nothing to act for. It is freedom

With a flick of the light, another gap.

Sometimes, I get into the “New York rhythm” and hit every crosswalk with perfect timing. My actions fit so perfectly into this city that it feels like I was built for it. When I arrive at my destination, I have the keycard to get me through the door. When I see people, I have the words to get me through the day. This world is a maze, constructed carefully through hundreds of years — and I have the map.

With a flick of the light, my world changed.

I’m the kind of person who likes certainty. That’s why I hate airports. It puts me in purgatory — neither here nor there. Once, I was flying to upstate New York, for a scholarship interview at Ithaca College, and I missed the transfer at JFK Airport. I saw my plane pushing out of the gate, and yelled to the gate agent, “Make them stop!” But he didn’t. I was stuck there, indefinitely, outside my world.

With a flick of the light, it happened again.

In this complete darkness, I had occasional thoughts about jobs and school and baseball. But they quickly passed because, like much of my world, they seemed inconsequential. And that was the source of my panic: A realization of my life’s lack of perspective. So, in that grassy field, I began to build a life that could survive a journey through worlds.

And for a transient moment, life was like a simple yet perfect painting — nothing superfluous, everything poignantly purposeful. Clarity.

Then, a man in our Hummer shattered the silence. He called to our safari guide: “Jessika, I think we lost a member.” She shot the headlights back on to reveal the Frenchman in our group urinating just a short dash away from the lions. She scorned him back into the Hummer and turned on the engine.

The lights, the noise, the voices — it was a sign that ‘normal’ life was resuming, just like when a plane begins boarding. And I was back in my world. From here, the gap no longer existed: The Hummer would drive back to the lodge; from there, we would go to the airport; the plane would take me back to New York, back in the rhythm. My new world was gone.

I resumed my life, thinking, talking and writing about all those things that were inconsequential under the stars. But, in this world, they still mattered — or, at least, the human consequences did. So the world was necessarily cluttered again.

This week was no different. I was on deadline — stressed and frustrated — when my apartment lost electricity. At first, there was anger. But then I realized someone just turned off the headlights and, briefly, the imprints of the dusty stars shined through. I returned to that pensive night, where the heavens were too vast for today's worries but perfect for infinite contemplation.

Perspective was recaptured and, through it, a vague image of truth.

--

This picture had something to do with the piece.

WHY I COULDN'T LIE

2010-04-11T00:08:00.009-04:00

A few months ago, I interviewed for a magazine editing job. These opportunities are rare.

I answered questions honestly. I hid nothing. And it went well until someone asked me, “What do you want to do in 10 years?”

“I want to be a writer — a storyteller,” I said.

And it all came crashing down.

He told me they was looking for an editor, not a writer. I panicked, so I said I could learn to love editing; I tried to justify my answer. But, at the core, the truth was simple: I wanted to tell stories.

I never heard back about the job.

That phrase — “I want to be a writer” — has shut several doors for me. I would’ve been better off saying I killed a guy. But in other interviews, my heart wasn’t set on the job. This time, I really wanted it. Still, I let this deadly phrase seep out of my mouth, knowing full well it could cost me the job. And perhaps it did.

Of course, I could’ve just told him I was OK with being an editor, because, frankly, I am OK with it. I could’ve sold it more and told him I wanted to be an editor, like him. I could’ve told him I love editing.

But I didn’t — I couldn’t.

For weeks, I regretted that answer. I wondered why I couldn’t just lie.

***

1. A few years ago, I volunteered at an adult literacy school. The students were convicts who were given the option of coming here rather than prison. So they came here.

No one wanted to be there; no one could leave. It was essentially prison — except we had to teach them.

One day, I was given a class to teach by myself. I came in with a solid lesson plan: a discussion on current events. I brought in a handful of newspapers and handed them out, thinking we would talk about war, politics and even sports. But some of the students scrunched up the papers into a big ball and tossed it around; others played games on their cell phones. The rest of them ignored me.

I tried to control the class. It failed. After an hour, I gave up. I threw away my lesson plan, sat back and just observed the chaos. That's when I spotted a Latino kid in the back of the class scribbling in his notebook.

I walked over. “Whatcha doing?”

“Drawing stuff,” he said. I peeked over: It was an anatomically accurate sketch of a human skeleton with precise details.

“That’s... amazing,” I said.

“Thanks. I like figuring out how skeletons work and stuff. It’s pretty cool, ya know?”

His name was Damian — it said so on his sketches. And, naturally, I asked him if he wanted to be a doctor because his No. 2 pencil doodles looked so real. But he looked at me funny and said, “I never thought about it. But I don’t know the first step to being a doctor. Don’t I gotta go to school or something?”

I laid out the steps for him — college, MCATs, med school, etc. — and he said, “That’s it? So I could be a doctor?”

“Yeah, and you gotta pass your classes.”

He thought about it, and said, “But wait. What if I want to be a dentist? I’ve always wanted to do that.”

Again, I told him the step-by-step instructions, ending with “and then you’re a dentist!” When I was done, he handed me his No. 2 pencil and said, “Can you write that down in my notebook?”

2. When I interviewed for grad school, there was a 40-year-old guy in the group. Everyone introduced themselves, and then it was his turn. He said he worked in business. He had two kids and a wife. He lived in the suburbs.

I wondered how a guy, halfway through his life, decided to change his life course and go back to school.

But just as he finished, he said, “You know, I never liked what I did. But I just always did it.”

3. My father used to be a businessman. He owned a dry cleaner, a car stereo shop and a vending machine company.

Back then, the only question I ever asked him about his job was, “How much money did we make?” And he would always answer: “One-thousand dollars!” If that didn’t cheer me up enough, he’d say, “Two-thousand dollars!”

I never asked him if he liked it, but that’s because I got the sense that jobs were things people inherently didn’t like — kind of like homework.

I never knew jobs were something you could love until he went back to school in his 30s and then started working as an engineer. He’d bring his work home and do it on the weekends — for fun.

Once, he even took me out to the construction site of a roller coaster. He showed me everything he did for project, and he told me where all the twists and turns were going to be. He waved his arms around, pointing and motioning.

Again, I didn’t have to ask if he liked his job.

***

So that’s why I couldn’t lie.

BURIED LEADS

2010-04-04T00:15:00.003-04:00

There are two buried leads in this story.

My past editors are probably not surprised, because they always yelled at me for burying the lead. But I always thought: Why give away the best part first? Because if you do, the reader has no reason to go on. It’s like eating all the marshmallows in the Lucky Charms box — after that, everything else is disappointing.

It’s about hope, though. When you know something better might be coming, it makes the journey more exciting. So when I buried leads, I thought I was motivating my readers to get further into a piece by creating hope for something better.

Anyway, here’s my first buried lead: I’m going to grad school.

Again, it’s about hope.

About a year ago, I graduated from NYU and, by my childhood standards, I had a dream job: working for ESPN. But as I got deeper into the sports journalism world — which wasn’t been very deep at all — I realized I didn’t want to be stuck here. Not yet.

I felt like a rabbit going into a tunnel. I could’ve kept on going and been fine. But at some point, turning back would’ve been harder. With each step, the number of places I could go would shrink exponentially. And the opportunity for surprises — buried leads — would diminish.

I’m being overanxious, I know.

While I was in school, I always felt like I had an unlimited number of options: At first, I thought I could be a basketball player. Then I thought I could be an artist or a surgeon or a lawyer or a jazz pianist. There were so many things I could do — so many directions I could take my life. But somewhere along the way, I lost that freedom. And, for now, that is where hope is: in that mystery box.

Perhaps this is naive — actually, I know it is. Because I can’t poignantly tell you why I’m doing this; there’s more wisdom to be had. I just know that, for now, my hope is still that vague idea us young people have of how something better is coming. And maybe that’s enough of a sign that I need to go back to school for more skills. That way, I can dig myself sideways, from tunnel to tunnel, looking for more buried leads.

I don’t regret the last year. I’ve met some great people and written some fun pieces. (Perhaps, if circumstances allow, I can keep writing for ESPN.) But, most importantly, the last year directed me to where I am today: I wouldn’t be going to grad school if I hadn’t gone through these struggles and triumphs.

A year ago, I was one of those kids who swore he’d never go back to school. I thought grad school was dumb; I figured I didn’t need more schooling to be a good writer. But the last 11 months helped me clarify my goals. And if something else happens in the next year to changes my mind again, that’ll be OK. It’ll just be another buried lead — another interesting twist.

Speaking of buried leads: Next fall, I’m going to NYU’s Interactive Telecommunications Program. ITP is a master’s program that describes itself as the “center for the recently possible.”

I want to keep telling stories, but with different mediums. My goals of storytelling are the same: I want to make people laugh, cry and think. And the ultimate goal is the same: helping others.

I don’t exactly know what I just wrote about hope, rabbit holes and buried leads — this is all too new for me to digest clearly. But I do know this: I’ve never been so excited for a next stage in my life. And I think that’s enough of a reason to do this.

THE LOST TREASURE

2010-03-25T23:23:00.003-04:00

I had a treasure box once.

Unlike most kids, my treasures were legitimately valuable — money, gems and antiques. But there’s always been a huge mystery about this box, something I could never remember.

And I solved it this week.

The whole thing started in first grade, when Mom owned a window tinting shop in California. It was before car manufacturers tinted windows, so everyone from businessmen to gangsters visited the shop.

One summer day, a skinny middle-aged man came to the store. Mom tinted his windows perfectly, as always — no air bubbles or scratches. But then he said he couldn’t pay for it, which angered Mom. So the man said, “Come to my store. I will give you something for free.”

The next day, Mom asked me if I wanted a treasure and I said yes. So we drove to a small store near Knott’s Berry Farm and, in the parking lot, Mom said, “Sungsoo, you can pick out a treasure here. This man will give it for free.”

We walked into the store; it was a tiny 10-by-10 room, which felt smaller because of the rickety shelves along the perimeter. Then the man from yesterday came out of his office wearing overalls and grumbled, “Pick something out, and I’ll tell you if you can have it.”

Mom put her hand on my head. “OK, Sungsoo, go find something.”

There were three rows of shelves and on them were money, stamps and old newspapers — all in plastic sleeves. I carefully analyzed each row and, when I was finished, I returned to the far right corner and pointed at an item.

“This one.”

The skinny man limped over to me. He picked up the item and smirked.

“No. Not this.”

I got mad. “Why?”

“Because this,” he said, “is real.”

My mom started to walk over to see the item I chose, but the man just grumbled and took it to his office.

I looked around some more, but I kept thinking about that item. Finally, I pointed at his office and said, “I still want that one,” but he said, “Pick something else.”

I couldn’t pick, so he asked, “What year were you born?” I told him 1986, and he went back into his office and came back with a proof set of 1986 U.S. coins.

“Good?” he asked.

The man was sneaky; he knew kids liked shiny objects — and these coins glimmered. I could see my reflection in the John F. Kennedy half-dollar. I forgot all about the item in the man’s office. And until this week, I couldn’t recall what I chose before he distracted me with the coins. All I remembered was that I wanted it, and he didn’t want to give it.

But at the time, I thought he gave me something better. I couldn’t stop smiling. On the way home, Mom said I should have a treasure box — for my new coins, of course — and I exploded with joy. At Hobby Lobby, I found a green box, put my coins inside and said, “Perfect.”

Over the next 15 years, I filled that box with valuable coins, antique watches, rare gems and cut-out Valentine’s cards. Then around five years ago, I slowly started giving the items away — some to friends, some to family and some to complete strangers. Then last year, when our family sold our Kansas home, the rest of my treasures were separated into storage. My treasure box was empty.

I didn’t mind because I had no attachments to any of that stuff. Shiny things didn’t impress me anymore. But I always thought about the box because there was still the mystery: What item did I pick?

Then a few days ago, I woke up with an image, maybe a remnant of a dream. It was the item. I immediately wrote it down so I wouldn’t forget and, after breakfast, I did some research.

Now I know why that man wouldn’t give it to me — and why I wanted it.

That day 17 years ago, I chose a U.S. bill with Grover Cleveland’s face on it. The skinny man wouldn’t give it to me because it was the discontinued, extremely rare and immensely valuable $1,000 U.S. bill.

But I just wanted it because I liked Grover from Sesame Street.

THE LAST GIG

2010-03-13T16:15:00.003-05:00

I never told anyone why I quit playing the piano. Here’s why.

I was 15 when I joined a jazz band at school. We had a concert. I sat at a blonde upright piano, and we grooved.

Jazz puts people in a trance — first, a tapping toe; then a bobbing head. And it culminates in a slight and pleasant smile, only visible at the corners of the mouth. It’s because the human heart beats in steady a swing rhythm, I think.

Buh-doom. Buh-doom. Buh-doom.

We played; the band smiled; the audience smiled. And we reached our last song.

In that song, I had a glissando. It's when a pianist slides his fingers from high to low, hitting nearly all the white notes. The proper technique involves straightening your right thumb as stiffly as possible, and using the back of your fingernail to glide across the ivory.

As the glissando approached, I raised my arm and stuck out my thumb. At exactly the right offbeat, I used as much force as possible and swiped at the keys, trying to release all of my pent up imagination into that terse moment.

Silence.

My thumb was stuck on the corner of the high-F. No, really, it was stuck — the key was embedded into my flesh. Dark red blood balanced atop the narrow alley between the high-F and the high-G, until it could no longer hold on. Then — plop — it seeped into the crack.

The band missed that beat. They went on. So did I.

My throbbing thumb spewed blood all over the the piano’s faded finish. I kept playing, because I had one more glissando, and I didn’t want to miss it. The moment came; I tried again; missed again. My thumb exploded into a red mist.

The song ended. The concert ended. Blood spatters were everywhere — little speckles of red, accented by the splotch of blood between the high-F and high-G where my finger was first stabbed.

After that concert, I quit playing piano. It wasn’t because of those glissandos, or because of my crippled thumb. I’d decided to quit long before — about three months prior. I told myself this would be my last gig.

I quit because I always heard beautiful music in my head. The songs were quiet but perfect, and they lingered in my mind for 11 years as I tried to convince my fingers release them. But my mind kept them incarcerated, employing my hands as prison guards. It was agonizing, because the promised release never came.

Maybe that’s why I played with a shredded thumb — for the release. Or maybe I wanted to try, just once more, to free those songs from their captivity.

Didn’t work, though.

Even today, I still hear that music. Sometimes, my fingers move with the tunes, pushing the air behind my steps.

For brief moments, I think the music escapes through the cadences of my words. But when I go back to read the phrase, I forget what it sounded like.

WAIT, I'M A SPORTSWRITER?

2010-03-06T22:36:00.001-05:00

Every few years, one of my favorite writers—Rick Reilly—writes a column about why he’s a sportswriter. He always tells the story of how his journalism professor told him, “You’re better than sports.” Of course, Reilly went on to win National Sportswriter of the Year 11 times, and penned some of the most brilliant pieces I’ve ever read. But the worst of his writing is always when he tries to justify why he does what he does—for the 28th time.

But I get it because now, by some supernatural act, I became a sportswriter. And the eternal question for sportswriters seems to be:

How does it matter?

I always thought it didn’t—sports, that is—so I spent my entire college career trying not to be a sportswriter. But, in the end, my determination was no match for the power of ESPN, Disney, ABC and what appears to be God. I always thought sports writing was for those who just couldn’t hack it in news. It was for those who couldn’t let go of their romantic idea of children’s games—for people who cared more about where leather balls go than where the governor’s do. And I thought I’d never stoop down to that.

But I stooped and, here, I’ve stumbled upon some of the deepest insights on what it means to be human.

I know some people think what I do is meaningless—fluff. The men’s equivalent of fashion writing. I hear it in their tone; I sense it when they ask, “So do you want to do this long-term?” Because as they build bridges, cure ailments, study politics and make the world go round, I am writing about a game.

I think this is why Reilly pens that column. (And why others do, too.)

Reilly has a legitimate argument for why his pieces matter. But I aggregate sports rumors and crunch menial statistics. So, yeah. It’s the kind of thing people talk about in the elevator, but not anything that will change the world. Sometimes, my job feels meaningless in the big scheme of things, where people are dying in earthquakes and fighting in wars.

But, last week, I got an instant message from my freshman year roommate, Jules. He asked me what rumors I was hearing about his favorite hockey teams. We chatted for a while—something we don’t do regularly—and it was nice. The next day, another long lost friend called. We briefly talked about life but the conversation quickly turned to sports. We laughed, we mocked LeBron James and we were manly.

These conversations reminded me of my seventh grade Spanish class, when I sat behind a kid wearing a Tampa Bay Buccaneers jersey. His name was Rob. I asked him if he liked Shaun King, who happens to be my favorite football player of all time. He said yes, and Rob and I became friends.

A few months later, I invited Rob and a few other friends to play basketball. We lowered the rim to eight feet so we could dunk on each other and prove our manliness. From there, the seven of us hung out more. We gathered to watch sports; we gathered to debate sports; we played fantasy sports and real sports, and sports videogames. And by the time we graduated high school, we were best friends.

It all began from a conversation about sports—you know, those meaningless games I write about.

Things like politics and crime make it easy to lose sight of how beautiful the world can be. Sports, however, can be wonderful and glorious, and nowhere else are those two things considered news. Nowhere else is happiness so universal, even for a Cubs fan. That might be why former Chief Justice Earl Warren once said, “I always turn to the sports section first. The sports section records people's accomplishments; the front page has nothing but man's failures.”

It’s been 10 years since that first conversation with Rob, and that first basketball game with my friends. The seven of us still exchange e-mails once a month, even as we’re scattered around the world, even with so little to talk about. Some of us spend months on navy ships, others of us stand in on surgeries and I work from my decrepit home office. Our worlds are different. But we can still talk about sports, mocking each other like we’re back in suburban Kansas.

So these days, I get up every morning and begin posting sports rumors early, sometimes even before I dress myself. That way, it gives some seventh grade kid a chance to read it before he bikes to school. If he’s lucky, it’ll spur a conversation that turns into a lifelong friendship.

And how does that not matter?

ME, A STORY AND A CON-ED ENVELOPE

2010-02-26T22:31:00.002-05:00

BOOM!

2010-02-17T00:51:00.002-05:00

That's the sound of something loud. OK, now this:

1. My face is on ESPN.com. And it looks out of place. The three preceding faces belong to prominent hockey writers — all of whom are so accomplished that, in their bios, they have several anecdotes about their careers.

My bio? It was so short that it wouldn't stretch the length of my headshot.

This feels uncomfortable — but I'll take it.

Because, thing is, many of us young journalists are frustrated with where we are. We had worked so hard in four years of college to make sure we wouldn't be dissatisfied. But here we are, dissatisfied. We are the antsy type, always going after what we want, but this stage of our lives requires patience. As we wait, these little prizes help.

I know I didn't actually do anything yet. But, for the first time, I see that my sacrifices have brought to me this privileged place.

So, yeah, my face is out of place — maybe it doesn't belong. But it's an opportunity to make it belong, and that makes me ecstatic.

2. Best thing about working from home: Not shaving. Worst thing about working from home: Realizing that, even when you don't shave, your facial hair stops growing at 2 mm.

3. Who reads Life Of Alvin from the Netherlands? Someone, apparently.

I recently decided to see where people are actually reading this blog. Turns out that people from almost every state visit the site. Also, a few regulars are in the Netherlands and the U.K., while some of you are from Canada. Most surprisingly, a handful of you are from Latin America. As expected, most of my readers are in New York and Kansas, with clusters of readers in California, Florida and Washington D.C. It's nice to know these words aren't lost.

At a recent job interview, I said I'd write in an empty forest — just because I like writing. I lied. Here's why:

The late basketball coach Jimmy Valvano once said, "If you laugh, you think, and you cry, that's a full day. That's a heck of a day. You do that seven days a week, you're going to have something special.”

When I write, I think I'm just doing my (small) part for that something special.

4. Some cool people are doing cool things. My friend Jason started a project to help the Haitian people. It involves him playing his guitar in a subway station. Sure, he broke a few New York City laws and he looks funny on YouTube. But go support him.

So what was Jason thinking when he did all this?

"‪I was legitimately concerned that my poor singing voice would get me punched in the face or at the very least spit on by some irate New Yorker. ‬ But I found the reception to be completely opposite. Maybe they just donated because they felt sorry for me."

Feel sorry for him. Go help.

Also, another friend, Ben, is looking for digital cameras. He's teaching an after-school photo class to middle school kids in East Harlem and he needs these supplies. E-mail him — bdn210@nyu.edu — if you got one lying around. Any digital point-and-shoot will do. If you feel like you need payment, just go look at his amazing photos and it'll be enough compensation — trust me.

5. Phones amaze me. The speed of sound is about 761 mph. If I yelled something from here (New York) to Vietnam, where my parents live, the sounds would take about 11.5 hours to reach them. But using the phone, I can talk to them instantly. The delay is about 0.00002 seconds.

INCONVENIENCE

2010-02-11T20:10:00.002-05:00

My mother recently landed in Vietnam — her new home. I'm sure she saw tropical trees, hoards of bikes and lots of people with yellow skin, like us. For her, this is perhaps more foreign than Dorothy going to Oz, or an 18-year-old Korean girl immigrating to the U.S. and naming her son Alvin. Still, it must be freeing.

But just hours after arriving, she received a call. It was me.

"Something is wrong with Rainbow," I said from 9,000 miles away.

My mother has been our dog's caretaker for the past 11 years. The first time Mom left her with me, Rainbow sat at the door for three days, waiting for her to return; she eventually did. So each time thereafter, Rainbow was more OK with Mom leaving.

This time, Mom's not coming back for a while.

But Rainbow's been doing great. The veterinarian said she was healthy for her age — that she had another five years. And lately she's been eating like a hoss. But a few days ago, as I was frantically trying to meet a deadline, she pawed at my leg; I looked down. She was panting and shaking. Her chest ballooned out, then shriveled back.

I panicked; tried everything. Nothing worked. Then, around bedtime, it stopped. She nestled up next to me on my bed and fell asleep.

It happened again the next day, and the next.

***

There are times when I get so angry I want to get rid of Rainbow.

It usually happens in the morning, when I am swamped with work, and Rainbow has to go outside for the third or fourth time. She whines and cries; she pouts and begs. I wish I had a backyard or a porch to let her run around in. But she is stuck in my 400-square-foot apartment, yearning for more time to stare at the sun or chase New York City pigeons.

I get angry with this situation. My parents left her — us — here like this. Sure, Rainbow's technically my dog, a sixth grade birthday present, but they are the adults who have always been responsible for her. The timing of all this is all incredibly inconvenient. I'm trying to ambitiously chase a dream, but so often I'm preoccupied with making sure my dog's bladder is empty.

So, sometimes, when I walk her, I let out my frustration. I march down the sidewalk and drag her along. I don't have time to fight with her as she pulls the leash the opposite direction.

***

I didn't worry much at first. It wasn't the first time Rainbow panted or shook. But it got worse each day. I'd pet her stomach to calm her down, but she was still hurting; there were little tear droplets congregating on her nose. "What's wrong?" I begged. "What's wrong with you?"

I called Mom. I told her I was taking Rainbow to the vet. Mom said OK. But before she hung up, she asked, "Are you doing OK?"

"Yeah," I sighed. I shifted to Korean: "It's OK."

On my craziest day of the year — the day I had to write my first blog post for ESPN, which would appear next to my headshot — I gathered Rainbow's medical records and we went to the canine hospital. The vet took my violently shaking dog into the exam room. A few minutes — and $80 — later, the vet came back hugging Rainbow.

"Let's sit down," she said.

I partly expected it — some disease, maybe cancer. Always happens to dogs, it seems. I wondered if I could pay for treatment, or if I would have to watch an animal whither away in my apartment. It hardly seemed fair for me to do this alone, at this point in my life.

"Rainbow's an old dog," the vet said, "so it could be a number of things. There's a chance she could have a senility disease — dementia or something. And there's also a chance she could have something … else. We would have to do blood work to find out.

"But," she added, "it's probably just indigestion. Just give her a tiny antacid."

***

For two years, Mom stayed in Kansas, apart from Dad, to let my brother finish high school with his friends. For 20 years before that, she spent every minute of her life ready to drop everything she was doing and come to our rescue. And now she is finally free, and in paradise. There's no more leaving work early to pick us up from school; no more leaving the department store empty-handed because I need to pee real bad; no more staying up until midnight helping my brother finish a procrastinated project; and no more days going to bed with a sour heart because of the dumb things teenagers do.

And now, 9,000 miles away, there are no more inconveniences.

But on her second day in Vietnam — her second day of freedom — with a new world sitting outside her door, Mom trapped herself inside and tried to call me, time after time. The calls wouldn't work, she said. She finally reached me, via instant message.

I started to write, "Rainbow is…" But before I could finish, I got her message.

"Alvin! Hi! Are you okay?"

I think I've been using the wrong word. It's not inconvenience, it's sacrifice. And love.

THE TICKETS

2010-01-31T00:32:00.002-05:00

My second grade teacher, Mrs. Kino-Endo, gave us raffle tickets for good behavior. By the end of the semester, some kids had 100 — enough for a huge stuffed animal — and others had 10, which yielded them a Snickers bar.

I had -27.5 tickets.

It would've been lower, but Mrs. Kino-Endo ran out of the blue tickets, which negated the positive red tickets. And even then, she would borrow a blue tickets from her favorite students, rip them in half and give me a piece.

But I wasn't a bad kid. I just lost a few tickets here and there. I got minus one tickets for having to pee in the middle of class. I got minus two tickets for accidentally farting in the middle of the spelling test. And I got minus five tickets for taking all of my blue tickets and secretly stacking them on her desk, trying show her what I would do if I were the teacher. Unfortunately, she found out it was me because I was the only person with so many blue tickets.

I could've just thrown my blue tickets out. But I didn't get that smart until third grade, so instead I spent my time figuring ways of avoiding more blue tickets. Didn't work, though. Once, after school, the principal gave all the students red, white and blue Bomb Pops. I savored every bite while sitting on a playground bench, waiting for my mom. While wiping my mouth with a napkin, I leaned the wrong way and half the frozen treat slipped to the cement. Tears built up in my eyes — I really wanted the rest of that popsicle. Behind me, Mrs. Kino-Endo was looming. She saw the drop and she saw my tears. She walked over to me, gently put her hand on my back and said, "Alvin, please don't trash out beautiful playground. That will be minus two tickets."

In Sunday school that week, the pastor's wife taught us about the devil. She asked the class if we knew where the devil lived. One kid said hell, but I said, "At school. My teacher is the devil."

At some point, I stopped trying to avoid tickets and I began spiting this woman. The best defense is a great offense, so I realized I needed to make her scared of me — I began plotting. But I needed a partner in crime, and the only other "bad kid" in class was an angry boy named Frank, who happened to live close to me. One day after school, I invited Frank over and I told him my secret plan. He agreed to help.

As Frank left my house, he cracked open a locked desk drawer in my garage — a piece of furniture I was never supposed to touch. But Frank nonchalantly fingered through the items in the drawer and found a sword-shaped letter opener. "Awesome!" he said. "This is payment for me helping you." Fair enough, I thought. I carefully shut the drawer, hoping my parents wouldn't notice. (They never did.)

The next day, I came to school ready to execute our plan. When recess began at 10:30 a.m., Mrs. Kino-Endo went to the classroom door and, as always, she divided the four-square balls amongst her favorite students.

While she was distracted, I went to the supply cabinet and looked for Elmer's Glue. There was none. So I improvised and grabbed a glue stick. I tossed it to Frank, who was standing by Mrs. Kino-Endo's desk, and he smeared the glue all over the teacher's chair. Mission accomplished.

I went to recess and, 15 minutes later, I came back. Mrs. Kino-Endo was sitting in her chair. I looked over to Frank so we could share a moment of pleasure, but he wasn't there — probably late from recess again, which was nothing new.

The class settled down, still no Frank, and Mrs. Kino-Endo said, "Class, please be quiet. I have an announcement to make."

Silence.

"We had an incident," she said. "It involves a student taking a prank too far."

More silence. Mrs. Kino-Endo stared down at her desk, somberly, and added, "The police are here to investigate, so they may be asking you guys some questions" — she paused and looked right at me — "There may be some students expelled."

Tears exploded out of my eyes. I whimpered. I didn't mind losing a thousand tickets, but expulsion? If I were expelled, my parents would spank me so hard that farting during the next spelling text wouldn't be possible. If I were expelled, my grandpa would disown me because I wouldn't get into Harvard, which was his dream since I was in kindergarten. And the police were here! And they probably wanted to shoot me!

Mrs. Kino-Endo saw me crying, but she said nothing. She probably had little pity for a felon like me. She was probably thinking about buying a whole new roll of blue tickets, just so she could glue it to my desk.

Occasionally, my classmates were called outside to meet with the cops, who were probably asking about my whereabouts before recess. I waited to be arrested.

Finally, it was lunchtime and I got some tater tots — a decent last meal. That's when a cop came over and talked to me.

"Are you Alvin?"

"Yeah."

"I have a few questions I wanted to…"

"I AM SORRY! I DIDN'T MEAN TO!"

The cop said nothing.

"I didn't mean to do anything bad to Mrs. Kino-Endo. I didn't know she..."

The officer stopped me. "You're not in trouble. Calm down. I just wanted to know," he said, reaching into his pocket, "if you had ever seen this before."

He pulled out a sword-shaped letter opener.

"Uh, uh, no."

"OK, that's all."

"What, uh, what happened?" I asked.

"Turns out one of your classmates thought it would be funny to threaten some girls with this thing. Crazy, right? Well, you can get back to lunch."

Frank never came back to school.

The next day, Mrs. Kino-Endo split up Frank's tickets amongst her favorite students. I did not get a single one.

TO BE HUMAN

2010-01-16T20:40:00.000-05:00

I only teared up once while watching news coverage of the Haiti crisis.

On CNN, newscaster Campbell Brown asked a Haitian correspondent about an 11-year-old girl who was pulled from the rubble a few days ago. She asked how the girl was doing. The correspondent hesitated. Then he said the girl didn't make it — she passed away. When the camera went back to Brown, she was crying. She tried to speak, but she was choked up so they went to commercial break.

Over the past few days, I've seen horrific images of dying people, mourning families and bodies piled up in the streets. They made me sad, but it didn't hit that sensitive nerve in my heart.

Watching the CNN correspondent tell that story, and watching Campbell Brown cry — that did it. It broke my heart.

I knew why that happened — because I related to these Americans but not to the Haitians — and that felt wrong.

But so much of the world we know exists in a television box. And images on a screen don't have the same affect on us anymore. Television and newspapers — and, now, even blogs — have a curtain that keeps these images on the other side of the glass.

It's part of a presentation. It offers order and comfort.

So when the normal rhythm of coverage was broken by a sobbing broadcaster, something clicked in me: This was real. The grand curtains were torn dow. I saw a man witnessing tragedy in Haiti, and a woman in a studio mourning it. All the other times, I felt like I was watching a show.

Something happens when reporters cover horrific tragedies — we harden ourselves to the pain. When we do feel pain, we hide it. It's necessary sometimes, much like it is for some law enforcement officials and medical workers. You can't personalize everything, or else you can't do your job.

But sometimes journalists are charged with covering a story, and we don't let it affect us. I've certainly done this before, and I see reporters do this every day.

Instead of acting like a sponge diving into an ocean of emotionally painful information, we go in as rocks. We come back to the newsroom after covering horrific car accidents or brutal murders, and we can sit there and joke around, unaffected — or, at least, seemingly unaffected. Like I said, some of this is needed.

But you know I learned today? It's important for journalists to be human.

Good journalists relate to their audience. So when people see a journalist reacting a certain way, as a human being, it hits home.

So when reporters are in places, like Haiti, their job is to help us construct an image of that situation in our heads. Television sets and words may be the medium we use to tell the story. But it seems the most important tool is our humanity.

THANK YOU HOW ARE YOU BAKERY

2010-01-06T20:29:00.004-05:00

So I am at home with my dog, and an old Asian woman knocks on my door. When she sees I am Asian, her eyes light up and she start yelling things in Chinese. I open my mouth and English comes out. She says, "Bu hao, bu hao." I only know one thing in Chinese, and it is that "bu hao" means "not good."

I think maybe there's a fire, because she is freaking out, so I grab my dog and start to leave. But she signals "no" with her hand and she smiles and says "thank you." So I figure there's no fire.

But she keeps trying. She points at her feet and says, "Bakery, bakery." I assume she's telling me that her feet hurt because she's been working at a bakery. I offer her a seat on my couch, but she keeps saying, "Bakery, bakery," and then she holds up four fingers. I am confused.

Then she holds up four fingers and gives me her keys. Ah, I get it! She wants help getting to the fourth floor! So I lead her upstairs, making sure she doesn't fall. We get to the fourth floor, she is out of breathe and she says, "Chinese, chinese." Then she points to the door. "Chinese, chinese." I understand: Her door has Chinese on it.

Unfortunately, none of these doors have Chinese on it.

I hold up four fingers and ask, "Fourth floor?" She nods yes. I hold up three fingers and ask, "Third floor?" She nods yes. I hold up two fingers and ask, "Second floor?" She nods yes. Together, we go up and down the stairs, checking each floor for Chinese on the door. None of them have Chinese on the door.

At this point, I'm convinced she has a memory disorder and has stumbled into the wrong building. But that's not so hard to do because there are three other buildings like mine. So I take her to the two others. I try to go in the first sister building. She pulls me away. I go in the second and she starts yelling things in Chinese and smiling. She gives me her keys and she points at the door. I try them on the door. Her keys do not work. However, she tells me, "Bakery, bakery, Mr. Wang, Mr. Wang."

Perhaps she has come to see a bakery owner named Mr. Wang. So I check the door buzzer for a Mr. Wang -- bingo!

I buzz Mr. Wang. No answer. I buzz him again and again. No answer.

I know where she wants to go now: Mr. Wang's apartment on the second floor of building one.

But the woman keeps pointing to her feet and saying, "Bakery, bakery." I don't get it. This time, though, I repeat her word: "Bakery?" She nods no. "Baskereet," she says. I shrug my shoulders. She tries again. "Basekert."

Ah! Base... base...ment! Basement! "Basement?" I asked her, pointing to the ground. She nods yes. Yesssss.

I understand now. She needs to get to this building, but use the basement of my building to get there. We go back to my building. On the way, she points to herself and says, "Chinese." I point to myself and say, "Korean." She says, "Hangook," which means Korea in Korean, and she gives a thumbs up.

I smile, but we still have to go down stairs and up stairs. And by now, her legs are shaking because they're so tired. We get to the basement, and on the way back up she stumbles so I end up pushing her all the way up two flights of stairs.

We get to the second floor and she sees the door with Chinese on it. She starts clapping. I clap, too.

She gives me her keys and I open her door. The door swings open. She claps again, yelling, "Thank you, how are you! Thank you, how are you!" I clap uncontrollably. We did it!

I tell her to go inside but she faces me and says, "Wife?" I nod no, and I try to tell her I am too young. She points at me and gives a thumbs up and says, "Wife." Then with her hands, she draws the shape of my face -- which is very round -- around her own face and she gives another thumbs up. I think she's saying I should get a pretty wife. I try to tell her I have a pretty girlfriend, but I doubt she got the message.

Before I leave, I ask her what her name is and she says, "Mrs. Wang." I tell her I am Chang.

She hugs me and says, "Thank you, how are you. Thank you, how are you." It was a fun day.