Weight (?) Advice

Omg my 100th post! :D Neways.

I’m not sure how to title this because I don’t want to offend anyone or come off as some princess giving advice to those who are lower than me.

For the first few months of 2013, I noticed that blogs exploded with weight advice, exercising tips, and above all, advertisements in the forms of banners and websites – all promising weight loss, usually in easy steps.

I’m very tired of reading such unhelpful (aka BS) advice on aforementioned ads because I feel like a lot of them are scams out to get people who are genuinely just trying to pursue a healthier life. So, I wanted to give my two cents on my blog, and guess what? All the advice I’m going to give is going to be genuine because I’m not getting any money out of this!

Before I begin, I just want to say that I am not at all a dietician or someone who knows all the secrets to health and weight loss. Also, I definitely don’t want people to think that I am somehow judging obese people or people who are fatter than me. I am one hundred percent against judging people by ANY physical trait, from weight to ethnicity to handicaps, because the way a person looks NEVER determines his/her value. Obesity, in particular, is not what many judgmental people make it out to be. That is, obese does not automatically equal irresponsible, stupid, or any of those other horrible adjectives that are commonly thrown around. Though of course, there are cases or irresponsible or gluttonous eating that result in obesity, weight can be the result of everything from family to friends to social/economic circumstances. So, like with any other kind of judging based off of looks, assuming that you know anything about a person because of their weight is wrong.

Also, I believe that you should try to maintain an optimal weight for the sake of your HEALTH . So, when I give weight advice, I hope that it will be taken more as health advice than anything else. (The last two statements, though, are obviously very complex, but I won’t go into it for the sake of length).

Now that that’s out of the way.

I don’t have a model’s body, but I am and always have been within the weight range prescribed as healthy for my height and gender and yes, the main factor that has contributed to my constant balanced weight has been constant balanced eating.

Fortunately, my mother rarely let me drink soda growing up. She also severely limited the amount of sugary things I ate. Plus, I just didn’t have much of a sweet tooth growing up. So, I ate a very limited amount of cookies, snacks, candy, desserts, and soft drinks growing up. Consequently, I have been conditioned to limit the amount of said foods even now that I’m an adult. So my first tip is:

1. Don’t drink any soda and don’t eat any candy, cookies, ice cream, snacks (including chips and Cheetohs), pastries…pretty much all that good stuff we all like.

How, you ask? After all, some people are the opposite of me and have been born with a sweet tooth or raised with more access to sweets. My solution to ridding my temptations is simple: purge your entire house of any of the aforementioned things. Throw it away, give them to a hobo, I don’t care what you do, just get rid of them! If you’re like me, even when you crave those things, you’ll be too lazy to go out and buy some, so cut the access and you’ll cut the eating. If I’m really craving something sweet, I’ll eat some honey to satisfy myself because honey is a lot healthier and a lot lower in calories than aforementioned foods. I also eat Special K cereal at such times. (Such eating also prevents cavities. I have yet to have one).

2. Don’t over eat.

As soon as you feel a little full, stop eating. The easiest way to prevent over eating is to start eating small portions. If you feel hungry after a small portion, get off your ass and get some more until you feel decently full. If you have a large portion, you tend to over eat because you feel like you have to eat all of it because it would be a waste or it tastes so good or some other excuse like that.

Also, snack on a lot on vegetables, fruits, or granola bars instead of eating big portions. Small portions equal quick hunger. There is nothing good about starving yourself or constantly being hungry. If you’re hungry, you MUST eat. So, snack a lot!

Another tip is to drink lots of water, especially when you eat. Water not only has zero calories but is essential for good health. It also decreases the amount of food your stomach will take in. So, drink  and snack a lot but gorge little.

3. Move yo body!

Yes, that can mean exercise, but it can also mean a lot of other things. I feel like I just don’t have a lot of time to exercise so instead, I use whatever excuse I have to walk or move around more. Vacuum vigorously! Walk to the store! Flex those thighs while walking up stairs! There’s a lot of ways to move your body and burn calories other than spending a lot of money and time on and at the gym.

I also recently started following the Youtuber Blogilates [link to her channel]. Almost all of her workouts are five to fifteen minutes long and kill major calories. Just one or two videos a day has definitely made noticeable changes in my body and stamina.

4. Never spend money on weight loss (with the exclusion of gym membership or physical activity-centered classes).

It’s a waste. Maybe food programs and shakes will help in the short-run but long-term results have to be habitual changes. I don’t want any of you guys wasting your money or feeling crushed because things don’t work out after an investment. To be honest, one good thing about my being poor is the fact that I can’t afford to buy Jamba Juice, Starbucks, ice cream, candy, or any of that other stuff when I’m craving them. I can barely afford normal food haha! Point being, you don’t need to spend money to maintain good weight. In fact, more often, spending less can help a lot more.

Also, don’t think that you have to cut pasta and rice out of your life to lose weight. Honestly, unless you’re a body builder, I feel like that advice is such bs. I was raised mainly on Korean food and almost all Korean dishes include rice. I can’t live without rice and the occasional pasta, and I have never been overweight.

Lastly, I just want to mention that gaining a bit of weight can be a good thing. The past year or so, I’ve started eating a lot of plain yogurt. I can’t eat it too much because it makes me break out in hormonal acne, but I try to eat one to two tablespoons of plain yogurt every other day. Because it’s dairy, it has made me get a bit fatter, but I don’t mind at all because I’m actually a lot healthier now. I used to be skinnier but I noticed that I was also a lot unhealthier and constantly getting sick back then. Right now, I’m a bit chubbier but rarely get sick. Just goes to show that healthy, optimal weight is different for everyone and is not necessarily all about being super skinny.

So there you are, some genuine weight advice! Those three things and the subcategory tips have, I think, been major factors in my weight control. I hope some of the tips were at least a little helpful!

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Fashion

I’m surprised to say that lately, I’ve found fashion to be an intelligent outlet for expression, resourcefulness, and creativity.

I used to brush off statements like, “Fashion is a form of expression,” “Fashion is important,” “Fashion can be empowering,” etc. To be honest, such statements just seemed like snobby excuses fashion-obsessed people or girly girls would use to justify materialistic desires.

To a certain extent, I still think that fashion can be very superficial. I think that many people do spend way more on things like clothes and beauty products (and entertainment, furniture, food, and any other compilable material for that matter) than is healthy to spend. I think that it’s more useful to society and just individually wiser overall if we try to be satisfied with what we have. Instead of spending large sums on passing trends or on high-end products with low-end alternatives, we can use that money and time to donate to worthy causes, help out friends or family in need, or just save the money for emergencies or retirement. In other words, fashion can be a major source and instigator of waste, not to mention a very superficial means of judging others. Especially for us girls, I feel like we’re guilty of laughing at or taking a person lightly because of what they wear or the lack of.

Of course, saving up and splurging once is a while is perfectly fine. After all, using money on things we want is one of the privileges of making money. I’m just saying though, there are too many cases of materialistic and mindless hoarding out there and unfortunately, these cases often coincide with obsession with fashion.

However, a few months ago, I started following a Youtuber named Jenn Im who runs the channel called “Clothesencounters.” [Link to her channel].

She and her channel changed so much of my understanding of fashion. Whereas before, the word “fashion” only engendered images of overpriced items, superficial flash and glam, and dumb pretty girls, the word now means a way to have fun on your own, look sharp, and express yourself – all without having to break the bank or give a crap about what people think of you.

Her adamant preaching that fashion is about wearing what you like and feeling great in it, not about focusing on what others will think about your appearance, is really inspiring. The fact that she endorses such an idea while looking so outrageously gorgeous really changed my prior notion that fashion is all about an unhealthy, shallow obsession with looks and money. Her ability to say something that sensible also changed my prior idea that most fashionable people traded their brains for appearance.

Jenn is also known for “thrifting,” that is, for getting a lot of her statement pieces at thrift stores like Goodwill or any random dollar store-ish store. I was really amazed that places like Goodwill could have such useful, trendy, and beautiful clothing and doubly surprised that someone who loved fashion and looked great 24/7 would go to a thrift store and incorporate ordinary or even down-right ugly pieces into really pleasing outfits. Her bold thrifting showed me that true fashion lovers don’t really give a damn whether or not a pretty piece is from a designer brand or not. True fashion lovers know how to be resourceful and will pick out whatever the hell they like, and if they can find something beautiful for cheaper, then more power to them. It doesn’t matter if other people find it expensive enough or pretty enough or as coming from the right kind of retail store. Fashion really is just what you want it to be and it doesn’t have to be expensive, snobbish, or attention-grabbing.

I also really admire how she alters thrifted items. Fashion doesn’t have to come pre-packaged. It doesn’t have to be that immaculate one-piece dress from Neiman Marcus. You can change fashion to suit your tastes. Buying cheap things to shred, cut, bleach, or stud and creating them into pieces that look like something out of Urban Outfitters for a tenth of the cost show that fashion can be an outlet for resourcefulness and creativity, not simply an unalterable exchange for a sack of money. I feel like Jenn’s thrifting and altering, again, show that fashionable people can be pretty intelligent. After all, you have to be smart in all sorts of ways – from visually to financially – to be able to think and act creatively.

Lastly, I really esteem how she uses her clothes to express her personality and moods. I feel like an overwhelming amount of well-dressed people I’ve met or seen on t.v. were considered as such because they simply followed the main fashion trends and/or shopped at high-end retail stores. If pistachio is the hot trend color right now, they’ll wear it whether they really like it or not and whether or not they feel like they look really good in it. If floral pants are the thing, they’ll get one without a second thought. As a result, fashionable people, to me, looked more like models displaying a certain line of clothing rather than a person wearing his/her own clothes and outfits.

Once again, Jenn changed that perception. She tends to wear bright colors, wear unusual cuts, or sport textures that I don’t associate with mainstream (or should I say, “calmer”) trends. I think her audacity to wear such things though really shows that she wears what she wears because she likes it. Not only that, she also pairs up said colors, cuts, or textures so that you can tell that she feels perky today, or gloomy, or angsty, or in-your-face, or humorous. I see other youtubers trying to re-create her style, but it just isn’t the same because they are trying to be someone they’re not. Jenn’s clothes are a source of her own expression, her own individuality. She wears what she feels and it truly makes quite an impression – an impression that has nothing to do with looking pretty and trendy. She isn’t just another model walking down the street but someone who uses clothing creatively and without giving a damn about whether or not her outfit (and therefore, her mood and personality) pleases someone else. And of course, she does it all while keeping a level head about how much money she can take out of her pocket.

I guess her definition and uses of fashion not only helped me to dispel my prior assumptions about fashion and the people who like it but also inspired me to be more expressive and resourceful with my own outfits and, in a bigger picture, to care less about what people think about my appearance and me and my personality in general. (That, and I started thrifting as well. It saves a TON of money).

I’m not saying that following trends or buying expensive things are bad. If you want to do it, then nothing is going to stop you. I know I like to wear things my favorite celebrity wears or just buy something because it looks pretty. Buying expensive things from time to time can definitely be a source of happiness as well. But I guess I just want to say that whereas before, I thought that was the limit and entire sphere of fashion, now I know that there is way more to fashion than just splurge and glam.

Fashion is and can be a creative outlet for intelligent people with a fun and good eye, and if used the right way, can leave a truly lasting impression.

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First Attempts at Drawing Human Face

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Approximately 30 minutes total. Done in one go with a ball point pen.

These are my second and third tries at drawing a human face realistically. Of course, it’s 2pac (though, sadly, you can’t tell…D:).

What do you guys think?

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Tupac Shakur

Still job hunting, yo~ Again, please pray for me!

Anyways.

You guys know that I have my phases of getting obsessed with random hobbies. For the past month, I had been exploring music, from Jimmy Hendrix to Bob Marley, and somewhere along the path of related Youtube videos, I started listening to 2pac.

I knew he was a big name before and had been moved to tears when I happened to listen to “Thugz Mansion” on my boyfriend’s ipod about a year ago. I think most of us have heard at least one of his songs in our lifetime. Nevertheless, I had never been that into American rap/hip hop before because I often felt like my intelligence level was decreasing with each passing syllable. The common themes of showing off bling, booze, broads, and guns as well as the excessive cussing and violent and misogynist themes weren’t really things I wanted to listen to or to which I was accustomed to listening. It wasn’t so much the presence of such things in the songs that turned me away as it was the really pointless use of them and the glamorizing of them. I mean, I would just kind of sit there thinking, “Ok, so you got a ho, got crap-faced, and made a lot of money from it. Uh, good for you? I mean your beat is great and all, but, no thanks.” (I think similar lines of thought run through my head while listening to a vast majority of contemporary mainstream as well).

But 2pac, also known by his birth name Tupac Shakur, is different. And it’s not just different as in he sounds a bit different or his themes are different. No. His music and he, as a person, are on a WHOLE other plane of music than any kind of hip hop or music in general that I’ve ever listened to.

Gosh, how do I explain my respect and love for this man and his music?

I guess the best way is to simply give you some links to the songs that I think prove his worth and difference from other musicians – hip hop or not: “Dear Mama“, “Changes“, “California Love“, “Brenda’s Got A Baby“, “Keep Ya Head Up“, “So Many Tears“, “Hail Mary“. (Maybe not “California Love” so much haha. That’s more of a Dr. Dre show-off song. It’s a classic though so…).

I didn’t have to hear any of the many interviews he gave during his lifetime to know that this guy was not only a genius when it came to the evocation of emotions through writing or the drawing of empathy and attention from the masses through words, but I – and any one who listens to his music – could also tell that this guy had been through the mill and back and instead of being defeated by it, chose to use his gifts to both escape it and help others get through it. He was someone with a huge heart, bravery, and compassion and all his emotions and the words he used to convey those emotions were intended to assist others as well as to try to change the society that was afflicting such people, inclusive of himself, so viciously. In short, he was a poetic genius with the brains to see the big picture and the heart and balls to try to change it.

I mean, what kind of rapper – particularly during his time – would even think of writing a song to encourage and strengthen poverty-stricken women, to show respect to mothers, to not only describe the hardships of his life but try to grab society’s attention so as to demonstrate that he wasn’t the only one who had to sell drugs to survive, had friends get shot and killed, were brought up by drug-addicted single mom’s, and were stuck with the inability to make it to the age of 30 never mind go to college? And the fact that he wrote about those things and felt compassion for the stricken when he was stricken himself, when he had been used, abused, and abandoned by such people himself, just gives me so much hope to press forward and gives me hope for mankind in general, not to mention the fact that it makes me want to become braver myself.

His songs were stories of his life and outlets for his many emotions and in turn, were also a cry for justice, for change. He wanted to use his music for good, and that’s really something that you can almost never see – both within and outside of the music industry. Hell, that’s even hard to see in sectors that were built solely for the purpose of helping others (i.e. the health field, politics/government, social services, etc.). It was more amazing because he never became a sell-out. He kept writing  about what he deemed as important issues that had to be voiced despite all the negative media and lawsuits that built up on him as a result.

I also really respect the fact that he always stood his ground, no matter what he was attacked for, no matter how much the media and law enforcement went after him for what he stood for. Because he stood for the truth. He stood for what society made people into. He told us all loud and clear that it wasn’t the ugliness in people that made them do ugly things but the ugliness of society and the corruption of those who could and should make a difference that created the so-called monsters they would always shun but never help.

He also gives me so much hope and strength because he really was someone trapped in the middle. He wasn’t part of the poor black America he had grown up in after he became a rapper but he wasn’t part of the white-washed or rule-fearing rich black America either. He had the genius of a fully educated man with enough brains to be a professor in poetry and music, but he been unable to go to college and became a rapper instead. He loved Shakespeare and compared Romeo and Juliet to the Bloods and the Crips. For goodness sake, he rapped about screwing Biggie’s wife and surviving 5 gunshot wounds but said that his favorite tune of all time was the main melody of the musical “Les Miserables.”

He was neither here nor there but instead of feeling down and lonely, he embraced all the different parts of himself that society refused to believe could be contained in one man. He, as he termed it, “kept it real” and defined himself as Tupac, not as the dangerous or conflicting entity that society labeled him as. He refused to conform to society and instead, spat in its face, telling it that this is what it had made him into and it could take responsibility for it. As someone who also grew up in a (often impoverished) minority community that sees so many continual unfair struggles and burdens under – let’s face it – a racist and greedy society, I can totally relate to his feelings of injustice and hopes for change and really appreciate the fact that he had the balls and the heart to look out for the afflicted – something society routinely refuses to do. In many ways, I think he would agree with the things I wrote about in my post “Ghetto” and “Korean Americans”.

One good thing that came out of my not being able to afford cable for the past eight or so years is the fact that the veil has been lifted from my eyes when it comes to watching the news and general media coverage of major events and celebrities. Before when I constantly watched cable, it was hard to tell whether the things said were true or false simply because I was accustomed to watching t.v. day and night. However, now that I live in the real world and not in the world the media supplies to me, it’s really easy to see the lies they tell and the tricks they try to pull to make a profit or, in 2pac’s case, bring someone they don’t like or understand down.

I say this because I’m just so disgusted at how the legal system and media treated him. They made him out to be everything from a rapist, to a murderer, to a really racist picture of a stupid and violent black man. No one in the courts or the media ever focused on the fact that he he made several songs that tried to empower women despite the fact that other “clean,” non-black artists out there never did. No one ever paid attention to the fact that he never would have become a rapper if he had been able to afford to go to college. No one ever elaborated on the fact that he constantly called people to have compassion on minority groups and help people in poverty. Oh no. They would just concentrate on the violence in his songs and how such imagery somehow brainwashes people into becoming murderers and naughty children. They even framed him for rape! Oh jeez. I mean, in the words of Frank Miller, there’s wrong and there’s wrong and then there’s this. Just so freaking racist, biased, and unfair.

The it’s just so sad because they were accusing and going after a rapper, yes, but when all is said and done, Tupac was just a kid! He was, what, 20 when he released his first album? He was 25 when he was shot and killed. TWENTY FIVE. I know undergrads who are older than that. He was technically a college student/a recent grad but he already had the weight of the world on his shoulders and little to no recognition for the positive changes he was trying to make in that  world. How could people be so mean and cruel and accusatory towards a KID? He may have looked like a tough thug rapper, and he was a tough thug rapper, but he was also a poor kid raised under a single mom who never knew his father, who wanted to but never got to go to college, who had a diverse range of tastes in literature and music, and showed signs of being a genius at the tender age of 20. How could society beat down a child like that and refuse to look at the whole picture of his life just so that they could make a profit? So disgusting. I swear, 2pac is living proof that society only rewards corruption, and people who try to change it or even address it usually get blown up or cast away.

I especially hate how the media made all his ghetto characteristics look so foreign, or wild, or crude, or stupid, or violent. I mean, what is so sensational and surprising about a kid who grew up in the ghetto acting ghetto? It makes no freaking sense that media would even take the time to tape crap like that! It’s just a bunch of rich people looking down on a poor individual with a magnifying glass and fascinated eye before dumping him into the trash! Oh jeez. I mean, damn, if any of the people who accused him were put in his place I doubt they would have turned out half as good-hearted as he did seeing as how they turned out corrupted even though they were born into stability and even wealth.

I’ll end this with some of his interviews. LISTEN TO AT LEAST ONE IF NOT ALL OF THEM. He even gives a shout-out to the Korean kids! ^^ He is just SUCH in an inspirational speaker. You can just tell how freaking smart he was. I mean, all the subjects he addresses and elaborates on and how he thinks of them (such as the legalization of marijuana, unity of minority groups, and all of his concerns about poverty and racism) are subjects and ways of thinking that are just beginning to surface right now! Truly ahead of his time.

God rest his poor soul. RIP Tupac, you really continue to influence people from beyond the grave. Nothing can stop you!

Xmas Interview with MTV: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EVevJk-K6As

Interview with Tabitha Sorens: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EsItj_NzbuI

Interview stuff: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J5iBULGJG1s

u r the omega of my heart
the foundation of my conception of love
when i think of what a black woman should be
its u that i first think of

u will never fully understand
how deeply my heart feels 4 u
i worry that we’ll grow apart
and i’ll end up losing u

u bring me 2 climax without sex
and u do it all with regal grace
u r my heart in human form
a friend i could never replace

“Jada”, Tupac Shakur

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Mental Troubles and Stigma

Hi guys~

Man, it’s only my second post this month! I feel ashamed, but hey, job hunting is pretty much like working full-time from home. I have a final (?!) interview next week, so please pray for me!

I wanted to write something today, though, because writing is just so therapeutic. There’s always this really tangled thing in my head that I can’t quite understand, but writing some of the threads out makes my head feel clearer, more organized.

I actually wanted to talk about that today – my head, my mind. I’ve had a decent amount of people tell me throughout my life that my thought pattern/thoughts in general are “really different” from the norm i.e. I’m kind of crazy and avant garde. Most people who told me that statement usually meant it in the good way, though. I guess all these crazy, blunt, mixed-up things inside of me look fascinating and “cool” at times haha. To those of you who have thought that my mind was worth a damn, I sincerely thank you and God.

But there’s a darker side of my mind as well. I’m NOT saying that I think I’m clinically insane or some psycho killer or prone to hurt myself or in endless despair or weak (I know there’s bound to be at least one idiot out there who will over-analyze the things I’m about to discuss. I have noticed that so many people only pay attention to the things they want to pay attention to as opposed to the ENTIRETY of the posts I write, hence the bold print. This is particularly true when it comes to discussions about religion and race).

I guess thinking a lot inevitably makes you topple over some lines that most people never cross or even see. An active imagination paired with some hard, continual circumstances in life make me break down once in a while. Yes, I have had panic attacks, though they have become far less frequent in past years as I have made an effort to put less stress on myself. I have literally wailed for hours until half of my body went into a minor paralysis. I’ve curled up into a ball, chewing on my knuckles while tears poured down, keeping the screams inside. I’ve fallen to my knees and grabbed my head with both hands while shaking. I’ve gone through depression. Serious depression, like suicidal depression (as mentioned in past posts). Just so many inner demons, you guys.

I also have a really bad habit of getting angry so as to not feel sad. As a kid, when all that shit was happening in my family, I just couldn’t handle the pain. Thanks to God, I did not fall into a path of violence or drugs or criminal activity, but as most of you know, I became a workaholic who became obsessed with school and so-called achievements that helped me in a lot of ways but made life even harder in others. And the key to my survival and thriving in school and anything else I set my mind to was: anger. I couldn’t handle the pain of feeling sad all the time, so I made myself hate all the time. I hated everything, and I loved it. I genuinely believe that I was never bullied or taken for granted in high school because people could subconsciously feel that really insane amount of anger in me – an anger that obviously should not be touched because not even I could control it if unleashed. It showed on my face and left a mark. To this day, my smile is not the same as it was before all the family and money drama happened. I look at pictures of my elementary years and I’m literally shocked at how free my face looks.

I guess it’s the anxiety of my job search as well as my other tendency to remember traumatic memories in stressful situations that these days I’ve been feeling pretty down. And just to clear it up, this post is not a fucking cry for help because I genuinely believe that none of my friends would help me anyways. 

In many ways, especially after thinking over the ways the church, friends, and even family have reacted to my sorrows, troubles, and honest expressions of thoughts, I don’t think any one in this world except God, my mother, and my boyfriend really give a true damn about me and I’m thankful that I at least have them because so many people out there don’t even have one person to lean on. Institutions, people – they all say they want to help because they have human emotions but when the time time comes to man up, they’re never there. And then when you get angry or break down, they wonder why you let it get that far.

I recently watched “Silver Linings Playbook” (SUCH a great movie), and there’s a scene where Jennifer Lawrence’s character, Tiffany, tells Pat all the crazy shit that she did in her state of depression after her husband died and he listens eagerly. But when she tells him that he and she are alike, he earnestly replies that he hopes to God that he’s not like her because she’s basically crazy/crazier than him. She storms out and says the following:

You may not have experienced the shit that I did, but you loved hearing about it, didn’t you? You are afraid to be alive, you are afraid to live. You’re a hypocrite, you’re a conformist, you’re a liar. I opened up to you, and you judged me. You’re an asshole, you’re an asshole!

Clip to the scene here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Firk9dC5g2o

And it’s just so true. So may people want to hear the dirty details of others’ sufferings, but when they reach out for help or open up and say the honest-to-God truths that they’ve been thinking, they recoil. They laugh. They judge. But even worse, they forget. They neglect. Your troubles slip their minds permanently because they didn’t give a shit in the first place. They’re all talk but when you write that you suffer mentally, the world is more than eager to keep you at arm’s length or commit you to some crazy establishment that doesn’t give a shit about you. Even as I write this, I know that if I reveal my true identity on this blog, everyone from future employers to friends will take a second look at me as if they have never done things that are crazier, as if they’re somehow purer than me when I’m the one who grew up in a single-parent household, put myself through university with nearly a 4.00 gpa, and work hard every day with as much honesty as I can at whatever I can. I’ve never done a single kind of drug in my life – from pot to cigarettes. I have never stolen anything. I have never done any kind of crime in my life. I’ve done everything society applauds – from higher education to working full-time. And yet, when you go through shit and your mind plays all sorts of drinking games on you, you’re somehow unacceptable – somehow more in need than others. You’re “crazy”.

Some of you might read this and think that if I had only opened up to you, you would have been that kind person who would listen to my troubles and that you know what I’m talking about because you’ve been through the same, but you’re not. If I invited you to my home and started randomly opening up to you, you would have been taken aback, you wouldn’t have known what to say, you would have been shocked, and you would have judged me just like all the other people I genuinely tried to open up to. They try to listen to you but they never try to understand you. They just try to use their high and mighty knowledge to give you advice about what God wants in your life (like they can fucking read God’s mind because they’re “so close to Him”) or refer you to a therapist who, for some reason, can help me significantly more than a friend. They, themselves, are never part of the solution to or the source of your problems. It’s somehow all my fault, especially when  it comes to church.

And then I think about why I’m so angry right now. Why am I so angry right now? I don’t know how to deal with this when it comes to me like this. These kinds of mood swings, it’s like some devil is using my brain as a yo-yo. And then I just feel afraid.

But then I remember that I’m someone who’s not afraid to admit these things. I’m someone who notices these things unlike the others who lie and judge. That even all the troubles in life, like these mental “problems” that society uses to look at me, are all things that help me understand, to come to a point where others are afraid to go, to experience, to live.

I guess the conclusion of this post is that with all troubles come lessons and that if other people try to judge you or stamp you out for the shit that you go through in life, they’re the ones at fault, not I. God is with me and he knows my worth and my innocence before Him. My loved ones are with me. And if you know what I’m talking about, be comforted to know that I know too.

Keep your head up, and don’t pay attention to them because they literally don’t know what they’re talking about. If you know the truth, then the rest doesn’t matter. Keep your head up.

And if you’re one of the assholes who turns the other cheek when someone opens up to you or backs away because you just don’t know how to or want to deal with it, shame on you. I hope you grow up some day and help humanity not with your grandiose thoughts about donating to corrupt charities or evangelizing the world, but by helping the people you know as well, doing the small things that actually make a difference. I hope you man up.

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Korean Americans

Boy, it’s been a while, huh? Still job hunting, ya’ll. As always, prayers are appreciated!

On to the subject of this post: Korean Americans.

I feel like Americans and even Korean Americans themselves don’t really know of the depth of this “breed” (for lack of a better word) of people. Korean Americans are very different from other Asian Americans. In fact every ethnic group of Americans – be it Chinese American, Japanese American, Filipino American, etc. – is similar yet vastly different from each other because each group inherited a background from different countries that have very different languages, cultures, mindsets, and histories.

I say this more so because many non-Asian Americans tend to treat all Asian Americans as belonging to a similar, if not the same, group. Even the label “Asian American” demonstrates how all of us somehow belong in one group. It’s like we all know how other Asian Americans act, eat, and come from just because we look alike. I don’t think this kind of treatment is necessarily racist; it’s just lacking in education and rather annoying. I mean, how the hell does the hanbok I’m wearing look like a geisha’s kimono? And why does it have to be a stinking geisha’s? Why the hell is it weird if I don’t like sushi? It’s not my cultural food! How am I supposed to know what that says in Chinese? I’m not Chinese! In fact, native Chinese, Japanese, and Koreans have hated each other for centuries, so why am I, as a Korean American, lumped in with a bunch of other ethnicities that my Korean bloodline has hated from the beginning of time? And why am I more likely to know about China and Japan than Vietnam or Taiwan or Thailand?

After thinking about it, I decided that we’re often lumped together because we share more similarities with each other than say with Mexican Americans, Native Americans, African Americans, etc. And to be honest, yeah, it’s easier to understand where another Asian American comes from in terms of stress from family, tastes in food, religion, upbringing, and more day-to-day kinds of things. For such reasons, Asian Americans tend to get along more easily with each other than other ethinicities.

But that doesn’t mean that we are meant to be lumped together when, in reality, we really have a lot less in common than whoever labeled us as “Asian Americans” thought. I don’t mind using the term when addressing wrongs that are usually cast on people who look like me or come from a blood land with similarities to mine, but I DO mind the term when non-Asians or non-Asian Americans use the term to reflect their ignorance about the depth, diversity, and complicated nature of each disparate Asian/Asian American ethnic group. It’s one thing to admit that some people are more similar and therefore, receive similar treatment and understand each other with more ease, and totally another thing to lump really different people together for the sake of convenience and ignorance. Such lazy use of words and ignorant labeling contributes to stupid statements like, “Are you Chinese?” or “Do you speak English?” or “You’re not Chinese or Japanese? Then what are you?” or “You guys all look the same” or “That’s a pretty kimono you have on” or “That food/celebrity/clothing/hairstyle smells/looks so weird” or “Are you North Korean or South Korean or are you mixed?” etc. etc. etc. (By the way, all of those above statements are things I grew up having to deal with. Some of those statements really were just plain racist, but others were just due to lack of information with good intentions).

That being said, let’s delve into the intricacies of the group we call “Korean Americans.”

Korean Americans are people who have lived in the States for a vast majority of their lives. They could have been born in Korea but came to the States as a very young child or they could have been born and raised predominantly in the States, spending more time in the USA than in Korea their entire lives. As such, most but not all are American citizens. Whatever their citizenship, though, Korean Americans identify more with America and tend to get along with Americans – Asian or not – than with Koreans.

Korean Americans are definitely not simply Korean. Koreans were born and raised in Korea and, therefore have incredibly different mentalities, tastes, and mannerisms than Korean Americans who tend to be – like most Americans – more liberal, unaware of Korean cultural customs, more individualistic, more feminist, and a variety of other political and social things that many Koreans think are rude, shocking, idiotic, or downright strange.

There’s also the obvious language barrier as Korean Americans (aka KA’s) mostly grew up with minimal to no daily use of complex Korean language skills and instead, are mainly English speakers. I think non-Asian Americans would be surprised to find out that many KA’s and – I’m sure many other Asian Americans – have a heavy accent when speaking their ethnic tongue. Many native Koreans find the accent very strange because Korea is a very homogenous society with much less exposure and openness to foreigners than other countries, such as Japan. Therefore, Koreans don’t understand why a person who looks so Korean and is biologically Korean cannot speak Korean fluently. After all, they’ve only ever seen Koreans who can speak Korean. As a result, many Koreans who meet KA’s make very, well, rude and hurtful comments about their Korean skills, call KA’s idiots, and even make the mistake of thinking that they are mentally handicapped. (Yet ironically, many Koreans don’t realize that they can’t speak English without an accent, if at all). The same thing happens when KA’s make cultural mistakes – never having had exposure to Korean society – such as table manners, drinking culture and etiquette, hand and body gestures, rules about swearing, and a whole host of other things that only native Koreans know because only native Koreans have ever had to use them habitually. We also tend to look physically different from Koreans. Maybe it’s American food or the air or something, but KA girls and boys tend to be taller, more muscular, darker, and bigger – though not particularly fatter – than Koreans.

Now I don’t want to give the impression that I hate native Koreans (aka fobs) or other Asian Americans. I consider myself as Korean American and part of the Asian American community. I get along the best with other Asian Americans, particularly KA’s and Filipino Americans, as well as other non-Asian minority groups, namely Mexican Americans. My boyfriend is fob and my mother is also much more Korean in personality and mindset, having grown up there and immigrated to the States. Half of my friends are probably fob, and back in college, I used to act so fob that many people I met for the first time thought I was fob or at least an 1.5 generation KA rather than the full-blown 2 or extreme 3 (not many third generations exist because it hasn’t been that long since many Koreans immigrated to the States. I’m a rather rare case). Most people now recognize me correctly as at least second generation though because working in American society has sort of white-washed me haha.

I also don’t want to bs you with all that Amy Tan, sob story crap that non-Asian Americans seem to be so fascinated by. You know, the whole “I’m not Asian, I’m not American, I’m stuck in the middle, I’m sad and lonely” story that sadly, a lot of Asian Americans and particularly KA’s have picked up on. I can’t blame them though. Korean and Americans tend to repel KA’s very forcefully and hurtfully with all kinds of statements ranging from angry shouts about how “someone your age can’t even speak Korean? What kind of Korean are you?” to “You can’t even use chopsticks correctly?” to “You can’t speak to your older classmen like that, are you an idiot?” to “Your food smells” to “My mom is Chinese, my dad is Japanese, and look what happened to me” to “Chinese n**gers” to “Chinks” to “Gooks” to “Japs” to a whole line of things that you have to listen to through no fault of your own because others are incapable of understanding that we may look similar but we are different.

But we are NOT STUCK IN THE MIDDLE. Not any more, at least. Things were very different even ten years ago. Society is becoming more open, more progressive, and more immigrants and naturalized citizens are becoming crucial parts of American society and therefore, gaining more recognition. Korean Americans and Asian Americans as a whole belong to our own kind of race. We are not Korean. We are not American. But that does not mean that we do not belong anywhere. It means that we belong to ourselves – to Korean Americans and rightfully so, and there is nothing wrong with that. It’s hard to realize that, though, if you live in a predominantly non KA/Asian American city, but it’s the truth. We are growing in number and recognition and we should be the first to recognize that – not the ones to  throw a pity party about how we don’t belong to Asian or American groups when it’s obvious (at least to those who know) that we don’t. We, as a group of Asian Americans but more specifically, Korean Americans – understand one another in ways that Koreans and Americans could never understand us. We are our own small nation and we are growing strong. We are rejected as foreigners because we are. We are not Korean. We are not American. We are Korean American. It only makes sense that any other group would reject us.

Even within our nation, or “community” as scholars like to call it, we have different strata.

I feel like the strata are dependent on two major factors: when you came to the States and what city/neighborhood you grew up in. I feel like most of us fall into one or mix with a few of the following strata:

1. The 80′s children: people like my dad. They tend to be second generation or 1.5 generation KA’s. They grew up in a time that was very hard for Asian Americans and racism was much less understood and much more prevalent. It was a rarity to even meet another Korean on the street. Lack of technology meant that it was very difficult for these KA’s to keep up with or keep in contact with their cultural blood land. Most contact with other Koreans, KA’s, and Korean culture came from going to a Korean church with the parents. These KA’s tend to be pretty white-washed yet identify with many other minority groups.

2. The 90′s children: the 교회 언니 types. These are the KA’s that grew up with access to the internet and in a growing Korean community. Meeting other Koreans in the States began to get slightly easier, Korean restaurants and K-towns became more prevalent, and video stores that imported Korean shows allowed KA’s and their families to keep in touch with Korean news and media more easily. MSN, Xanga, HOT, DJ DOC, SHINHWA, FINKLE, and BoA tend to be mothers and fathers to the 90′s children. These KA’s also are probably the founders of Konglish (Korean and English mixed in the same speech. For example, it’s so 더워 [hot] is Konglish).

3. The LA KA’s: LA KA’s tend to be very, very different from KA’ s who grew up elsewhere. LA K-town is just such a booming Korean community with so much more access to Korean culture than other locations with the exceptions of maybe New York, Chicago, and Washington. The generally more ghetto living conditions of most born and bred LA K-town KA’s and living under predominantly immigrant elders also ensures a bit of toughness, more fluency in Korean, and more knowledge of Korean traditional and pop culture than found in other KA’s. These KA’s also tend to have more opportunities to hang out in exclusively KA or Asian/Asian American groups of friends. The proximity to the African American community also introduces a host of complicated aspects from hating blacks due to the LA riots to having black intonations in speech.

4. The KA’s who reject their culture: many KA’s have been repulsed by the limited contact with or rejection from native Koreans who look down on them and have consequently lost interest in or developed a hatred towards Koreans and Korean culture. They tend to have limited Korean skills and feel uncomfortable admitting that they are Korean, preferring to be recognized as simply American. The inability to learn Korean culture easily even though they carry all of the physical qualities of a Korean often also contributes to lack of interest in or complete rejection of their cultural heritage. Shaky or negative relationships with their immigrant parents or family members – the only other Koreans they have ever had prolonged contact with – also often forms a apprehensiveness to learning about or hanging around Korean culture.

5. The KA’s who don’t completely understand but appreciate their culture: many KA’s have experienced racism from non-Korean Americans/Americans and therefore have an inclination to like the group that they physically identify with. They may have also had more, yet limited, Asian American or minority friends/influence growing up and more positive impressions from family of their culture.

6. The KA’s who are comfortable enough to interact fluently with fobs: these are the most rare of all. It’s a rare thing for KA’s to embrace both their Korean and American sides in equal measures and to pursue the love of both groups and themselves. It’s very difficult to do given that there are limited people you can talk to about these things and have them understand you completely, limited resources and writings on these topics, and lukewarm welcome and hot racism on both ends of the spectrum. However, KA’s like these do exist, usually originating somewhere near the LA or other major urban areas with bigger Korean communities. These KA’s have usually had to work very hard to understand both societies. They are also the ones, perhaps, with the most power. I know that I and my other KA friends tend to feign ignorance of Korean culture and mannerisms to get out of doing things or insult someone we don’t like “accidentally” to their faces.

Anyways. The moral of this long, long story is that we are Korean American, that that means a lot of things, and that we should be proud of it and recognize it.

(At last) The End.

*Post publication note: Big thanks to AsAm News for featuring my post! Link here: http://www.asamnews.com/2013/03/17/jadesandwich-has-the-term-asian-american-outlived-its-usefulness/

Been getting a lot more attention for this post than I previously planned (if I had known this would happen, I would have spent more time on it! haha).

Just want to clarify that I do consider myself as Asian American. Also, the only reason I go into the different strata of KA’s out there is to show that although Asian Americans are often lumped together, we are all still different, individual people with different stories. We share many similarities and using group terms like “Asian American” when fighting for group rights is an important necessity, but saying that we are all the same or really similar for the sake of convenience is wrong. Also, whatever I write here, keep in mind that identity is far more about how you define yourself, not about how I define you or others. Thanks for reading, yo~

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…Action!

Sorry I haven’t uploaded anything in a while! I truly miss blogging frequently, but I actually quit my job at the law firm about a week ago and now am on the hunt for new opportunities! I’m trying to take my time, get some much needed rest, and really pick/apply to jobs that I’m truly interested in and not just desperately apply to anything and everything. It’s hard to not get antsy about finding a job, though. Being unemployed just…doesn’t suit me.

Plus, I can literally see the money draining from my savings.

I’m just trying to focus on what I have to offer and what I’ve accomplished even in the past two short weeks. I’ve only been seriously job hunting for around two weeks now and I’ve already had two interviews (had one today and am really tired right now), so it’s stupid of me to freak out. Plus, if God is going to give me a job, I’ll get it even if I just sit on my haunches (not that I am…been working my @ss off these days).

Whatever happens, happens. I trust in God to get me through this unemployed stage in my life, just like he did with my boyfriend about a year ago during the few months we were unsure of whether or not he would even be able to stay in the States (he needed to find a job in three months in order to stay here). I’m going to give it my best!

Anyways.

I was talking with my boyfriend the other day about action movies.

It’s strange how we, as humans, have the ability to realize things as we speak. It’s like some wise woman is sitting on my own moving tongue and she’s weaving some incredibly smart thread of thought into my brain. It just clicks, you have an “ah ha” moment inspired by yours truly, and you feel incredibly smart and outstandingly dumb all at once for realizing something novel through something that you said yourself.

Well, during this conversation I experienced this idiotically genius moment.

As we discussed how so many action movies were pure crap these days because they focused on making action interesting simply by making it visually spectacular, I went into this whole rant that included (yet another) analysis of the movie “300″.

I argued that most of the action sequences in “300″ are incredibly well-made  because although they are manipulated to be visually spectacular (after all, one of the main purposes of action in movies is to bedazzle its audience), they don’t simply rely on wow’ing the audience but utilize each visually stunning scene to make a point and/or contribute to the plot.

And that’s when I realized: good action is meaningful action – action that does something more than burn my eyeballs out with a million explosives.

Take “The Avengers,” for example. I really cannot understand why this movie has such a high rating (other than the fact that Robert Downey Jr. is in it and the Hulk really rocked and it’s supposedly a Marvel nerd’s dream come true). I really enjoyed the movie, but it’s just one of those movies that derives its worth from the spectacular – a movies that I have to see on the big screen in order to feel my money’s worth. I thought the climax was a downer because all it did to build the climactic intensity was to intensify the amount and size of aliens thrown at me. I mean, yeah, it looked cool and literally tossing Robert Downey Jr. into the climax made it more interesting to see, but the action didn’t really mean anything in and of itself. It’s not like the number of slaughtered aliens or the level and kind of explosives did anything significant for the plot or for our understanding of the characters.

It just looked cool and increasingly intense and…that was pretty much it.

Now, let’s compare that to “300.” Specifically, let’s take one of my favorite scenes of all time: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3QLkg7jefE8

I don’t need to elaborate on the visual quality of this scene. What with all the slow-mo, the characteristically Frank Miller blood-squirting, and his abs, and his chest… and his abs…haha The point is *ahem* that they obviously tried very hard to make the whole thing look really cool (and succeeded).

However, the action of this scene really adds to our – that is, the audience’s – understanding of Leonidas. The very act of making him look so cool as a warrior gives us a deep impression of Leonidas as not simply a buff soldier with a cool Trojan-looking hat thingy, but KING Leonidas – an expert fighter king who is rightfully respected and feared.

Furthermore, until this point in the movie, Leonidas didn’t have a single combat scene and was only shown in internal and political turmoil. This scene – in all of its cool, visual splendor and graphic violence – is the first time we get to see him literally in action. This action scene is pivotal in really transforming our perception of Leonidas from simply a noble, slightly smart-ass Spartan king who has to deal with way too much stress, to a Spartan warrior god who deserves his fame through his killer fighting skills and fearless leadership (and had his own cult that lasted into the first century).

Also, if you pay attention, you’ll see that all the slo-mo and speed-up and zoom in/out camera techniques (that is, all the camera movements that make this scene “look cool”) actually contribute to this transformation of our impression of King Leonidas.

Generally speaking, for the first eight or so guys he kills/goes up against (that is, all the guys he carve through until he throws his spear), his actions are slowed down significantly when leading up to plunging his spear into someone. His kills seem significant due to this slow and consequently, seemingly heavy motion of all of his movements. The slowing down before the kill also builds the anticipation to each hit, making him seem more god-like with the each lethal jab. There is also a slight pause at each time he slaughters someone so as to emphasize the kill.The camera tends to zoom out and show his entire body, including the spear from tip to tip, as he drives the weapon through the other person, again impressing the impressiveness of Leonidas.

The camera does the cool zoom-in, zoom-out thing but does it cleverly so that the it usually zooms in really close to Leonidas when he’s moving up and through the continual stream of enemies, emphasizing the chaotic and dizzying nature of hand-to-hand combat. This technique further creates Leonidas into an god-like warrior as he fights in such a controlled manner – almost as if he were dancing – in a potentially confusing and overwhelming scenario. Zoom-in’s also happen to emphasize certain parts of his body when he performs particularly difficult physical feats or to show the lack of fear in his face or a shift in weaponry.

When he throws the spear and pulls out his sword, the slow mo starts to pick up a little. The camera no longer slows down right before the kill. In fact, it speeds up. There are no more pauses at each lethal blow. Each kill goes by more and more swiftly, adding to the feel of adrenaline and emphasizing the unstoppable fighting skills of the king, until Leonidas stops a man dead in his tracks with just his frame and his shield. The whole sequence is concluded with a slow-mo, full-body shot of Leonidas simply walking confidently over to his prey on the ground. The camera aptly uses the speed-up technique as he goes in for the final kill, again emphasize how he fiercely, efficiently, and quickly kills his target – like some kind of fighting machine.

Each man killed, each camera technique, surge of blood, flash of abs and biceps, jab and hurl of the spear, and slice of the sword aims towards building up an impression of Leonidas, adding to our understanding of him as a certain character, and transforming our perception of him until then. Every step he takes forward is also literally a step forward in the plot and progression of events, adding to the value of the battle and therefore, the climax and conclusion of the movie.

Though visually spectacular and obviously meant to be so, it is not simply that.The action actually proves a point and adds some kind of value to the plot and characters.

So, the moral of the story? Good action isn’t just something that tries to leave a big impression on me with a big explosion.

Good action has and makes a point.

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This Is Where We Fight.

I am a huge fan of the movie “300.” If you read my post on Sin City, you’re probably not surprised. It is based on a Frank Miller novel, after all. Furthermore, I think my dad brain-washed me as a little kid to like gory historic epics. One of the first movies I ever watched in life was “Braveheart” (yes, I was WAY too young to watch something like that but my father watched it every other night nonetheless against my mother’s wishes). “The Patriot” and “Gladiator” are two other movies I watched repetitively as a child, also thanks to my dad. So, it’s not surprising that any gory action movie (but NOT gory horror or psychological thrillers…can’t stand those) suits my tastes and that Hollywood historic epics, in particular, have a special place in my heart.

“300″ in particular is special to me because I remember watching it with my favorite cousin late at night in a hotel room. It was the night before my aunt’s wedding and us being teenagers and not wanting to hang out with the adults as they did…well, whatever they did on nights before weddings…swiped my dad’s credit card at the hotel we were stuck at and eagerly watched “300.” I also watched it with my roommates in college on the dormitory lawn. Good times, good times.

Memories aside, “300″ is a good movie. Sure it’s gory; sure it’s a pure Hollywood movie that aims at digging into our pockets; and sure it’s full of cliches and the usual Frank Miller misogynist and feminist portrayals. However, I define the worth of a movie not only by how smart or artistic or deep or politically-correct it is but more so by how entertaining it is. I don’t care if it’s a masterpiece of directing, sound, editing, acting, whatever. If it turns out to be boring and I fall asleep in my seat, that movie is ultimately not worth watching. Take Christopher Nolan’s Batman movies. “The Dark Knight” and “The Dark Knight Rises” were both excellent movies – great acting, plot, directing, action, etc. in both and arguably, in equal measures (I mean, I’m guessing that the whole cast and crew are almost the same in both movies with the tragic exception of Heath Ledger, of course). But which one do people generally like and praise more? “The Dark Knight.” Why? Because, simply, it is funner to watch! The Joker is more interesting than Bane or Miranda and even Cat Woman, making “The Dark Knight” the winner – the better movie.

I say all this to point out that even though “300″ has many marks of a typical bad movie that succeeded due to good advertising strategies, it is still an incredibly entertaining movie, and therefore, a good movie. I mean, it’s one of the few male-dominated movies in existence that gives as much eye candy to women as to men. Besides the physical visuals, there’s also the overall visual quality of the film – including its distinct and incredibly well-done color saturation (they used so much computer graphics yet controlled the hues well enough to make it look like a distinct film and not a big video game) – as well as the exaggerated slow motion effects and uniquely timed action sequences, the great balance of action scenes and plot progression (I hate it when I’m just bombarded with action non-stop for 2 hours; a human being can only take so much exploding and killing at a given time), good acting and directing/camera control, and of course, memorable and somewhat meaningful lines in the script (THIS. IS. SPARTA!).

But what I like most about “300″ is that bad-ass feeling I get when watching it. I just want to pull out a sword and shout, “GLORY AND HONOR” and charge into the world in full-battle mode. All that dramatic, intense fighting for honor and principle – as exaggerated and fictional as it is – is, simply, inspiring. For some reason, it makes me less afraid of the world and makes me take courage in my ideals, drives me to fight for what is right. I therefore tend to watch it when I need to feel more fearless and less stressed about daily trials. It’s almost like my anxieties transform into Leonidas’s enemies and he hacks them down for me and I, in turn, go out and fight my own enemies. Of course, I’m a sucker for for feeling like that – it’s what the movie makers aimed for to get my money. It’s supposed to be a blood-boiling, warrior-crying action movie, and I fell for it. But perhaps that is another sign that this is, indeed, a good movie.

The following clip of the Battle of Thermopylae is one of my favorite scenes in the movie and one of my favorite filmed scenes of all time: [LINK TO YOUTUBE CLIP]. The opening speech of “This is where we hold them! This is where we fight! This is where they die!” is just so inspiring in its dramatic intensity and gets me all excited to see the battle each and every time. It’s such a powerful speech though it’s typically spartan and so, sparse in words. (Again, props to Gerard Butler though I have to say, I oggle at his body more than his lines half the time haha).

The part of the clip where Leonidas cuts through all those people like a warm knife through butter really gets me to thinking about ancient war heroes. The way he moves – so precise, so calculated, so trained – it’s almost like he’s dancing. I think every country that has an ancient past still has some stories of old war heroes – men who could cut down fifty other men single-handedly without a sweat. I know the real Leonidas was such a great fighter that he had his own cult until like the first century ended. In Korea, there are stories of generals who built incredible machines and thought of strategies that defeated hundreds as well as fighters who could take down dozens of men on their own using only their marital arts skills, frightening men just with their appearance. I’ve also seen a lot of similar stories from ancient Rome, China, Scotland, England, you name it.

And I wonder how much of it is actually true. I mean, I’m pretty sure that a lot of the stories have become exaggerated with time. But I’m also pretty sure that some of the stories that we think are exaggerated are actually 100% true. One man taking down 50 others sounds nearly impossible, but then again, we live in such a different world today. No country drills soldiers to kill with their bare hands nowadays like they had to back in the day. I’m sure that there are plenty of men in our time who, had they been born centuries ago under the right circumstances, could have been bred into fighting machines. But right now, they’re either simply shot as soldiers or stuck doing some hard-labor job. So, I’m sure that some scenes from “300″ as well as all those ancient war stories, though exaggerated, actually have a lot of truth in them.

Plus, even if those stories were exaggerated and aren’t completely true, you’ve got to wonder at just how good those men were – just how ferociously they fought with nothing but their limbs and a weapon or two, yelling with hellfire in their eyes – that stories like that about them survived until now. Maybe it wasn’t 100 to 1, but if it was impressive enough to look like a 100 to 1, then that’s pretty amazing! Just imagine watching a fight like that  or more, fighting alongside them and witnessing the battle yourself!

Also, as someone who has done martial arts, dancing, and music – all of which  requires a lot of body control and movement, I know how powerful physical presence can be. When you see someone dancing up a storm and filling a small space with this strange, invisible power; when you witness someone breaking bricks with his bare hands; when you’re drumming and prancing about, intoxicating your audience with every move and sound you make, you know the power of physical presence and just how skilled and impressive you have to be in order to appear that good – convince others that you’re that good and prove your worth through how you train your body.

To see a warrior cut through even just five men like they were nothing, to float through five soldiers and leave their bodies behind with every controlled step and jab…I’m sure it must have seemed like a victory against 100, and though not actually 100 victories, was just as impressive.

Oh, to have the past again!

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Forgiving Those #$@%!

If you guys have been reading my blog for a while, you’ll know that I’m sort of stuck between a rock and a hard place when it comes to the church. As I’ve also mentioned, I’ve been having a really hard time forgiving the church and, more specifically, the few people who made my spiritual life and emotions towards the church a living hell.

I really just feel so bitter and red-angry when I think of the people who did this to me and ignored me, trashed me after their stupidity was revealed, casting me off like something dirty so that they in all their blind filth could keep some twisted notion of keeping themselves clean and above my sinful reach.

Even as I write this, I can slowly feel myself turning into something savage, teeth clenched, eyes fierce like a snarling dog with arched back or a boxer with both fists up and blood lust in his eyes. I want to tear those people apart and avenge the maltreatment I and my loved ones underwent under those black hands in white gloves.

But then I remember God.

Ah, God! At times, my sinful desires are so desirable that God is like a wall that blocks better things – the things I want most in life. I want to tear my conscience down and have the flames of my anger evaporate the Holy Spirit within me.

However, I have lived too long and walked so many different paths, as young as I am. I have learned the hard way that whatever God says not to do, it’s for a good reason. More than a good reason – the right reason. And doing the right thing, though hard and against our deepest desires, is always the right thing – the better thing – for you and for everyone – in the long run.

God made quite clear in the Bible to forgive and forget, to leave your vengeance up to God. In other words, I am to trust only in God and leave my life in His hands rather than making myself miserable with all of these dark thoughts and struggling with what I can and can’t do.

I kept the above in mind and tried to forgive, tried to forget. But I couldn’t. And it wasn’t just because I was angry. No anger comes without reason in a sane person. I was hurt. I was hurt and I hated it.

So, I prayed.

Last year was one huge life lesson in learning to lean on God, to admit that I can’t do it and just toss it up to Him and so, give myself some peace. I realized after trying and trying to forgive and forget that I was incapable of forgiving and, especially, forgetting. And it wasn’t a terrible thing that so many hard-hearted Christians make it out to be. It wasn’t like I wanted to feel so terrible! I’m not a terrible person if I can’t forgive and forget because well…feeling bitter and terrible after going through embittering and terrible things is only a natural human reaction!

No…what I was going through – the anger and the sorrow – was all understandable, and most importantly, I understood that God understood. He was cool with it and still loved me just as much as He would if I were a perfect human. But He still wanted me to obey Him for my own good and for the good of others.

So, I stopped fighting it and gave the fight over to Him.

“You deal with it, God. Help me get over this because You know I can’t do this – not like this, not on my own.”

And He answered my prayers.

Almost right after I prayed that prayer, I came across this post by the amazing blogger “Unshakeable Hope”: [LINK HERE TO POST].

The post really made me re-think my anger and my emotions.

I realized that not forgiving and forgetting was disobedience to God. I was reminded in all of reality check’s harshness that an order is an order and if God told me to build a bridge and get over it, that is what I had to do. And I didn’t have to do it perfectly, I just had to try and God would take care of it. Again, I had to admit that I’m a piece of crap who is incapable of doing it on my own and that God would give me the ability to do anything.

So, like Unshakeable Hope, I grit my teeth, clasped my hands together, glared at the ceiling and prayed, “God, I really, really don’t want to forgive those !@#% but I’m doing this because You told me to.”

After I did this, I slowly started to realize: why did these people, these memories continue to bother me when these people were no longer a part of my life, these memories memories because they were in the past and not the present or even the near future? I realized that it was because they were re-playing in my head so that every day without these people and events still seemed like a day with them. These dead things were alive in my head, and I was the one keeping them alive.

For some reason, this pattern of thought made me understand that it is over. It’s over! It’s as simple as that. As my dad likes to say, “If they’re not paying your rent or putting your food on your table, they can’t be THAT important in your life, so forget them.” These people, these memories were hurtful, but the reason I couldn’t get over all of it was because I was re-playing them in my head. They are dead. They don’t have to bother me any more. So I don’t have to care about them anymore. I can forgive because now I can forget.

It’s been a slow process – an on-going process – but I’m actually starting to erase the hurt those people and the church inflicted on me and others. And it’s all through God’s power.

I’m only human, so I know it’s going to take longer to get completely over it – to build a Golden Gate bridge over it. My bridge is still a little stone bridge over a creek. But it’s a bridge nevertheless – with my name on it and planned by God. And most importantly, I’m over it.

As you can tell, I still grow angry at the thought of past things – especially when they come into play in the present (like talking crap about me/my blog and deleting me off of Facebook for expressing “negative” things about the church). But, the anger IS diminishing! Which I think is pretty amazing because it’s so hard to do.

What can I say but that God is good and that through Him, indeed, all things are possible.

So once again, thanks, God. You’re the best. (Literally).

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Filed under Religion, Thankfulness

Webtoon, Baby~

So, I guess it’s time to announce it on here as well: I have a webtoon series! [LINK HERE FOR THE IMPATIENT.]

For those of you unfamiliar with the term, webtoons are pretty much the new-age version of newspaper comics. I don’t know if other countries have it, but to me, it’s mainly a Korean thing. If you go on major Korean search engines, webtoons are at the top of the page along with the news, sports, etc. – just like newspapers!

From what I’ve garnered, unlike comics that come out in book or scanned format, webtoons are very much a display of digital art (as opposed to a combination of traditional and digital) and are usually in color, not black in white. Also unlike traditional graphic novels, they revolve around a scrolling format rather than page-by-page.

They’re also generally shorter than traditional comics and, in my opinion, more variable in terms of whether or not the artist chooses to make a single long narrative or multiple short ones. Because each chapter tends to be, at most, 40 cells long, there’s only so much complexity a webtoon can display. They also tend, again in my opinion, to be less technically skilled in terms of artistic talent than most major graphic novels. I’d imagine that the staff working on a webtoon series is also much fewer in number than graphic novel staffs.

Well, a good friend of mine who works for one of the first American webtoon sites, “Tapastic.com”, told me that I should upload webtoons on Tapastic. I was sort of reluctant because not only had I never drawn webtoons (or comics for that matter), but I also knew/know that I am not technically skilled artistically-speaking and I only have the most basic of digital art skills. Plus, I’m busy with my blog and pursuing more of my traditional art on DeviantArt.

But then he showed me examples of what he thought were piece of crap webtoons that were surprisingly getting a lot of views on Tapastic. I took a look at them and sure enough, they were pretty traumatizing works of art. My friend looked me in the eye and said, “You can do better.”

So, I’ve started uploading webtoons.

I don’t have a tablet, so the lineart is all crappy. I have to scan a huge picture using a really bad scanner then scale it to the proper size, consequently diminishing the quality of the pictures. And if you think I’m going to use the bezier curve and do lineart for hours using that thing when my eyes are already burning from staring at a computer all day at work, you’ve got another thing coming. However, I try to make it up by making the series as fun as possible!

For some reason, my webtoons have been coming very naturally to me. Maybe it’s because I often imagine my life’s events in visual forms that drawing my series hasn’t been as brain-bending as I had thought it would be.

So, without further ado: “Life Can Be…” on Tapastic.com. [LINK TO MY WEBTOON HERE. PRESS ME.]

Life Can Be…” is basically a serialization of certain things that have happened to me in life. I try to name each chapter as a follow up to the title, so like “Life Can Be…Revealing” – “Revealing” being the title of the chapter.

I have a lot of crazy stories to tell. The less crazy ones are mainly fictional (like my V-day series) but the really crazy ones tend to be 100% true. Strange, I know. Even the fictional ones, though, are inspired by reality (the V-day special is a simplification of my “How I Met My Boyfriend” blog series~).

The simplicity of my art is a consequence of not having enough time or equipment or skills to draw really complex, deep stuff. I have to do these after I come home from work! Plus, it’s not like I have a team to do the lineart, dialogues, stories, uploading, editing, etc. etc. etc. My team is me, myself, and I. It all turned out unexpectedly well though. I found that the simplicity actually makes it funnier as well as distinctive.

If I ever get a tablet though, I’m going to do all of the inking digitally and put in color as well. The low quality is really starting to bug me.

Overall, I have already started forming a new appreciation and awe of comic/webtoon artists. I had no idea how intense it was, everything from all the different stages of drawing you have to go through to the time limit on these things.

Please check out, share, like, comment, support, etc. my series!

Thanks in advance~

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How My Boyfriend and I Finally Got Together

This post has been a long time coming! The final chapter in the “How I Met My Boyfriend” series [link to the first chapter here]. I’ve been delaying on this post because a lot of my personal friends read this series and half of them are still in college i.e. they’re more active online when they should be studying and stay offline when it’s Christmas vacation/holiday season haha. I knew they would miss this post if I posted it earlier~

So, we left off on when I became strangely ill after saying no to my boyfriend’s request to go out with me.

We didn’t see each other after the rejection for a few weeks. However, we met again because, as I said before, it had been finals season when it all had happened, which meant that graduation season came upon us soon after, which meant that we inevitably had to meet again at some of our mutual friends’ commencement ceremonies.

The first time I saw him again, I was still terribly ill. It was my best friend’s commencement though, so I had to drag myself out. I didn’t know he would come, but he did. And he looked terrible. To my surprise, I learned that he had been binge drinking with some friends the night before. He wasn’t the type to drink so heavily, and it worried me.

I remember laughing with my friends and congratulating those who needed to be congratulated, but all the while, glancing uneasily in his direction. He was obviously uneasy as well because he sat on a bench apart from the crowd, looking totally tired and dejected, before leaving hurriedly after a few minutes. I remember looking after him as he walked away in the opposite direction and feeling something capsizing within me.

The next time we saw each other was at our friend, H’s, ceremony [link to post about H]. It was pouring rain that day and I was still ill, if not worse off. But again, he was a good friend, so I had to drag myself out. After the ceremony, a few of us gathered together to talk and possibly grab something to eat.

I stood apart from the group, trembling in the cold and clutching my umbrella, trying to be polite to him by staying aloof and leaving him alone. He looked over at me. I could see his breath coming out in white puffs through the thick streams of rain.

He began to walk over to me.

I stood still and watched, but internally, I felt like fleeing – fleeing like a hare chased by hounds. I wanted to run away with wild eyes, but I kept still.

He stood in front of me. He inquired about how I was, looking a bit concerned. I answered that I was fine, trying my best to look cheerful. He said a few other things that I couldn’t process well, shocked as I was that he was talking so nicely to me or talking to me at all. He then invited me and a few others to come eat – his treat.

I had been surviving on what scraps of food I had – including popcorn – for the past few days because I had been too ill to make food and too poor to buy any. I wolfed down the food he bought me (and got really bad indigestion afterwards due to too much nervousness and too little chewing). He then walked me home, smiled, and told me to take care of myself.

I walked into my room, full and warm for the first time in days, my head buzzing with confusion. What did his sudden attitude mean? Hadn’t we agreed to stay aloof? Or perhaps he had decided to try being friends? I didn’t know.

Not long after that, we somehow started texting each other again. At one point, he told me that he was sorry. He had tried to forget me, he really had, but he just couldn’t. But he would try harder.

“I’m sorry.”

I sighed and then made a decision that would change my life. I texted him back and told him that I wanted to talk about things again but only after I had recovered my health a bit. He agreed rather quickly, and we stopped texting for that night.

I wasn’t expecting to see him for another week or so, but the very next day, I got a call.

It was him.

I freaked out. I stared at the phone as if it were throwing spears at me and not simply vibrating.

I picked it up.

“Hello?”

“Hey. Um, I’m outside your place. Can you come down and open the door?”

“What?”

“I’m outside you place.”

“You’re outside in the rain?”

“Yeah.”

“Uh. Ok.”

I had no choice but to go down and open the door for him.

Back then, I lived in a real shady shit hole because I didn’t have much money after tuition was paid out of my financial aid. It was an old boarding house turned into a housing complex. There was one community kitchen, which often had a rat infestation, one girls’ bathroom, and one boys’ bathroom both with communal showers and sinks which often plugged up or flooded over. Everyone in there had cheap rent but instead, only got one small room to themselves. My room was larger in comparison to most but it could only fit my twin-size bed, a table, a shelf, and two make-shift wardrobes. I barely had enough room to walk. (I lived there for two years and didn’t realize just how shitty it was until I wrote the description haha).

So, I was a bit nervous about inviting him up. I could hear my mother’s voice ringing in my ears, “Don’t EVER invite a boy upstairs. There’s only one meaning to that!” And even without my mother hovering on my shoulder, I didn’t feel comfortable about being alone in a small, cramped room with a boy who had previously asked me out.

I went downstairs determined to slam the door in his face if he said anything weird and kept my bottle of mace with my keys at hand.

My poor boyfriend…always the target of my unnecessary suspicions.

I opened the door and there he was, standing on the veranda with a marvelous blue backdrop of pouring rain. He was holding a package in his hand.

“I bought this for you. Can I come up? It’s 삼계탕 (*Korean chicken soup with rice; nice for when you’re sick).”

I agreed, rather flabbergasted because the only place that sold 삼계탕 was a long bus ride away. He asked me if I had eaten anything, and I said that I had been living off of popcorn. He thought I was joking until he saw the bag and some kernels strewn across my desk.

He sat me down and laid out the meal. I ate slowly. It tasted so good.

Needless to say, he didn’t come on to me. He had just wanted to talk (too impatient to wait a week, as usual), and we did end up talking over things for the following few days. It was during those days that I discovered something that was ground-breaking at the time, something that really changed my perception of myself, others, and the world. It was frightening because it was so eye-opening, but I praise God for having purged me with that kind of fire to make me wise up.

During those days, I told him again that I thought his faith in the Catholic (as opposed to Protestant) church was a sign of a wrong kind of belief in God or some kind of evil shit that I’m too embarrassed to share with you guys.

When I told/accused him of such things, he simply replied, “Well, I believe in God. Jesus Christ is my savior. He saved me and cleansed me from my sins. And I believe in and love God. Yes, He is God.”

Such simplicity and such magic in those few short sentences. It took a while for me to understand completely, but I finally began, with trembling thoughts, to see that I was inserting my boyfriend into shapes and molds that I had created for him, judging him wrongly instead of looking at him and the situation objectively, without such evil prejudice. I was wrong, yet I was so afraid to admit it because admitting it meant not only that some of my perceptions of God had been wrong but also that I was allowed to go out with him. It was scary!

Over the next few days that we kept talking, I thought deeply, prayed fervently, and came to the conclusion that it was ok to date this guy because 1. I had been wrong to judge and label him as a non-believer just because he was Catholic 2. being Catholic didn’t automatically equate to a taboo/the Catholic church is about as evil as the average Protestant church and 3. he was a great guy whom I respected and who loved me.

I knew that dating this guy would be very controversial at my church (and indeed, I left the church because of the things they said [link here to that post]), but I knew that I was innocent before God and if that were case, I had nothing to fear. I was innocent and free to do whatever I wished and what others said didn’t matter because they were wrong, and I was right. And I wasn’t just saying that.

Overall, I realized that I loved him and that I wanted to date him.

Well, it wasn’t long before he came over again and one thing led to another and I found myself in his arms. He kissed me on my forehead then on my cheeks, and I kissed him on his lips. Then, he sat cross-legged and straight-backed on my bed and said, “나랑 사귀자” or “Go out with me.” And that was that.

We announced it on Facebook a few days later and caused an uproar and that same day, I graduated from college. It was one of the best days of my life. That day was the last time I was a student, the first time I got into an official relationship, the first time he held my hand, the first day of many more days to come in our relationship which, though young, has already faced so many trials and through the grace of God, survived, forging our bond into something stronger each time. We are planning to get married, and God willing, it will happen soon.

I’ll always love you, baby. I’m so tempted to say “always, and never” because of my love for Sin City, but will refrain.

Because I’ll always love you. Always, and forever.

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Ghetto

Ghetto. I feel like the word is thrown around so much. How many times do you hear people of all ages and social strata calling things, people, or places “ghetto”?

After living, working, and commuting via public transport in a pretty urban area; meeting many clients who come to me from impoverished backgrounds; and coming from a financially poor family myself, I get really annoyed or angry when people say things like, “Oh, that’s so ghetto hur hur hur,” or “That kid is such a ghetto-ass gangster!” or “I’m ghetto, man. I’ve been around. I smoke pot.”

I have learned over the years that very few people have a good concept of what it truly means to be ghetto. In fact, the people who usually term things or people as “ghetto” often have no clue what it really means because they are usually from stable to well-off backgrounds. They just toss the word around to look cool because for some reason, media and higher class people are just fascinated with ghetto things – whether it be tough rapping, prison-style clothes/sagging, swearing, unprotected sex, slutty girls, etc. I’m guessing that being ghetto looks ultra-cool to such people because ghetto people and things have a really tough, back-off air that well-rounded, soft kids are incapable of mimicking. To them, ghetto things are almost like flashy foreign goods – attractive in its unattainable alien quality.

On the other hand, such people also use the word to signify anything negative, physically dirty, or something that shares the most remote resemblance with gangster life. Everything from a tagged wall to a trash can to a piece of clothing to a building can be “ghetto”. What bothers me the most though, is that most people who use the negative ghetto tag make those ghetto objects or people seem like they were born that way or something negatively disparate from themselves – something beneath them.

Being ghetto is not funny and it is definitely not fun, and it pisses me off that people who have never suffered anything ghetto in their lives would use the word so flippantly and go so far as to glamorize it. Being ghetto is also much more than just being a negative entity. It is very much a complex mixture of a corrupt society and ignorance on the part of people who can make society better. So, I get pissed off when people look down on or label people/things that look dirty or less cultured as “ghetto.” It’s not so much being called ghetto that I mind because yeah, it really can be ghetto. It’s the connotation and that air of superiority that I can’t stand – the use of such a tragic word from the lips of people who have never known or tried to understand.

If you want me to say it in my ghetto-ass tongue (which I often suppress so that I won’t offend those sensitive, high-class working-stiff ears who were raised with everything from a trust fund for college, to married parents, to full healthy dinners every day): those motherfuckers don’t know shit. Ghetto my ass. I’ll fucking show you ghetto.

If you’re ghetto like me, the above “profanity” probably did not offend you. At the most it made you laugh or you were just completely nonplussed because it’s pretty close to the things you hear on a daily basis. If you’re not ghetto, you probably shuddered at the sentence and thought something like, “What terrible, crude language. Oh dear, oh dear!”

Although I’ve pretty much mastered putting on a “cultured, professional demeanor” through language, dress, and behavior to make myself “more acceptable” to society, I still get frustrated at reactions I get from people for my ghetto self who slips out once in a while.  And the thing is, I didn’t even realize I was ghetto until I came to college and I only realized it because people treated me as “ghetto” when I acted like myself.

I moved far from home and came to a prestigious university. And fuck, that was a reality check. These kids had everything from the ability to pay for all of their tuition without even taking out a single loan, care packages from home every other month, allowance to spend after school, new clothes when they went home for vacation, money for plane tickets to go home for vacation, and so much more (and they would still fucking complain about life).

They would look at me weird when I said that I wouldn’t have been able to afford to go to college without a full scholarship; when I said I couldn’t go home for Thanksgiving because my parents didn’t have the money; when I got angry and swore about things; and so much more. I didn’t know these things were unusual because everyone back home was the same.

When I was angry back home, people accepted it because they knew there was a lot of shit in this world to be angry about. When I got into arguments and told bitches and assholes to go fuck themselves, they’d say it back and that was that. When I would accidentally bump into someone and they cussed me out, I would just roll my eyes and flip them off and we’d go our separate ways.

Get angry at a kid here and tell them to shut the fuck up, they’ll either burst out in tears and think about it all day and/or go tell on you to their rich-ass mommies and daddies. Then they turn around and use the word “ghetto” positively or negatively without even knowing all the history and struggle and pain and worth those “ghetto people” embody, the bastards.

That’s when I realized that if you’re really ghetto, you often don’t know it. People or things or whatever that are actually ghetto, who have a right to use the word, don’t know it because they’re busy living their ghetto – or should I say, tough, unfair, impoverished, trapped – lives.

I’m not the most ghetto person I’ve ever seen. I’m just a moderately ghetto girl who had the opportunity to get a higher education and initiate myself in a better world with enough brains to figure out how it all works. I’m not proud or ashamed of my background. I accept it for what it is even if others don’t. I’m one of the lucky ones.

But there are people out there who gang bang because their fathers did it and their father’s fathers did it. They push carts at grocery stores for the rest of their lives because they couldn’t finish high school. They couldn’t even go to a junior college like they dreamed because their parents forced them to work to support the family right after high school.

They don’t do any of that, live like that because they wanted to lead a glamorous ghetto life with drugs and sex, but because they needed to survive.

How can they find a job when their parents can’t take them to school to get educated? They can’t afford a car to drive the kid. The kid can’t walk through those streets on his own. They never got education so they can’t teach the kid themselves. Money is hard and life is harder. Can’t afford to get protection all the time so kids keep coming. Kids meet other kids who come from dirt poor, alcoholic, drug-using, and/or abusive backgrounds because adults who can’t find self worth and have no money or kindness from the world turn into poor, alcoholic, drug-using, abusive people. Kids get poor to little eduction and become gang bangers or disinterested in life, pursuing the only dreams that are feasible to them – usually low-paying jobs and living in poor living quarters, “the ghetto”. And the cycle just keeps continuing.

All the while society shuns them for being what society made them into and won’t give a helping hand to them, incapable of understanding the differences because they have no idea what it means to suffer, to be trapped, to be “ghetto.” And yes, being ghetto is not a good thing. I hate it when someone ghetto gets all up in my face. But I have to remember that it’s not their fault and that they’re equally human to me, that society is evil enough to create people like that.

Plus not everyone who is “ghetto,” poor, etc. are bad people and if they turn out to be bad people, it’s usually due to really unfortunate circumstances. I’ve met ghetto people who have golden souls, and I’ve met ghetto people who are really just piece of shit people. But I’ve also met well-off, perfect looking people who have golden souls and who are piece of shit people.

I guess what I’m trying to say is, don’t judge people and think about the words you use because they actually contribute to a larger picture in the end.

So yes, that was my long ghetto rant. I’ll be more polished next time.

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Dream Meeting

First of all, I just want to apologize for not writing as frequently. I’m currently job hunting and had an interview yesterday, so I’m a bit exhausted these days. (Any prayers would be much appreciated)!

Anyways.

If you’ve read my blog from the very beginning, you will know that I was an insomniac for about eight years and suffered very bad nightmares for most of them.

My nightmares and insomnia have been cured for the past three or so years, but I still have a more vivid and active, ah, what should I call it…”dream life” than most people. Not only do I remember most of my dreams in more detail and length than the average person, but I also meet people, see things, and go to places which most people could never imagine.

These nights, for some reason, I’ve  been meeting people from my past who I haven’t seen in years, if not over a decade. It’s to the extent that I had completely forgotten that I had even known this person until I saw them in my dreams again. Furthermore, this dream-person is usually a combination of how I remembered them and something my imagination thinks of how they must look like in the present.

Last night, I had a disturbing meeting with a childhood classmate. I wouldn’t exactly call him a friend. He was shunned by a lot of kids at school, and he was known as a loner, a bit of a loser, and pretty crazy/weird. Everyone used to gossip about his alcoholic mother and how his dad was a soldier and consequently, never there for his son and the rest of his huge family.

I have to admit, there were a lot of weird things about that kid. He acted out and said things that weren’t right – things that I now pity and realize that had the world been kinder to him, he wouldn’t have acted in such a way; things that I wish I had seen now as opposed to my younger, naive self. I guess I regret having listened more to gossip and following the crowd now after being an outcast myself in later years.

On the other hand, he did have a very sweet side and did manage to get into a few higher level classes. Although he didn’t have any friends, there were times that he would be nice enough to attract attention and something like friendship from the class.

I think I remember this kid so much because he seemed as troubled back then as I was years later when my world was falling apart with my parents’ divorce, etc. Also, I remember that I really enjoyed talking to him. His seat was often right behind or to the side of me because our last names were close to each other in the alphabet. A lot of the times, he would be his lashing-out, weird, loser self. But when I would have a conversation with him, when he made a point of being friendly, I remember being very fond of him. I remember he actually listened to everything I said, asking genuine questions about the things I talked about and feeling no shame in giving me a compliment once in a while – something a bit unusual for that age.

I still remember that he wrote the most thoughtful comment in my yearbook. It went something along the lines of “Hey Jade, I liked sitting behind you in class and talking. I feel like I learned to appreciate Korean culture more because of you. Stay in touch! =).” It was a short comment, but I was touched that he had bothered to write down something we had often talked about and something I personally advocated constantly. Kids that age usually just write superficial good luck notes or how we’re excited to get into whatever grade or school we were transitioning into.

I’ve tried finding this kid on Facebook but without any luck for the past few years. His family moved across the country because of his father’s military post, and we never saw him again. I doubt if he even remembers me. He definitely does not remember me as fondly as I remember him in all likelihood. I’ve often wondered how he grew up though, a troubled kid like that with a dysfunctional family and a school that was unkind to him. I can’t help but feel that he probably turned into a dark person. I often find myself hoping that his better side prevailed over time, that things somehow got better for him in a different part of the country and that the past 12 years since I’ve seen him haven’t turned him into someone dangerous. But then again, how often does that happen – the happy ending, I mean.

Anyways, I finally met this kid again for the first time in over a decade in my dreams.

It wasn’t a nightmare because I define nightmares as dreams that actually make me hate sleeping, but it was, like I said, disturbing.

His face looked like how I remembered it – young and small – but my mind had distorted his body so that his limbs looked like stretched gum. He was taller and obviously older, but horrific in a way.

More than his appearance though (after all, dream people usually look a bit strange), it was what he said that had such a profound impact on me. We recognized each other immediately and hugged like old friends. I asked him how he was doing and he said that he was doing ok but toughing it out. The conversation revealed that he had resorted to marrying dying girls and living off of their money after divorce or death. He had given up on himself.

Writing that down makes it seem almost comic but imagine if someone you knew actually said that, actually did that in real life. Well, the world of dreams feels just as real – is just as real in many ways – as the waking world. Hearing and seeing this distorted figure who had once had the chance of becoming a good kid…it was shocking in my dream and saddening upon waking.

My pastor once said that dreaming is sort of like the next world – a place we can never fully understand in life, a place where unimaginable things happen in common ways, a place where you meet new people, see old friends without recognizing them, remembering and forgetting what you saw in your waking life.

Is it weird that I find joy and sorrow in meeting people like that kid again in my dreams? It’s so real, yet it’s not. I almost feel like we died and met in the afterlife. Maybe that’s why I remember my dreams, those dream people, so vividly even upon waking. Maybe I won’t see these people in this plane of thought, but I’m glad I can at least meet them again in another world.

I just hope that kid turned out better than in my dream because seeing him like that broke my heart. The sad thing is though, in all likelihood, he is just as distorted and hopeless in this world as he was in that.

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On Sin City

Since I was a kid, I made a point of having an obsessive hobby. I sewed at one point, knitted at another. Dinosaurs, ancient Egypt, detective stories, Harry Potter, fanfiction, drawing, Naruto, Cardcaptor Sakura, the list is pretty long.

For the past two years, I’ve been obsessed with Frank Miller’s “Sin City”. I’m not a hard-core fan who can blurt out all the dialogues in the book and Youtube it, but when you watch the movie every other week for two years, you know you’ve got an obsession.

I tried watching the movie in high school without any knowledge of the graphic novel from which it originated and turned it off a quarter way through because it scared me (plus my mom was sitting right next to me). I was still intrigued more than scared though, so around my junior year of college (when I was more than familiar enough with the library), I found the DVD in the school archives and watched it all the way through in one of the underground libraries.

I was blown away.

Yes, it’s a pretty bloody and graphic movie. I can also see why some critics call it misogynist (because in many aspects, it is).

But it’s amazing. As a film, as a visual work of art, as a story – it’s amazing.

Not soon after, I dug up the original graphic novel in the school archives (yes, this is what I used our multi-million dollar libraries for haha). In particular, I was eager to read “The Hard Goodbye.” (Mickey Rourke did such a fantastic job!).

I was equally blown away by the novel, if not more impressed by it than the movie. There’s something about written words. No matter how great a movie is, it never holds a candle to the actual book because there’s only a certain amount of depth you can put into something that is purely visual and restrained by time while still maintaining its entertainment. Words have no limit because they leave it up to the mind, which has no limit.

Though people I talk to always have a lasting impression of Marv as a really scary guy or a really cool tough, manly man, the first impression – and still the biggest impression – I got from him was that he was a gentleman. Maybe he’s a bit crazy, but who isn’t? If there ever was an example of inner beauty, it is in the scarred and murderous figure of Marv. (Plus, the way his exterior scares everyone while his soul is so sweet reminds me of my hulky but soft dad).

Can't find any good pictures of him online so I just took a crappy picture on my phone from my copy of "The Hard Goodbye".

Can’t find any good pictures of him online so I just took a crappy picture on my phone from my copy of “The Hard Goodbye”.

Where to start with this inspirational figure?

He’s really one of the most well-rounded and complex characters I have ever encountered. (Come to think of it, a vast majority of fictional characters who have left a deep impression on me come from graphic novels – not those high and mighty classics that I love equally well. Too often do we forget that the work itself, not the critics, gives something its true value and mark).

I guess I’ll focus on why I think Marv is THE gentleman, even though he is sort of his own worst nightmare – “a maniac, a psycho killer.” I mean, the guy is capable of castrating hit men and laughing while beating someone to death with his bare hands. He’s also seven foot something, badly scarred, muscular, and hates walking in the daylight. How could someone like that be as gentlemanly as Mr. Darcy from “Pride and Prejudice”?

I guess I’m just always touched by his principles and how moral and rather sweet-hearted those principles are.

The way he treats women is as close to chivalrous as modern times can get.

He never hits women, even when it could get him out of tough spots (the one time he does, it was arguably for a greater good on her behalf). He thinks girls can be crazy but he has enough sense not to tell a woman that and a heart good enough to not embitter himself towards women, no matter how badly they may treat him.

His whole obsession with Goldie – giving up his life to avenge her as an atonement for not realizing how scared she was, for being stone drunk, lustful, and asleep while she was in danger – going after Rourke himself while knowing that she was simply using him in hopes that he would provide her with protection. Well, you can’t find a better knight in shining armor than that.

“You were scared, weren’t you Goldie? Somebody wanted you dead and you knew it. So you hit the saloons, the bad places, looking for the biggest, meanest lug around and finding me. Looking for protection and paying for it with your body and more – with love, with wild fire, making me feel like a king, like a damn white knight. Like a hero. What a laugh. You wanted me to keep you safe but when that bastard came to kill you, I was stone drunk. Blacked out. Useless.”

Am I weird in thinking, “Awww~ That is so sweet!” when reading that?

He felt his manhood in his ability to protect a woman, and there just aren’t many men like that these days. More often you find guys who “have to beat up on a girl to make himself feel like a man” and/or men who define their masculinity by how many women they pierce physically.

You don’t find men like Marv easily, men who know how to value a woman’s soul more than her body. He – like any man – feels lust and love for hot babes. Unlike any man though, he respects them so much that he won’t lay a finger on them, even if they’re lying half naked on a hotel bed a few feet away.

He may goggle at Nancy while she’s putting on a show at Kadie’s, but he pulverizes “that frat boy of hers” who “roughed her up” because he hates it when “guys rough up dames.” Wendy looks identical to Goldie, but he calls himself a jerk for confusing her with Goldie and accidentally coming onto her, thinking that he deserves Wendy’s slap and  more when he does. He kills pimps and sex traffickers without a second thought. All the while, he expects nothing back because he believes in protecting women, valuing them whether they be a common prostitute, a stripper, or an innocent little girl.

Goldie may have been a goddess, but Marv was a god.

Come to think of it, he only lost in the end to protect a woman – his own mom. No surprise that he loves her and visits her from time to time.

He really did have the rotten luck of being born in the wrong century. I hope he’s re-born into the “Lord of the Rings” universe haha. Kill some orcs by the dozen and get a hot elf chick – reincarnation of Goldie.

He’s really one of a kind, a gentleman, a sweetheart. It’s cruel that he looks the way he does, but hey, he wouldn’t be who he is without it. It just makes me sad to see him so insecure about his looks and intelligence when he’s a knight in gold – twice the man than any good-looking guy who might two-time or hit a woman or view them as sexual commodities. The way he degrades himself makes him look so small and soft in contrast to his monstrous exterior that it brings tears to my eyes. A huge man with a troubled mind and a good heart. He was a hero and a tragedy all at once.

I’m not really sure what this post is about except that it’s a love rant on Marv haha. (Sorry to my boyfriend for fantasizing about a fictional character! haha)

I just know that he was a real man. A man who would return my hug without feeling less manly, without feeling ashamed for feeling soft for a girl. A man who defines his masculinity on love, loyalty, and principle.

*Sigh~* Marv is such a dreamboat.

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“A Box of Chocolates”

Another art post! There are two stories that I’ve come up with for this drawing.

Quick 2 hour drawing. Ink and watercolors!

Quick 2 hour drawing. Ink and watercolors!

The first is the obvious: it’s Valentine’s Day, and he tried giving the girl he likes a box of chocolates and his heart. He failed and, unable to walk into his apartment which has too much space for just one person, he sits on the steps of his urban home and calmly smokes a cigarette. And he had just quit too.

The second is a bit more complex: it’s Valentine’s Day. He wants some from his crazy girlfriend. He knows he’s going to have to give her something in order to get it, so while he’s picking up a pack of Marlboro at the drug store, he grabs the biggest and cheapest box of chocolates he sees at the counter. He knocks on the door and gets a yell that she’ll be ready in ten. It’s been twenty, just as he expected. He’s glad that he picked up a pack before coming. She hates him smoking. She’s been nagging at him to stop. It’ll be ok, though. She’s going to take another good twenty, and that’ll be plenty of time to get in some of that sweet nicotine and chew some gum. The smoke. People complain that it kills the lungs, but he loves it – like how he loves his girlfriend. Waiting. Another twenty.

Though the second is funner to write, I think the drawing evokes the first better. What do you think? Is he waiting to give it to someone, or has he already tried?

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Alice in Wonderland Inspired Sketch

I totally forgot to upload this sketch here. DeviantArt is both slowly and rapidly becoming my show-off center for my artistic endeavors. It doesn’t hurt to post things on here too, though!

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Titled “The Mad Hatter Likes Sugar in His Tea”
Only took around 6 hours to do – which is a lot less than the other drawing I did that required sketching, inking, pencil coloring, AND watercolors. I’m quite pleased with it.

If you want to see the bigger (and better) version, you’ll have to check out my DeviantArt page! [Click here for the page~].

I had the Looney Tunes intro./theme song stuck in my head the entire time I drew this. I wanted it to have the same feeling as that song: playful, comic, children-appropriate, and a little exciting.

As I explain on my DA page, I really wanted this drawing to evoke the same style as the original drawings in the original “Alice in Wonderland.” Unfortunately, I am finding out through DA that many, many artists, though visually brilliant, are not well-read (I find all of my well-read friends here on WordPress haha). Therefore, I see a lot of creative, beautiful works that feature Alice in Wonderland characters, often in a bizarre, Tim-Burton-ish styles; however, I rarely see any works that evoke the original feel, literary genius, and sensible nonsense that made the original Alice in Wonderland so famous. Moreover, I hardly see any artists who have even read the book or seen the original artwork for it.

It’s a shame, really. I’m not asking that all Alice in Wonderland works look exactly like the original. I just wish that there was more appreciation and knowledge of the original which, obviously, inspired so many years of great creativity.

It was my first time doing this 19th-century style lined ink style, and I’m pleased that I pulled it off on my first try. Inking all the shadows by cross-hatching was a real test of patience, but it was fun. Shadows really make all the difference in a piece. See below a shaded Mad Hatter without a shaded spoon.

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See the difference? I’m learning more and more that art is all about details.

I love it!

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Imagining My Eulogy

I just read this great post on Misifusa’s blog [link here...click here...!]. (Check out the blog if you haven’t. I follow her, and, I am honored say, she follows me).

Basically, the post is a hypothetical eulogy. What would your eulogy look like?

To be honest, I thought it was a really morbid question at first. Asking myself, “What would people say about me when I’m dead?” doesn’t exactly sound like a happy question. But then I read the post, and it was actually a very hopeful and bright piece of writing.

Which got me to thinking…why did I automatically assume that a hypothetical eulogy would be dark and depressing? Is it because I subconsciously felt that my own eulogy would look like a collaboration project between Edgar Allan Poe and Tim Burton?

I thought about it, and I realized that my eulogy – or should I say, graveside speech – would be vastly different depending on the person who gave it and that it wouldn’t exactly look like a piece of gothic literature.

If my boyfriend gave it: “Jade was the light of my life. She went through too much in too little time but bore all of it with courage. I loved her more than anything, but I know she’s in a better place. I’ll miss everything, from her smile to the constant support she gave me through thick and thin. God, please take care of her. *Insert sobbing*”

If one of my high school haters/friends with whom I argued gave it: “JADE WAS A B#@&! *Insert security/my boyfriend rugby tackling them and escorting them away from my grave*”

If my drumming group friends who are younger than me gave it: “Jade Unni/Nuna (honorific phrases in Korean) was a very scary sunbae (another honorific phrase denoting someone who is older than you). She never really smiled and made a lot of freshman drink a lot of soju (Korean vodka). She was a really good dancer, though! She was also a really good jangoo player! Nicknames for her in our group included “Jangoo Queen” and “Warrior Princess”! I’ll never forget how well she drummed or how ferociously she taught. I learned so much from her, but at the same time, I felt like I was at boot camp whenever she taught. I was so scared, but I learned so much!”

If my drumming friends who are my age gave it: “Jade was a good friend. She could be a b*tch, but it was one of the things that made her an interesting person as well as a loyal friend who would stick up for us or help us when the occasion called for it. She was one of the smartest people I knew and as an English major, helped edit a lot of my essays – for which I’m thankful. We had a lot of good memories together – both sober and not-so-sober. I’ll always remember how much she loved Korean and Korean-American culture. I’ll always remember how crazy she could be. I’ll always remember how somber she could be. But overall, I’ll always remember her as a close friend.”

If my co-workers gave it: “We can’t believe she’s gone! I mean, we used to see her everyday. We spent more time with each other than with our own families! And now, we won’t ever see her again. Well, we know that she was a Christian, so we know she’s covered. I know that God has a special place for her and that as hard worker, she’s probably happily doing some work for God while sitting in a cloud office somewhere up there.”

If my mom gave it: *Insert constant hysterical sobbing non-stop for a minimum of three days*.

If my dad gave it: “I loved my baby girl. *Punches out anyone who ever annoyed me in life and who was stupid enough to come to my funeral. Beats senseless above haters for good measure*”

If any other family member gave it: “Jade was a lovely person who was a hard worker, a loving *insert familial relation*, and had a brilliant mind. *Insert silence because that’s all they really know about me*”

If a hater from my old church gave it: “Jade had a lot of problems with God and the church, for which we’re sorry. We thank God that He sent His son to save wretched sinners like her – *Insert my father and boyfriend punching them out*”

So, yeah. I think the eulogy varies quite a bit. On the whole though, no matter who gave it and no matter what kind of eulogy it would be, I would think that my ghost would prefer a short and simple funeral that incurred minimal expenses for my family – meaning, no reception afterwards! This is a funeral, not a party!

The dead should not make the living spend a lot of money on them. It makes no sense.

(Didn’t this post turn out to be so random? Ha ha).

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How They Became Great

I used to think that all those memorialized artists who have everything from movies to classes based on them were people with established in fame, fortune, and happiness in life. Sure, there might be one or two exceptions (like Van Gogh or Monet) but on the whole, I had this idea that heads would turn if these great people of times past walked down the street during their days.

After a while though, I realized that it was more of the opposite. There were many more Van Gogh’s than Charles Dickens’s. Even if said writer or artist achieved success in their lifetime, it was no where near as trumpeted as it is in today’s day and age.

Also contrary to my prior beliefs, such people often worked jobs that resemble today’s corporate or entry-level jobs while creating the projects that would someday make them immortal. It makes sense now that I think about it; I mean, these people usually created one to a maximum of five legendary works – meaning, it must have taken a lifetime to create such genius works. If it took a lifetime to create them, they couldn’t have exactly lived off of their art in the meantime. They had to work. They had to survive.

And if they didn’t, they ended up like Van Gogh or Edgar Allan Poe: partially insane, homicidal or suicidal, addicted to some popular drug of the day, and consequently, dead while still young.

It’s strange that we often forget that the lives of great people were seldom straightforward.

We try to become great, successful, happy, and meaningful in this world by taking the straight and narrow. We force ourselves and our children to do all those extra-curriculars or else we won’t get into college. We have to get a great GPA and study subjects we hate or people won’t think we’re smart. We have to choose a money-making major in college or else we’ll – God forbid – end up with a regular desk job. We have to ride out the bad economy and look good in the job market, so we go to graduate school for something we don’t really like anyways. And what are all these unconscious  have-to’s aimed towards? Success! Deep down, most of us want to be like those Great’s, and we feel like (or at least, hope that) if we follow the rules that are promised by society as the rules to success, we’ll become great as well.

Looking at Great’s themselves, though, gives us a slap in the face.

Miguel de Cervantes (author of “Don Quixote”, which scholars call the first Western novel) was a prisoner/slave for about eight years before being freed. He then began writing but had to support himself, eventually becoming a tax collector (which is ironic because I think he was put in jail for debt once or twice before).

Shakespeare (hopefully, you know him) did real estate for a living and from the looks of it, had a mundane to bad family life. He wrote his famous plays and poems as a very serious hobby.

Charles Dickens (“Tale of Two Cities”, “Oliver Twist”, “Great Expectations”, “A Christmas Carol”, and a lot more) was quite popular and famous in his day for his writing but that’s only because he used his job with newspapers to test out his writing all the time.

Emily Dickens (a leader in free-style poetry) lead a silent, secluded life from birth to death, having barely any contact with the outside world. Her poems, which were meant to be destroyed, were only discovered because her family decided to publish them posthumously.

The Bronte sisters (“Wuthering Heights”, “Jane Eyre”) had some fame – or at least, Charlotte did. Emily died early and they didn’t really publish much else, leading the normal, secluded lifestyle of English women in their social position.

Victor Hugo (“Hunchback of Notre Dame”, “Les Miserables”) was a politician who was exiled for twenty (?) years for his political statements.

Lewis Carroll (“Alice in Wonderland”) was an incredible mathematician who taught at Oxford, though not too happily from the looks of it.

Herman Melville (“Moby Dick”) was pretty much continually broke. Critics, overall, hated “Moby Dick” and he worked multiple jobs and eventually got a long-term position at (I think) a customs office.

Edgar Allan Poe (“The Raven” and like a million other things; credited with starting the mystery genre as well as sci-fi) never could get a good job as he was always trying to write for a living, and though he did obtain short-term successes, lack of publishing laws meant that he was continuously broke. He was found half-dead in a gutter and died screaming in the hospital for unknown reasons.

Van Gogh, of course, cut off his ear, was – like many Bohemians – an absinthe addict, and died due to an unsuccessful suicide attempt – only to have his art discovered shortly after. His jobs varied from an administrator in an art office to a religious hermit.

There was no consistent formula to success. Ever. More than anything, I think the lives of the Great’s just prove that you have to have enough common sense to provide for yourself and your loved ones first and keep at/never forget your dreams and passions with as much energy you can muster for the rest of your life. We just have to accept that happiness is never straightforward, and that we will have to do things that are necessary along with simply the things we want.

Also, just because you have a day job doesn’t mean that you can’t succeed in art or writing. On the contrary, judging from from previous examples, you probably won’t live to see your success if you try the whole poor artist route. Of course, if you’re someone like Horace Walpole or even Jane Austin and will always have money, feel free to be a full-time artist.

I have to keep all of that in mind because I’m pretty much going to try to live like Shakespeare: find a steady job that I like and in the meantime, keep at my hobbies and prove that I am brilliant – for my whole life if I have to!

So remember guys:

1. Success and acknowledgement is never straightforward or easy.

2. Don’t judge people by their jobs or lack of fame. The next Herman Melville may be tearing apart your package at customs or the next JK Rowling may have just handed you your coffee.

3. Art may be our lives, but it definitely is not our money (though, hopefully it will be someday).

4. Success and fame don’t equate to happiness or a long life.

5. And lastly, it’s not shameful to try to support yourself and lead a stable life while being an artist. You got to eat to do anything!

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More Thoughts on the Church

I’ve slowly been getting obsessed with Victor Hugo since reading “The Hunchback of Notre Dame” about a year ago. I’ve taken to reading information about his life online these days and happened to read about his religious views on Wikipedia [link to his Wiki right here~].

In summary, he was brought up in a strictly Catholic background and as a young man, used to endorse the views, hierarchy, and authority of the Church. However, as he grew older, he rejected the Church and became a non-practicing Catholic, accepting Rationalism, Deism, and other Enlightenment-related doctrines of his time. His reasons for rejection lay mainly in the Church’s hypocrisy.

He went as far as to forbid a crucifix or priest to be present at his children’s funerals and his own. However, he never attacked the actual beliefs that the Church taught, and – as made quite clear by “Les Miserables” in my opinion – believed in God. I would go as far as to say that he believed in redemption through God and the power of Providence.

Had I read Victor Hugo’s religious description but three years ago, I would have been quick to judge him (as if I knew him) and say, “He was definitely not a Christian. Bah, those geniuses and their radical thoughts and hatred of religion. Who cares if he says that he believed in God? He probably didn’t believe in Jesus, so he’s in hell. Proof lies in the fact that he hated the Church. He was being a hypocrite by claiming to know God yet hating the Church, so he has no right to accuse the Church of a hypocrisy criminal enough to turn him away from Church authority.”

I have a feeling that many conservative (and even liberal) Christians would be quick to say something similar to the above or, at least, agree partially with the above.

However, as most of you know, I am a conservative Christian and have had and continue to have very bad experiences with the church; and I can’t help but empathize, even understand completely, where Victor Hugo was coming from.

I, too, started out in a very conservative Christian setting but fell away from the Church (the Protestant Church in my case) due to, well, many biased, hateful, false, and narrow-minded things that were said about me and my boyfriend. (For those of you who haven’t read the post, my very first blog entry details my story [link is here!]).

I would be lying if I said that I didn’t struggle, to this day, in my heart to forgive the people who judged me and my loved ones so harshly without good reason or thought. In fact, I still grow very angry about it at times although the story has long been said and done. It’s harder to forgive and forget because I recently found out that some people from the church read my blog post and my story and talked amongst themselves about it, only to come to the conclusion that I was irrationally angry and writing lies in the midst of my heated anger. I also noticed the other day that yet another church member deleted me from Facebook.

I have been hurt by the Church, and I am disgusted now that the curtains have been drawn and I can clearly see just how much biased hatred conservative Christians pour onto myself and others who are different or somehow lesser than them. I hate it that voicing something that “sounds sinful” equates to segregation from the Church for the sake of its purity and in the name of Christ who embraced prostitutes and tax collectors, who washed the feet of traitors. I am angry that I am a victim and that I am not the only one. I am sad that I can actually understand why Victor Hugo hated the Church, yet still believed in God.

What else can I say except that I now understand too well why people come to turn from the Church, and so God. I understand the antipathy of the LGBT community towards God; I understand why the poor and suffering don’t turn to Christ; I understand radicals and their scorn; I understand Victor Hugo and the Enlightenment; I understand more than I ever wanted to. Too often, yet understandably so, do we forget that the Church is not God and that the Church’s faults are not accurate representations of a loving God. However, this statement reminds me that it’s because the Church is so closely linked to God that I and so many others are afraid to speak out against it and so, improve it, even when we have seen something disgusting squirming in the nave’s bowels.

One blog post about the church’s faults and my bad experiences under the hands of a few within caused people to delete me from Facebook, ignore me on the streets, talk about me and my writing behind my back, and call me an irrationally angry liar who has issues with God. I was slandered for writing – not even saying or discussing! – something that really happened, for expressing my opinion in the most passive manner I could find! And Christians wonder why the Church has issues! Either that or they’re under the false impression that everything the holy church does is holy.

It took me a very long time to figure out that knowing the flaws of the church and having the guts to point them out and the propriety to point them out without intentional aggression is not the same as pointing fingers at God or hating Him. The church is His, but they are not the same being.Therefore, being against the wrong doings of the church and if need be, the church itself, is not a sin. Jesus stood up to the Pharisees. Martin Luther stood up to the ecclesiastical hierarchy. Yet, no one points fingers at them for pointing out and casting off the religious dogma that harmed so many people and freak out when others point out terrible things the Church has done.

Of course, that being said, I feel uncomfortable openly slandering or hating the church because it is His (which is why I chose to quietly leave the church than create a commotion. Even when I wrote my blog post, it was more to express that tearing weight of rejection and treachery. I had wanted to explain why I had left in as honest a way I could after the storm had passed. I never have tried to mock or hate the church). Whatever God chooses to bless, you should respect it – or at the very least, leave it alone in fear of God. (You don’t mess with the Almighty!)

I sigh.

“If I speak, I am condemned.
If I stay silent, I am damned!”

Why do I keep coming back to the subject of the church? I guess I just feel like I’m standing somewhere on my own island, lying within the shadows of the great Church. I don’t know why I still feel so angry and hurt about everything, and it scares me.

Do my few bad experiences cause me to view the whole entity of the Church as negative, almost unnecessary due to corruption that God never intended? Do I view it as necessary in my life but something I just can’t bring myself to ever commit to again after all the things that have happened? Am I just angry at a select few people but, as a result, angry at the group they so adamantly defended and prosecuted me in the name of? Am I coming to realize that the few who wronged me are actually an accurate representation of a general whole? Am I just angry at one or two churches and ready to try another, to trust another? Am I sinning by telling the truth?

To be honest, I feel like it’s a mixture of all of the above. This is a part of my life that I can’t quite figure out, something new that attracts attention like something valuable yet terrible lying in the street gutters.

Once again, I don’t know why this is so hard for people to understand, but my thoughts don’t reflect an overwhelming hate towards all churches or all Christians or God or even the people who wronged me. I respect the church because I respect God. I check my anger towards the people who have wronged me because God is the judge. I am just trying to deal with the pain. I wish association with the Church didn’t appear so black and white, because it hardly ever is. I’m just writing what I feel, what I pray about, in hopes that it will take some burden off of my mind and that perhaps, someone will help me rather than slander me after reading my writing.

But of course, even as I write about the wrongs of the Church, I must remember the kindness that the church members have given me. I am grateful for the apology a church member gave me after reading my blog and for the follow up another sent my way after reading. I am grateful for the rides they gave me, the help they gave me while moving, the food they brought me, the fellowship I felt.

I don’t know, guys. I’m confused and can’t make up my mind.

And I hate not knowing.

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Another Original Manga Piece

Whew~ Another image extracted from my head. Took around 6 hours or less to do~

Whew~ Another image extracted from my head. Took around 6 hours or less to do~

Another original fan art!

*SPOILER ALERT FOR NARUTO FANS*

This piece is in celebration of chapter 615. TOGETHER AT LAST. It only took, like, ten plus years for them to hold hands.

Looking back on the series, it was obvious that they would end up together in the end. I mean, why even introduce Hinata as a love interest if she was simply going to be rejected?

This took a good six or so hours to do. I messed up a lot due to the fact that I was usually half asleep while working on this. I can only work on my art after work and because I work full-time, I’m usually dead tired when I get home. However, a promise is a promise, and I have promised myself to pursue my art more seriously from now on and pursue I shall.

This was particularly tasking because it was my first time inking with professional inking tools (or even seriously caring about inking) as well as my first serious attempt with colors and paint. (I usually just sketch with pencil, leaving things gray and white).

My materials were a mechanical pencil, pigma pens of various sizes, watercolors, and watercolor pencils on watercolor paper.

I want to write something more worthwhile for you guys, but I’m dead tired from drawing this all night. Consequently, I feel like I’m living half a dream and half a foggy reality and can’t think quite straight. I am against drinking coffee and getting addicted to it/having it suck up all the calcium in my bones, so don’t try suggesting that I wake up with coffee! I prefer to suffer.

One thing, though, for all you artists out there: any scanner or camera suggestions? I snap everything on my iphone but the resolution is just not as good as I’d like it to be. Also, any tips on how to upload so that I get the best resolution on DeviantArt/online in general?

Please visit my deviantart page for more [link to my page!] and favorite/comment!

Thanks, guys. Hope you liked the drawing.

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