You and I collide

This is the funny thing about humans: we strive for individuality, we drape the ‘I am who I am’ statement like a blinding mass of bling-bling across our chest, we sing our own anthem; and yet, we mark our identity by being in a group. And most of the time, we belong to more than one group, just to suit our different personalities or play a different role.

I’m not referring to the familial primary group, where the tight-knit interaction between the blood-related is crucial to one’s growth and development via socialization. No, I’m talking about the intimate and dependable relationships formed throughout our lives, from childhood playmates to high school cliques to close bonds between a few colleagues. The circle is usually small, around three to five people, whom all share common interests, views and constant communication with each other. They are the people you feel most comfortable with, the presence in which you could unleash your ‘true self’, the ones you could confide in at all times and the company whose absence hits you hardest when alone; they are the people fleeting across your mind at this instance as you read the line above.

Then there is the secondary group where the number is much bigger and you normally would have less intimate relationship with, like an overpopulated club, the team you are put in to complete an assignment or the department you work in.

And with these, as expected, lies the issue of being in-group or out-group, though the slang coined for them are ‘it-group’ and ‘losers’. I believe a hell lot of narcissists are bred from being a part of one of these in-groups, especially if your group is deemed popular and intake of freshmen is scarce and rare; and at the same time, out-groups nurture the tendency of students succumbing to depression and self-loathing. Not to mention streaks of moronic idiocy.

Granted, I was never a gang person back in the school days, even with my devotion to the choir club or the unruly string of classmates whom I share a mutual mission with to piss the Chinese teacher off. But I can NOT, for the love of God, fathom why people would heed ludicrous commands just to gain membership into an elite group, as if being in that group is essential to survival. I knew of a boy once, who, from a well-mannered student stepping into high school, began ditching classes and disobeying rules all of a sudden, even tying in the habit of smoking and cussing and swearing, just to be accepted by and gain access into a gang that he thought was cool. There is no need to say his entire education and future went down the drain. Well, I guess some people didn’t bother to check the bill before handing over the credit card.

Is being part of a group that important? Sociologists would argue with you that it is, despite all that poetic crap of “never be afraid of walking alone”. Because the social circle we interact in shapes us, gives us an identity and guides us to become who we are today, similar to what the concept ‘looking glass self’ sketches; that by socializing with others, we learn how we are seen, the impressions we make; we learn about the behaviors that acceptable and ones that are not; and we learn how to want something, to set a goal and work towards it. A group is also the crucial remedy to the life-long human ache of needing to be loved, like the sense of belonging only the members of your clique could provide or the assurance that you would always have friends watching your back and people to fall back on during hard times, which in turn nurture self-esteem and compassion.

But for all the pure intentions of humanity’s dependency on forming groups in culturing civilization, I have an issue with an unavoidable consequence: why do people judge a person based solely on the group they belong to? Why can’t they judge a person as an individual?

Sure, I do have a group of friends whom I love and bond with due to our interests and ideals, not to mention our affiliation with books, words and blogging. But if you care to scrutinize us under a magnifying glass, you would most probably wonder how we maintain this friendship; the seven of us are like the rainbow, varying in character, personality and tastes, and yet splitting us up or singling one out would be unimaginable.

So you could understand why I do not appreciate a person being labeled a certain character or personality simply because it is the stereotypical view of the group he or she belongs to. Take jocks for example, they are stereotyped as outdoor-going buffed and muscular, popular with the accessory of pretty girls, lazy when it comes to studies, people who do not score good grades, scholarship holders for top players and school rules-breakers. But this is just the general assumption, the nutshell that wraps the complex personalities of each and every one in this group.

And I’m not just highlighting large associations dominating the student body; I also mean the people I know who enjoy looking at the ‘bigger picture’, so to speak. I pity the shallow-minded who called someone an alcoholic simply because the person is surrounded by friends who love drinking; who assumed someone does not know Chinese simply because the person belongs to an English-speaking group; or who underestimated someone’s intelligence simply because his or her friends came from the weaker classes.       

I feel frustrated with these people all the time and would be willing to point the finger of blame to them, but something tells me it is the inevitable sociological effect of the emphasis society places on belonging to a group. You see, due to the conformity we experience in being in a group, we soon begin to think and act as one, even adopt similar characteristics, that we sometimes forget we’re individuals as well; thus explaining why we view others as a herd of sheep too, as opposed to 10 individual sheep.

Would their thinking ever change then? Maybe. Or I'm just waiting for media socialization to work its magic. Namely Glee. Drama and theatricality aside, of course.   

I am vindicated

“You should start reading something more mature, like Times or Off the Edge, not all those childish story books.”

Here is where you’re wrong, dad.

The magazines you want me to read may be informative and keeps me updated with current issues, but the novels I read teach me things too; they encourage me to be who I want to be, they erase the lines and show me a world with no boundaries, they define the word creativity for me, they teach me ethics, etiquettes, values and how to treat others, they give me the sort of happiness I can’t always find in this harsh world and without them, I probably would not have the open mentality I have today and would not know how to fight when everything is turned against me.

They may be just stories, but they teach me to be a better person and much more than your facts-based articles would ever teach me.

I will read them when I’m ready, I promise. And please don’t try to push me. You wouldn’t want me to hate them the way I hate Chinese novels, would you?

Besides, you were the one who started me on Enid Blyton and all those Classics. 

Say all I need

I hate people who tell their friends how to treat someone simply because of stories they heard from their friends in turn.

So your friend got into a shitty situation with this person and advises you to steer clear of him/her. Fine with that, she just wants you to not get hurt.

But what gives YOU the right to pass that judgment on to others?

YOU have not encountered with this supposed villain.

YOU have not been ambushed/mentally tormented/psychologically drained/lied in your face/ whatever evil doings by this supposed villain first handed.

YOU do not know this supposed villain personally.

And yet YOU are the one going all hormonal dysfunction over what your friend had been through and telling ME how to judge that particular individual. Never mind the person wasn’t your first prey, neither would it be your last.

Oh. So now YOU want to play God now and cast the die on how the world should judge people who did your friend wrong? Has it ever cross your lento mind that it might have been your friend’s fault?

YOU hissed into people’s ear about how your newly-listed nemesis is selfish, arrogant, a psychopath, a social pariah or plain weird. What about you then? Are YOU perfect? No, of course not. God made sure of that. But your actions clearly depict that YOU assume you ARE because only perfect people have the right to declare someone not behaving correctly and sentence him or her to isolation; though learned persons with personalities close to perfection would have broader and much more mature mindset than yours that they already knew judging others and spreading petty rumors wouldn’t get them anywhere. Unless you want to proof something to the Authority above; that you are perfect enough to mistreat others.

I must admit used to be like YOU. Dirty remarks were snuck cookies to me; I tasted and absorbed the flavor, believing what people said about a certain person in class, then without really bothering to know the victim of rumor well, as I was busy putting miles in between to prevent contamination, I told my friends how they should regard him or her.

But life has its ways in teaching me things. Because every time I flung out the wrong judgment boomerang, it circled back to conk me with being slotted into the same assignment group, lunching at the same table or stumbling into class to find myself sitting with the poor soul. And just like my head slowly gaining consciousness after the slam, I realized that whatever was said about the person was not true, or at least not as horrible as depicted. Nine of out ten were LIES. Maybe I’m being naïve, but don’t you think the energy wasted smirking the so-called freaks is better used doing something useful? Like, growing up?

I’m not saying you can’t judge others, because then that would be depriving you of a basic human right, and besides, judging is a protection against trusting people too easily. But just make sure you stop there.

I have NO respect for people who cross that line, friends or not. Would YOU want a stranger to think you as stingy simply because people who have a grudge against you tell him or her so? Even when you are not, or even when you have changed?

I’ll let you answer that.    

So grow up and get a life. Maybe then you can pass more papers in college.

Freedom at midnight

Me and Eu Chern skyped today so that BlobWafflesBlueberry and Lilylaboo could see their sibling on the other side of the world (:

We let them chat while Eu went to grab his lunch and I showered. They were so adorably quiet...probably because their mouths were at the microphone :3

 Blob Waffles Blueberry (yes my pet puppy has a middle name)

Lilylaboo

Gee, you had a funny way

No wonder I’m always annoyed with my peers’ behavior. And no wonder THEY tend to give me THE LOOK at almost every single thing I do.

Blame it on my affair with English network shows, movies and YouTube videos if you would, but I never seemed to fit in any mini social circles or subculture groups for as long as I could remember, for my quirks deemed too out of norm for the tight-knit clan of Asian drama enthusiasts.  

They say walking in the open air and having direct contact with the scorching beams of sunlight would darken their Olay-creamed milky skin and ultimately sentence them with skin cancer; I say doing so gives me a sense of freedom, paints my skin a healthy shade and provides the thrill of adventure, especially if me and my friends found ourselves lost.

They say the ideal way to spend a Sunday afternoon is to built a north pole out of an air-conditioned room and laze about or surf the net or just shop the hours away; I say a day is most luxurious when luck gives me a shady spot in a garden where I could read my book or my friends and I take off on an impromptu trip to nearby states or I get to fall asleep on the grass in the middle of a picnic with a bunch of crazies. And yes, I have tried all 3.

They say singing in a boxed-up, dimly lit karaoke room with traces of cigarette smoke is THE way to celebrate an occasion; I say pumping up the car radio, winding down the window and screeching the songs at the top of our lungs to passerby is THE way to drive away any blues or get high.

It probably took them less than 24 hours to realize they couldn’t attempt to squeeze me into the mould of the society; all thanks to my relationship to English-conversing media.

Welcome to the world of mass media socialization.

Socialization, to my understanding, is the nurturing and acquiring of one’s behavior, culture believes and ideologies through interaction between individual beings, as a group, in an institution and through electronic media. Thus, the mass media socialization that I have mentioned above refers to our learning from the said medium about what kind of behavior is deemed right or wrong. Like the example that Ms. Yap pointed out: Asian dramas put heavy emphasis on family, and allow only discreet manners of showing affection between lovers; Western TV series, on the other hand, address issues faced by teenagers, from parents’ divorce to drugs to pregnancy, a common presence in most of the shows, as well as a colorful splash of sexual affiliations.

So my behavior has been a learned one, all but thanks to the Hollywood bowl I eat from and the British cereal my dad fed me, or tried to, because British humor is not my thing. Ha. And I spent half of my life being frustrated with my peers, judging their mentality and actions without understanding why.

Of course, there are also the family, school and occupational group factors to take into account. Every one of these agents of socialization is like a sledge hammer that would make a dent on a person’s wall of mental development and socializing skills, an imperative impact on his or her life living in a society.

In that case study of Isabelle and Genie, it is saddening to read of such harsh abuse from parents, and sadder even to know similar situations still occur in this modern age. I’m an avid reader and fan of psychologist Torey Hayden’s books on her treatment of linguistic-based-impaired children, such as elective mutes, who could speak but refused to due to a traumatic experience. A lot of these children were abandoned, isolated and abused, whether physically or emotionally, to a point that it took years and a generous amount of patience before they could overcome their speech problems and fears to talk about what they had been through. Some of the things I read were sick and downright immoral, like how a girl was forced to dig in garbage bins for a scrap of food and had feces shoved into her mouth when she tried to scream for help, and the worst part? Her biological father was the kidnapper, who wanted revenge on her mother for divorcing him.   

She never did recover fully, but she her mental health improved almost as much as Isabelle. This is because she lost so much of her childhood in seclusion and to abuse that the lack of proper socialization left her handicapped when it came to human interaction and expression of emotions, hence proving the importance of socialization on human development.

As for biological inheritance, my reckoning is that it is only about 20% influential on our personality traits. Let’s make myself a specimen: ever since I was old enough to make sense of my parents’ actions and attempt at imitation, I had been trained to act ‘correctly’, whether it was eating at the table, the formula of wearing an attire, or addressing elders, all for the need to conform to the norms of the society, not to mention what I’d absorbed from the mass media. So what are left of my biological inheritance influences are the specific way I like certain things done, my taste in food, die-hard habits, like my mirrored version of my dad’s habit of peeling the dry skin off the lips (yes, yuck).

Socialization plays a huge role on shaping me into who I am and would continue to do so till the end of time (I have a flare for exaggeration), because we would never stop learning and growing as a person; and that, my friend, is the beauty of being human, because we could always re-learn what we forgot or lost. It is a blessing that even when we are all wrinkled and white-haired, we could still continue to attain knowledge and grow mentally.

We weren't born to follow

Ms. Yap gave us 2 articles to read:

http://www.guardian.co.uk/lifeandstyle/2011/jan/15/amy-chua-tiger-mother-interview

http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/2011/jan/16/amy-chua-strict-chinese-parenting

Personally, I think Amy Chua’s article is atrocious: she made Asian parents sound like they are mentally-abusive psychopaths whom only have sights on academic and career success. Also, she gave tiger a bad name. What she stereotyped as Asian parenting may be true to various degrees and in most of the Chinese families, but we could not be delusional that this does not happen in our Western counterparts, no matter how small the percentage. Look at Tiger Woods and Michael Jackson, the argument by the psychologist Oliver James highlighting the ferocious method their respective parents used to ‘nurture’ their talent, similar to Asian parenting, just with different goals. And I liked the term coined by one of the readers: authoritarian, which refers to any person who exercises complete control over another person. This generalizes the method of teaching to strict or loose, not Asian or Western, just like Ms. Yap’s example of there being only good or bad bosses, and not male or female bosses.

At the same time, however, I had a flood of empathy for her daughters. Wait. Pardon me, the more accurate word would be sympathy, as I have had little or close to zilch personal experience of being in them kids’ shoes.

I guess I could attribute it to the fact that while most people were brought up in a way that conformed to the norms of one particular society, in this case the Asian society, my upbringing was a test of balance with my feet in the two boats of Chinese and Western culture. I got the best of both worlds.

I had the sort of childhood that one would consider Asian-wise-non-conventional, wherein I was showered with playing and outdoor activities as a tool to learn and progress, rather than the demonic method of being cooped indoors to strive academically. My weekends were filled with picnics, day trips, art and craft sessions that imitated those on Barney the Dinosaur TV program, hiking nearby hills, cycling in parks and so on, as opposed to the stringy mess of tuition my peers got tangled up in. My parents even built a sandpit in the garden compound for me and my siblings to build sandcastles. Sometimes I felt like we were acting out what we read in story books and watched on TV; which explained why I hated kindergarden, the only treacherous place I went through ‘Asian parenting’, considering the emphasis they put on academic subjects, perfecting our Chinese characters strokes and dog-like obedience.

When my student life set sailed at the age of 7, the dock of mixed teachings marked my voyage of leading two lives: one as the submissive instruction-abiding citizen of a typical Chinese school, and the other as a free spirited child that submerged whole-heartedly in drama lessons and creativity-provoking American syllabus-based English classes. As a result, I practiced a yin and yang of Asian work ethics and Western open-mindedness. Or try to, at least.

 Sure, there were times when I resented my mom making decisions for me because it was ‘the best choice’, like forcing me into the science stream judging on the ‘A’ I scored for science and maths; or when she kept echoing her regret on not pushing me to do medicine or pharmacy so that I would have a steady income in the future. But I’m content with where I’m at and what I have; a canoe that has oars for me to row with instead of some of my peers’ parent-controlled yatch.

So, I find Amy Chua’s reasoning of the need to force children to study or push them to work hard is ridiculous. To claim that kids never wish to work on their own volition is further proof of the failure of her parenting philosophy; because if a parent introduced a subject in a way that could generate a child’s interest or encourages self-learning, he or she would have no problem in putting extra effort to learn and progress. Like I mentioned in my journal on motivation, I believe in doing what you love and what’s right for you. I also believe in the Buddhist teachings of moderation, or what Aristotle called the ‘golden mean’, which is the midpoint of two extremes, the practice of the avoidance of extremes. Thus, while Amy Chua may be right about the parents’ role in steering the direction and building mental strength, she should not go to the extremes of blotting out her daughters’ social life and other aspects of learning, such as sports that teaches teamwork. The same goes with Western parents who should not be too soft on their kids when allowing them to venture and taste the world.

But what about the culture side of this parenting coin?

Centuries ago in our north residing neighbor China, education took the form of penning essays and poetry, and exam-wise, a person was only allowed to tap into the next level of examination through scoring in written subjects that tested one’s literacy. From rote memorization, reading to composition, scholars would strive to achieve high marks, so that they could obtain a high position in the government. If he should fail to secure an official career, his literacy skills would help him sail through life relatively smoothly. This thus set the foundation of Chinese’s skyscraper, built to reach the academic sky.

In the current world, it is evident that the motivation for excellence is strikingly different compared to our Western counterparts; while it is usual seeing kids work hard in a particular field or subject because they are passionate about it and are self-driven, Chinese made satisfactory performance in school as an unspoken code of conformity, as succeeding academically entitles good prospects in jobs in the future, which the parents of working children view it as a ticket to a comfortable retirement and old age.

Would this culture change then? Would there someday be a magnified scale of the sort of parenting my parents applied? A mixture of various cultures by extracting the best from each and imposing them correctly, so as to nurture an all-rounded generation in terms of academic, health, mental and spiritual strength.

Maybe. Time will tell.  

It stops today

You know what's the most amazing thing I saw in the mirror today? Besides my face, that is.

My teeth! My bottom front row teeth! It was actually considerably straight! All this time it had been crooked to a point where the pair at the center seemed to be shouldering each other to snatch the best seat for the panoramic view of what's beyond the balcony of my lip; the other two on each of their sides were cowering behind, so half their bodies were in the shadows; while the rest just stood according to the line drawn by the gum, though they didn't bother to align themselves.

But this morning I could actually see the whole of one of the tooth-in-hiding. Hallelujah. I know I used to say I didn't care how my teeth look, but damn this feels good. And I didn't even suffer from any pain, besides the merciless mockery of friends/lecturers on my spastic speech. Retainers disciplined my teeth, man, by ass-whipping them with metal wires into queuing properly.

Who wants to see me smile?

A midnight bottle, gonna ease my pain

Meet Blob; my new fluffy addition to the growing brood on my bed.

I told Eu Chern I bought it coz I was too obsessed with the puppy I got him. Well, I lied. Partially, at least. 

I kept it because it reminded me of my grandma; because it was something she would have loved, seeing how she was as inanely infatuated with soft toys as I am; because it was a perfect little picture of what I would miss a lot, and celebrate, about her. 

I want it also because, above anything else, it proved that no matter how bizarre things would get, no matter how off-axis the world would spin, no matter how monochromatic your palette suddenly seems, there would always be something that keep you centralized and grounded, a familiar symbolic figure that reminds you of beautiful gone days and makes you smile. 

(:

I swear I'll love you right, little dog. 

How can I change the world, cause I sure can't change your mind

Motivation is the driving force which causes us to achieve goals.

I think Wikipedia needs to refine its definition of the word.

Because the strength of motivation is highly dependable on the goal itself; whether it is a sculpture carved out of passion or just some hasty portrait of incentive. 

Tell me honestly, when was the last time you ever did something for the simple reason that you want to, that you love doing it, that it makes you happy so? If you need to scratch your head for an answer, whoa, you are screwed.

I remember the audition that I rode out back in October on a wave of adrenaline rush, the one that would get me a place in the choir for Christmas caroling. The funny thing about it was, despite my horrendous singing, my perplexing ability to go off tune even with an accompanying instrument, Tian Yi never once flinched. But when he posed the question of why I would want to be part of the group, and I chose to be frank by shrugging and going, “For the experience,” he looked as if I just offered him a lap dance.

“For the experience? Not for the money?”

“Yes, for the experience and not for the money.” I could hear my conviction crumbling under his arched brows. My voice even sounded deflated to my ears, as if his incredulous expression was heavy enough to weigh it down.

I couldn’t help feeling annoyed and frustrated. What does that mean? That my wanting to join for any other reason than a stack of green notes is not a strong enough motivation? That I would just sag and surrender when I think I had stopped absorbing something new?

Probably the materialistic ideal has degraded us to such a stage where we are now squirrels running an endless stretch of treadmill, with cash in place of acorn, dangling in front to lure us forward. You tell me to wake up and be realistic; I tell you to live life and not punish yourself to a slow death doing things you hate and get all hissy pissy over.

The train of motivation could only transport you so far if the fuel is impure; the way only a pure diamond could cut through another.

Take myself for example.

I love music, but I have a passion for writing. I would put the same amount of effort and work into perfecting these two mediums of expression; if I poured a tablespoon of sweat and blood into one, then the exact ingredient would go into the other. They both churn out equal dosage of joy and fulfillment for me. But here’s the thing: I view music as a rainbow and would always expect to find a pot of gold at the end of it; writing, on the other hand, is like scaling a mountain, the only things I look forward to are the beautiful sunset of my completed article and the burst of endorphins over my success.

But I can figure out why. I play a specific kind of music because I was asked to, obliged to, even forced to; and most of the time I did it for marks. So I ended up with high expectations in terms of reward for my hard work instead of trying to take it as learning process. 

The sad thing is, I used to treat writing as a doorway to the room of materialistic rewards too. I would write, but only so that I had a chance to win grand prizes, to milk some cash out of it, instead of thinking whether it made me happy (you have no idea how many essay competitions I joined). But it didn’t last long; I never got anywhere, except going down the steps of self-esteem. Then I decided to change my perspective. I would write only because I wanted to, with no external temptations; because I love how it gave me a freedom to express no other medium could; because I could not imagine a life without this gift. And things began to change as well: I got recruited for the prestigious journalism camp, aka BRATs, by the Star; I had a chance to cover events, working alongside people with a similar passion; I had my article published on the newspapers; my work got recognized.

It made me see things differently from then on. I did not want to slump back to my shallow point of view, the way I apply new techniques I have learnt to play a certain song, rather than stick to the old ones and not gaining an inch in perfecting the tune. Human evolve to have a better life; I want my mentality to do the same.

But why can’t others?

Because we were brought up that way, our society and culture shape us into mental moulds that think hard work comes hand in hand with reward, especially in Asian culture. A classic example would be of primary school days, whereby good grades and top positions in class or achieving remarkable accomplishment in competitions would garner gifts from parents. We were lured and pushed into working our asses off, not for the benefit of ourselves, but for the presents awaiting us on the other side.

No? The line “If you get 1^st in class this year, Mummy will get you the PSP you’ve always wanted” doesn’t sound familiar? I could see your nose growing longer.

Fine. There are exceptions, like my dad. While my mom used to go about finding new ways to tempt us to slave harder, my dad would be, “See this as a self-improvement, study because you want to learn, not because of what present Mummy is going to buy you.” I had always uhmm okay-ed insightfully and nodded fervently in agreement, but it never did get past the part of my brains where it was choked with fantasies of what mom would reward me with for my effort in mathematics.  

Guess that explained a lot about my peeps’ behavior. Our parents may only be doing that as a form of encouragement, but we kids saw it in a different light; and this would turn into the darkness that haunts and determines our actions. They became addicted to the drug of incentive, that the only motivation they know was the benefit they would attain from carrying out a certain activity.

So I won’t blame them, nor will I their parents. It’s the society and the way we react to the sociological shifts and influences.

“Was blind, but now I see.” – Amazing Grace

Me, I want a hula hoop

They say we should always choose gifts for friends the way we would for ourselves.

Well, there are two faults in that. One, we are individual in our own rights, so they can’t bloody expect my friends to love the things that I do. An owl ring may be all good and suitable for Amanda and Jo, but I doubt many people outside our circle would appreciate it as much. Then again, they might mean knowing you friends well so you wouldn’t screw up in getting the wrong presents. But, taking that into consideration, there is still the factors of taste, favoritism, relevance, and whether he or she already has the object you have in mind.

Two, we would probably love the present so much that we end up getting an identical one to satiate our obsession; which explains why I have exact versions of Eu Chern’s and Amanda’s gift each, sitting on my bed and in the jewelry box. Aha. And I will confess, this isn’t the first time it has happened, nor can I assure you that this will be the last.

Huh. Buying gifts could be such a strenuous activity. Unless, of course, you simply don’t give a damn about it.

Make them go ah, ah, ah

I just waved and said bye to Adibah Noor. Cool.

Hey, don't write yourself out yet, it's only in your head you feel left out

What the hell have I signed myself up to?

The question was a goldfish swimming in the aquarium of my head, its pitifully short 3-second span of memory depletes the chances of boring it to the point of leaving. Still, I sat through the awkward silence that only being in an unfamiliar company could bring, watching as more strangers trickle in, and waiting out the grace period.

But why sociology, an elective subject that sounds so far-fetched from my music path, at least theoretically? I needed time-out; that was what I remember telling myself. I wanted to tend to my rebellious nature, to proof I don’t have to be enclosed in purely a music world simply because my peers expected me to; I yearned for diversity, if anything but to enrich and equip myself for the future; most of all, I desperately wanted to break free from my comfort zone, to strip away any sense of familiarity. So, I challenged myself to pick a subject no one else chose: sociology.

Fair enough. In fact, I was pretty gungho about it, this braving myself up for a one man war. I even spent a mamak session with Jing Hua and Joanna discussing about the 6 degrees of separation theory. The concept, also known as the Human Web, paints the idea that everyone is on average no more than six steps away from any other person on Earth, making it plausible to connect any two people in the world in six steps or fewer. Jing Hua said it was covered in her psychology class, but if you asked me, I would say that fell under sociology.

Still, it got me pretty hyped up regarding my courageous choice, like I was doing a stint for Home Alone, though this would title ‘Class Alone’….till the moment I stepped into class. It was relatively empty and the space was considerably large (compared to those in the music faculty) that I felt naked and acutely self-conscious. I was never good at new environments and meeting new people, though I was narcissistic enough to pride myself so.

Then Ms Yap spoke. I know it sounds crude, but it was like she just farted, because she blew me away. Probably because of her cultured English, but she introduced the topic and explained about the difference between anthropology and sociology in such a zest-induced way that I sat up straighter. I can’t really recall her words as my nocturnal mind didn’t function at such an unholy hour (11am IS despicably early, as far as holiday-mood time zone is concerned), but a quick click of mouse tells me that anthropology deals with human culture as well as the physical and social characteristics that create that culture, whereas sociology studies the functionality of human society including origins, development and organization. In simpler words, anthropology is viewing the sphere of human society on the outside while sociology is from within. Of course, I will later on alter and refine the definition parallel to my understanding of the subject.

She also mentioned that sociology studies about being out of the norm, in addition to my point of it being in the norm. Now that was interesting, since I seldom see myself as one who fits in; less so in high school, but in college, it was startlingly obvious. I had always thrived to be different, and relish the fact that I am, like the time when it was a trend to pick up Japanese or Korean during the long break after SPM, I refused to, and learnt French instead. Then again, it might mean I was only being idiosyncratic, which everyone is, for that matter, or I was just plain rebellious. Still, it was something in sociology I would like to read more into.   

All in all, it was an informative class, and an intriguing one at it. I certainly don’t regret taking it, despite the heavy workload and effort I’m expected to put into it. Who knows where I’ll bring this skill to, in the future. Merging it with music and create something new of my own? Whatever it is, time and society’s effects on me will tell.

Meanwhile, I’ll just savor the fact that we have lots of reading materials in store and that more than makes up for all the assignments and sufferings ahead.

Don't wake me 'cause I'm dreaming, of angels on the moon...

...and of the days in Japan. My early red-and-gold Christmas. In no particular order:

1. I miss lying on the fallen autumn leaves at 2am in the morning, 5 black patches of winter coat-clad figures making leaf-angels and talking about everything under the moon. Smothered under a blanket of shining stars and cut out ones of yellowed leaves hanging off high branches, it gave us a sense of detachment from the world, a kind of numbness to the fears of reality. As Snow Patrol so beautifully put it, “Would you lay with me and just forget the world?” I loved the serenity, the sort you could get only from drifting on a raft in the stillness of a lake; or rocking to sleep in the arms of a hammock by the beach. We all did. And for some reason, I got a feeling that that moment defined our trip.

2. I miss being exuberant at simply anything and everything, the way a toddler is about the world. From the first step into my foster family’s home to the very last drop of Japan sunshine I tasted the second before boarding the flight, I was zinging with a wild energy that came to know as Sampatness or Kanasai-ness. I was obscenely eager to try every little thing, even attempting at puffing in a hyperventilating way that resembled a blowfish just to see my own breaths. Thank you, Azhar, for recording that embarrassing scene, though I could not bring myself to view it, thus I’d deleted it. Now I seem to be slightly deflated and uninterested in the workings of my daily life, I’d probably need a little more time to adjust back.

 That feet warmer thing to put under the blankets

3. I miss the food. Then again, which food-crazed Malaysian doesn’t? I miss the gnawing anticipation of the following meal, the next feeding, even if we just finished feasting and would need to trudge through a million more miles before lunch or dinner. Ah, those saliva-inducing breakfast at okasan’s; a bowl of miso soup, a cup of green tea, a plate of salad complete with greens, cherry tomatoes, raw slices of fish and the magical sauce, fruit, topped with a yogurt-like dessert. And those breakfasts in Tokyo too, with the usual table of me, Gan, Joelle, Seong Seong and Izzat, and the occasional Azhar, they were the best I’d ever had. Oh, not to mention the food in Disneyland! Of course, there were exceptions, like the Z-grade ‘bento’ we had at the embassy, that served cold rocks of rice, fried chicken that tried to be crispy but failed and vegetables that looked as if the cook accidentally splattered them on the floor then picked them up to stuff into the lunch tray.

4. I miss the weather; the crisp quality of air, with a blast of cool, at times freezing, wind now and then; the fact that we would have sun rays piercing into our eyes by 6.30 in the morning: Mother Nature’s way of pouring hot espresso down our throats to wake us up; the undisturbed line on the graph of beautiful days. And the scenery, my God, was breathtaking: stretches of mountains and fields that were a green, red, orange and yellow patchwork of magnificence, during my and Gan’s stay in Yamagata City; then blobs of colour along the road in Tokyo, shedding trees circled by tiny heaps of fallen leaves. It gave me a damn good reason to smile every day.

 The trees died on me boo >:(

Me and okasan (what we called our foster moms)

5. I miss Disneyland. And my previous posts have sufficiently summed up why.

6. I miss the company. I swear, I burnt more calories from laughing than all that walking. Granted, the perplexingly spastic ones had been mostly me (Ka), Gan (Na), Izzat (Sai), Joelle (the creator of Kanasai), Seong Seong (the manager) and Azhar (the ad/sign board translator). But the others had been good company too (: Our longest crap time had been that train ride; the 2-hour Shinkansen (bullet train) journey from Gifu to Tokyo, which was credited to sensei’s suggestion we (me, Joelle and Gan) spun our 3-seater seat around to face Izzat, Seong Seong and Ms Wan. All hell broke loose. Even Azhar and Khatijah joined in. It was like a cult group worshipping jokes of char siew baos and peeing dogs. 

 Go zoom in on the sign above our heads

Guy: Inilah kebaikan mempunyai anak!

Lady: Tetapi anak ini bukan saya punya! Saya mencuri anak ini!

Oh, did I mentioned my foster sister was adorable?

The photo doesn't do her justice though. Yes, Izzat, I hear you.