I think the movie got it wrong.

I have grown tired of those cliche movies when the girl realizes that the perfect man for her is the one she has had all along, whether he was back home or his best friend. It is just something right under your nose. It has never happened to me, and until it does, I wil be busy smiling and receiving phone calls at 2 in the morning, hearing your guy problems. But in every lie, there is always a hint of truth. This break, I have found what I have been looking for. I am not looking for the perfect man or even the perfect woman anymore. But I was looking for home. I'm not sure if I can call home my home or Atlanta my home or Asia my home. And within a week, I realized that this is honestly the greatest city in the face of the earth. And I have access to it. While the rest of this country is locked in on being American (besides maybe Texas), I am convinced that I am not one. I have all the respect for this country and I thank God day in and day out that I am able to live here. But at the end of the day, they are like Emory sports teams. I may check it out on the news or watch two games a year, but I will not be wearing face paint and spelling out letters on my beer belly. I will not lose my voice for it. I will not smile each time I hear America. At least not the way I do when I hear New York. I will fight for New York. I will die for New York. I will act a fool for New York. This is my city. This is my town. This is my home.

Away from New York, I find myself wondering how many other minorities are here with me, feeling alone on a day to day basis. But in this city, I find myself asking, where on earth are all the white people? And I do meet white people, it is a pretty good bet that they are Jewish. And in that moment, amidst the several languages and honks of taxi cabs, I know that life is what it should be like. I spent my first day sleeping as the familiar ruffles of the newspaper from my father and noodles frying in the kitchen create the soundtrack for my life. Forget Elton John, the All-American Rejects, or Jay-Z. My brother's farts and my sister's yelling of "DIDI!!! YOU'RE HOME!!!!" are my soundtrack. And though I may snore away these noises, I hear them and they only make me more comfortable, prolonging the hours that I can sleep all day.

There was something exotic about college, something about the fact that no one knew me and I could start anew. I could recreate my identity and they would have no idea where I am coming from. I could even lie to make them think I was someone when I really wasn't. But that has worn off. There is now something about going to dinner with a friend from Kindergarten, bringing up old memories of past crushes and weird habits like rubbing Elmer's glue into my palms and then eating the rubber substance that has been produced after it mixes with my palm's sweat. Whereas in college, a mistake will be looked upon as disappointing, a mistake at home will give the reaction of, "Well, at least it wasn't as bad as that time you..." and the laughs roll on. I want to be known and I do not want to sit at Starbucks for six hours once every two weeks to explain to a person who I am. At home, they know who I am. Everybody not only knows your name. They know what your name should've been, what you tried to change your name to, what your kids' names will be, and the name that you never want to be called, but they do it anyway.

When I was a kid, I used to watch hoity toity people on television watching this thing called opera. I never understood why people would pay hundreds of dollars to watch people singing incredibly high notes in a language no one understood. And then I saw Carmen. Within the first five minutes, I saw 7 horses, and a cast of over a hundred people on stage, with subtitles in the seat right in front of me. I was sold. With the student discount, I had paid 25 dollars for a four hour show. And as I stood off the exterior balcony, there I was with a view of the famous Metropolitan Fountain with crowds of people dressed with scarves covering their faces, but somehow you only saw smiles. There were the skycrapers and there were the people. I know people can just stop and stare at stars for hours. Here, in my city, I can stop and stare at this city for hours, and relish in the fact that I am seeing an opera performed in a different language while sitting next to the rich and famous from around the world. Where have I been?

And then there is 162. Gary. Ben. Tim. Gumby. Rebecca. Jerry. Bernadette. David. Wyman. Justin. The numbers and the names change every few yeras, as we add and subtract, but at the end of the day, this is who I keep coming back to. Whether it be movies, handball, basketball, the actual 162 park, the actual 162 school, video games, or poker, we congregate to share nothing more than the fact that we have an identity with each other. And that is probably why I was and still am content enough doing absolutely nothing as if we were in hicksville together, rather than doing all the things that New Yorkers are supposed to do.

When I was nine years old, I was a pervert. I used to watch "Married with Children" lustfully as Kelly Bundy entered through the door day after day with her mini-skirt, but also with a certain comedic quality that drew me along with milllions of other men to her. I used to fantasize just seeing her in person. This past Saturday, I got my wish. Sitting in the third row of the Broadway show, Sweet Charity, Christina Applegate was the lead role and danced and sung right in front of me. Feeling like a girl watching Leonardo Dicaprio during the Titanic days, I was captured by her and the fact that she is jsut another regular person.

Movies have a way of doing things to the human heart. RENT did that for me. Though RENT, the musical is probably about 15 times better than the movie, just hearing those songs performed and the storyline acted out was good enough fix for me. It reminded me of Bohemia New York that I was immersed in a few years ago. It reminded me of why this town is better than anything Atlanta has to offer. It reminded me of love. It reminded me of death. It reminded me songs, that strike that part of your soul you cannot define. It reminded me that there really is some magic in this city.

Even the fact that both my New York football teams lost today made me a little happy, in a sick sort of way. They both lost in heartbreaking fashion, but even in those moments, I was reminded of the '94 knicks, the '00 mets, the 95' yankees, the '02 giants, the '01 jets, and so on, when the anguish and heartbreak and disappointment in the teams that we have poured our hearts over brings this city a little bit closer together. And even though we may use every profane word in our mental dictionary, we will say "another year" and give everything we are to our team. I am a New York sports team, and ain't nothing any other place can have on that. I live and die with these teams, and I can see a hint of it with college football fans in the South. But you can't really compare pizza with grits. You just can't.

In exactly twenty four hours, I am leaving home. In twenty days, I will be back home. It's nice to say that. Not just in the Bayside, Queens home that I reside in. So how do I define home? 162. Chinese. American. Times Square. Pots and Pans drums. Nederlander Theater. The Fountain. Tribeca. Big Bowl. Poker. Lone. Hop Shing. Shishkabob. Farts. Snores. Park. Love. Life.

Was Dorothy from New York?

Nintendo

I've always wanted to touch men, but I never knew how. Sorry to Caputo, Horstmann, Lapinig, Buan, Sim, Coughlin, and whoever else might be reading this. I am not coming out of the closet. I will not be wearing pink feather boas and Abercrombie shirts. I will not be ordering Queer as Folk online. And I will not be your gay best friend. In fact, this is the whole dilemna. I want to touch men, but I do not want it to evoke some sort of homosexual catalyst for me or for him.

According to The Five Love Languages, there is the language of speech, time, gift, service, and touch. Thoguh we all possess all or at least most of these love languages, there is one or two that define us. After years of hugging my pillow every night before I can go to sleep and hating the handshake as a way to say hello, I have realized that my love language is touch. This does brings along difficulties towards family (Asian American families way of love is more of a "SHUT UP, HOW COME YOU GOT AN A- INSTEAD OF AN A, NOW SIT DOWN AND EAT EAT EAT EAT EAT" kind of love) and difficulties towards girls (Should I touch her, I don't like her in that way, but I do like her, and this is how I show that I care. Crap, no, she's expecting me to do something, AWKWARD HALF HUG, crap, that sucked.). But aside from these two, there is not even an opportunity for awkwardness within the love language of touch from man to man because it is as an unspoken rule as not talking to someone on the phone when you're taking a dump. You just don't do it. You just...don't.

But shouldn't this cause some sort of psychological trauma for all of men since touch is a neccessary component of our lives. Maybe this is another reason why we are so sexually driven, because our needs of touch have not been met and engaging in the horizontal polka might be the only "manly" way of touching someone. Don't even bring up cuddling. For the most part, however, we deal. And there are moments when men can still feel close to each other and they aren't even touching. And no, I am not going to get all Notebook on you. I am not talking about how you can just talk on the phone for hours and hours though separated by hundreds of miles, and at the end of the day, you felt like it was the most intimate time ever. I am not talking about meeting her eyes with mine when we are off in the distance, and at that click of an instant, I feel her heart beating and she feels mine. No. I am talking about something deeper. Something weirder. Something men call love. Something women may never understand.

Something I'm not sure men understand either, but it drives us. It moves us to jump to our feet and scream out in celebration. It moves us to mourn, but our brothers console us to try, try again. It is almost like Nintendo transmits my powers and his powers and his through these plastic wires (or air waves if you have the new XBOX 360) onto the computer screen, so that with our powers combined, we are Captain ManlyLove, and whatever happens on that screen is unpredictable, but somehow controlled. It is calm, but we wait for its climatic moments. It is communal, but yet it is exclusive. We can talk without stopping, but we may stare in silence. It is what it is, simply magic. Simply irresistable. Simply love.

And I guess I will never be able to hug a man in between the quick pat on the back, good job with scoring the bucket and the emotional hug. I don't know what the gray area looks like neither am I sure that I want to find out. But all I know is that in those moments when those wires are plugged in together and Baby Mario is chomping the hell out of Waluigi on his way to victory...we touch.

Independent Film

My life is so boring, it is real. My life is so real, it is boring. It is so boring that I have to repeat words and phrases to make insignificant flatlines feel like poetry in motion. I have a confession. The only explosions that happen in the brown lava like bubbles that happen in my hot chocolate, with my eyes glaring at them as long as possible so that I don't have to start my homework. The only laugh-out-loud moments happen in farts and stares that makes Carrot Top feel like he's a legitimate comedian. The only time death is mentioned are during sermons while I'm in Sunday's best (or the outfit I would use when I go clubbing) as the preacher man says, "Die to yourselves and live." So I decide to fast until I realize that doing homework is enough torture, and then proceed to lust after cheesecakes and Wendys' dollar menu. The only romance are the fantasies of The Notebook reenacted in my head if I am feeling like a bag of estrogen or Eurotrip if I am maxed out on protein shakes. Watching romantic comedies or romances is similar to analyzing a part of Scripture. You see these crazy and outlandish stories, which are possible, but then we try to apply it to our lives. And the applications and the parallelisms are quite ridiculous, which leaves me to think that I am actually more suave than I really think, that I am more in love than I really think, or that I am more heartbroken than I really think when in fact, I am merely living vicariously through my Matthew McConoghdoughboys and Rachel McNuggets. The only thing that happens in my life is the imagination that makes life a little bit more worth living for and these fingers that can describe them.

Man: Do you think that it is God speaking to you or that it is just your imagination?
Joan of Arc: I believe that it is through my imagination that God speaks to me.

Bad weekend

Refer to http://www.xanga.com/home.aspx?user=mindofyih&nextdate=
7%2f14%2f2002+23%3a59%3a59.999
if you want to understand what I am trying to say.

Thank you freshmen for passing out and throwing up six times in the first hour. Thank you freshmen for pushing into the bus to injure people and cause a mini riot as you enter the bus. Thank you freshmen for passing out in the girl's bathroom so that we can have the incredible joy of making two lines into the boy's bathroom. Thank you for throwing up in the boy's bathroom after the girl's bathroom was cleaned up because we wouldn't ever want to have two bathrooms working. Thank you for then throwing up on the carpet outside the two bathrooms once everything is cleaned up. Thank you for fingering one another on the bus. Thank you for giving each other a blowjob on the dance floor. Thank you so much.

Thank you for taking a bat and smacking me in the head for 85th time when 84 others have done a perfectly good job. Thank you for reminding me what a shameful person I am and what a hypocrite I can be. Thank you for making the assumption that I can be perfect and that mistakes are out of the realm. Thank you for putting duck tape on my mouth to shut me up and then asking me to say something, when nothing seems to make it alright. Thank you so much.

Thank you FOX television and Atlanta broadcasting for going to the Falcon game in my final minute of an exciting New York Giant fan. Thank you for not giving me the opportunity to finish the only game that I can watch all year in this beautiful craphole of a town. Oh, thank you so much because I wouldn't want to smile once in my life.

Thank you for assuming. Thank you for using me. Thank you for thinking this is about you.

"We all hide real problems behind superficial ones like relationships."

And like I said that Friday afternoon: I've thanked enough, maybe you should go THANK YOURSELF!

Ninja Turtles

I loved the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, but I never knew why. There was something about the pizza-loving that made them normal. There was something about their weapons that affirmed my masculinity. Despite all of this, I would often deny that I liked them at all. Since I was a kid in kindergarten, my goal has always been to defy stereotypes. To like a cartoon that talked about kung fu skills did not exactly help that. But now that the Ninja Turtle fan is trapped inside a college man's body and speech, I am beginning to make sense of it.

They were amphibians. In fact, their entire existence were amphibious. Instead of living in both land and in water, they struggled to find the balance to live between the sewers and the outside real world with humans. They spoke perfect English, like rock n' roll music, and even liked pepperoni music, but at the end of the day, they were still turtles. Adapting to various environments throughout their lives, they find acceptance. I am an amphibian. I go to Emory University, listen to Coldplay like everyone else, and I speak of "Chinese food" as if it isn't "normal food." At the end of the day, however, I am not you and you are not me. I do not celebrate Thanksgiving, and one of my family parties may be as different to you as the sewer was to April O' Niel.

White, redheaded, beautiful, and young reporter April O' Niel has an interesting friendship with the turtles. While being rescued by the turtles, the romance between a turtle and a beautiful human never seems to pan out. Instead, they are cordial and platonic, as April becomes the reporter that decreases the fear people have for the turtles over the media. Call me a sick and perverted bafoon, but something inside of me always wanted something to happen between Leonardo and April (Leonardo was my favorite turtle). I was always afraid to share this information since I was five because my parents didn't have money for psychiatry visits. But now, I understand that I have anthropomorphized Leonardo so that I could be him and April could be my Kelly Kapowski, my Kelly Taylor, my Marissa Cooper. As quickly as the television shut off, however, so did my false hopes. No matter how cool and radical Leonardo and Donatello were, they were no Zack Morris, Brandon Walsh or Luke Ward.

They were green. I distinctly remember a time when I was seven and my sister duped me into believing that somewhere in the islands off of the coast of Africa was a bunch of people whose skin color was blue. (I wound up convincing 24 students in my 2nd grade class that there were blue people out there). But green? That was just preposterous. In the world of television, I never saw anything outside of black and white. I am not saying my skin tone is green, but what I am saying is that my skin isn't black or white either. And for that one similarity, I celebrated. In the same way that the black community celebrated with Jesse Owens and Halle Berry, or the Hispanic community celebrated with Roberto Clemente and Ricky Martin, well maybe not Ricky Martin, I celebrated for the only people, I mean things I could celebrate with: green turtles. They were my heroes. They were me.

I am the teenage mutant ninja turtles. I am stuck beneath the floor in the dreary sewers where I play the same music, play the same games, sing the same songs, dance the same dances, like the same girls, and breathe the same air. This is the odd purgatory that I live, but isn't quite that serious. Other people look up to JFK, Reagan, Michael Jordan, and Lance Armstrong. I look up to a cartoon. Sad. The only thing I don't have is their martial arts abilities. But isn't that the only thing that makes them more than human, and more importantly, more than not human. So without that, what am I? Who am I?

This is why my parents told me not to watch TV. "It seriously will fuck you up," he used to say to me. It took me 12 years, but I believe him now.

Fashionably Inept

Pregnant or Asian cowboy? Those were my choices. I am not talking about a ridiculous outfit for Halloween (GIRLS, PLEASE STOP DRESSING LIKE SLUTS! YOU'RE NOT EVEN CUTE OR SEXY ANYMORE!). But I digress. Those were my choices when my clothes are all dirty, and I desperately need to do laundry. Most people in Emory know that I wear my Resident Life Housing red Polo shirt when I need to do my laundry. But I have never gone to this extreme before. All I had left was a nasty pair of jeans that smell like a mix between fish and cereal, sneakers that don't match, and a button down plaid shirt that I've had since the 7th grade. The problem is that when I let it loose and not tucked in, I look like i'm pregnant (the fact that I find the gym more repulsive than Laguna Beach doesn't help). When I tuck it in, I look like a sad excuse for an Asian cowboy. You know you are not looking well when you take the morning look at the mirror and you don't say, "Oh God!" but you just stare with mouth wide open and a sigh of acceptance, saying, "Well, at least I didn't crap myself." And you receive confirmation in your horrible look for the day when girls look at you, take a long pause, and say, "Well, you look quite different today." Girls never have to say anything mean to make you feel like utter crap, as if I just raped the Pope or something. (Did I just go there? What? Yes I did!).

I needed to escape the insufferable superficiality of Emory's campus, so John and I went to 722, a nice relief from papers and bad DUC jokes to blasting praise music and God stuff. Heading into the shopping mall church that is Northpoint, I was misplaced. This couldn't be, no, no. This isn't Kansas, Mr. Wizard. I am in a GAP commercial or a Vanity Fair magazine. No!!! My jeans did not have weird lines going in all directions nor did it have holes. Well, at least not in the perfect places. My shirts do not look like I am going to a softcore popular "hard" rock band. I didn't know I was going to go clubbing. I am going to church. Why do the hair remind me of Dawson's Creek? No, it's okay. These are the people. Of course, they are like this. Maybe the praise leaders will be different. Kristian Stanfill walks out. What in the crap of living hell is that? Suddenly, my Christian praise leader is still in Halloween mode, becoming more EMO than any Dashboard Confessional song. His hair dyed black (and to think, I didn't like how black my Asian hair was), and swept across the front of his forehead with the look that screams "Look, everyone! I have mastered the 3-hour work of art that makes me look like I just got out of bed. Natural, isn't it?"

(Disclaimer, I actually did enjoy the rest of 722 and it was a great break from schoolwork.)

Walking out of the building, I glanced back at me and with clenched eyebrows, I wonder why I am a Christian. Looking back down at myself, I felt more out of place here than in Emory. I've never quite fell fashionably in place in most of the religious settings I've been a part of. I was kid and I was poor. So I didn't wear "good stuff" to church. I wore t-shirt and shorts (though much of it was really just to play basketball). That carried on throughout high school except days when I had to lead in which case I would pull out the random good shirt I had, but then I would feel out of place with my own peers. The unspoken fashion rules follow me no matter where I go, but in that I take solace in this:

"John's clothes were made of camel's hair, and he had a leather belt around his waist. His food was locusts and wild honey." - Matthew 3:4

Wait? John the Baptist? What? One of the greatest heroes of the Bible? The man that prepared the way for my God and even baptized Jesus and eventually becoming a martyr makes Screech Powers look like P. Daddy Puffer Puff diddy kong. What if i dressed up like John the Baptist one day to church? "Have you no respect for God? Should you not wear your best attire," I would hear preached to me over and over again, and maybe this is my imagination, but I call it actual things that were actually said in the past that have only begun to resurface in my own present imagination now.

When in a mission trip type setting or even a camp setting, we can live off maybe two or three days worth of close for an indeterminate amount of time. And yet, I find that I must live with at least 5 pairs of jeans, 8 different pairs of shoes, 4 different jackets, and 40 different t-shirts, and anyway, you get the point.

Well, I don't really know my own point. But maybe for just a good 2 or 3 months, I should just live off of 2 to 3 days of clothing and see how the world looks at me. God, I am turning into Arunan.

Random shoutout:
Liza is single, redheaded, from Connecticut, sells out to the Indianapolis Colts, likes clam chowder, and pretends she's brown on occasion. For anyone who is interested to take a short jog in the beach with her, leave a comment.

Cliche

A few months ago, I propped one leg over the other with hands in my jacket. With my head falling back, I stared at the fluorescent lights camouflaged to the glare of the 6am sunrise by John F. Kennedy Airport. In an hour, I would be boarding a plane to Tampa and I have no idea why I was doing it. In one day, I will be sleeping in who knows where. In six weeks, I will be back and I will have no idea what has changed. What do I want, I asked myself. After I weaved in a tapestry of naps, people watching, and deep thought, I came upon the conclusion that I wanted to know what love is. Suddenly feeling like a broken record by the Foreigners, I stripped myself of every click flick memory, my childhood scars from Liz, Vic, and Hannah, and moved forward into a world where the word, "love," could be defined.

I just searched Dictionary.com and apparently, there are 10 different definitions of love. And I can barely understand what three of them are talking about. And with those three, I am wondering if I have ever felt that. I'd rather learn some neuroscience than to figure out what love is. But in the midst of long, awkward conversations, and severe trial and error mistakes, I think that I might have a clue.

(Conversation between unmarried couple)
Yih: Why do you love him?
X: He understands me, listens to me, funny, laidback, and ambitious.

(Conversation between newlyweds)
Yih: Why do you love him?
X: ....smiles....he's perfect. I mean, we go through our arguments and everything, but it is such a great adventure.

(Conversation between middle aged couple)
Yih: Why do you love him?
X: Who said I love him? Haha, I'm just kidding. We made a commitment. He's my husband. It's been quite the journey...reminisces....good times.

(Conversation between old couple)
Yih: Why do you love him?
X: Yih....who else would I love?

Through the stories and facial expressions and the things unsaid, I feel a steady progression to what true love is. As a young college student, I get asked, "Why do you love her?" And automatically, I feel pressure to say every good quality about that person and why they match up with me. This pressure eats at me and makes me doubt my own heart and suddenly, I become a lawyer beneath the Supreme Court as The People of Love vs. Yih. I don't know! I just do! Sometimes, you just do! That never seems to be the right response, so I sulk back into my empty full size bed, and wonder when this love feeling will ever come by.

But I'm starting to discover that love has almost nothing to do with what she does. It's about who she is. But doesn't what she do define who she is? Maybe. But I look to the only source of love that I know is true. God is love. God loves me. I reject him on a daily basis, and it seems that no matter what I do, he is constantly on my pursuit to make me His because he knows that is the best for me. I read through Hosea and his love and pursuit over an adulterous wife is possibly one of the most captivating stories one has ever read. And it is this ultimate commitment and crusade to pursue and love is what captures our hearts. Well, it is the thing that ultimately captures mine. So love is many things, but at its core, is not commitment one of its main things? There is something incredibly heartwarming about Rudy, committed to his love of football. There is something about the woman in Love Actually who rejects love from a man to take care of his mentally retarted brother. There is something about Noah in The Notebook, and despite his drunken activities, his committment to Allie to her death is indescribable. There is something about my dad who does not ever kiss my mom in public, but will always call my mom 4:30pm on the dot everyday for the past 17 years. Commitment sounds lame, drawn out, boring, and academic. But if fueled by passion, it also has an incredible potential to drive and inspire. I feel just a little bit inspired.

So I love you.

The scary part about defining love is that you can't really use that word lightly anymore. I begin to stutter when I even try to mention that word. And I guess since God is love, and Yahweh is love, and Yahweh wasn't supposed to be spoken, maybe love shouldn't be spoken either, or at least that often. The discovery of love's meaning also causes me to realize that I actually do not love that many people. They are definitely in the single digits, but it is nice to know who are those that you truly care about, who you truly have in your heart, who you truly love when the Motown songs drift away into my sleep.

But let me make a clarification between the comparison of love between God and His people with the love between me and someone else. God loves us and therefore wants to be fully satisfied, but we are only fully satisfied if we are with Him. Therefore, his pursuit is to make us His. That does not apply with me. You can love someone and not marry them. In fact, it may contradict the very definition of love if I believed I should. Therefore, another key factor of love that has peered its stick head out of the ground is to "let go." And then, that's the hard part. "I love you" = "I will make you mine." Putting that line through the equal sign may be the toughest part of loving as a human. So in all of this mess, I must ask myself, "Will I still love you if you leave and I will never see you again?" "Will I still love you if you go for a dude that I think is a jerk or worse, that is my best friend?" "Will I still love you if you made me to never watch actions films and force me to eat celery on a daily basis?"

So I still love you.

"Will you be my love poem?"-By Poetri

Will you be my love poem?
Will you be verses on paper that add up to nothing
trying to describe how I feel around you.
Will you be words jumbled up like speed bumps
trying to slow my heart down from racing to you at full speed,
will you be my poem to try to explain my emotions.

At a poetry reading
when someone ask me to read a Love poem,
can I just call you up and have you smile
joke around or whatever with the audience.
Cause once they see you and hear the light and personality
coming out of your mouth, they will only half understand what I'm talking about,
but it at least will be a start and they will go home thinking,
that was the best love poem that they've ever heard.

I'm asking you to be my love poem.
You don't have to change or anything.
I'm not asking you to marry me.
I just want you to stay being who you are.
I'm asking you to be patient with me,
cause I'm not good at relationships,
then again who is?

I'm asking you to envision being the best thing
that has happened to a person...then think of me
and know that is what you are to me.
I'm asking you to remember all the passionate poems
you've ever heard and combine them into the largest,
most wonderfullest, goodest, bestest love poem
then imagine me reading this poem to you.
One time in front of thousands of people
to testify how good God is for introducing us,
the other million times alone in front of you
to testify what you mean to me.
No matter how many times I read it, however,
just know it will be only the half of it,
cause there are no words to explain you,
my love poem!

The Painful Crusade of Listening

I like to talk. A lot. Take silence and make it captive in our conversation, and I promise you that I will fill that silence with my life story. Stick me in a room by myself, I will talk to myself or indirectly to myself through blogs. Only one thing terrifies me more than silence. Only one thing leaves me in silence. Listening.

Of course not all listening is painful. I like to hear how awesome I have been or in Christianese terms, "how much God is using me." I like to hear how people are coming to know God and I like to hear how we are doing positive things in this world. I like to hear how badly politicians are doing and I like to hear bigoted statements, so that I have something to respond to. But then there's some moments, some minutes, some hours, that you just want to stop and talk. You just want to stop and create some silence. You just want to hang up the phone, sign offline, and shut the door. But there is something in that moment that convicts you that fighting is sometimes silent, sometimes still, sometimes passively active, sometimes different.

She called me. And I said nothing. But I thought.
What? Why me? I don't want to hear these tears. I want to hear this pain. I don't want to feel your pain. I have to be thinking about my classes and my papers and my exams and my ministry and my future and my past and my issues and my girls and my boys and my movies and my poetry. Basically, I don't want to think about you. I cannot ignore your voice and I don't even know what words you are trying to make amidst the endless gasps for air and sobbing, but I hear pain in each syllable your lips create. Why can't you just leave this issue and leave this problem, so that you can then leave me alone? Why do you have to love and care? Why do you force me to love and care? I am starting to understand your pain and I am starting to agree with you? My heart is starting to break for what is going on in this world. But I have to keep smiling. I have to keep pointing and flashing the peace sign, because heck, I am in the middle of DUC Commons and people are passing me by. But during these smiles, I feel for you and it hurts. And it sucks. What can I do? What can I do to end his pain? What can I do to end your pain? What can I do to end my pain? I'm selfish. I need to just stop thinking and hang up. Silence. You ask me what I'm thinking. I say nothing. I have nothing. But I am thinking. I am thinking about the horrible position that I am in, the harsh conditions that you are under as well. I love you...I think. You love him...you think. I love her...I think. But I digress. And I'm confused. And I'm hurt. And I have to go to class. And I have to end the talk.
40 minutes later, "you have nothing to say???" she says.
"I have nothing to say. I can't say anything."
"Hmmm...I guess it is better to say nothing than to say something not for God."
"Yea..."
"Yea...could you at least pray."
"You bet."
You bet? You bet??? I have to. It's the only thing I can do. Maybe it's the only thing I should do.

So This is the Adventure

SHORT STORY

Sometimes, I don't know where I am going or what I am going to say. I was planning to do 10 minutes of icebreakers, 20 minutes of testimonies, 15 minutes of videos and questions, 30 minutes of study, 15 minutes of reflection. That is how planned Christian meetings go. That was how things are supposed to go. Except when I asked how we were doing, it turned into a two-hour conversation that opened my eyes, stretched out my ears, and touched my heart. He said, "So X and I have been talking....and umm.....we've pretty much both...come to the conclusion that...there is no reason why I shouldn't be Christian." These are the moments I live for. He reminded us that this is why we fight. This is why we love. This is why we live.

LONG STORY

"Hello, may I speak to Pastor Kurt?"
"This is he."
"Hi, I heard that you've been sleeping with the homeless for three days a week for the past 25 years, can I go with you?"
"Only if you're 21. If not, I can still show you around."
"Sure thing."
And so I began my journey to the inner-city by myself to see what is going on in the city of Atlanta for myself, not sugarcoated for suburban college kids. it began with where all great experiences begins for me: the city bus. I grew up in the city bus, in the only place of diversity, where our mutual fatigue is shared and overrides the pain between us. I read, she sleeps, he stares. We ride. We ride into the part of the city few go into, and those that do, for all the wrong reasons. I come out and I realize I still have 20 minutes to go before I meet with Pastor Kurt. There is already a disheveled man to my right within seconds of coming out of the train station. He is nothing different from what I haven't seen since I was 3 the first time I arrived at this country. But this time, I looked at him. You know sometimes, you can look at someone so closely it feels like you have time control, and you just froze time so that the momento, the image will forever be with you. It was long, gray hair with faded green outfit. He had a trash bag that he leaned on, waiting for the minutes to past, waiting for death to come. I said to myself, "This is how John the Baptist would look if he had no hope in God." As my head turned, I bumped into another gentleman and he performed the homeless Atlanta speech on me.
"I'm a good guy, really I am. Do you just have any money so that I can get some food to eat?"
"Sorry, sir. I have no money, but if you go down to this church with me, they will give you food."
"Church? Oh, it's okay. Don't worry about it."
"Hmmm okay, well what is your name, brother?"
"Alvarez."
"Alvarez? Hi, I'm Yih. Where do you live?"
"Where do I live??? Here on the street. I'm homeless, man!"
"Hmmm....there are places that can feed and clothe you. Come with me."
"I know, it's okay. I'll see you later."
"Good luck, brother."
Good luck? Good luck, brother? What on earth was I thinking? No, this is for the better, I say to myself as I continue to walk down the road to meet Pastor Kurt, to learn about homeless people. Erwin McManus' words come into my head, "It is these moments that extroadinary things can happen. God never guaranteed certainty." But God, what if he's just another drug abuser? What if he just wants to trick me? Why doesn't he go to the homeless shelters? I should just keep walking. I should keep walking. No! I can't live my life like this anymore. I can't just be seeing these people as experiments. I need to do this for myself. I need to talk to him. I turned around, and I could still see his head dejected to the floor, looking for life and hope. I have that life, I have that hope. I just paid 67 dollars for Fogo De Chao, I can treat this man to dinner. I bolted back and ran right into him.
"Alvarez. Have you had dinner yet?"
"No...?"
"Alvarez. Pick a place, my treat."
He picks Hooters. Oh no.
"So tell me your story, brother."
"You want to hear my story?" He gets a little bit giddy, but then his smile turns into a sigh.
Alvarez begins to share his story, but his eyes said it all. This is just another kid who I need to prove to that I am not a loser, that I want to live a normal life, that I don't do drugs, that I truly want life. I could see that his lack of sincerity was caused by his fear of me. I was the king in the moment, controlling him with my debit card to pay for his wings, and he was the subject trying to prove to me that he is worth it. I knew that it would take time before he becomes sincere. I looked at my cellphone. 7:25 pm. Crap! I had to meet Pastor Kurt in 5 minutes. What am I to do? I need to talk to Alvarez. I want to know his life.
"Alvarez, let me pay for the meal first, and I'm not going anywhere. I'm leaving my stuff here, okay? I just need to tell someone something."
"Ummmm.....okay. Just make sure you pay for it first."
I bolted down Peachtree and then two blocks down Ellis street, and twice, I was stopped by a few kids my age in the shadows who asked me if I was there to buy the stuff. I softly shouted, NO, and continued running down to the parking lot where I was supposed to meet Pastor Kurt. An amiable man in a gray jacket and jeans, he smiles and says, "Yih?"
"Pastor Kurt, hi. Can we reschedule. I met a homeless guy and I'm buying him dinner right now."
Though smiling, he says, "Fine, if you want them to take advantage of you, go ahead."
I left. But as I slowly walked back to Hooters, I thought to myself once again. What? How dare he say that? Wouldn't he be happy that I am eating with the marginalized? I just want to reach out to him. I guess he's just being wise and trying to look out for me. People do take advantage of college looking, non-black kid. I was angry with Pastor Kurt. I was also angry with Alvarez. Was he just tricking me?
I walked back into Hooters, and there he was smiling, waiting for me to return before he even began eating. But my questioning went from "Tell me about your life" to "Tell me if you are tricking me." I quickly saw my change in attitude and immediately lashed out at me.
"There is always a price, isn't there! If I want food out here, I gotta beg. It's the same thing with these ministries. If I want food, I have to listen to sermons. Don't you sometimes just not want to go to class? Well, I'm human and I have a choice too. Sometimes, I don't want to go to church and hear the story, thinking they understand me. They don't! I'm human too! My price is listening to the church. Same bullshit!"
His truth slashed right to my heart, and it was true. He explained to me how the people who go to these ministries are the same ones who "go back to smoking and drinking at Peachtree and Pine."
"They've been going there for 10 years now. I don't want to be with that crowd anymore. They just go to take advantage of the food. I am my own person."
With the words that Pastor Kurt said to me and this new perspective I heard from Alvarez, I decided to just shut up and listen. I didn't know what to say anymore. I didn't know why I was buying this guy dinner. What am I doing?
We continued to talk for the next two hours over fish n' chips, and wings. We talked about church, life, race, and everything in between. Near the end of our conversation, I found an opening to let him know why I was doing all this in the first place. Taking out my bible, I explained to him how God cares for him, the poor, the marginalized, the depressed, basically everything that is Alvarez. He seemed to take in more of the verses I was reading than the food he was eating (in fact, he never finished his food). Give me more, his eyes said, please give me more.
"You said you want a personal relationship with God. Do you believe you have it?"
"I talk to him and he gets me out of depression, so I know he exists."
"Do you read the bible?"
"I lost mine."
"Alvarez, the single most important thing is listening to God and one of the premier ways that God speaks to us is through this book, the most important book you will ever find. Promise me you will find yourself a bible and read it everyday."
"Yeah, I've been looking for a bible to read. I promise I will."
I sat back and smiled, and so did he. But my heart felt like a fool, like a televangelist. I was telling him how important this stuff is, and then I just send him off and say, "Go in peace!" Paying for the 30 dollar meal was easy. I treat my friends and family on a regular basis if I can. It is no different. But God's whisper came.
"Yih, will you give up this bible?"
"What! No!!! This is my QUEST STUDY BIBLE. It has been the most influential book, not just the bible, but this particular one. I bought it for 35 dollars, and this book has changed my life. I have carried it everywhere I went, and I often feel naked when I don't have it. How do I even know this guy will read it. No!!!"
"Yih, do it."
That exchange between me and God occurred in the timespan of possibly 10 seconds during the smiles, and I felt like the kid in Flushing Hospital, before the doctor gave me the shot. If you're going to do it, just do it now. Just hurt me now.
"Take it! Just take it!"
His eyes lit up. "What?"
"Do you need a bible? Take this man."
He snatched it from the table and put it into his bag quickly. A little bit too quick. I wanted the exchange to be slow motion, so that the moment will forever live on in my mind. But I didn't even get to say goodbye. It just left. It hurt.
The next and last 10 minutes of the dinner will forever be lost in my memory because the whole time, I was thinking, "Why did I just do that? What? He probably won't even read it."
We then went to the MARTA station where he spends the night. I bought him a token, and as we rode the train up to Lindbergh, I reminded him about 8 times. "Alvarez, you do realize that this isn't just any Bible. This is the book of my life. I love it. I'm trusting you with it."
He laughs louder each time and says, "Okay, okay, as if I were a parent constantly reminding him to eat and shower in college.
"Promise me something. Just please promise me something," I begged. "Please just promise me you will read that an hour a day for the rest of your life."
His eyes stared into mine. "I will."
I didn't trust him. I don't trust him. But in the midst of my doubt, he changed the subject. "Yih, what do you want to do with your life?"
I proceeded to explain to him my passion to be a journalist, a teacher, and now something in ministry. "I just want to expose truth and change the world by being the messenger."
In the middle of my talk, he is confused and says with curiosity, "How did you become a Christian? It sounds like you've had quite the life too.'
My testimony was set and near the end of it, he expresses the same thing that I'm talking to my small group about.
"Yih, you talk about God like he is the greatest Father in the world. You have to understand, my father was selfish. I never had that."
We reached Lindbergh, and I sat with him for another 20 minutes. "Alvarez, most men grow up without a father. All men grow up without the perfect father. You are not alone, but God isn't like that. He loves you."
The idea of father and son struck him and we sat in silence, thinking about that concept of a perfect Father, and of a perfect place called heaven. "I still can't think of it. Sorry, I'm not there yet, Yih."
I don't know where the night went. I was supposed to be sleeping with homeless. I was supposed to be with Pastor Kurt. But the past two hours of my life, I have received stares of clenched eyebrows and confused faces. And at the end of the night, I still have no answers. I don't know if he will ever read that Bible. I don't know if he will ever see God in a clearer way. I don't know if he will ever escape the life of homelessness or his problems of depression. In that moment, I did the only thing I could do. I prayed for him. I gave him my number and I left.
Isn't this the part where I tell you how even though I gave up the money and the bible, that I had the best experience of my life and I would do it all over again? No. Pastor Kurt's words were still in my head, and I somewhat regret all that I did. But then again, I asked myself, "How would you feel if you didn't do the things that you did tonight?" I probably would've regretted it more. And so I move on and live on, with the hope and the faith that God will use that small meeting and move mountains with it.
I might be in the the first half hour of my adventure, and it's different. It's not what I expected to feel. I have no conclusion. I have no certainty that all my actions may go down in vain. But for some reason, it always seems right to do what's right, even if it turns out wrong.

-"Whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did for me." - Matthew 25:40

"I'm afraid," he confessed as Maven stood with him in the place where his quest would begin.
"Of what?" Maven asked in his calming voice.
"For this journey. Have I learned all I need to know?" Ayden queried.
"Ayden," he replied, "you know all you need to know."
"What should I take with me?" Ayden continued.
"Leave all you have and take all you are."
Ayden persisted, "And the path, is it safe to travel?"
Mayden looked at him sternly for the first time he could remember and scolded him. 'It is not safe to remain! It is not the place but the Presence that upholds you! This is your only certainty. Go! Walk where no man has walked, yet you find footprints."

-Entry 707/The Perils of Ayden