between a father and a daughter

While in Korea, I've spent a considerable amount of time with my father. From train rides to endless amounts of walking in the twisted alleys that weave behind Seoul's main streets, we were in each other's sole company for a week.

For many people, a father is a complex figure in their lives. For some, perhaps the father is a figure of support, a pillar of strength. For others, the father might be blamed for all of their problems. The absent father, the stern father, the playful father - we see them all, in many variations, and in many caricatures.

My dad is a person, first and foremost. It's taken me some time to realize this, but it's a realization that comes to most people as time passes. As a person, he's not limited to a certain stereotype, and it's he that becomes the parent - not the parent that becomes the person.

And people change. My father has been multiple variations of the stereotypes attributed to the role of the patriarch, and they've all been according to the way he's changed and developed as person.

To be honest, I don't feel very close to my dad. I'm not fully comfortable in his presence, and I'm constantly afraid that he'll be disappointed in me or find me lacking. In a sense, I suppose this is also attributed to the enormous amount of respect I have for him, but also in my father's very nature - he demands a lot from people, and he's not the most affectionate person around.

The stern figure that my father often demonstrates is not unfamiliar in Korean culture. It's one that's even encouraged by our cultural standards. As a result, our relationship has its limitations.  I am never unaware of the fact that my father, to me, is my father. A confidante, a friend, a playful partner - those versions of my dad are completely unfamiliar to me.

And yet, despite this stern and traditional portrayal of my father, I find it reassuring to find him the way he is. I might not be the most comfortable in his presence, or have late night heart-to-hearts with him about boys and the complexities of life, but I know that he stands there, nearly invincible, for his children. Weakness is not a trait I attribute to my dad, nor is selfishness or any sign of self-centeredness. As far as I am concerned, my father's life is dominated by his role as the head - and subsequent foundation - of our family.

To be able to feel such reassurance in my father, even at this age, feels like a privilege that I'm not quite sure I deserve, or should even have. Shouldn't I get to know him more as a person, as a human being, something other than the Superman he has been all of my life?

The understanding I have of my father's flaws is not small. My father has his lion's share of arrogance, stubbornness, and prejudice. He rarely tolerates flaws in others. He's prone to waspishness when irritated, unable to understand things like "guilty pleasures," and impatient with inefficiency.

And yet...

The influence my dad has over me is perhaps the largest one in my life. I certainly hope a day will come when we come to see each other as equals, able to have a conversation about the more personal aspects that define us both.

O Sing Muse, of Middlesex!

I read a book this summer. Sue me.

As you might know (from how much I've talked about it previous posts), I went to Korea in June.

And if you didn't know, the plane ride to Korea (or East Asia in general) is a whopping 14 hours from LA. Alas, I'm also cheap (and Korean), which means that I didn't take the 14 hour plane ride that went straight from LAX to Incheon Airport, but a transfer ride that went to Seattle in two hours, abandoned me there for four hours, and then took me to Seoul within a hellish 12 hours.

It was a hard time traveling, my friend.

The one good thing about all of this dragging around suitcases and staring at grey walls is that it gives you a priceless sort of free time where you have the excuse to not be productive. Free time is one that's been sorely lacking in my life and I took the opportunity to actually read a book for fun.

For once.

Middlesex is the Pulitzer-winning novel by Jeffrey Eugenides, an author whose name coincides with the main character for another favorite novel of mine (The Thief by Megan Turner, go check it out). I have to admit, one of the main reasons I started reading the novel was because of the author's name.

But as with all good books, I became completely absorbed in its universe.

The plot for Middlesex feels simple: a person who was born a girl becomes a boy later in his/her life. I first thought it was going to be some fantastical transformation, something that belonged to the Greek myths continuously referenced from the character's heritage.

Instead, it's about genetics. It's about a family's history, immigration, the development of American industry, gender roles, the influence of culture, the intersex movement, and a city landscape that is Detroit.

Here's the thing about books: they begin with one simple premise. A boy is a wizard. Teenagers fight each other to the death. A man becomes rich for a woman. A Russian heiress has an affair.

The development and quality of the book simply depends on how well you can layer onto this premise, on the voice you can give it to leave an impression on the reader. With Middlesex, I also found a literature nerd's wet dream - the inclusion of themes.

The American Dream, nurture vs. nature, the polarity of opposites, the inheritance of a generation, it's all here.

We find the voice of Cal (previously Calliope) Stephanidies, recounting his story as an intersex individual. But within that voice, and within this curious genetic mutation, we also find three generations of the Stephanides family, starting with Cal's grandparents, who brought themselves and their Greek culture in pursuit of survival, and later, the American Dream. It's a family epic, it's a coming of age story, it's a romance and a medical mystery, and it's exactly the sort of work I end up having (literal) dreams about.

There are times when you look at something and you just cannot help admiring the craftsmanship of it. How did they do it? How could they have possibly thought of that, and then put it together to become the perfect version of it?

(As a writer, beyond the admiration, I also feel the slightest bit of envy. If there's a word for the sort of work completed in Middlesex, it's genius.)

Middlesex was a brilliant introduction to a great American author. I'm aware that this was his second novel, and I have yet to obtain a copy of his first (which was also critically acclaimed, and adapted into a critically acclaimed film). If you have the time, I really do highly recommend it.

keeping up appearances: acne

Let's be honest: we all have/had this problem. But it's the rare soul who suffers acne on a debilitating scale, and yet at the same time, not so rare. To those of you lucky folks who get by with an occasional pimple, here's the deal for the oily, inflamed crew: it hurts.

I think the worst part of severe acne isn't the embarrassment or the redness or the scarring. It's not the horror of oh, I look hideous.

It's the pain.

First, there's the pain of the swelling. You know it's coming, and you know it's going to be huge, but the only thing you can do is rub on cream and pray. Every time your facial muscles move, pain spasms down that area. Every time you rub your face, wash your face, dry your face, your clumsy fingers disturb the swelling and you feel like the high heavens are raining down their vitriolic curses onto that specific area of your face.

Ouch.

And then comes the pimple. It's Mouth Everest, the kind of mountain you don't dare to embark and conquer because the pain isn't just concentrated onto the bump, but the entire zone. For many people, this zone is commonly the nose. Which, as you know, is pretty much the worst thing possible since it technically is the facial appendage that sticks out the furthest.

Ah, pain.

I won't go into the next few stages, which are pretty gross. The pus, the scabbing, the leaking, the blood, the dead skin...let's fast forward to two weeks. Two weeks since the initial stage of the swelling. How is the pimple now?

My friend, it's still there. It's still leaking like a little volcano. It still hurts to touch. And you just know that in another two weeks, it's going to concave in and scar something terrible.

The worst part about this process is that it isn't just one pimple. It's the same little mountain, except it's everywhere. Across your cheeks, down your chin, in the corners of your forehead, between your eyebrows, ON your eyebrows...there comes a time when it hurts to talk. It hurts to lie on your side because of your cheeks. It just hurts.

My friend, you may not suffer from severe acne. But you probably know at least one or two people who do. Imagine a pimple. You surely must have had at least one in your life. Imagine the pain, the irritation, the concern, the embarrassment that follows the one pimple. Now imagine it multiplied by a ten-fold.

That's the life I, and many other unfortunate individuals, lead.

Unfortunately, acne is not considered a noble injury. It's not a tragic illness. It's the burden of countless teenagers across the globe, due to misfortune in genetics and (perhaps) hygiene. It is, unfortunately, one of my own physical burdens.

I've had a pretty stressful experience during high school, although I do consider myself lucky. An academically driven atmosphere has its rewards. However, my time in puberty while studying has taken a toll on my skin, and now I face a complicated truth.

While in Korea during the summer, I was able to visit the dermatologist. This was my first actual medical consultation, which might strike you as curious if my acne is as severe as I claim it to be. But alas, insurance is fickle and decides that the skin isn't life threatening. So Korea it is, a country where my first cousin once removed resides, a cousin who happens to run a skin clinic and give his distant American relations treatment for free.

Let me tell you something: there is no miracle cure. I've been hoping and hoping for one because of how long I've put off going to an expert, but my skin has not drastically improved. I still have my pimples.

I also have a regular medication schedule, which include pills before and after meals. If you know me and my horror of consistency, I am not exactly the greatest pill-taker.

So where does this bring me? To be honest, my skin is one of my biggest insecurities. There was a point in Korea (O Korea, the land of purity, of innocence, of drastically pale skin that's been done over in BB cream multiple times!) when I hated looking in the mirror. I still sort of do. I cried when I felt my skin break out all over again, after I'd been on pills for a week.

There is not exactly a moral to this. I have not gone into some peaceful acceptance of my skin, of some nirvana where appearances don't matter to me. I'm a teenager. How does that even work out?

But personality-wise, I also do have a breaking point. My skin is induced by bad genetics and raging hormones. Unless I decide to decode my DNA, it is what it is. People have burdens. One of mine just happens to be severe acne.

I'll still continue my pills. I'll still slather on benzoyl peroxide and eat less dairy (ice cream, sob). I'll still be hyper-paranoid of dirty pillows and towels. I'll still refuse to go anywhere near skin makeup.

My skin is still a concern. But if there's any consolation to this indisputable fact, it's that I'm either incredibly fortunate or unfortunate that it's hardly my biggest. I have other things to worry about.

Actually, now that I think about it, this is not a good thing.

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Do you have acne? What do you recommend for pimples?