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.

___________________________

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

the beginning of a circle - where am i?

Put simply, I'm in Korea. (South, if you're asking. Although, really?)

I'm here for multiple reasons, but the biggest one is my sister's wedding. Big family event, I know, although I haven't been a huge part of the festivities aside from participating the multiple dinners we've been having with various relatives.

Being in my native country feels...foreign. It's a familiar paradox felt by all immigrant children used to the American lifestyle. It's a question of how everything feels like something I should be used to, and yet I just feel isolated and lonely. I can read all the signs and understand the language around me, but the basic of culture is...lost.

It's not surprising that I feel like this, and it's a feeling I'll be chasing for the rest of my life. I suppose I'm more fortunate, since my parents had a developed interested in educating me about my heritage. There are those who are more disconnected with their homeland than I am. But the difference is still felt, keenly.

Yet I find it suitable that I'm back where I started in the summer before my graduation. I'm tracing the beginning of my circle before I can start a new one.

The second paradox found on this trip is the unfamiliar family. It's not just the uncles and aunts I've never heard of, or the in-laws I'm meeting for the very first time. It's the new aspects of my father, my mother, that are revealed when they step foot in their native home, and in an extended way, their past. It's the grandparents whom I've begun to realize as people, in the unspoken way everyone realizes their family members are as they get older. My sister will also become a new person when she gets married, and this development, this transition...

I's oddly suitable for me, right now. It's a question of the curious connection we find in the past with the future.

In being here, a country immersed in tradition but also in transition, a country that places its historic palaces next to skyscrapers, I've fallen victim to that endless philosophizing that comes with the realization of the neverending stream of time. How much can you hold onto the past while also moving forward? How much can you move forward without losing the past?

I dislike change. I've realized that. It scares me, the way time moves. Never any room for mistakes, never any room for redos. My favorite part of the pencil is the eraser, and yet only those who put the point to paper are able to create anything. So it's a question of what's better - creation, or a pristine sheet of white paper?

Yet move on, we must. I can't stop myself from growing up, same as Korea can't stop developing as a country. I can't stop my sister from getting married, I can't stop myself from not understanding the basics of my native culture...but I can remember. As Korea leaves its palaces next to its skyscrapers, I can remember myself and the things I hold dear. I will move on, I will develop, my sister will get married and Korea will become one of the most advanced countries on this planet, but we will still leave behind the paradoxes and the old palaces and the old rooms of our past homes in reminder of the times that passed. They can stand monument.

The interlinking of the future and the past, the connection between our memories and our dreams - isn't that what we're all searching for in the end? How to achieve that balance, so that we don't lost touch with our beginnings, but we also don't miss out on what's to come?

This time next year, I'll be a high school graduate. Perhaps by that time, this blog will stand testament to the fact that I have grown while also leaving traces of myself, my past self.

In creation, hopefully, I will be able to find the balance in that connection of the time stream.

time waster, time spender.

Hi.

My name is Joyce. This is my first post in my new blog.

I suppose in a sense, I'm a veteran at beginnings and a beginner at endings. Or at least, at continuing things.

Yes, that's right. I'm the obnoxious sort of person who always makes new blogs, thinking she has something worthwhile to share with the world, and ends up having them peeter out pathetically because she's either too lazy or too discouraged to keep up with a public diary. Because of this, I've made many (many) introductory first posts. And so I mistakenly give myself the name of veteran at beginnings.

(Beginnings of what? Just blogs? No, also novels and projects and relationships and whatever else is worthwhile if you don't procrastinate. Alas, I fail miserably.)

Once you get into the habit of repeating the same thing multiple times, you find variety in the repetition. How can I make myself sound more interesting? More cynical? More world-wise and weary, more like someone with a (sexy) husky voice who'd randomly chat you up with epiphany-like advise at a dimly lit bar while you, the hero, are down on your luck and nursing a glass of whiskey?

Yet the variety is ultimately lost, and each first post becomes a painful exaggeration of the last. Look, I'm doing it even now. Can you hear my husky voice?

I hoped to shake it up a bit with this new first post by giving a simple, direct, near juvenile introduction to myself. And thus, this brings me to my point, after a long elliptical path of short paragraphs:

My name is Joyce. I'm a sixteen (soon to be seventeen) year old high school student living in southern California. Currently, it's summer, and so I remain stuck in the limbo that is the bane of every student's existence when they are asked the hated question, "What grade are you in?"

I was previously a junior. And yes, I will be a senior. You, sir or madam, are most insightful.

I suppose that you understand the significance of being (or going to become) a senior. You have experienced it yourself or found the numerous pop culture references that litter the works of post-20th century literature.

O the precipice of adulthood, of what epic proportions it shall determine the nostalgia of my old age!

But here comes college applications, physics, and most importantly, prom. Here comes the snobby superiority and veteran nature of all seniors, and the impending panic at the folly of independence.

In my long days as a student (pampered and privileged), I've gotten into the habit of recording things. With what limited foresight I have, I can vaguely predict that in the future, I might want to remember what it was like to be young and seventeen (In no way is this a reference to a certain dancing queen. Shut up.)

So yeah. This blog will be a record of my senior year. I might branch off and do other posts, but ultimately, it's a personal blog. I'm not quite sure what to expect from it. Ah, but so it goes.

To the future graduate in 2015, what can I expect from you?