column - insecurites and industries

Every year, hundreds of volcanic eruptions occur. Broiling, red hot magma spurts out of the
mountains. People scream. Lives and livelihoods are destroyed. The helpless humans try their best to mitigate the damage – buckets of water, fire retardants, and lucky charms – but to no avail. The towering messengers of smoldering destruction never stop terrorizing the populace.

I am, of course, referring to pimples.

Being the little baby I am, I easily get nightmares from good horror movies, bad horror movies, and bad parodies of bad horror movies. But waking up in the morning to a smoldering mountain of red on my nose is on an entirely different level of terror.

I hear that normal people have nightmares of being naked, which supposedly suggests subconscious insecurity or something to that effect. I laugh at their trite nudist fantasies. Because at least in that situation, no one ever seems to actually notice that, well, you're butt naked.

Now a pimple, on the other hand -- every time you dare show your volcanic face in public, the blind population increases.

So naturally, wherever there’s an insecurity, there’s an industry. With companies like Neutrogena touting a magical "pore-cleansing" formula and Cetaphil with its "now 3x more powerful!" daily cleanser, pimple-stricken teenagers now have the appropriate arsenal to defend against the red alien invaders.

Unfortunately, I am not one of those teenagers. Starting from seventh grade, I have unwillingly nurtured my very own Ring of Fire right on my forehead. Yet five years of oily catastrophe and six different acne creams later, I've long since accepted my fate as a giant walking Petri dish for acne bacteria to party in. Sure, it may not be very attractive to have volcanoes and craters all over my face, but it's not like I'm some shirtless model gracing shopping bags around the world. There's nothing to lose!

Of course, it would be nice if all those creepy little bacteria would leave me and my exquisitely textured face alone. But even then, I've pretty much learned to accept my pimples for the poor (albeit hideous) creatures that they are. After all, it’s not fair to just exterminate things if they’re ugly, right?

Uh...right?

...Guys?

turtles

The morning of June 5, 2011, our turtle finally returned to us after seven months of exploring the world outside of the plastic tub he had sat in for much of the past eight years. When we found him, Leonardo was burrowed by the camellia plant, head and arms withdrawn, his shell gently covered with soft pink petals.

We were happy to see him, of course. But doubt crept in.

My mother put on a pair of gloves and poked him a little. He didn’t move. She picked him up. He didn’t squirm like he once did. I put him in one of the water-filled tubs I had left for him, in case he ever decided to come back. He floated.

Unsure of how to handle the current situation, my thoughts drifted back to two months ago when I had spotted Leonardo, then seven years old, crawling along the patio. Since the rest of my family was away, I had recorded a video of the brief reunion, concluding with Leonardo crawling back into the bushes. Instead of taking Leonardo back into captivity, I had let him go.

Now, he was dead.

My sister glared at me, cheeks flush with tears. Why didn’t you take him when you saw him in April? Leonardo would still be alive if you had.

In truth, I had momentarily extended my hand to grab Leonardo. But just as I was about to pick him up, a thought had flashed into my mind. What would I want if I were Leonardo?

I looked back at the sterile tub that had bound Leonardo – that sickly small space clamped between one cold, circular wall. And suddenly, I felt disgusted at how we had treated him. It was too cruel to lock Leonardo up in a box, even if it would keep him safe.

So I let him go. And now, I had to face the consequences.

My father passed the shovel to me, and after a pause, I drove it into the ground. As my arms trembled over the still shell, the shovel full of dirt, I looked around at my family. I tried to form the words, I’m sorry, but I couldn’t.

I couldn’t, because I didn’t mean it. For in making that decision on that April day, I had already decided that if it were my own life, that’s what I would have wanted: to be left alone, to be free.

As I set the foundations for my future in the years to come, I will have to make that decision again. I could listlessly pursue the formulaic lifestyles and career paths that my peers and parents define as “successful.” I could live life entirely focused on future financial security and stability, giving up my own interests and dreams when they don’t lead to steady paychecks. I could steer away from risks and exploration outside of my shell of comfort, and settle for safety and familiarity behind the high walls of security.

I could. But I won’t. Why should I set a ceiling while I still have the opportunity to fly?

The last bits of dirt slid off of the shovel, and the little grains of earth washed over the serenely silent shell. As I gradually lost sight of it under the soil, I realized that oddly enough, I was smiling.

Leonardo had left his shell behind. And at that moment, so did I.

the column that went unpublished (probably for good reason)

(written for the April/May issue)

Dear People of the Female Variety,
It is that time of year when juniors fervently and frantically romp around, worried yet hopeful. Spring! A time of great stress, studying and allergies, yet also a time of love and joy. Late nights are spent thinking and planning, and early mornings are lost to daydreaming. Now is the time that some juniors fear, yet others embrace at the same time: a true test of courage, skill and determination. How truly brave are we? How will we answer the question, yes or no, true or false? Ah yes, ‘tis the season of AP tests.

Wait, what? You were thinking of Junior Prom?

Oh. Right.

In a time when women are increasingly gaining power and influence in virtually all areas, from the workplace to the political world, there still remains one strange remnant of our sexist past: the unwritten law that men (well, arguably boys) are the ones who are supposed to ask girls to junior prom.

Women have been fighting for equality for quite a while now; isn't it time for women to take up their share of the burden?

Well, judging from what most of you females have said, the answer is a resolute and brusque “No.”

Yeah, yeah, I get the idea that “it’s a tradition,” and “guys are the ones who are supposed to be brave.” Blah, blah, blah, “we don’t want to do it, so it’s your problem.” Fine. I get that.

Still, you would think women’s rights leaders would have thought of dismantling this obsolete societal norm by now. But nooooo. You guys would much rather let us poor insecure males scramble around to figure out what to do.

Now don’t you start calling Ryan Chow a loser, or a chicken, or a cowardly turtle, or whatever. I already know that.

I’m just pointing out this strange little discontinuity in how women like to view their struggle for equality. I mean, I have no problem with equal wages and female suffrage, because those things seem pretty logical to me. But what’s the deal with dances?

Just look at this year’s Sadie’s dance. Or to be precise, this year’s lack of a Sadie’s dance.

Now to be fair, I personally like that we are expected to ask the girls; some pieces of tradition are good to keep. And if you think about it, junior prom is a bit like the encierro in San Fermin, where deranged men run amok leading angry bulls through the streets – it is a test of our manhood and man, is it scary.

So please. Couldn’t you girls at least make it easier for us? You know, maybe like drop a few hints here and there, or at least recognize that we’re planning to ask you? Because currently, we’re stealing all the fun by doing all the asking. Don’t you want to join in the fun too?

…Don’t you?

See, when I told my mom I was going to ask someone, apparently I was visibly nervous or something, because she exclaimed that she had no idea there was so much pressure on boys to ask. And I quote her word for word, “I thought it was really easy for guys to ask.”

My, is my mother mistaken.

But maybe that mentality is why this junior prom tradition still exists. I guess girls just don’t know how scary the whole thing can be. For me, it wasn’t too bad, but for one of my good friends, it’s been the most stressful event of his life. Ever since he conceived of his plan, he has been worrying and worrying. Will I mess up? Will my plan work? Will she say no?

So you see, females, we are actually very afraid of asking you to junior prom, because for one, we’re essentially trying to shoot in the dark, and two, there’s always that dreaded phrase “no.”

While I admit this tradition will not likely fade in the near future, the least you people could do is make it easier for us. If a guy is talking a lot more to you than normal, do us a favor and carry the conversation. If he’s making tons of jokes, even if they’re really, really bad, for god’s sake, laugh. These little things make our lives so much easier. And lord knows we need all the help we can get.

Heck, she changed her mind two days later.