Death of a dreamer

Growing up is a tragedy.

I look at our backyard now and wonder how I was ever able to spend two hours outside with nothing but a shovel. Somehow, I was perfectly happy to repeatedly dig holes and fill them back in, unearthing stones and what I presume were maggots. It all sounds quite futile and mundane, but from what I remember, it was incredibly good fun.

Then there was the fact that my sister and I had our piano lessons consecutively after each other, leaving me with an hour every week to goof around at our teacher's house. It was always a productive hour; I'd set myself to the task of collecting branches from the giant oak tree, or maybe chopping off a usable bamboo pole to fend off a possible monkey invasion. I even took the time to build a miniature aqueduct from a faucet in the yard to the grass several yards away, like a chute for little rocks to tumble down.

Understandably, your first instinct would probably be to say that I lost interest in nature as I grew up because of technology. With all those fancy toys around me, playing outside would naturally start to seem dull.

Yet even with computers and televisions, I was still able to find entertainment in ways that we would find strange. Nowadays, I lose all interest in a game once I finish it. But I clearly remember how I would replay the exact same dungeon over and over in Zelda, to the point that my mother once asked me if I was even doing anything productive. I would never bother to actually move forward in the plot line of Lego Island, instead electing to build cars and drive around delivering pizzas. And I was able to watch the same episode of The Magic School Bus repeatedly without ever really understanding what was going on, other than the fact that Arnold was a wuss (the most important lesson of them all, undoubtedly).

But I think childhood was more than about having fun. In the larger sense of the word, childhood was about dreaming.

For one, I literally had more dreams (at least, I remembered more of them). My dreams were, on occasion, batshit insane. I still remember a few of them, one of them involving my tennis coach spontaneously catching on fire from yelling at us so much. Another involved a highly complex and intense obstacle course with my friends and family as the contestants -- death awaited all who failed. I also vaguely remember having to face a horde of moblins armed with a guitar and a lightbulb (how I got myself out of that one, I don't remember. I probably just died then woke up or something). Then of course there were the typical naked dreams and flying dreams.

But I also dreamed about my life more. I was a little man with big plans. For instance, I told my mom I was going to become the CEO of the world's biggest company and do whatever it is that rich people do for fun. I also said I was planning on making it to Wimbledon some day, though even I knew at the time that it was essentially impossible for me to actually win.

Fast forward to when I'm 13, sitting in the car on the way tennis practice. I certainly had trashed any notion of making it to Wimbledon by now. My mother is talking to me about the importance of high school or something, and she brings up the topic of having to figure out what it is I want to do when I grow up.

I said I wanted to be an orthodontist.

"Why?" she asked.

"Because it doesn't look very hard for how much money they make, and it seems pretty safe."

The dreamer had died long ago.

He might come back someday, true. Maybe I'll get some flash of idealistic risk-mongering and pursue something that doesn't involve security and stability for once. But more likely than not, I won't. I'll be satisfied with doing what's safe and practical for the rest of my life, because I'm far too aware of the fact that dreaming doesn't get you food on the table.

Satisfied. What a tragic word.

What an ugly word.

"I just want to be happy, Dad."
"Don't talk to me about happiness. You don't know what being happy means."
"I don't. But I know enough to tell that you aren't."

Romanticizing

"Or love in general, for that matter. It just leads to the idea that either your love is pure, perfect, and eternal, and you are storybook-compatible in every way with no problems, or you're LYING when you say I love you."


Yeah, I found the comic pretty funny, especially since one of my friends seems to fit into that panel quite well. But the mouse over text (the quote underneath the comic) was a lot more interesting to me.


To be clear, he's not saying that we should freely say the phrase "I love you" to just anyone. He's not trying to criticize society for holding something as finicky and abstract as love on a high pedestal.

He is pointing out the problem with romanticizing love. And by romanticize, he doesn't mean being romantic or mushy; he means taking love and running it though seven different hair stylists and makeup artists, then topping it off with a Photoshop session so that the end result is unblemished and, well, perfect.

- too perfect.

It's become very apparent over the last few months that we disagree on a number of things. But I'm totally fine with that; if anything, I enjoy it. It makes our conversations a lot more lively and engaging. As much as we like our opinions to be affirmed, a wall that just echoes every word doesn't make for very interesting conversation.

It didn't come as a surprise to me that we disagree on love and marriage. She believes in perfect, ideal marriages filled with equally perfect, eternal love. She says it's a girl thing, that it's every girl's guilty dream to grow up to find a perfect man. And I can respect that.

I thought about it though, and I realized that I've never really believed in perfect marriages or perfect love. For as long as I can remember, my opinion on it hasn't really changed one way or the other. But I don't think that's just because I've always been pragmatic my entire life, or because my parents raised me to be skeptical of perfect love.

I've never believed in perfect love because I don't want it to be perfect. I don't want love to be eternal, to be wholly unconditional and unbreakable.

Because if that's true, then what's stopping you from taking it for granted? Your infatuation?

Hah. Infatuation.


No, I want love to be fragile. I want it to be challenging -- a struggle, if you will.
I want it to be something worth fighting for - long after I already found it.

Because perfection isn't beautiful.
Pain is.

the very first column

Apparently, I’ve got all the characteristics of a loser: I worry more about my grades than what I wear, I think more about my homework than the opposite gender, and when it comes to hanging out, pretty much everyone has learned not to bother asking me. Oh, and those little things called “iPods?” I’ve never owned one. Besides, what kind of loser writes his column about being a loser?

Despite the glaring evidence, I wasn’t going to accept my “loserhood” so easily. I figured my own family would find some reason to explain how I was most certainly not a loser. After all, we can usually count on our family to provide some level of support, artificial or not. So I asked.

Unfortunately, all I got in return was a big fat yes.

Sure, I could accept the “fact” that I was a loser. But my mind isn’t trained to allow stabs at my pride so easily. I figured this was merely a test of my mental fortitude, and I was determined to convince myself that I was indeed, a winner.

It turns out that, like most things, “loser” is a relative term. The reason I care so much about grades, more so than whether I wear American Eagle or some other “popular” brand, is because I understand their importance. All the walking advertisements for Hollister can laugh now, but like Bill Gates said, “Be nice to the geeks. You might end up working for one.” Coming from a guy who makes 300 dollars a second, you would do well to listen. By the way, did I mention he used to be called a loser?

But it takes more than self- belief to be winner. You must act like a winner as well.

It is not so much what others think of you that creates your image, but what you think of others. We can all learn to treat everyone politely and sincerely. Other than a few habitual changes, doing so would not be of great cost or effort. A simple “no big deal” in place of a “you suck” can make all the difference in maintaining others’ dignity and self-esteem. Acquiring respect is a mutual process. Only by first treating others with respect can you then earn it yourself. Otherwise, one would just pass as cocky.

Whether you are personally a winner or not is actually not important. What matters is that you can recognize the winner in others.

column - Thomas and friends

Whatever happened to Thomas?

We used to spend hours together with my Brio railroad set, saving the wooden townsfolk from imminent starvation with the help of a roguish outlaw train (that is, an outlaw guilty of defying the laws of physics by jumping directly off the tracks in a mad dash to the town square). We used to go door to door on Halloween, blowing our train whistles incessantly until the neighbors would shoo us away with extra packets of Skittles. I can barely remember a day in my childhood when Thomas wasn’t by my side; we crossed so many bridges together – literally and figuratively.

So uh, how do you like it in my closet, Thomas?

Toy Story 3 is a brilliant movie. Almost everyone I’ve asked has loved the movie, from my parents to classmates, and for good reason. To most of us, the storybook ending did it for us and our handkerchiefs: it was the perfect ending to such an emotional ride.

Afterwards, I couldn’t help but think of all my friends when I was still a puny kid in elementary school (by friends, I mean toys.) Sure, I felt pretty bubbly inside as I left the movie theater. But at the same time, I felt this strange feeling of guilt.

It must have been good old Thomas the Tank Engine yelling at me through his cardboard box in the closet.

It’s easy to say that kids have to outgrow their toys at some point in their lives, and that’s certainly true. Who cares about their old Barbie Dolls anyway? I know I don’t. There is a reason that toys have age recommendations on them – certain toys just don’t hold any appeal once we get older. As time passes, toys often lose their novelty and just aren’t cool anymore.

Still, isn’t it a bit intriguing that we forget and abandon our toys when we feel it is no longer cool to have them around?

Because even though we’re talking about toys, isn’t the same true for our real friends? Let’s be honest; by now, most of us have already changed our group of friends at least once in our lifetime, and in the process we have disassociated ourselves from old friends, no matter how close we once were to them.
But let me be clear: in no way am I a proponent of staying the course on a burning ship. To be honest, sometimes it’s advantageous to distance ourselves from our past. Many friendships are just not meant to last, for people inevitably change. Personally, I know I’ve since grown apart from most of my elementary school friends. People change. Life moves on.

Maybe that’s the whole point of the Toy Story trilogy: enjoy a good friendship while you can, but never be afraid to let go, as all good things must eventually come to an end.

And so too must this column end.