Twenty

I have twenty days left in San Diego. That's twenty more San Diego sunsets, sixty more meals to share with friends and parents, three weekends to spend packing, five more kickboxing classes, eight more Crossfit training sessions, nine more days at work, a million more kisses for Mateo, countless hugs, a handful of tearful goodbyes and one chance to make the best of my life here.

My days are numbered, literally, quantitatively. The sadness is palpable. I can almost untie the knot in my throat and slide the heavy weight off my chest. I am torn between fast forwarding through all the sad goodbyes and hanging on to every last second of every minute, in every hour of my last twenty days in San Diego.

Helen tells me to practice presence rather than attachment. But it's hard to not tether yourself to the place where you grew up and where your parents and best friends still reside. The place where you had your first kiss, your first driving lesson, your first ocean swim. The place you left once before and returned to when life in another city no longer felt adequate. I love this city like an old friend and I treat it like my favorite old t-shirt -- I abandon it when I need something more fashionable and I let it warm my body when I need comfort and familiarity. I am San Diego's prodigal daughter.

Lucky for me, time does not move in a disjointed fashion where I am allowed to bypass anything. Every inconvenience associated with packing and moving, every last hug and kiss, every hour, minute and second will be taken in, savored and experienced like it is the only moment that matters. Whether it be twenty days, or one thousand one hundred and twenty days, life should be lived in a way where there is really only one day left, letting every moment in that one day warm your body and your heart like an old, broken in t-shirt.

Don't Forget

Things to remember when I move to New York City.

1. Manage my time well to decrease the stress.
2. Embrace change.
3. Call your friends and family, try not to email, text, or instant message them.
4. Aim high and find success, but don't forget where you came from.
5. Remember that anything is possible. Don't rule anything out. You never thought you'd be in journalism school and yet here you are.
6. Don't cram for a test.
7. Hydrate.
8. Sleep well.
9. Eat right.
10. Exercise daily.
11. Read this list frequently.

Of This I Am Certain

Katie recently expressed to me her concern about the legacy she will leave behind when she has passed. She also wrote about it in a manner so eloquent that it makes me wonder how she could think that our memories of her won't be great or noteworthy.

She was particularly worried about the text that would end up on her epitaph and who amongst her loved ones will be left behind to write it. Until this blog entry, I couldn't even spell epitaph, but now I will make an attempt to write one with a few choice words that I think will best qualify Katie's life.

Made well. Ate well. Loved well. Lived well.

"Nothing is carved in stone" says Katie. And she is right (she is also punny). It's too soon to talk about the lives we will lead, in the past tense. But there are things that I am certain will not change.

Lucky for her, and for us, she still has plenty of time to revise or discard what I wrote. Maybe we can add to her stone "Edited well."

The Picture Show

I frequently reflect on why photographs are important to me. Mai and I joke that if our house caught on fire, the first thing we'd try to salvage are our photos. We snap, we download, we save, we organize and we back them up into hard drives in hopes that our efforts will be appreciated by posterity. Then we upload them into blogs, Flickr accounts, Facebook and emails so that our loved ones are kept abreast of our lives' current events. Photographs are great in their ability to tell a story that words cannot. They evoke joy, pain and they conjure up important memories that may have been filed away too neatly in the archives of our minds. A dress, a hair-do, a handsome lover -- icons that remind us of precious days gone by.

I am a photojournalist at my core. I am not an artist. I want to tell the truth and I want to know as little as possible about the tools in Photoshop that will permit me to manipulate a photo beyond recognition. I reject the notion of setting up a shot and playing with lighting to get the effects I want in a photograph.

Or so I thought....

As soon as I figured out my identity as a photographer, I came across something the other day that challenged my perception of photography. Jennifer Kardy is a fine art photographer who attempts to capture the experiences and memories of soldiers in the wars of Iraq and Afghanistan. After speaking with soldiers in detail about their memories, she stages photographs that create a narrative of a different kind. They are her carefully crafted interpretation of someone else's memories. We can argue that most art forms are an interpretation of someone's memories, be it the artist, the subject or a third person. But these are special to me because they blur the line between war photography and fine art photography. They are dark, dramatic, manipulated, and they are not spontaneous like conflict or war photography. And yet theses images are no less truthful to me. So now, the importance and "truthfulness" behind photographs are no longer so black and white (no pun intended). I'm left with the question, what is the truth and how are we responsible for its execution?



All image credits: Jennifer Kardy
Click on image to enlarge

On My Writing

I enjoy reading my own writing. Not because I think I am a fantastic writer, but because it's important for me to see my own progress (or lack thereof) and it's helpful to use my own work as a barometer of how far I've come and how far I have left to go. It also appeals to my vanity to reflect on my own writing process by, well, writing reviews on my writing. I end up either being my own worst critic, or my own biggest fan.

Awhile back, I spent some time reflecting on an essay I wrote for Columbia University. Here is the other essay I wrote the same application to Columbia. I also used this essay for my CUNY application.

I wrote about a thousand words before I decided to hit "delete" and start all over. This essay is nothing like the first draft. It's not even a massaged, edited or whittled down version of the first draft. It's a completely different essay. The prompt asked me to elaborate on what led me to journalism. I wrote about a thousand flowery words detailing my experience as an ESL student who started kindergarten with no English language skills. I rambled on with a thousand words (the limit was 750) because I had no idea where I was going. I think I was foolishly concerned with showcasing my "wounds" when I should have been showing off my talents. So, I hit the delete button and the mental reset button, took a long hard look into my heart and this is what ensued.

I was ten years old when I took the initiative of starting my own newspaper. The beat reporter in me had a finger on the pulse of the neighborhood and I was certain that others wanted to know what I knew. Who brought home good grades this semester? Who was grounded? Who got the latest and greatest Astronaut Barbie doll with the movable arms?

I hand wrote each copy on to lined notebook paper with a blue pen and after seven copies, my hands got tired. I delivered my free periodical to both adults and kids. The reviews were mixed. Some laughed, some patted me on the head, some shoved the paper into their purses and thanked me. I was able to follow up my first issue with four more before the demands of my fifth grade education and my strict parents prevented me from taking Children's News to a national audience.

That was the first time my journalistic ambitions were dampened. But despite this career setback, I will always remember the invigorating feeling I got from intercepting newsworthy information and being the first to share it with people. My "job" allowed me to travel around the neighborhood to observe and engage in a way that would enhance my storytelling abilities. I developed a voice that gave me confidence as a person.

My dream of being a journalist was once again reignited when I started high school. I joined the newspaper staff and gained insight into the production of a high school newspaper. I enjoyed my position as a staff writer, but somewhere along the way, the awkward teenager in me reared its ugly head. My insecurities set in and I remember thinking that I will never have what it takes to be an interesting writer. My lack of life experience was another reminder that I would fail to be an adequate journalist and storyteller. When it came time to select a college major, I opted for English literature over my life long dream of communications and journalism. This was another sign that I had given up on a career as a journalist.

Fourteen years would pass before I was once again reminded of my childhood dream. The year I turned 30, the world was in the middle of the worst economic crisis we have ever seen, and I was working in the most volatile industry in that crisis. My pay check and job stability depended on the success of the automobile industry. I witnessed fellow co-workers lose their jobs, while the rest of us saw pay cuts that would ultimately diminish our quality of life and increase our anxieties about the future.

It was a difficult year, but it was also in this year that I realized my own self-worth through my life experiences. By the time I was 30, I had been in the automobile industry for almost ten years. My job allowed me to see the country, while a steady income afforded me the opportunities to travel to Asia, Europe and Africa. I met interesting people, tried new foods, took on new hobbies, furthered my education, experienced some disappointments and success and learned some hard lessons about human triumphs and fallacies. The economic crisis taught me to be adaptable and strong when facing turmoil and uncertainty. I also saw my country elect its first black president days before my 30th birthday.

At 30 years old, I finally had a story to tell.

Looking back, I can see why I was never really ready to be a journalist until now. I lacked maturity and experience. This is apparent in the low GPA I received in college, where the new found freedom of college life prevented me from excelling in school. Even if I had the GPA to get into the competitive communications program, it probably wouldn't have been long before I was dismissed. I see this as a blessing in disguise because I was able to major in two other subject matters that really interested me: English and Asian-American Studies. Pairing my undergraduate studies with my life experiences and a masters in journalism from CUNY would only change me into the engaging, diverse and effective journalist I had always hoped to be.

Butterflies In My Stomach

Katie presented me with a zip-lock bag of colorful, butterfly-shaped sugar cookies this weekend. She frequently brings me delicious treats when we see each other. And as if these delightful confections weren't enough, we proceeded to indulge in more heavenly desserts at Extraordinary Desserts, where the food and our conversations always takes me to a higher ground.

I am six weeks away from starting my fall semester at CUNY, which makes Katie's visit this weekend extra special. This will probably be one her last visits to San Diego with me as her host. But that didn't stop us from doing the things we do best, which is eat and wax lyrical about matters of the heart. There's no need to mess with tradition.

The last twelve months of my life has been filled with stress, excitement and careful planning. I experienced a gambit of emotions that ranged from happiness to worry. Recently, I also find myself feeling a bit intimidated by my new endeavors. The suggested summer reading list, the apartment hunting, my younger and more experienced new classmates - sometimes, it feels like it's too much to handle. But fear has a funny way of motivating me into action. Rather than denying myself these feelings, or letting fear paralyze me, I've decided to let it in, embrace it, study it and then exorcise it.

Katie gave me some prudent advice that led me to the ink and paper (or keyboard and blog). She suggested that I start strengthening my writing "muscle" by writing spontaneously and more frequently. I need to exercise my ability to write even when I am not inspired. With one foot in front of another, one day after the next, I will become a stronger writer so that the daunting tasks that lay before me won't seem so grim. Whether it's a attacking a writing assignment or mastering the New York subway system, practice and experience will make me skillful, powerful and ready for anything.

That Katie, always coming correct with the sweet treats and sage advice. I think I will indulge in the rest of those cookies and make the best of having butterflies in my stomach.

Chat Room

A silly instant message conversation between Katie and I that I hope to always remember.

Katie: an phung!

me: Tongy McTongerton

Tell me everything.

your likes.

your dislikes.

your hopes and dreams.

Katie: i am so tired that i will not be able to update lemon days tonight.

me: Oh haha. no worries dear.

life gets in the way.

i hear ya.

10:40 PM Katie: i like strawberries, chefs and knowing that i tried my best.

me: omg that's so freaking cute.

I'm quoting you.

Katie: I dislike laziness, cigarette butts carelessly thrown away and inconsideration in general.

10:41 PM i hope to have a happy life and i dream of going on a nice vacation.

now you.

10:42 PM me: I like a good attitude, a positive outlook and lots of meat.

I dislike negativity, always.

10:43 PM I hope to always feel this good about myself and treat people with kindness even though it's not always easy.

i dream of retiring early and being healthy and strong enough to travel to distant lands.

10:44 PM :D

Katie: boom

boom

and boom.