Feature Article final: Coffee-The World's Real Best Friend

Feature Article

Brenda Kim

Did you know that with an annual consumption of over 400 billions cups, coffee is the World’s most popular beverage?

When I reach the third floor of the Johnson Center on George Mason campus and sit down to a table among my closest friends with a cup of coffee in hand, I'm usually asked at least once in an incredulous tone: What cup is that?

Sometimes people will shake their heads and smile as they say the words "Coffee addict" under their breath. I have no qualms with this nickname, though it is inaccurate. While I do enjoy the  soothing effects of the aromatic black bean juice immensely I'm not addicted to it, and were I addicted it would not be to the coffee itself but to the wondrous, life-enriching, energy-infusing drug contained and naturally produced within the coffee, that is, caffeine. For the reason that caffeine can be mildly addictive and be the cause for some increased heart rate, increased blood pressure and irregular heartbeat, I mostly understand the concern that my friends have for me when they sarcastically attack my coffee dependence. So my response to the playful concerns of my friends and family is usually something like: "I know, I know, I'm trying to quit."

But whenever I sit down with a flowery mug full of my favorite form of percolated water, as I am now, I can't help but wonder if it's really the villain that my well-intentioned girlfriends chalk it up to be?

I understand the association it has with other, clearly unhealthy habits like smoking and drinking (heck, there's even a movie called Coffee and Cigarettes...or is it Cigarettes and Coffee? It was a good movie anyway, I recommend it), but does it really have an equal share in the malignant effects that its companions inflict? Or could it just be severely misunderstood?

Did you know that coffee was adopted as the national drink in America at the famous Boston Tea Party in 1773?

“Coffee is bad. Don’t drink it!” My mom said this as she took a sip from her own steaming mug. “I only drink it because I need to for work. But don’t you start drinking it!”

Her foreboding warnings were completely lost on me. I was already predisposed to loving coffee from an early age. I wasn’t allowed to drink coffee, but a different hot beverage was available for me to drink at church, a hot barley tea called Bo Ree Cha; my favorite elementary age experiment was to mix sugar and non-dairy creamer into the tea, lovingly dubbed “Monster Drink”. I upgraded to the real stuff at the turn of middle school, starting off with the sweeter drinks (lattes and frappucinos); and I felt completely justified in drinking coffee since I’d done book reports on historical figures and famous writers, finding that they would not have been nearly so great were it not for the secret meetings held in local coffee shops over a fresh cup of the signature beverage…I wondered why it was that my parents felt so strongly against my drinking coffee, but it wasn’t until later that I discovered that it was because they were afraid that the caffeine would stunt my growth.

Meanwhile I was completely sold on the romantic draw of coffee and its history, though it wasn’t until the end of high school that it became a daily necessity.

Did you know that espresso was invented by a Frenchman in 1822?

Being the wizened, experienced coffee-drinker that I am today, I can graciously admit that coffee (as with most everything) should be enjoyed in moderation. When I first began working for Starbucks in fall of 2006, I seemingly had no inkling as to what the word meant. I had unlimited access to all the espresso and steamed milk that my already wildly beating heart could desire, so every hour or so that I was on the job I made myself a small latte (or “tall”, if you want to get technical). At the end of my shift, I was sure to make a venti, triple shot latte or two to take home; and I never forgot to mark out the bag of coffee beans that I was entitled to have once a week, free of charge. On my off days I made good use of the bags I took home; grinding the whole beans at home and brewing myself a fresh cup was a must, and I became spoiled by the quality Arabica beans I had daily access to through Starbucks.

I only worked at the Starbucks for about 3 months, and due to schedule clashes with school I had to withdraw from the job. I was already beginning to notice the affects of my heavy coffee binging.

The flavored lattes contained a number of sugary syrups pumped into them to give them their distinctive tastes; some places, I discovered recently, pump servings with two different syrups into their lattes to make more complex flavor combinations. However the syrups, along with all the milk and whipped cream and caramel or chocolate toppings a person could ask for, add up to a hefty sum of calories and fat, which in turn adds up to greater chances of heart disease.

I had started to understand the deadly assassin that sugar is early on with Starbucks and so began building a preference for just a simple espresso and milk latte, or milk coffee.

About at that same time, I quickly began to discover that millions of fearful Americans were pointing their fingers at the wrong culprit. Coffee has been wrongfully accused of being the cause for so many different health problems however the real trouble may actually be what people add to the coffee themselves.

The brew itself has been tested in thousands of trials and found to actually decrease the risk of type 2 diabetes (an epidemic that exploded in America not too long ago), colon cancer, liver cirrhosis, and gallstones.

“Overall the research shows that coffee is far more healthful than harmful…For most people, very little bad comes from drinking [coffee], but a lot of good” –Dr. Tomas DePaulis

Anti-oxidants are molecules that counteract and/or prevent the effects of a naturally occurring bodily process called oxidation. Oxidation results in the release of free radicals which damage cells and this is a danger particularly for the brain and for development of cancer. Fruits and vegetables are often labeled as a great source of anti-oxidants, but I bet you didn’t know that just one cup of coffee can contain more anti-oxidants than an entire bowl of fruit!

There are even healthful effects that coffee has for certain bad habits.

Cigarette-smokers and alcohol-consumers be aware: coffee has been found to greatly reduce heart disease and liver damage when large amounts of coffee are consumed on a daily basis.

But let’s put aside all this evidence, and the fact that coffee has been found to reduce headaches, speed up the affects of certain headache pills so you can feel better faster, and help fight off Parkinson’s.

Coffee as a simple, rich, and aromatic beverage should be enough reason in and of itself to take up a cup whenever one fancies.

It’s a drink that’s faced much discrimination, but in light of all the new information available about its many benefits and (found to be) far fewer drawbacks, I think I’ll celebrate with a trip downstairs to pour a mug-full of milk and my favorite brew.

Profile of a Bad Man final

Some of the earliest memories I have of growing up in the northern Virginia area include my many wanderings about old church grounds. The dusty, wooden playground with the two swings and monkey bars were a favorite haunt of mine; that, and the small storage space behind the sanctuary where all the choir uniforms hung loosely on wire hangers, and cardboard boxes were stacked high with costumes and crafts from Sunday school plays. I would wander about because my parents would leave for home without me, assuming that if no one else gave me a ride to my house, then I could just make the mile and half trek back home on foot.

I suppose my mom and dad just felt that secure about leaving me in the care of random Korean church folk, but I couldn't help thinking that they were too generous with their confidence every time I mounted the sidewalk home. The building itself was affectionately nicknamed "the warehouse" for its large, essentially box-like shape; it had a giant, gold-painted cross stuck on the side of it that kids would pass as they ran and screamed in a fury of energy and exhilaration. I remember the church in summer time, how pink and white flowers popped out of well-trimmed bushes and hedges, and grandmothers would sing Korean hymnals as they set the wooden picnic tables for lunch.

I made fast friends with a couple of the other children in Sunday school at church, and it must have been everyday for a year that I ran up to my parents during lunch time to ask if I could sleep over at Mina's house or Grace's place. My dad would shrug and tell me to ask my mom, and she in turn would sigh and tell me what a headache it will be to have to go home to get extra clothes and toiletries. Normally I was able to get my way during the summer time, since convincing her was only a matter of time and persistent whining (and I had no shortage of either); but if homework came up then I knew there was no chance. I had an unfortunate habit formed out of my early years of schooling of never getting my homework done before Sunday night, and my mom was done-do, not done-do nothing policy.

Sleepover or no, it was fun darting through the legs of adults in the cafeteria and having dangerous contests like, who could jump the furthest off of the swings; every once in a while I’d check on the flower petals I was pressing underneath the large church sports trophies. To mellow out in the afternoons, the girls hung out in the old bathroom with the huge mirror and slightly broken heater. By far, my favorite activity was to interrupt whatever the children’s pastor, Peter Suh, was working on and chatter away nonsensically until he couldn’t work anymore. It was towards the end of 6^th grade that I began to notice that the adults liked to play games of their own as well.

“No. You can’t sleep over at Mina’s house.”

“Aw but why? It’s summer!”

“It’s better if you come home tonight, I’m sure Mina’s parents would agree. Come on, get in the car. Let’s go home now.”

“Can’t I at least hang out for a little bit longer? I’ll get a ride with Joanne or Daniel.”

“Your sister and brother are at home already. We have to go, say goodbye.”

I was pouting but my mom wasn’t budging, so I turned to Mina, slapped hands with her and promised that I’d have our club pledge memorized by the next week. I got into the car but noticed as I shut the car door that the church was a lot quieter than usual.

I didn’t have the pledge memorized by the following week but it didn’t really matter because I didn’t see Mina the next week. Somewhat relieved, I breathed easy and determined that I would memorize it by the time I saw Mina again. I actually never memorized that pledge and things quickly went downhill from then on. It was as though a large, dark storm cloud settled itself over my church, and instead of bringing rain (which you could run around in and have fun making a mess of yourself) it brought misery. A permanent misery rain cloud. I was so annoyed.

Everyone got to be in such bad moods. I was walking to leave through the front doors of the church one day and one of the less friendly grandmas that I had seen around church was passing by. Well-trained by my mom to bow courteously anytime there were old people present, I bobbed my head and greeted her in formal Korean speech. She glared at me. I saw her squinty little eyes get still squintier and she stared at me with eyes that meant to offend. I was stopped; mentally scanning through the movements I’d made play-by-play, I concluded with thinking, ‘What- did- I- DO?’ So not right.

I had this knack for walking into situations at the wrong time. While stepping out to go to the bathroom during the Youth Group Sunday service, I came out to see a thin old man trying to take a swing at the senior pastor. My first thought was, ‘There’s no way he could take him. The pastor is at least 20 years younger than him.’ It was weirder to watch than watching Scott, a boy living up the street from me, cry and whine about his older brother Justin not letting him have the bamboo stick in his hand. Another example would be when I found all the doors in the church locked after service. I walked round to the front to find fully grown men and women with arms linked and blocking the only entrance that was open. I asked them to let me through so that I could get my bible and go home but they didn’t seem to hear me. ‘What is up with these adults?’

My mom later explained to me that no, the adults were not playing an intense game of Red Rover when they were standing at the entrance and that the old man trying to swing at the pastor was much more serious than a schoolyard fight.

“This is all because of that man,” she seethed.

“What man?”

She pointed at her arm which was in a sling at that time, attributing its needle for a cradle to a terrible, horrible, no-good monster. It was the monster that was wreaking havoc on church; tearing up relationships and scattering people from the church with every word that fell from his mouth. I pictured green scales, red eyes, curled lips and sharp teeth; there were laser beams flying out of eyes and a big mouth as a giant, spiked tail flew about and stubby, clawed arms swung at a short, box-like building; I imagined loud, piercing roars of triumph and exaggerated dread on the faces of black and white people who pointed and yelled as a giant shadow swept over them.

Yes. I pictured Godzilla.

Who else could cause this much destruction in so short a time?!

I could almost see it: Swipe! There goes a pastor’s credibility. Swipe! My mother needs a sling!

This imagination carried on far longer than it should have, but since I had no face or name to recognize him by, Godzilla’s stayed crystal in my mind. Even as I neared the end of high school, I found myself able to recognize symptoms of Godzilla’s touch in people my age; his radioactive footprint was stamped into people’s eyes. He wasn’t openly talked about and neither was church; he was like a whispered nightmare and continued to have his ghoulish form in my mind until I sat down to dinner with my dad one day.

“Dad, who was that man? What did he do? And why did he do it?”

My dad’s long salt- and pepper-colored eyebrows wriggled up and down a bit as he chewed thoughtfully, like an old wise-man, searching memory to find an appropriate beginning to a terrible tale. I was eagerly waiting, sitting up a bit straighter in anticipation of gory details and a shocking story. What came out instead was quite normal; almost boring by story-telling standards.

There was a man and he wanted money. He conspired to get that money by convincing church people to sell their land to a certain company that he’d discovered (and made a private deal with). People were opposed and he tried to discredit those people with rumors and bullying others into taking his side. The twist about his being involved in a popular cult in Korea sounded promising. He was just a young man, my dad said. The scales fell away and I pictured light skin, and a head of black hair.

“Did you know him when we first went to that church?”

My dad shook his head slowly. Apparently he was in China when we came to that particular church on a business trip. A blue suit replaced claws and a sharp jaw line took the place of a gaping mouth full of jagged teeth.

“Why did he do all those things?”

Dad scratched his head and selected some vegetable side dishes to place on his rice. He was asked to do this sort of thing by the cult leader in Korea. I guess he thought he was doing the right thing.

Later, I looked at a picture of a smiling, round-faced old man who had been the leader of a people group nicknamed The Moonies. He would have seemed a kindly sort of man to me if he hadn’t been the cause for an embarrassing, enraging, stupefying church split on this side of the world. He had a wife and children, a normal man by all accounts, except for the fact that he declared himself to be the Second incarnation of Christ and crowned himself savior of the entire world. I imagine Charles Kim, the man who’d been the catalyst for the chaos in church, to be a family man as well, maybe a bit more stooped and with some gray in his hair now. I wonder what his children must think of their father and whether his wife was proud of him.

One man thought he was Jesus, another man believed him; look what came of it. I had prayed a few times, wondering why it was that God could allow for such ridiculous men to be able to inflict so much pain on His people. I took comfort in a passage in the bible one day:

Jesus told them another parable: "The kingdom of heaven is like a man who sowed good seed in his field. But while everyone was sleeping, his enemy came and sowed weeds among the wheat, and went away. When the wheat sprouted and formed heads, then the weeds also appeared.

 "The owner's servants came to him and said, 'Sir, didn't you sow good seed in your field? Where then did the weeds come from?'

 " 'An enemy did this,' he replied.
      "The servants asked him, 'Do you want us to go and pull them up?'

 " 'No,' he answered, 'because while you are pulling the weeds, you may root up the wheat with them. Let both grow together until the harvest. At that time I will tell the harvesters: First collect the weeds and tie them in bundles to be burned; then gather the wheat and bring it into my barn.' "

            “Dad, what is Charles Kim doing now?”

            “I think he’s at another church.”

Feature Article: Coffee

When I reach the third floor of the Johnson Center on George Mason campus and sit down to a table among my closest friends with a hot cup of coffee in hand, I'm usually asked at least once in an incredulous tone: What cup is that? Sometimes people will shake their heads and smile as they say the words "Coffee addict" under their breath. I have no qualms with this nickname, though inaccurate. While I do enjoy the  soothing effects of the aromatic black bean juice immensely I'm not addicted to it, and were I addicted it would not be to the coffee itself but to the wondrous, life-enriching, energy-infusing drug contained and naturally produced within the coffee, that is, caffeine. For the reason that caffeine can be mildly addictive and be the cause for some increased heart rate, increased blood pressure and irregular heartbeat, I mostly understand the concern that my friends have for me when they sarcastically attack my coffee dependence. So my response to the playful concerns of my friends and family is usually something like: "I know, I know, I'm trying to quit."

But whenever I sit down with a flowery mug full of my favorite form of percolated water, as I am now, I can't help but wonder if it's really the villain that my well-intentioned girlfriends chalk it up to be?

I understand the association it has with other, clearly unhealthy habits like smoking and drinking (heck, there's even a movie called Coffee and Cigarettes...or is it Cigarettes and Coffee? It was a good movie anyway, I recommend it), but does it really have an equal share in the malignant effects that its companions inflict? Or could it just be severely misunderstood?

I embark to find out.

Liar

“We have to talk.”

“F*ck you.”

“What?”

“F*ck you.”

“Why are you saying that?”

“You do not come down and invade my space like that! That is not your space! You had no right—”

“What are you saying? I have every right, this is my house! What right do you have?”

“That is my space, MY space—!”

“No—“

“Isn’t that what I paid for? Isn’t that what I pay for—?!”

“No—!”

“You had no right!”

“YOU do not pay for anything! Your parents pay for you staying here. And no, that is not what they pay for-!”

“It’s still my money, it’s still for me, you had absolutely no right, NO right—“

“I live here, I’m a daughter in this household! What right do you have?! Who are you?!”

“…”

“Let’s go downstairs and talk.”

“No, let’s not go downstairs and talk.”

“Go downstairs and let’s talk.”

*Door shuts*

“No. Why do we need to go downstairs? Why don’t we just talk right here?”

“Because I don’t want to wake up my parents.”

“Why don’t we just talk calmly and rationally right here? Go ahead. Speak.”

“Open the door and let’s go downstairs.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want to wake up my parents and have them join our little chat here! Do you not know what the situation is?! If they wake up and come down here it will be worse for you. Don’t you realize I can’t do anything if they wake up?!”

“…”

“Why did you lie to me?”

“Oh here we go.”

“Why did you lie to me?”

“It’s none of your f*cking business.”

“It is my business. I’m a daughter in this household, this is more my house than it will ever be yours, and this isn’t something I can hide from them, I have to tell my parents but I need the truth! This is the only way I can help! Don’t you understand?!”

“GO AHEAD! I KNEW you would judge her like that—”

“I’m not judging her—“

“I knew you would. Everything you say about accepting is shit—”

“Stop it—“

“I KNEW it—!”

“I’M NOT JUDGING HER I’M JUDGING YOU! I’ve sinned against YOU! If I’m wrong then just tell me! Tell me the truth!”

“…”

“Why did you have to lie about taking her home?”

“…”

“What happened downstairs?”

“It’s not your fuc-”

“It IS! It’s my business! Do you realize you will get kicked out if you don’t tell me the truth?! Don’t you know I don’t want that? I don’t want that! So just tell me the truth!”

“GO AHEAD! I’VE BEEN THROWN OUT BEFORE! GO AHEAD!”

“?!”

“My dad got fired from a job before, know why? BECAUSE HE-!”

“I didn’t ask about these things! Why are you saying this?!”

“Go ahead, f*ck you!”

“What happened downstairs?”

“I hate this f*cking place—”

“What happened downstairs?!”

“…”

“What happened downstairs? Just tell me!”

“F*ck this.”

“Stop, no! We- are- not- done—”

“Get the f*ck out of the way.”

“…”

“GET THE F*CK OUT OF MY WAY!”

Upstairs…

Jae-young: Are you okay? I heard everything.

Me: …

Jae-young: Brenda?

Me: He wasn’t always like this…

Jae-young: Ohh no, no, no of course. Don’t cry, it’ll be okay.

Me: I don’t understand.

Jae-young: It’s okay, don’t try to understand right now. You did the right thing. Don’t cry, it’ll be okay. You did the right thing.

The Profile of a Bad Man

The first time that my church split was the ugliest. I was an 11-year-old witness to the shameful, twisted monster that my church became and, like the city folk left alive after each attack in those Godzilla movies, I was left to pick up the pieces and deal with the aftermath.

Sure. It's just church, and one of many, many others. I've never had to suffer the loss of economic or familial security, the death of a close friend, or even the uncertainty of health. Sometimes, even now, when people explain to me their grievances I find myself only able to listen with a, somewhat, detached sympathy because the lack of shared experience. Since I have never known those kind of losses, I can only relate so deeply. Often times I wonder if my pains with the church are even comparable with some of the losses that friends and family have confided in me; I wonder if maybe I haven't blown the situation with my church back then up and out of proportion. Sometimes I say to myself, 'Maybe it really wasn't that bad...'

Then I'll meet with old friends from that church and I see the monster's footprint in their eyes. It was in the way they're eyes would go to the ground as we danced around the subject of church.

Godzilla had been there, there was no denying that.

I never knew the name or face of the man who'd started everything. I don't know if he was the one who'd started the rumors about the senior pastor stealing money from the treasury but I've been chalking it up to his doing for the past 10 years. I don't know exactly why the police showed up at our church one Sunday afternoon; people were outside, linking arms and forming a barricade with their bodies and I always imagine that it's against that man. That man.

Maybe he wore a gray suit. In my mind I always imagined him to be a man in his 40's with slightly graying hair because my parents were about that age. I recalled the cold, disgusted look that one of the old grandmothers had given me when I bowed in greeting to her. As a child I was not keeping track of who was on what side (because there eventually were two sides to the church), but clearly she had. I took the hardened look on what should have been a kindly face and added it to the profile of an imaginary real man that I, in my childish mind, ascribed all the causes of the church's problems.

(to be continued)

Daughters Were Meant to Interrupt Fathers

I close the door behind me and kick off my shoes into the coat closet near the front door. I'd seen his white '96 Camry parked in the driveway so I knew he was home. I called out for him as I ran up the stairs.

"Dad?"

I hear his response coming from downstairs in the living room, so I toss my bag and keys on my bed and head down again. From the kitchen I ask him how his day has been; I can see him sitting on his sofa chair in the living room corner, by a tall lamp and a wall of books. Often when I ask him this question he'll answer with something like, "productive" or "good"; today he chose the latter. As I pull out milk and cereal I continue to throw out questions. I ask him about work and church; sometimes I even just ask what he thinks of a certain event or person. I know he is reading, but I continue.

After each inquiry that I make, he patiently looks up from his book, his expression thoughtful, and answers my questions with a smile that brings out the gentle wrinkles around his long-browed eyes. He's in his favorite past-time: the lamp is shining on him and his book; he has a blanket spread out on his lap because the heating costs too much and the television is off. I should’ve let him be, but part of me wanted to throw his concentration off one more time so I ask:

"Dad, do you want some tea?"

He puts his finger down on the page, looks up with that easy smile and exclaims in delighted, unshaken surprise, "Oh! That would be very nice. Thank you, my wonderful daughter."
He goes back to his reading, still smiling.

Just Mom, not Mommy (revised)

                Last week my door opened and my mom came into the room. It was the middle of the night and she had just finished looking at Facebook; my dad was asleep in their room and I was watching reruns of the show ‘Community’ on my back and on my bed. She lifted the blanket and sat down on one end of my bed; I could tell she wanted to talk. I absolutely did not. Every neuron in my body was protesting the interruption and I couldn’t help but wonder how long it would be until she would go to sleep so that I could resume watching my reruns. As it was, I said nothing. To voice any sort of complaint or protest against one’s parents is considered very rude and insolent in most Asian cultures, and to have grown up in a very conservative, very “Korean” household, those Confucian values of wanting to please were innately picked up and built in to who I am. So instead of glaring or giving any sort of indication that I wanted to be left alone, I paused the episode and sat up on my pillow with a face of placid calm, a disposition that I can’t maintain for very long stretches of time.

                She asked me how things were going with my boyfriend even though we had talked about it the day before. “Good,” I answered shortly. For as long as I can remember, my mom always had bad timing when it came to chatting with me. Understandably her schedule had always been erratic at work as a nurse and being very actively involved with church, so of course she would want to take advantage of any free moment she had to talk with her kids. Nonetheless it bothered me to no end when I noticed that she never brought things up during mutually involved times we had together, like dinner time, but seemed to go out of her way to interrupt me while I was in the middle of doing homework or trying to figure out activities for church.

Her interruptions only seemed to multiply in frequency when I began college. She would mosey on over to me from the kitchen into the living room, or walk into my room under the pretense of straightening up a little. Then she’ll launch into a flurry of news and updates about people we know, or speculate about a status update she’d seen on someone’s Facebook. During those moments it usually doesn’t register for me that what she’s trying to do is draw me into conversation. More likely, I’ll think of her as incorrigible and insensitive and after a while she’ll ask, “Why are you ignoring me?” to which I would respond, “Can’t you see that I’m busy?” It was a question that I was tempted to ask when she sat on my bed, but I kept quiet and waited.

My mom had always been an invulnerable woman. And I suppose one of the side effects of being invulnerable included being correct. All the time. As a child, I had no question that Mommy always knew best. At a family dinner once when I was a little girl, one of my cousins found a dead fly on his plate. Not only did Mom demand a new dish be prepared for my cousin, but she demanded that everyone at our table get their meals free of charge. The second demand didn’t go through completely, but at the very least my cousin’s meal was made complimentary. She smiled triumphantly and looked at me, saying Mommy knows what to do in these situations. I was in awe. It was only when she began to impose an unquestionable authority over me that I began to question whether or not her way was really best.

As a teenager when I asked to go to the mall with friends and then asked why I wasn’t allowed, things often got tense and awkward fast. My mom, who’d grown up under her father’s thumb, had expected the same respectful obedience from her own children. The question of “why” was often very unsettling to her. I wanted her to be Mother, that way I could just focus on being daughter. The question of “why” was often very unsettling to her. I wanted her to be Mommy, that way I could just focus on being daughter. Instead, I often found myself feeling as though I was playing Mommy when it came to understanding and clarifying.

“Why are you snapping at me?” she finally asked me. Her round face was turned to me and her time-worn eyes concentrated on my own, confused and trying to understand. Her back was rigid and straight; she’s been trying to maintain a good posture these days, Don’t become like me and your Grandma who only started worrying about posture too late in life. We were talking about my sister and somehow we ended up arguing. “I just think that you should be able to acknowledge that you have faults too. You weren’t the perfect parents.” I could see her back bend ever so slightly under the weight of my unkind words. I was surprised at the effect my words now had on her.

My mom is a first generation Korean American immigrant. At age 24 she’d come to the States alone, the first from her family to venture to another country entirely and spent 1 year working at a Kaiser Permanente in California. By day she was taking some courses on the English language and by night she worked the graveyard shift at the clinic, facing off insecurities and uncertainties by herself. My dad had not even come into the picture until that year had ended and, through a connection of mutual acquaintances and family friends, my mom was requested to fly back to Korea in order to meet him.

I would imagine how scared I’d have felt if I’d lived the way she’d chosen, to live alone, in an unfamiliar place and with an unfamiliar language. Whenever I see my mom bustling about in the kitchen in her nursing scrubs however, I’m can’t bring myself to picture her huddled, frightened and alone in a small apartment. The image just doesn’t compute. In my whole life I have never seen my mother cry. I’ve seen her brought to tears with frustration or exhaustion, but there has never been an instance in my memory in which I remember seeing her really in a weak place. I’ve heard her cry out loud once after a fight with my brother; she walked back to her room and shut the door. I could hear the sobs from my own room. When she emerged again hours later to prepare dinner, her eyes were dry.

She scooted away from me and more towards the edge of my bed, ready to leave soon. I was feeling everything but relief. I was writhing inside from the guilt I felt from inflicting real damage on her. “You’ll know when you have kids how hard it is.” I’ve always hated that phrase, and I still do. I had no idea how to respond to that statement every time she brought it up. But I refrained saying anything further. “I may not be at the level you want me to be at, but I’ve tried.” After saying this, she got up, left my room, and closed the door behind her.

The next day I got up and spent time shoveling the snow on our driveway with my dad. “Dad, what’s going on with Mom these days? Why is she so moody?” My dad smiled at me but his forehead was furrowed with concern. “Mommy seems to be a lot more sensitive these days. We should try to be gentle with her.” I threw another shovelful of snow onto the mountain growing on what was the front lawn.

I saw her later at the window, looking towards the driveway. She told me that dinner would be ready soon before breaking eye contact and staring back out the window at my dad. “I’m sorry. I was annoyed, I’m not really mad at you.” She looked at me and smiled a little, but looking wearier as though she’d cried a bit over the previous night. “It’s okay. I understand.”

Outline??

I've absolutely no idea what sort of story to write for this outline. I'm not very accustomed to writing creative non-fiction stuff, so...I'm just going to pick something random from my memory and try to squeeze some story out of it.


Whenever my head hits the pillow at night it's never with any sort of anticipation. The events of the day are more than enough to keep my mind buzzing until God hits the snooze alarm on my consciousness and I sleep. Every night I manage to forget that the part of my mind that emerges only when I am asleep can take me on some wild rides through the dream landscape. Mornings are quite different by contrast (that is, if I manage to wake up in the morning).

My dreams...
-fighting a penguin on stilts
-running
-waking up

That's the funny thing about dreams...
-theories on dreams
-looking for meaning

That's all I got so far!! Sorry, I racked my brains. It's a very meager beginning.

Wake UP

I can only feel the cocoon-like warmth of the blanket wrapped around me as the fingers of consciousness run along the grooves of my mind. My hand reaches out from under the blankets to the small, blue alarm clock that is beeping increasingly louder, and I'm almost frantic about reaching the snooze button before the sound becomes any louder.

I'm awake again. A little bit of annoyance colors my conscience as I reach for my cell phone 10 minutes later. I don't want to leave the center of warmth in the folds of my peach-colored blanket but before I can convince myself to hit the snooze a third time a list of things to do stop me. I take a breath and let out a loud, whiny, childish wail as a way to prepare me to sit up. Like ripping off a band-aid, I fling the blanket off and stand, swaying slightly before making my way over to the thin-frame dresser to my right. I reach, open, grab, shut and shuffle off to the bathroom.
Standing in front of the mirror, jeans and t-shirt sitting on the bathroom counter to my left, I squeeze toothpaste onto my brush and blink slowly at my reflection. 'Waking up is so much harder when no one else is in the house,' I think to myself as I spit. 'I wish I had a roommate.'
I tie my hair back and pin my bangs before I splash water on my face. Vague recollections of yesterday night's dream resurface; something about a person at a place doing something. I haven't said anything out loud and no one is around, but I shrug in disinterest and apply lotion on my face.
I wonder briefly to myself when my parents would return as I grab my book bag and reach for my cell phone again. No time for breakfast yet again; but I pause as I make to pass the mirror in the hall and shout, "Carpe diem!" I laugh at myself and pull my coat on.

The Phenomenon Lying

Someone I'd wanted to consider as family has made the final push away. It hurts, because not only had I confronted him about his lying, but after admitting to his wrong and expressing that he will try to be honest in the future, he almost immediately dives headlong back into deceit. It seems that he absolutely hates me and anyone like me; for what reason? I will never know for sure, but I can venture to guess.

What he wants is so severely in conflict with what myself and my own seek to have. I won't claim to know what it is that he wants, but I'll say that, for me, I have always desired to daily experience the deepest, truest love and live in the light of the starkest truth. These I have found only in Jesus Christ. Were this guy looking for anything close to truth or beauty or goodness, I do not doubt that he should be a much different sort of person.

As it is, he is looking for none of the above. What can I do, but stare on at him? He is driving himself into misery with all these lies, and while I can't help but ache at heart for what kind of life he's headed towards I cannot lift a hand to help him. There is nothing I can defend him in, and it's with an almost certainty that I say he'd probably slap my hand away anyway. He is angry, vengeful even. A real, living gollum.

Being someone who's grown up in church all my life, I've never encountered a person like him. I've been annoyed, frustrated or spiteful of certain types of people, but in the end I have to concede that they have their good and admirable qualities and, in some cases, their genuine faith. I am so amazed by this one person's utter and total lack of regard for anything good that I'm driven beyond any sort of particular feeling or word. I've always believed in goodness, even when circumstances didn't allow for very much evidence of it (church splits, murder, broken families, drug abuse, physical abuse) and yet here is a person that is suspicious of the integrity of goodness.

I'm confused, light-headed. It's disheartening, and distressing because of the fact that I can do nothing to interfere or intercede. Here is a situation in which I can not step in and be right to do so. It is puzzling, but the right thing to do in this situation appears to be letting him suffer the consequences of his actions.

What can be done? Can such a hard heart be changed? Can a nation of such hard hearts be transformed?

Not by man's effort alone. Only as the Spirit allows.

Happy New Year 2010 all-

I woke up this morning at 9:41am. I missed the turning of the year; and I also had a horrible sore throat.



--It's now a whole day later b/c I didn't finish the update for new years yesterday. So technically, it's not new years at all. Hope ya'll had a good one though. It was nice for me, in the sense that I got a heckuva a lot of sleep. Now I'm going to go put on a snuggie, read a book and have a cup of hot chocolate.
Awesome.