Belief Systems

I believe that two months is too long to go without writing something longer than a tweet. The act of writing itself is a relief but sharing it is daunting. It requires commitment beyond 140 characters and sleepy thoughts scribbled illegibly half-past midnight. I believe that writing makes me honest, but to be honest I don’t like what I write.

I believe in a lot of things. Perhaps ironically, not in a black and white way. I prefer to embrace grey areas, question everything, and tiptoe in some purgatory of real or not real. But the things I do believe in, I do so fervently. I believe in dualism of ambiguity and passion. I believe in thinking a lot rather than thinking too hard about what you should be thinking about.

I believe in texting first, second, third, and last. I believe that there are worse things to do than express interest in someone and that there are better things to do than analyze the frequency of virtual correspondence.

I believe in the pursuit of knowledge for the sake of the pursuit. I don’t believe we need answers for everything because there are rarely answers for anything. If we derive the merits of intellectualism from the answers we get, or think we get, we are operating in a limited, subjective manner, trying to understand the unquantifiable, infinite, unnameable is-ness of reality and beyond.

On a somewhat related note, I definitely believe in aliens.

I believe that we operate under some sort of collective consciousness. I believe that we fear different variants of the same things. Rejection, loss, death. Being that tree that falls in the middle of a forest with no one to hear it.

I believe that if someone tells you a song reminds them of you, hold on to them. And listen to that song on repeat. What a wonder it is for music to carry and envelope the people we know. 

I believe that when you love something, you give it the power to hurt you. And then trusting that it doesn’t. But I think it’s more important to love yourself the most because pain is inevitable.

Now, let me tell you what the most important thing is that I believe in. This is my secret to getting through the day without being swallowed whole by the world. I believe that everything is temporary. Snow melts. Tans fade. We make homes out of our habits, but we still wake up some mornings unable to find what we took for granted the night before. Our memories worsen and our imagination fills in the gaps. Happiness, pain, it’s all temporary. Most of all, we are temporary. I believe the things that matter are the things we let matter. What stays in our lives are what we don’t let go of.

I believe in publishing first drafts. Mostly because I can’t bear to read what I write. If you can, thank you.

High School Graduation Speech

I’d like to begin this post with a quote. As every person who has ever given a graduation speech once said, “I’d like to begin this speech with a quote.”

This weekend I returned home to play the role of Proud and Supportive Sister in the production of Some More Kids Graduate High School. Which includes lots of photos, stress, and discomfort (at least for a thriving social butterfly like me). And of course the speeches. I’ve been to four graduations in four years, so I’ve heard my plenty of speeches and to be fair, I feel none the wiser. Of course, this could just be my own deficit produced by some combination of self-importance, snarkiness, skepticism towards authority, and taking everything with a barrel of salt.

Now most graduations I’ve seen include at least a commencement speaker – someone role-model worthy – that’s been chosen by students to share wisdom about College and Adulthood and Life. Then there’s the valedictorian who is already Smarter and Brighter and Holier Than Thou who gets to give a speech to their peers about how high school was Really Hard but now they all have a Special Bond. (Also, I had to look up how to spell valedictorian, which explains why I wasn’t one.) Finally, the head of school gets up and makes some pop culture references to seem relevant and tries to validate the four years of hell that is high school by telling the students that they have Made It.

You might be thinking this is going to be a very cynical and self-indulgent post. I just want to assure you that you’re not wrong.

The Side Effects of Indecision

I feel most markedly defined by my indecision. In my small, over-achieving, collegiate universe where worth is measured by success and success is measured by A’s and who’s kissing you at 2AM, I’m a little nervous. I’m a little on edge. I’m a little anxious and the side effects of this anxiety include an overactive gag reflex and maybe being a little too candid in my writing. My indecision is a side effect of remarkable opportunity coupled with staling indecision. And the side effects of my indecision?

Music to Help You Breathe: A Playlist

(When a broken rib and pneumonia don’t)

Also filed under: things Diana will do after being burnt out by studying, looking forward to barefoot wandering in the upcoming weeks, pretending I’m sunbathing when I’m really in the library on a cloudy day

The Sound – The 1975

Girls Like Girls – Hayley Kiyoko

Sitting, Waiting, Wishing – Jack Johnson

L.I.F.E.G.O.E.S.O.N. – Noah and The Whale

Back to You – Coconut Records

Love Will Save You – Grouplove

Brand New Day – Kodaline

Talk About You – MIKA

Youth – Troye Sivan

(Pictured: a building in Toronto more photogenic than I’ll ever be)

xx. Diana

Letter to My Younger Selves

As I begin the swan song of my teenagedom (excuse me, I don’t know how to make 19 sound important ((because it’s not)), I’ve thought about what being a teenager has meant to me. Adolescence is such a quintessential part of, at the very least, American culture. We look back on it with nostalgia and secondhand embarrassment. I think about my evolution from the ice cream truck to $1.05 slushies from Speedway. I think about how I traded in glitter hair gel for Kool-Aid hair dye, strawberry lipgloss for red lipstick, and bike rides for a driver’s license.

Stream-of-consciousness

I’ve been avoiding this blog in an attempt to avoid myself. Writing holds me accountable to every feeling and thought I have – especially the ones I don’t want to publish.

On Being Mixed

  
I was a pretty ambitious 6-year-old. When my Girl Scout troop shared what we wanted to be when we grew up, I proudly said The President of the United States. My parents raised me from day one to believe that I could accomplish anything if I worked hard and never quit. So imagine my surprise when the troop leader, a happy, granola-eating, soccer mom, looked me stonily in the eye and said, “You can’t. You weren’t born here. You’re not really an American.”

Maybe she thought I was only half American, as if only my whiteness counted as citizenry, and my Korean side made me less-than. My mother is a first-generation immigrant, moving to the States soon after I was born. I only ever remember living in the states, and despite being overseas, I was born on American soil, on a U.S. army base.

I don’t really remember how my parents reacted to the Girl Scout incident. I remember being sad and frustrated, and I haven’t thought twice about being the president since. I stayed in the troop. Maybe they knew it was the best way for me to fit in as the new kid at a Catholic school full of perfect blonde Dutch children. And it’s not like I didn’t have fun. I made a few friends and learned how to make ice cream in a bag. That was more important to me at the time than my ambiguous ethnic identity. But I still remember the affect it had on people. As young as I was, I still noticed how my mom was looked over as a parent volunteer because of her thick accent. And as old as I am now, things haven’t changed much.

Why Feminists Apologize

A few days ago, I was reading through some old blog posts and apprehensively revisited the letter. If you’ve been following me for a while or know me personally, you’ll know what I’m talking about.

Last year, when my blog was still a baby, I shared an anonymous friend’s open letter that voiced her frustrations with Greek life as a member of a sorority.  We got over 10,000 views in less than 24 hours, but the excitement wore off pretty quickly. While we both received support from friends and regular readers of my blog, we were also overwhelmed with a large amount of criticism and harassment – online and off, anonymous and not.

The Art of Being Impressive

I have a sickness I carry with me every day. It’s an impenetrable dark cloud that looms over, in front, behind, and within me, but I don’t tell it to go away. It’s a sickness I can’t cure because it’s the only way I know how to work. It’s the only way I know how to function. And there’s a good chance you have it too.

I would estimate that on a day to day basis, at least 75% of the people I interact with don’t feel like they’re good enough. Maybe not in anything specific, but in general. Maybe in everything. And I’m one of these people.

On 2015

There’s something utterly irresistible about New Year’s Eve. About being on the fringes of time with one foot crossing the next chapter. About saying goodbye to bad choices and worse memories. For me, it’s probably the influx of glitter and possibility of change.

We want something magical to happen in the moments between 11:59 PM and midnight, even though we know that a new year doesn’t really bring a new us. I mean, what makes us think that we are more likely to stick with a new diet, drink less soda, or read more books if we start January 1st? Truthfully, I don’t know and I won’t pretend I do. I’m under the same spell you are.