As we are cleaning up, Jeff asks me to help him move some soup containers from the fridge upstairs to the freezer downstairs. This week's variety comes in two sorts: clam chowder and beef and veggie. The soup is partitioned in gallon containers that used to hold ice cream so it's only fitting that these containers return to their old home bearing new substance. The clam chowder is no stranger to me. It was I who portioned it out in the first place. The beef veggie was someone else's doing. I eye it suspiciously, if only because some of it sits lazily in a Ziploc bag.
Jeff cracks open the freezer. It is full with all sorts of goodies. One of these goodies includes a bag of pork bones labeled from February 2008. Jeff recognizes the handwriting as his own and wonders aloud why exactly he had thought it fitting to store such a commodity in the first place. Soup, of course, it had been kept for a future soup, a soup that was never realized.
And then, there's the issue of vacancy. As I stand there, Meijer ice cream gallon containers in hand, Jeff continues,
"Hm...and so we are left to ponder what is to be done with this soup."
His thoughtful assessment elicits my laughter. Simple moments like this, seemingly frivolous , are priceless.
Monday, February 23, 2009
Wayne meets his match
Wayne is talking to one of the volunteer workers as we eat this week's lunch leftovers. He tells her that he's working on his memoirs and, in his exuberance, challenges her to name something that he hasn't done.
"How about skydiving?"
Apparently, that's one thing that Wayne hasn't done.
And to think I was about to propose "dunking a basketball."
"How about skydiving?"
Apparently, that's one thing that Wayne hasn't done.
And to think I was about to propose "dunking a basketball."
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Stupid homeless people
Two classmates were in the computer lab talking about the upcoming small group discussion on TB. One of the risk factors is being in close contact with those that might have it...for example, being around homeless people. I am working on some summer applications involving experiences in underserved areas. i am working feverishly but, by virtue of proximity, am not excluded from the conversation.
A classmate of mine says he has TB. It's stupid, he says. He never had it before and then he volunteers at a homeless shelter and then he tests positive soon after. I'm never doing that again, he says in his fluent but fob-accented English. Yeah, he continues half-chuckling, I bet they were intentionally trying to give me TB.
Stupid homeless people, I say sarcastically.
A classmate of mine says he has TB. It's stupid, he says. He never had it before and then he volunteers at a homeless shelter and then he tests positive soon after. I'm never doing that again, he says in his fluent but fob-accented English. Yeah, he continues half-chuckling, I bet they were intentionally trying to give me TB.
Stupid homeless people, I say sarcastically.
Writing
Wayne lost his job when the factory closed down. Now he works at Taco Bell on University, but the one further down on Neil. He rides his bike around to the Union on campus or sometimes to the newly constructed public library. He tells me he learns stuff by listening to the students and watching the news on the tvs. He's also decided to start writing his memoirs. He's got free time, anyway, what else is he supposed to do?
"Tell me something a man can do," he challenges me, "you name it, I've done it." My mind fails me and I manage a look of stupidity, baffled by the simple question. Easter bunny? Done it. Santa Claus. Yup
I ask myself: can the richness of life lie not as much in what we do but how we do it?
"Tell me something a man can do," he challenges me, "you name it, I've done it." My mind fails me and I manage a look of stupidity, baffled by the simple question. Easter bunny? Done it. Santa Claus. Yup
I ask myself: can the richness of life lie not as much in what we do but how we do it?
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
homosexual?
One of the things that i've noticed in medical school is that like any other social group, there is a considerable amount of gossip that goes on.
One issue that has come up is the issue of someone being gay. Mostly this has come up in describing certain males in our class. There have been several conversations that I have sat in where the sexuality of a particular classmate has been questioned, whether it has been with regards to how one dresses, talks, or the physical features he possesses ("that boy has man-boobs").
I realize that the definition of what it means to be homosexual has expanded over the years. With more prominent public exposure. I guess this happens when a society such as ours becomes confused over what it means to be masculine and feminine I will be the first to admit that I used to think certain people gay if they exhibited flamboyant behavior and speech, but I have realized over the years that this is just as poor as good as an indicator as a male who can knit and cook or a woman who can bench press 300. I don't think that someone is a homosexual just because his or her mannerisms don't fall in line with what our culture defines to be male or female. Unfortunately, much of what it means to be homosexual in our culture has to do as much with one's fleeting feelings rather than one's actions, and, no doubt, that has contributed to the supposed ambiguity.
One issue that has come up is the issue of someone being gay. Mostly this has come up in describing certain males in our class. There have been several conversations that I have sat in where the sexuality of a particular classmate has been questioned, whether it has been with regards to how one dresses, talks, or the physical features he possesses ("that boy has man-boobs").
I realize that the definition of what it means to be homosexual has expanded over the years. With more prominent public exposure. I guess this happens when a society such as ours becomes confused over what it means to be masculine and feminine I will be the first to admit that I used to think certain people gay if they exhibited flamboyant behavior and speech, but I have realized over the years that this is just as poor as good as an indicator as a male who can knit and cook or a woman who can bench press 300. I don't think that someone is a homosexual just because his or her mannerisms don't fall in line with what our culture defines to be male or female. Unfortunately, much of what it means to be homosexual in our culture has to do as much with one's fleeting feelings rather than one's actions, and, no doubt, that has contributed to the supposed ambiguity.
Sunday, February 8, 2009
tales from the soup kitchen
So I've been spending some time at a local soup kitchen that's affiliated with the Catholic Worker Movement. I was able to spend some time taking with one of the homeless folks there., His name was Doug his pal was Verne. Doug is fifty years old, has a prominent belly, has smatterings of facial hair, looks like he's from the streets, but is still rather respectably dressed. Doug wanted to know where I was from. I told him. He asked me, really, where I was from, I told him again. This went on for a bit, and he gets a little exasperated and says he's just trying to make conversation. I realize that he's trying to ask me what ethnicity I am. Fine. I'm Chinese (But I was born in America).
Doug is a jack of all trades sort of fellow. He makes jewelry, works as chef, does whatever he needs to do to get by. He shows me his prized masterpiece which is a work in progress. He has it around his neck. He takes it out and, lo and behold, it's a large gold plated dollar sign. I almost laugh at the absurdity, even though, when I think about, it's not that absurd.
He asks me what I think about all these people who come to this place. I give a safe politically correct answer. He tells me that he thinks that most of these people are lowlifes who come here because they know they can get a free meal and then go spend their money getting drugs.. This makes me think about all of us who are better off financially who use our money, time, whatever, because we can or even just the rich suburban kids who buy drugs because they are bored and want a thrill. I want to tell him that these people he is talking about are really not so different than the volunteers who are serving them lunch. Sometimes the similarities are too striking. It is hard not to be cynical.
One of the elderly volunteers here had a seizure after I left last Saturday. He is in the hospital and has supposedly had a pacemaker placed in. His name is Jim. This soup kitchen has become a second career. The people that eat here know him by name. All of this makes me think about doctors: we learn about seizures and other people suffer them.
Doug tells me how he met Verne. Doug had just got out of prison and was wandering the streets when he runs into Verne. Verne says, "come with me, you're going to be my bro" and that was that. They've been brothers ever since. Brothers are hard to find these days, let alone good friends.
Doug asks me for cash. I don't have any. He asks for a check, credit card, anything. I say i'll bring him something next time. Doug says, "See how I just played you? I can do the same thing to people out in the park and make a good amount of money every day." When I hear this, I think about how if this had happened to me years ago, I might have been upset. Instead, I think about how I can't live life always being afraid that I'm being cheated. I think about how people probably give him money because his presence makes them feel bad. He plays of their guilt, and why shouldn't he?
We are sitting in the living room having this conversation. There is a upright piano in the room against the wall separating the eating area from the rest of the house. It is old but in tune. I think about how i haven't played piano much since getting to Urbana Champaign. Maybe I finally a good reason to start again.
Whenever I leave the soup kitchen, I have a particular smell. I think it's bleach. This usually would bother me but after spending hours in the anatomy lab this week, I don't care so much.
It is 9:37 now, I should get back to work, or at least check the laundry to see if it's done. Tomorrow is a new week. Sometime during this week I need to cut my hair. I did a pretty good job on my last one. I hope you are all well. I miss you all, and if I haven't gotten around to sending you an update yet, I'm glad that we know each othe well enough that I won't feel like we've lost touch.
Doug is a jack of all trades sort of fellow. He makes jewelry, works as chef, does whatever he needs to do to get by. He shows me his prized masterpiece which is a work in progress. He has it around his neck. He takes it out and, lo and behold, it's a large gold plated dollar sign. I almost laugh at the absurdity, even though, when I think about, it's not that absurd.
He asks me what I think about all these people who come to this place. I give a safe politically correct answer. He tells me that he thinks that most of these people are lowlifes who come here because they know they can get a free meal and then go spend their money getting drugs.. This makes me think about all of us who are better off financially who use our money, time, whatever, because we can or even just the rich suburban kids who buy drugs because they are bored and want a thrill. I want to tell him that these people he is talking about are really not so different than the volunteers who are serving them lunch. Sometimes the similarities are too striking. It is hard not to be cynical.
One of the elderly volunteers here had a seizure after I left last Saturday. He is in the hospital and has supposedly had a pacemaker placed in. His name is Jim. This soup kitchen has become a second career. The people that eat here know him by name. All of this makes me think about doctors: we learn about seizures and other people suffer them.
Doug tells me how he met Verne. Doug had just got out of prison and was wandering the streets when he runs into Verne. Verne says, "come with me, you're going to be my bro" and that was that. They've been brothers ever since. Brothers are hard to find these days, let alone good friends.
Doug asks me for cash. I don't have any. He asks for a check, credit card, anything. I say i'll bring him something next time. Doug says, "See how I just played you? I can do the same thing to people out in the park and make a good amount of money every day." When I hear this, I think about how if this had happened to me years ago, I might have been upset. Instead, I think about how I can't live life always being afraid that I'm being cheated. I think about how people probably give him money because his presence makes them feel bad. He plays of their guilt, and why shouldn't he?
We are sitting in the living room having this conversation. There is a upright piano in the room against the wall separating the eating area from the rest of the house. It is old but in tune. I think about how i haven't played piano much since getting to Urbana Champaign. Maybe I finally a good reason to start again.
Whenever I leave the soup kitchen, I have a particular smell. I think it's bleach. This usually would bother me but after spending hours in the anatomy lab this week, I don't care so much.
It is 9:37 now, I should get back to work, or at least check the laundry to see if it's done. Tomorrow is a new week. Sometime during this week I need to cut my hair. I did a pretty good job on my last one. I hope you are all well. I miss you all, and if I haven't gotten around to sending you an update yet, I'm glad that we know each othe well enough that I won't feel like we've lost touch.
Monday, February 2, 2009
old doors, old friends
These last few days I've been facebook-ing some old high school friends and aside from drowning under the flood of memories that comes with cracking open old doors, it has caused me to go back and reevaluate the person I have become over these last few years. When I look at the past, it is easy enough to say, "Well, I was pretty immature and insecure back then" or "Wow, I can't believe I was like that." At the same time, there are other areas where I say to myself "Goodness, he/she shared "x" or "y" interests? if only I had known..." Besides looking for changes, it's also intriguing to try to catch glimpses of the person you knew back in high school, recapturing the caricatures that made these people so memorable in the first place.
I think I'm beginning to understand all those writers who compose those "coming of age" novels that I dreaded reading in high school/junior year.
I think I'm beginning to understand all those writers who compose those "coming of age" novels that I dreaded reading in high school/junior year.
epiphany
I want to be my own person, and so I avoid what i perceive as conformity, even if these expressions of conformity are good or aren't even expressions of conformity at all. Perhaps that is why I avoid being around large Asian groups, be it in churches, youth groups, etc. This is all so silly because this is just another way of saying that I don't want my social circles to define I who I am, when, in reality, this is inevitable.
I also want to be at home, but this is hard because I avoid tight-knit groups that might be considered cliques. This is why I have friends in many different groups but nobody that I could consider my core group. So, just as I want to view myself as an individual, even my closest relationships are with individuals and not group. This is not a bad thing, either--just an observation.
And as I contemplate these things, I know that I cannot possibly be the only one who thinks about these things or thinks this way, but because at times I think that I must be unique for thinking this way, I have a mistaken sense of what makes me different. Unfortunately, even in incorrectly perceiving this uniqueness, I isolate myself from others.
I also want to be at home, but this is hard because I avoid tight-knit groups that might be considered cliques. This is why I have friends in many different groups but nobody that I could consider my core group. So, just as I want to view myself as an individual, even my closest relationships are with individuals and not group. This is not a bad thing, either--just an observation.
And as I contemplate these things, I know that I cannot possibly be the only one who thinks about these things or thinks this way, but because at times I think that I must be unique for thinking this way, I have a mistaken sense of what makes me different. Unfortunately, even in incorrectly perceiving this uniqueness, I isolate myself from others.
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