What does a connection mean? To be connected? To find that spark?

Isn’t different for everyone? Some seek intelligence. Others seek passion. Even others seek curiosity. I seek self-awareness.

Living in a bustling city, I meet new people every day. Through work, networking events, social events, festivals. There’s always something going on. Yet as I get older, I realize that I cannot connect with everyone. As much as my younger self sought to be accepted by everyone, now I don’t want to connect with everyone.

Over the years, I acquired the ability to small talk. I may start with a standard question: “which neighborhood do you live in?” then progress to “what made you decide to move to San Francisco?” because almost nobody grew up in this city. (For those special few, I reserve the question ‘how has the city changed?’) And yet, I can tell whether the person is pushing me to talk about myself or happy to talk about themselves. For the former, it’s exhausting although my ego loves being rubbed.

I want to eventually fall into topics of “why do we happen to behave this way?” and “what wakes us up in the morning?” I want to know those things, but it’s nearly impossible to ask. I do resort to the question “what keeps you up at night?” in my research interviews and yet I sometimes don’t get the answer I seek.

When I read the text message, I lazily said “no” and didn’t research any further. I continued my work, clicking one window then another. But an hour later, I realized what it meant.

It meant: danger, life, death, destruction, chemicals, loss.

And in my own self-centered way, I worried about my apartment. My things. My macbook pro. My lovely bed. I thought about the curry that I made last night. Then the electricity that supplied power to all my things. Then the books that I wrote in. And then my roommate who is slightly a gimp at the moment.

That’s what I thought of and I zoomed back home, nearly jogging up the steps in my black bootie heels, tapping. In the distance, I saw the fire trucks on Mission Street. A smoldering mess with smoke still spiraling in the sky.

I was relieved. It was on Mission Street, blocks away from my building. Just the other day, I mentioned to a friend that my building was rather close to another building. It may go up in smoke.

Then a few days later, the earthquake happened.

Inside my room, I found solace in my mess and wondered that my papers—the receipts, the books, the documentation all over my room—would that go up in flames? I looked through the windows at the back of the apartment wondering if I could see the smoke. Nothing. Fortunately, more than 3 hours had passed since the fire started where it was first defined as a 2-alarm fire, then upgraded to a 5-alarm fire.

Later, I walked pass the scene. It was now past 7 PM, more than 6 hours since the fire was first reported around 1 PM. Smoke still billowed out from the destroyed building. I remember the building, often dismissing it. A discount shop that sold plastic things that I didn’t need. Big plastic backpacks and suitcases. Things that hung in air balloons. Things that were cheap. Things that I would have bought in my early twenties due to my mindset in budget, but now, I would prefer quality and durability.

I walked past it ever since I moved to the neighborhood since fall 2006, never noticing, never paying attention, just wondering how many more steps did I need to get to where I wanted to go.

Nearby businesses were all closed. My favorite produce market was shuttered, losing dollars to the missing hours. I loved going there to buy cilantro, tomatoes, and onion. The butcher shut as well. The walgreens was dark. But in the distance, I saw the barbershop and a woman selling white flowers. There was an Internet Cafe that was damaged. A nearby discount store also damaged. The roof seemed to have caved in, spilling its contents of plastic wares, toys, and so many useless things.

As I stood there, gawking with the other bystanders, the smoke tickled my throat. They pulled out their smartphones, capturing the scene. That’s what we remember and then…should we remember? I remembered the risky moment I took in Taksim Square last year during the Gezi Park protests, and the way that the tear gas made my eyes water. No, not this time, fire. You won’t get me this time.

On the way back to my apartment, I walked around a fabric cloth embroidered “San Francisco”. It was dry despite all the water filtering through the streets from the fire trucks. Will anybody pick it up or will it be swept away?

Then I went home and shopped for renters’ insurance.

Then my aunt corrected herself, “If things weren’t right, she would cry. ‘Crying used to be her form of expression,’ your dad used to say.”

I laughed in response, knowing that phase was past me. But it just was who I was. It wasn’t good or bad behavior (as good behavior suggests that the baby actually understand what the adult desires which is simply ‘not to be seen or heard except when being cute’).

I was and still am the highly sensitive person in my family. As a baby, to my knowledge, I believe that I was fussy. My parents thought that it was cute that I cried so much. So much so that they have many photos of me crying. My face red with frustration and anger. And partly, it was because I couldn’t speak until I was older.

It took many years until I found ways to deal with disappointment, displeasure, and unhappiness.

What if we all had no forms of expression? That while our emotions would burst and everything around us wouldn’t understand why we felt such torment? That the only vehicle of emotion was through tragic outburst and facial expressions? That’s what it’s like. That’s what it’s like to be trapped in a body that can’t do anything. That suddenly in the moments of stress that nothing ever works nobody is in the right place nothing ever is right.

That’s the disaster.

My aunt and I watched my cousin’s 10 month old again. He twisted in his high chair tossing the baby corn and peas around the table. He smiled and stared. He already learned how to attract strangers to the side. All in silence.

This is me:

Find your own pose!

Described as:

The Colon is the chosen pose of individuals who, on their own, seem awkward or remote. They may be the sort who responds to telephone messages with email, or spends their lunchtimes quietly pedometer-walking in lieu of socializing with coworkers. But when a Colonist finds its mate, together they acquire a grace and ease that surprises friends and family.

I am not a touchy person, and many people have challenged me on this. I find comfort in connection through understanding and listening. Like really, listening. And building together. And I also overheat when I sleep.

In contrast, Chris is quite the opposite…

Find your own pose!

Bottom line: I hope that it was worth it!

And in some way, I am mostly talking about graduate school.

I wear the hood sometimes.

When I was in the East Coast, I learned that wearing a beanie with a hood offered the best cold protection. There, I discovered that I loved just being surrounded by soft cloth as I moved. It’s comfortable as if it was a barrier between me and the world. I see nothing except what’s in front of me.

But sometimes I wonder if I am seen differently because I am wearing a hood. The hood is from my REI-branded sweatshirt or light athletic jacket. With only a peek of my hair blowing out in the hood, I wonder if I am seen as female as I stroll (or saunter) down the street? Do they expect someone with dark skin to appear?

This evening, I decided to take 23rd up rather than the bright lit 24th from my friend’s place. I was tired of dodging around the hipsters, but I hesitated as I saw dark lone figures in the distance. Yet with my pace and my strange walking gait, I wondered if I looked as menacing as them. Did their hearts cower in fear as a figure approached them? Did their breath stop as they assessed the face for trouble or calm?

A police car approached me as I crossed the street. I reacted with surprise and stepped to the right as my face turned to study the driver. The police car made a swift U-turn. At the time, I thought that they were just circling the neighborhood, but did they notice me? Did they notice a figure in a hood walking fast in a gentrified neighborhood once known for high crime and gang activity? Did they notice that my profile was so low-risk and they turned away searching for the more dangerous figure?

I was giddy from the spicy ice cream I just consumed. The spice tickling the back of my throat and the sudden sugar in the morning is beckoning drowsiness. I overheard the girl next to me try to ask a man about the time in Spanish. He responded in English. My breath caught in my throat as I heard the communication channels gasp and sigh.

She spoke as if he would understand Spanish and he spoke as if she would understand English.

A moment passed until she said something to me. My trained Spanish tongue spurted out a few words: cuando, boleto, avion, porque.

“This is my first time on a plane.” Then she said, “I haven’t seen my mother for 16 years.”

My heart was caught in my throat. “Your mother?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said and smiled. She put her wrists together and continued, “I got asylum.”

“It’s always a female role,” Chris said when I described my favorite role in a game.

I can’t help it. I want to be the person who heals. The one who makes other players feel better, feel good about themselves, and give them the energy to succeed. I am less interested in being the one who “succeeds”, the one who gets the gold, the one who gets the gold. I want to be the cranks behind the scene that everyone must rely on in order to get to the end.

Several months ago in a creative writing class, a prompt asked, “What would be your ideal writing environment? What would be your worst?”

For the latter, I wrote about feeling uncomfortable—a place where my allergies were acting up, where my writing utensils were unreliable…and most importantly a distracting feeling where my anxieties, stress about the past, present, future were overwhelming the present. Usually about myself and others.

But the former, it was in a dreamlike moment of the day, usually in the early morning. Where I could hear the soft snore or breathing of a loved one knowing that they’re safe. A clear signal that they’re resting and that they’re alive. Where I can see the world waking. That feeling of control.

I want to be the healer. I know this. I played Fat Princess and I wanted to be the priest. To grant wishes, to grant positivity. To be whole once again.

So I hesitated. I was repulsed at first, because I didn’t expect it to be like that, but it is San Francisco.

I am talking about a public restroom here.

Now, I am all in support of gender neutral bathrooms to get rid of people’s expectations of gender and what not. After all, at home, all the bathrooms are gender-neutral, right? Why isn’t it the same in public?

But what surprised me wasn’t the fact that there were gender neutral restrooms at a restaurant I visited recently. Rather that the seat was up and that was almost enough for me to back up and hesitate. I noticed the lack of genders for the bathrooms and spent a few seconds looking for the gender. Realizing that in this high-end restaurant that it was all the same with eight stalls, I went in…and was shocked to find that the seat was up.

The most important thing about gender neutral bathrooms if they are established is not whether the genders treat each equally or whether there will be presence of perversion…but the most important thing to decide is what is accepted for the seat’s position?

I certainly approve that the seat is always down.

Is this art? Yeah why not. As long as it has the intention and beauty in simplicity.