In my entire life, the only time that I recalled a direct sexist comment (outside of media) was in Ireland, sitting in the back of a taxi. I was initially surprised as my fellow passengers reacted more assertively. Walking away, I was shocked and stunned. Then thinking about how I wanted to share the moment with people, I spent an hour contemplating how to phrase it. Then I simply described the situation pointing out how surprised I was by the sexism and racism. On twitter. In 140 characters.

Without identifying the cab driver. Because there wasn’t any point of calling him out.

In some way, I was intending to only draw attention to the point that sexism and racism existed in a foreign place. Whether it was a pure isolated incident or generalization, I essentially had these goals:

So whether Adria deserved the backlash or not, we know sexism exists. I don’t condone it. And bad behavior deserves to be stopped and called out. Yet never for a moment did I think to call the cab company, because I would see it as a bigger issue.

In my own way, the incident in Ireland has been a story I tell about why I am hesitant to move to Europe. And why Ireland (along with a multitude of reasons) was generally unappealing to me. I never experienced a sexist moment like that, especially since I was the target of it (in contrast to Adria’s moment).

The point is this: let’s treat each other with respect and then make decisions from there.

From 2000 to 2004, writing was the thing.

Everyone had some kind of diary. A livejournal. A xanga. Maybe a scribble.nu Then all the various forms. Deadjournal. etc. I joined all of them, because I wanted to express myself. I joined message boards, communities to meet “like-minded” people. In my lonely way, I wanted to find others who were lonely as I was…and used the Internet to express themselves in the way they could not in person.

It was a safe time. We could yell into the ether and these digital voices—us. We would empathize, share a story or two. A “me too”. A witty comment. It was our obligation when we read other blogs. Not because we had to, but because wanted to. My life was surrounded by it then, so appropriate for my own coming-of-age in entering the world.

But then it all started fading away. But I never gave it up. I went through my blogroll today to clean up the links. More than half of them didn’t work. Leading to empty domains, stolen by a foreign country and indundated with ads. The other half were links of blogs not updated for years. Only one them was active. She had become a blogger in her own right—sometimes submitting to the current blog culture of promoting products and attending blogger events. I used to love her posts about her life—her struggles with boyfriends and living so far away from her family.

I was the only one I knew that continually plugged away at my blog. Albeit not every day as I used to. But I still write with the same energy. Although now unlike my early twenties, I don’t publicize. I don’t have the links on my profiles—facebook or twitter. (Although it was on twitter for a very long time.) It’s a game that I play with myself.

I can’t help but write. A habit that is more than a decade old. Plugging, posting…writing in type late at night, by myself. A solitary activity. I love it too much to give it up.

Italo Calvino said: The more enlightened our houses are, the more their walls ooze ghosts. Describe the ghosts that live in this house: Image credit: “love Don’t live here anymore…” – © 2009 Robb North – made available under Attribution 2.0 Generic

The windows are now gone. Empty. Houses made of brick like those in the olden times where women cared for the fire and the men hunted for game.

The ghosts that remain are those who remember the past. Of the children that are birthed here. The sexism, the racism, the fear that spread across the land.

As the house emptied and became a standing relic of the past, the ghosts watched the world change. The fear that dissipated from shouts, screams, pitchforks to soft quiet psychological fear. The fear that some only express through art, op-ed articles and gossip columns.

The fear that used to freely express are in our bones now, engrained just like the former husks of the ghosts. But for us, they just stay within, bursting only when prodded in quiet public digital shaming and behind-the-doors acts of violence.

lemon + ginger + honey + hot water = makes everything better.

On the way back to the city, I was feeling nauseous. For the first time, the train movement made me…train sick. And all I wanted to do was…retch. But when I got home, I poured ginger power (no real ginger here) with hot water with some honey…then later some fresh lemon.

Amazingly with a few seconds, I felt better. The wave of nausea came back a few seconds later. Yet when I downed the entire mug, all is well. And here I am sitting in bed in an awkward position writing, which would cause nausea in its own right.

And I have the time to get to know someone…

I can’t help but look for how deep they are, how they think, how they approach lives.

But I also notice how I am pushed toward certain subjects or pulled away from certain subjects. I notice how well the conversation flows. I notice their sense of risktaking, their anxiety, their agreeability.

I notice how they push me into confession, how they let me put a wall up, how my levels of generosity fluctuate. I notice all of this.

Most of all, I notice whether they judge or accept me. And vice versa.

Once, I was told that it was a dance. The friendship dance. To let a little in to see if the other person will play well. But I have this horrible habit of opening the door quickly. To anyone. I let people in. Then if they prod too deep, I shut them. I am a tester. Secretly.

I am incapable of knowing whether I will enjoy something. Most of the time, I see adventure! fun for all! and I think…yes! i will have fun too! i am in!

So I imagine myself in the situation. Smiling. Laughing. Enjoying myself.

This is what happened for the Inca Trail. I listened to my friends rave about the hikes, the natural beauty and the camping. And the you feel different when you’re so close to nature. I ignored the one friend who said that it wasn’t what she expected. Yes, the food was amazing but I did not enjoy it. It wasn’t because I wasn’t prepared enough or that I had too much equipment. Unlike many, I don’t see nature and sense awe. Instead, I look and see just trees, leaves, hills. I am often in anguish when others describe their awe and say that all humans must know it. I don’t. I didn’t enjoy the Inca Trail.

So I think that I put myself in situations in hopes that I will be like everyone else. Constantly. I say, why yes, let’s do that public speaking event. Let’s organize that huge event. That sounds like fun!

Tonight, I decided that I wanted to go on the bike ride to see the lighting of The Bay Lights. Rain! someone cautioned. With people that I knew that I didn’t vibe with. So I went anyway. But 5 minutes in, I knew that it wasn’t for me.

I do that sometimes. When I am perfectly happy (but itching) sitting at home and writing.

“Do you want a ride from 22nd?” I asked my friend as she got up to leave at Millbrae.

She put her bag down and smiled, “Oh really? Ok!”

Then a few minutes later, the train suddenly slowed down and the lights slowly dimmed. To darkness and the emergency lights went on. The train came to a stop.

I breathed deeply. Just a moment, right. But instead, it turned into something more.

After riding caltrain for more than 4 years, I knew the deal. An accident, incident…tragedy…malfunction…whatever…can last up to…3 hours. 1 hour if lucky. But ever since committing to a contract in Palo Alto, I took the train nearly every day, hoping to never experience such a thing.

Well, time had come.

A shaky female voice came over the loudspeaker, “The train has struck a vehicle and the authorities are coming. I apologize for the inconvenience. However, this is now a crime scene so you cannot leave the train. We are working our best to get you to your final destination.”

Oh crap.

My friend repeated FML FML FML as I apologized profusely for convincing her to stay to save three dollars and get back home 10 minutes earlier. She assured me that it wasn’t my fault.

So we sat in the back row of the last car in the train as we waited…for 90 minutes until whatever was cleared. An empty vehicle. Fortunately nobody was hurt except all the time sensitive issues that the commuters possibly had. My friend worked on her stuff while I attempted on my laptop to edit an essay that I wrote for Modern Love but was so lost on its theme. Then when the lights finally came back on, I looked over the pages that I needed to review before this Thursday’s workshop. Then I fell asleep. Announcements every 15 minutes.

Then the train backtracked to San Bruno where we crossed the tracks to another Northbound train which made every single stop (fortunately only 3 stops). My friend and I shivered out into the train while she was complaining about something unrelated to trains. At the track crossing, someone got all feisty, yelling.

We got on the train on the opposite side and headed back up.

I got home at 9 pm. Two hours later than expected.

The ones that capture people’s attention is almost the buzz worthy kinds. The one that seemingly are black and white wrong. The ones involving drugs, sex, and crime.

But how about relationships that consist of just miscommunication, pain and sorrow? The kind where someone lets the other person down by not showing up. The kind where words sputter out with intentions to harm. The kind where everyone separates in sorrow wondering if the friendship will still continue.

The media is not interested in those. They are not sensationalist. It’s not wrong. It’s not right. It doesn’t prove that someone is a good person or bad person. Those are just the scars we allowed to carry into high profile positions.

So what is there to hide?