The very first chapter books I read on my own were Uncle Arthur's Bedtime Stories. The ancient-looking volumes belonged my Grandma and her siblings when they were kids and had that delicious old book smell and yellowed pages softened from use. Though the doctrine of the Christian morality tales never really stuck with me, I didn't escape entirely from their influence.
I distinctly remember reading one particular tale. It centered around the predictable poor-but-jovial family gearing up to celebrate Christmas. They didn't have any presents, but they shared love and a faith in God, so off they went to church on Christmas Eve. The story sets up that the little boy protagonist is a nice, selfless kid, unconcerned about his lack of presents under the tree and uncomplainingly helping out with his tiny baby sister. His angelic-like state is heightened to the point of puke-worthy as he is overjoyed when his aunt and uncle give him some mundane, practical gift, and he is gracious and overjoyed, thinking it the climax of his Christmas.
The details are a little fuzzy at this point, but the families are all gathered in the church, and after the typical Jesusy stuff, the preacher turns to the kids and unveils a tree of gifts. The toys and fancy clothes astound the poor kids into a grateful oblivion, and the protagonist boy eyes a snazzy toy train. It is the only selfish want he expresses throughout the whole story. There is some random method of allowing the kids to select a gift from the tree. For some reason that also escapes me, the boy sacrifices his train to get a coat for his sister or lets some other even poorer boy get the train. I don't know; the reason doesn't even matter.
The point was, I was incredibly disappointed for the boy. Since he was bent on refusing to show actual human emotion, I felt it for him. I think he eventually gets a train (from the benevolent preacher who saw what was going on), but the crushing disappointment quite powerful. Upon my many re-readings of the collection, I always skipped that story to avoid having to feel that way all over again.
Even at my young age, I looked around at the vast array of toys surrounding me and felt horribly guilty about not giving them to orphans.
Every time I see a charity, especially around the holidays, I feel a pang of guilt for not being like the little boy with that damn train. For Christmas my seventh grade year, I acquired two crisp 100 dollar bills. We were having a fundraiser at school for victims of the tsunami, and I tried to sneak one of the bills to school to donate. My mother caught me and prohibited the altruistic action. "But Mom," I protested, "I will still have a hundred dollars left!" Really, I was thinking of the boy and the train.
Maybe it's the profound affect of the first chapter book I read independently (and foreshadowing of the importance books would always play in my life), or the power of Uncle Arthur's storytelling (doubtful), or the simple moral at the heart of it all. Either way, I want every little boy to have his train.
This basic motivation keeps me gravitating towards a career with some non-prophet organization. What better way to spend my life than assuaging that guilt developed so young? Maybe the story affected me so powerfully because helping people is what I'm meant to do. I don't really believe in fate, but I do believe in predisposition. Maybe good ole Uncle Arthur was onto something.
Showing posts with label career. Show all posts
Showing posts with label career. Show all posts
Nov 16, 2011
Oct 25, 2010
Eggs in a Basket
I have been struggling lately, for the first time in a long time, about what I want I want to do for the rest of my life. It is no longer a distant thought, something hazy in the distance to work toward in tiny steps, a small talk question made by distant relatives. It is real and it is now and I need to figure some things out. I don't like jumping into anything without my head clear and certain, especially not something this important.
Lots of small inhibitions nag at my subconscious when I think of possible careers, and I've lost sight of the big pictures I think.
The big picture that's been most alluring as of late is teaching. But why?
There's something about teaching people to write that appeals to me. While there are always some people who just don't care to learn, there are others who have been robbed of the opportunity. There is the person that has a writer within them, but nobody's taken the time to bring him or her out. I want to bring the writers out.
Once the intimidation is gone and they get past the "I'm just not a writer phase" they begin to see the merits in it. Expressing yourself is not as easy as Madonna makes it seem; people simply never learn how to do it. It opens up a world to them, a deeper world that connects them to humanity in ways they didn't know existed.
I also like watching confidence build. I like helping people own their words, realize they have thoughts that matter and the ability to articulate them. I love when somebody starts tutoring scared, nervous, and unsure and starts coming smiling, proud, and anticipatory. They can't wait to show what they've accomplished. They're actually excited.
I feel like that's the most efficient and humanitarian thing I have the ability to do.
But is it at the compromise of my own writing? That is the last thing I am willing to give up. But I don't like putting all my eggs in the basket of me, my writing, my career hinging on my unproven abilities. I feel safer cultivating the abilities of others.
I know it wouldn't be such a stretch to do both, but it seems like I have to somehow choose which takes priority now. I've spent 18 years working on me. Maybe the best way to improve myself is to help improve others?
And I'm not even into a college yet.
Lots of small inhibitions nag at my subconscious when I think of possible careers, and I've lost sight of the big pictures I think.
The big picture that's been most alluring as of late is teaching. But why?
There's something about teaching people to write that appeals to me. While there are always some people who just don't care to learn, there are others who have been robbed of the opportunity. There is the person that has a writer within them, but nobody's taken the time to bring him or her out. I want to bring the writers out.
Once the intimidation is gone and they get past the "I'm just not a writer phase" they begin to see the merits in it. Expressing yourself is not as easy as Madonna makes it seem; people simply never learn how to do it. It opens up a world to them, a deeper world that connects them to humanity in ways they didn't know existed.
I also like watching confidence build. I like helping people own their words, realize they have thoughts that matter and the ability to articulate them. I love when somebody starts tutoring scared, nervous, and unsure and starts coming smiling, proud, and anticipatory. They can't wait to show what they've accomplished. They're actually excited.
I feel like that's the most efficient and humanitarian thing I have the ability to do.
But is it at the compromise of my own writing? That is the last thing I am willing to give up. But I don't like putting all my eggs in the basket of me, my writing, my career hinging on my unproven abilities. I feel safer cultivating the abilities of others.
I know it wouldn't be such a stretch to do both, but it seems like I have to somehow choose which takes priority now. I've spent 18 years working on me. Maybe the best way to improve myself is to help improve others?
And I'm not even into a college yet.
Mar 27, 2010
Career Counselling at VIP Menswear
Yesterday, I glimpsed into my friend's future. It was unsettling.
Perhaps I'm just too ideological (see: title) or perhaps I'm too cynical, or perhaps a little of both. But at the age of 18, he has mapped out his entire life, pushing mundane wares and living for the next promotion, that comes with some small impressive-sounding vacation.
But my problem is, that vacation lasts a day or two or maybe even a week. You work for it the other 362 days a year.
He kept saying, "I'm not having as much fun now, but I can retire when I'm 40 and have all the fun I could ever want."
In theory, that sounds pretty good. But when you think about it, is that really the best approach? What makes life "fun"?
People. Family and friends. They're a necessity. Where do people make lifelong friendships that carry into adulthood? College and work. Where will he be spending his college and first few working years? Selling himself into oblivion for a week-long vacation and a fluffy title. By the time he's 40, he might have all the money he needs or wants. But who is going to have the fun with? His precious knives?
This guy in a tux shop was reinforcing my friend's plans. "There aren't many young people like yourself these days. It's a shame. No ambition, no opening of opportunities." I'm thinking," dude, you sell suit coats in a mall store. " His 18-year-old ambition worked out for him...
Lately, I've been agonizing over my choice of major, of career path. Money, job security, everything like that truly does matter. My friend has plenty of financial security right now, and it will probably carry him through college. My financial future is uncertain.
But I don't want to be tied to some mundane career path because I *might* be an executive by the time I'm 23. When I'm 23, I want to be 23, not 40 years old. I want to be a college student, not a college student on the side. I want to experience each stage of life when I'm standing on that stage. I don't want to miss any more than I already have.
What is financial security when you're miserable? He's already coordinating his life around his high school job. I want my life to be my main priority. I want to seek happiness, not a paycheck.
That experience helped me to realize my true priorities. It's easy to get caught up in the numbers of things, like my friend. He's so taken in by the brainwashing of his bosses who just want somebody to run the footwork for them. I'm not going to settle for the work in front of me. I'm going to find the work I want to do. I might not be rich by the time I'm 23, but I won't be doling out life advice to teenagers in tux shops when I'm 40.
Perhaps I'm just too ideological (see: title) or perhaps I'm too cynical, or perhaps a little of both. But at the age of 18, he has mapped out his entire life, pushing mundane wares and living for the next promotion, that comes with some small impressive-sounding vacation.
But my problem is, that vacation lasts a day or two or maybe even a week. You work for it the other 362 days a year.
He kept saying, "I'm not having as much fun now, but I can retire when I'm 40 and have all the fun I could ever want."
In theory, that sounds pretty good. But when you think about it, is that really the best approach? What makes life "fun"?
People. Family and friends. They're a necessity. Where do people make lifelong friendships that carry into adulthood? College and work. Where will he be spending his college and first few working years? Selling himself into oblivion for a week-long vacation and a fluffy title. By the time he's 40, he might have all the money he needs or wants. But who is going to have the fun with? His precious knives?
This guy in a tux shop was reinforcing my friend's plans. "There aren't many young people like yourself these days. It's a shame. No ambition, no opening of opportunities." I'm thinking," dude, you sell suit coats in a mall store. " His 18-year-old ambition worked out for him...
Lately, I've been agonizing over my choice of major, of career path. Money, job security, everything like that truly does matter. My friend has plenty of financial security right now, and it will probably carry him through college. My financial future is uncertain.
But I don't want to be tied to some mundane career path because I *might* be an executive by the time I'm 23. When I'm 23, I want to be 23, not 40 years old. I want to be a college student, not a college student on the side. I want to experience each stage of life when I'm standing on that stage. I don't want to miss any more than I already have.
What is financial security when you're miserable? He's already coordinating his life around his high school job. I want my life to be my main priority. I want to seek happiness, not a paycheck.
That experience helped me to realize my true priorities. It's easy to get caught up in the numbers of things, like my friend. He's so taken in by the brainwashing of his bosses who just want somebody to run the footwork for them. I'm not going to settle for the work in front of me. I'm going to find the work I want to do. I might not be rich by the time I'm 23, but I won't be doling out life advice to teenagers in tux shops when I'm 40.
Jul 1, 2009
A Rough Beginning
I found this beginning to an essay on my computer and thought it would make a nice blog entry... so I finished up and think I rather like the result.
Nobody wants to read anything ordinary.
This is the assumption I worked under during most of my life. Despite a desperate desire to write something the world would want to read, my position on the planet was just too ordinary to commit to paper. Essentially, “Who cares?” was the only thought my feeble stab at prose rendered. What is an aspiring author to do when life provides no inspiration? This plagued me throughout my blissfully plague-free teen hood.
My family, the usual inspiration for outrageous memoirs, was mundane. I love them, but they were just not quirky enough. I live in a white house with black shutters, a mini-van, a pool. A middle-class portrait, complete with a cat on the porch mysteriously matching the color scheme. Nothing, to me, was unusual. Not interesting enough for anybody to care.
Yet, if somebody told me my life sucked or that it was boring, I would be sorely offended. I like my little life and all the little things in it. It's this appreciation for what you have, taught to me second-nature by my ordinary parents, where one might find some literary inspiration.
When I was little, I wanted to be a scientist. What kind varied, but mostly settled upon geologist. I liked rocks. I picked them up everywhere I went and stuffed them in my pockets, bookbag, whatever I could find. Mom would fuss at me when crystal quartz showed up in the wash along with solitary socks and shrunken t-shirts. Instead of looking ahead of me when I walked, I looked down at the ground, searching for a gem among the run-of-the-mill grass and concrete and dirt. When I found the perfect rock, which to my mother or most anyone else was only gravel, I would wash and polish it and store it away in my carefully organized shoeboxes.
It wasn't until fourth grade, when writing short stories was woven into the school curriculum in the form of a standardized test, did I discover the magic of the written word. While everyone else groaned about another essay, I was actually sad when I reached the last few lines of the confining paper. I was excited about each new prompt, a new opportunity to open up a world nobody else had the key to. I could string words together into sentences that no other human being might form in exactly the same way. I found bigger canvases with no lines and rubrics to box me in, and wrote and wrote. The stories came out almost effortlessly when I was eight, and they were pretty good for an eight-year-old.
In fifth grade, the weekly reading of our stories became the highlight of my existence. Most of the time, nobody in that class knew my name or even cared to. But for those odd three or five minutes that was reading my words aloud, everybody was listening. The true me that I never dared expose to my classmates lifted itself off the page and danced around on their desks, flashy and unashamed. I couldn't dare show any personality without the cover of fiction, but I could type every piece of my soul onto that copy paper.
I wouldn't admit it then, but I truly loved reading those stories to that class I otherwise regarded with utmost distaste. I loved their admiring glances, wishing they had thought of that description or that character. I loved my teacher's heaps of praise and perfect marks. I was sold. Writing was what I wanted, needed to do. Most people don't find their passion at 11 years old, and people always tell me I'll change my mind like when I went from geologist to author, but I know deep down that writing is the only thing in this world that will give me that feeling of full satisfaction.
But alas writing is not an easy profession, lifestyle, or dream. Making it is almost impossible and what works in a fifth grade classroom does not work at Random House. I'm fully aware of the improbability of ever feeling the way I did in front of my elementary school peers. I've caught very few glimpses of that feeling since then, and have dedicated my life to finding it again.
Maybe I didn't really have it wrong in the fourth grade. The way to go about being an actual writer, besides practicing and dreaming, is to be like a rock-hunting geologist. Perhaps when I was stowing away half of the topsoil in west Texas, I was still being the writer I now want to be; I was just substituting rocks for words. I still don't watch where I'm walking- I observe the world around me. I stuff my experiences into notebooks and Microsoft word files and the dusty catacombs in the back of my mind. Life's gravel-those ideas and thoughts and words-are still in my metaphorical shoeboxes. Now I have to take the step I never took in my short-lived geology career. I need wash the ideas and polish the thoughts and try to spit them out as something valuable to somebody else. Valuable rocks go to the Smithsonian; valuable words go into the New York Times.
It needs some more polishing, this essay, but I actually don't hate it. This is quite the feat for myself. I need to pop it a few more times into the proverbial rock-tumbler that is my crazy mind, but I'm pretty sure there's a shiny, perfect gem waiting underneath to be uncovered.
Nobody wants to read anything ordinary.
This is the assumption I worked under during most of my life. Despite a desperate desire to write something the world would want to read, my position on the planet was just too ordinary to commit to paper. Essentially, “Who cares?” was the only thought my feeble stab at prose rendered. What is an aspiring author to do when life provides no inspiration? This plagued me throughout my blissfully plague-free teen hood.
My family, the usual inspiration for outrageous memoirs, was mundane. I love them, but they were just not quirky enough. I live in a white house with black shutters, a mini-van, a pool. A middle-class portrait, complete with a cat on the porch mysteriously matching the color scheme. Nothing, to me, was unusual. Not interesting enough for anybody to care.
Yet, if somebody told me my life sucked or that it was boring, I would be sorely offended. I like my little life and all the little things in it. It's this appreciation for what you have, taught to me second-nature by my ordinary parents, where one might find some literary inspiration.
When I was little, I wanted to be a scientist. What kind varied, but mostly settled upon geologist. I liked rocks. I picked them up everywhere I went and stuffed them in my pockets, bookbag, whatever I could find. Mom would fuss at me when crystal quartz showed up in the wash along with solitary socks and shrunken t-shirts. Instead of looking ahead of me when I walked, I looked down at the ground, searching for a gem among the run-of-the-mill grass and concrete and dirt. When I found the perfect rock, which to my mother or most anyone else was only gravel, I would wash and polish it and store it away in my carefully organized shoeboxes.
It wasn't until fourth grade, when writing short stories was woven into the school curriculum in the form of a standardized test, did I discover the magic of the written word. While everyone else groaned about another essay, I was actually sad when I reached the last few lines of the confining paper. I was excited about each new prompt, a new opportunity to open up a world nobody else had the key to. I could string words together into sentences that no other human being might form in exactly the same way. I found bigger canvases with no lines and rubrics to box me in, and wrote and wrote. The stories came out almost effortlessly when I was eight, and they were pretty good for an eight-year-old.
In fifth grade, the weekly reading of our stories became the highlight of my existence. Most of the time, nobody in that class knew my name or even cared to. But for those odd three or five minutes that was reading my words aloud, everybody was listening. The true me that I never dared expose to my classmates lifted itself off the page and danced around on their desks, flashy and unashamed. I couldn't dare show any personality without the cover of fiction, but I could type every piece of my soul onto that copy paper.
I wouldn't admit it then, but I truly loved reading those stories to that class I otherwise regarded with utmost distaste. I loved their admiring glances, wishing they had thought of that description or that character. I loved my teacher's heaps of praise and perfect marks. I was sold. Writing was what I wanted, needed to do. Most people don't find their passion at 11 years old, and people always tell me I'll change my mind like when I went from geologist to author, but I know deep down that writing is the only thing in this world that will give me that feeling of full satisfaction.
But alas writing is not an easy profession, lifestyle, or dream. Making it is almost impossible and what works in a fifth grade classroom does not work at Random House. I'm fully aware of the improbability of ever feeling the way I did in front of my elementary school peers. I've caught very few glimpses of that feeling since then, and have dedicated my life to finding it again.
Maybe I didn't really have it wrong in the fourth grade. The way to go about being an actual writer, besides practicing and dreaming, is to be like a rock-hunting geologist. Perhaps when I was stowing away half of the topsoil in west Texas, I was still being the writer I now want to be; I was just substituting rocks for words. I still don't watch where I'm walking- I observe the world around me. I stuff my experiences into notebooks and Microsoft word files and the dusty catacombs in the back of my mind. Life's gravel-those ideas and thoughts and words-are still in my metaphorical shoeboxes. Now I have to take the step I never took in my short-lived geology career. I need wash the ideas and polish the thoughts and try to spit them out as something valuable to somebody else. Valuable rocks go to the Smithsonian; valuable words go into the New York Times.
It needs some more polishing, this essay, but I actually don't hate it. This is quite the feat for myself. I need to pop it a few more times into the proverbial rock-tumbler that is my crazy mind, but I'm pretty sure there's a shiny, perfect gem waiting underneath to be uncovered.
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