It’s Mother Fking Game Time.

Everyday, you have choices. You can choose to have a banana or an English muffin for breakfast. You can wear the green shirt, or you can wear the navy button down. You can choose to be content and complacent, or you can choose to be productive and progressive. You can choose to have a positive attitude, or you can choose to degrade yourself into a miserable state of mental anguish.

You can wake up when your alarm goes off in the morning, or you can hit snooze and be tardy to eight AM lecture for music theory. You can finish that paper, or you can go outside and toss a frisbee. You can practice your horn even though you don’t feel like it, or you can veg out completely and do nothing.You can tell yourself that there’s no way you can compete with the fantastic talent here at IU. You can feel disdain every time you pick up the trombone, because you just aren’t ever going to be good enough. You can wonder what life would be like if you had to finish school back at home.

Or you can realize that this is the opportunity of your fucking lifetime, and if you don’t take advantage of it, it will take advantage of you. You can decide every day to try harder than you did yesterday. You can bitch and moan about the shitty roommate you were given, and let your imagination run rampant with images of that guy, and curse the puddles that soak through the hem of your jeans. And then you can take all of those emotions, the crappy ones and the happy ones and the bitter ones and the sweet ones, all the hate and the love that you give and are given, and just blow them right out the fucking bell of your horn for all you’re worth. Make the sweetest, most emotionally-driven music you’ve ever made in your life.

And then, and only then, can you ask yourself if you’ve done the right thing.

You can do this, man. Take it seriously.

So don’t doubt yourself.

Just do it.

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Delano et alia (sous-titre: Canis Canem Edit).

More from CMCL-C 121. This one comes from a group project on the speech FDR made in response to the attack on Pearl Harbor on 07 December, 1941. My portion of the assignment deals with analyzing the different groups of people who would be affected by the speech. Once again, it is much better on paper. Maybe I’m just terrible at writing speeches in general. I should stick to essays and such, as the pen is also mightier than the tongue.

09 November 2008

Roosevelt had five audiences to whom he was addressing his speech. First, he was telling Congress to initiate measures to declare war on Japan. However, his statement reflects the unforeseen nature of the attack by posing the declaration not as a response, but instead as an immediate consequence of the attack; that the state of war “has existed” – not, say, “will be set forth” – between the two countries.

Second, Roosevelt was speaking to the troops. However, he doesn’t speak to them directly as he did to Congress; rather, he simply informs them of his plan of action, and that they should expect orders in the near future.

Moving further into the speech, we find a list of nations in addition to the United States including British-controlled Malaya and Hong Kong that Japan has invaded. By including this in his speech, Roosevelt informed Americans, but more importantly his global audience that Japan had not only targeted Pearl Harbor, but other islands and island nations in the Pacific as well. His international audience also included Germany and the other Axis powers, on which he was involuntarily declaring war.

Next, while they were part of the international audience, Roosevelt had a few words for Japan specifically. Prior to the attacks, they and the US were participating in negotiations. From David Lawrence’s 01 December entry in Diary of a Washington Correspondent published in 1942,

“Japan and the United States are engaging in what may be termed the most fateful piece of international jockeying the world has seen in many years. Neither government appears to want war, but each nevertheless wants all of the advantages of the victory that war might give.”

In one part of his speech, Roosevelt accuses Japan of being unashamedly misleading. Referring to a document delivered by the Japanese Ambassador to the US to the Secretary of State just after the initial attack, he states, “It contained no threat or hint of war or armed attack.” In short, Roosevelt subtly but firmly questions the integrity of his Japanese audience, because of the obvious masquerade that was their Empire.

Lastly, Roosevelt is speaking to his American audience as a whole. Since its beginning in 1939, the nation had been divided on the war. The bombing of Pearl Harbor brought us briefly together against Japan; in his speech, Roosevelt worked to preserve that unity. He was also addressing an audience doubtful of the reliability of the military defense system. To that affect, Roosevelt explains that the attack was unexpected, unprovoked, and the damage unpreventable. Rather than spelling it out, he instead procured a general sense of solidarity, the effectiveness of which cannot be questioned.

Tangent:

My roommate has a safe installed in his closet. It’s not actually bolted in, but it may as well be because it is a top-notch safe. Passcode and key entry. Now, what about me makes him uncomfortable enough to store his valuables (or whatever the hell is in there) in a safe? He obviously doesn’t trust me, but all of my things are out in the open. I have no reason not to trust him, but this safe completely violates that. Maybe he doesn’t trust the people in the hall, but I’m fairly certain that, automobiles aside, he is alone in his ownership of a security key separate from the one used to open the door.
I take offense to this. It was not out of line for him to purchase a safe, nor is it terrible that he is using one, but to have a high-security device in a situation like ours is ridiculous, and it does nothing but make me incredibly suspicious. By having a safe, he doesn’t want me to know something about him that would either embarrass him or get him in trouble. There are certain things I absolutely will not tolerate, but I am a very liberal person in that regard. I would definitely not rat him out unless there were human remains in that safe. I know he smokes, I know he drinks, and I definitely know he surfs the web for porn late at night. Does this make me think less of him as a person? Only slightly, on the account of his god-awful smoking habit. But I would still trust him, simply because I have no reason not to. But owning a safe in a relationship like this? Not only do I dislike him even more than I did originally, there are scarlet pennets streaming left and right, and I am really quite worried now for the safety of my own property.
This is really dumb. This is not what having a roommate is supposed to be like. Maybe we’ll have disagreements, but there has to be an element of trust. Any vague notion that we might have had a somewhat trusting relationship is gone. I’ll just have to sit and wait this out. And hope for the best.

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If All The Raindrops Were Lemon Drops And Gum Drops.

I spent the day at the library, whiling away at the time by doing a crap ton of work. I was amazingly efficient, and I was producing what I deemed as quality work. Quite proud of myself, I went down into the basement where I picked up some food – Chick Fil-A and a drink – and sat down to enjoy my well-earned lunch. I also grabbed a cookie. I like spices, so I bought a gingerbread cookie. It was shaped like someone had filled in a homicide scene chalk drawing with dough and baked it. Or, that was how I perceived it. I have never had an issue with this. Hell, I’ve made my own gingerbread men before and ravaged their helpless bodies with delicious icing before tearing off a chunk of their leg. Something hit me this afternoon. I was very bothered by this, and I had a sudden urge to uncover exactly what it was in the human nature that made people want to eat cookies shaped like, well, people.

Of course, I didn’t do any actual research. I may one day in the future, but for the time being I am satisfying my craving with ridiculous hypotheses. For example: people eat cookies shaped like other people to quell a subconscious desire to become spontaneously canniballistic and chomp off their neighbor’s hand. Or: the human-shaped cookie cutter was created by a man whose limbs had been eaten by cannibals, and this was his way of getting his story out. Or even: because God likes gingerbread people, sometimes even more than regular people, and certainly more than Britney Spears.

I’ll revisit this topic later on, maybe then with some actual research under my hypothetical belt. Right now I have a little man to attend to…

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Qui es-tu ?

I’ve seen him three or four times at the Café, and today I was close enough to touch him. He is indiscriminately beautiful, and he has a quiet elegance about him that intrigues me and piques my curiosity to no end. He has the softest eyes I have ever seen on a man. They are a tender shade of cedar, and emanate a warmth that I can feel in the butterflies in my stomach. His alabaster skin is flawless, and he has very slight facial hair, but not artificial designer stubble. He is perfect, and he makes my heart tumble, but I scarcely know his name. Oh, how I wish I knew.

He wore a leather jacket, slightly distressed, and spoke in a lush baritone that was harried just so ’round the corners. I couldn’t well see his hands, but I imagine them to be fluid and firm like the rest of him. I think he plays the cello.

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He was doing homework in the lounge today. I almost didn’t recognize him, but when I did it made me all warm and…no. It fought off the chill, whatever it was. I got butterflies again. I still have them.

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I believe I am no longer as smitten with him as I once was. It was not really a conscious effort on my part; it seems that the interest rather faded away, much as the snow melts or leaves fall gently from the branches to which they cling. I saw him walking away from the Annex this morning between classes. He does play cello, as evidenced by the case he carried, and today he was wearing a blue polo shirt. That is all I remember. If I see him again, there will probably be something there, but I expect it won’t be quite as strong. Perhaps just a gentle stirring, gentle as a falling leaf.

This may or may not be the end.

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Sans titre.

02 Novembre 2008 17h47

It rained today, a gentle rain, a quiet rain;
Its droplets fluttered to the ground
They landed softly; [soft! a sound]
Collected ‘neath the tires and against the pane.

Today it rained a colorful rain and down the lane
Drift the remnants of the silent storm -
Why thank you, sir, I’m feeling fine.
It’s crisp and chilly outside.
- but safe and warm, I sit beside
The fire, burning, crackling hot
Recalls to me what you are not:
Mine.

Dylan Suehiro

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You Are What You Eat.

The following is actually a speech I presented today in CMCL-C 121, Public Speaking. It works much better as an essay, I think.

For anyone who hasn’t been to Hawai’i, a tourist stepping off the jetway into the airport thinks one of two things: that we are all Hawaiian (which is true to a certain extent), or maybe that you’ve just stepped right into the heart of downtown Chinatown. If you’re very observant, you might have been able to distinguish between the women and the Micronesians. By the way, ha’ole is the term the kama’aina (locals) tend to use for anyone who is fair-skinned (or white; let’s not be overly PC here). While it is used by many people in a derogatory sense, it is more often than not just tossed around. Generally, it’s just a word. In any case, being born and raised in Hawai’i, I’ve grown up with a sort of built-in ethnic GPS. I can tell apart the Chinese and the Koreans, or the Filipinos and the Samoans. I myself am of Chinese and Japanese origin, with not a trace of native Hawaiian blood in my veins.

Hawai’i, the state, is comprised of eight major islands, whose total land area (including the relatively desolate Kaho’olawe) is a whopping 6,423 sq. mi., larger than only Connecticut, Delaware, and Rhode Island. There are cities larger than our state, and with greater populations to boot. However, even with just over 1.25 million residents, one can find representatives from nearly every race, religion, or ethnic background. It is a veritable melting pot.

With them, each group of people has brought its own distinctive traditions and cultures and, of course, food. From Japan, there is the obvious sushi and the concept of the bento (plate lunch); from China we find lup cheong, a rich and spicy pork sausage, and char siu bao, more commonly referred to in the islands as manapua. We have bulgogi, a Korean barbecue dish; traditional Hawaiian poi, or mashed taro root; and even curries from Thailand and India. But we also have turkey with mashed potatoes and all the fixings on Thanksgiving (even pumpkin pie). Some of us eat corned beef and cabbage for St. Patrick’s Day. We also do tuna casserole and even Hamburger Helper if the urge so strikes us.

The point I’m trying to make here is that while I may only be Chinese and Japanese by blood, I can identify with and appreciate all of these things. By eating these foods and experiencing the traditions of these different cultures, I have become so much more open-minded about other things in life. I don’t necessarily have to like it, but at least I will have tasted it. In short, I am what I eat.

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Quiche

Silently, I chuckle to myself at the irony.
It is just before 2:00am EST and I am awake because my father is snoring like an angry and uncooperative chainsaw and my mother has cramps in her leg. The hotel in which we are staying is less than ideal. There is an unknown substance around the shower drain and an even more frightening red spray on the bathroom floor. Several conclusions come to mind, either someone had lost a bout with a tightly closed jar of raspberry preserves, or, more vomit-inducingly, someone had had a particularly violent and explosive period and had not bothered to clear up the subsequent mess. (Really, on the tiled floor, in the grout, and, for good measure, on the door.) It is dried – nay, caked – on and upon further inspection, it is actually metallic magenta nail polish. There is a microwave in the room, but no minifridge with a minibar and minififths of miniscotch to minimize (or perhaps compound) the headache I will certainly have come tomorrow morning from my relative lack of rest.
I have come away to college to escape this, and here I lie – nonplussed, really – kept maddeningly awake by the incessant chainsaw and irate groans that are my loving, wonderful parents.
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That New House Smell

My parents have owned this house for the better part of thirty years. It is a small house, rather nondescript, in the bottom of the Hawaiian Paradise Park subdivision. Sitting on one solid acre of land, the property is dominated by a shade house that, in its glory days, was home to a multitude of edible fauna as well as several various species of dendrobiums. Now well past its prime, the shade house is chiefly home to rampant ferns and a multitude of weeds, and there are the few ‘ohia trees that, over the years, have grown through the canopy and tower over the landscape (or the relative lack thereof) like quietly decaying sentries. The acre is surrounded by what could possibly be echoes of a long deserted savanna. Tall grass and wild orchids, punctuated by scrawny trees and mangy shrubs grow endlessly over the pahoehoe that provides the foundation for everything cultivated or built here, including our house.
About twenty years ago, my parents – then somewhat newlyweds – moved here to this relative solitude from their home in Papa’ikou to begin a new life farming, of all things. In addition to the flowers, they also grew, cleaned, and sold ginger, warabi, and other produce found in abundance at most farmers’ markets. They bought this property seemingly hastily because it had the shade house, and because it was cheap. Ironically, because of the nature of the ground, there really wasn’t much loam to work, so it needed to be hauled in.
The house itself was, and so it remains, in a continual state of improvement. The last major addition was a wood porch extending around half the exterior. Back up a few years, and we have a new garage (which, to this day, is still unfinished: only half is painted); a few years more and we are extending the living room (one of the most substantial projects, and one of the few that was actually completed in its entirety. Sort of). Our brand of home improvement projects would make even the laziest handyman yawn, chiefly because they rarely even make it to the table. The ideas remain lodged in our heads, and nothing is done.

Recently, I have been getting into the habit of looking, I mean really observing, the details of the homes of people I visit. I will take notes mentally and go home to try and apply the design to our house. Strange as it may seem, I rather enjoy this practice.
A very small part of me wants to study contracting or architecture or something practical (instead of teaching music – gasp!) that I could use to really fix up this old house. Then it could actually be of value to me later on when I come back. I might not mind living in it and having to commute into town because I would enjoy coming home. I wouldn’t have to skirt around piles upon piles of paper and Readers’ Digests and the general garbage that accumulates like flotsam in the hallways and around coffee tables. I wouldn’t need to conduct searches for things like masking tape or potato chips or – God forbid – toilet paper. [Tangent: That Google Desktop application? How about one for my house? Oh man, a personal robot-butler named Larry programmed specifically to find anything in my dressers, cabinets, closets, whatever and wherever, whenever I need it. Voice-activated, with a security alarm and iPod-compatible to boot. And it also lightly fragrances the room with a peculiar odor that smells like shame.]
Really, though, I wouldn’t mind. However, renovations, as I understand them, don’t always come knocking in the form of Ty Pennington and the cast and crew of an ABC reality show. A whole year’s pay just to get the site checked out by a real contractor, then a little more to get an estimate, then even more to repeat the process and call another company to try and get a better rate. Like car insurance, or, for my mother, buying groceries. And that’s not including the cost of materials (one arm), as well as the post-requisite therapy (one leg) for the traumatic life changes and for the recent vacuous hole in the bank account.
And I just don’t have that kind of money to toss around. Spent it all on that damn robot.

Rock it

The following was written in the din of the 2008 Waiakea High School Senior Prom, 08 March 2008, held at the gymnasium. It has been slightly revised and edited from its original form, which may be found at my Facebook page.

So. Local music. Jawaiian. Reggae. Whatever. Call it what you will; its tendancy to be simplistic and repetitive simultaneously appalls me and intrigues me. I don’t fully understand it, its fans, or its artists, but maybe that’s not the point. Maybe it’s someting deeper than its elementary chord structure and excessively high decibel levels. Maybe I am analyzing it too much.
It is such an integral part of modern Hawai’i that perhaps to shun the genre is to deny oneself the opportunity to become totally immersed in the culture. To an outsider, it might sound completely foreign, and that’s sometimes how I feel: like an outsider; I can’t appreciate the inane and sometimes foolish nature of the lyrics or, again, the repetition.
When I leave here, I know that this might be one of the things I miss about home.
Then again, I might be overcome with a sense of relief: that I have finally left the ‘aina behind and abandoned my Hilo roots.

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