I’ve been working some ridiculously shifts with my boss for the past couple of days, clocking in at 8 in the morning and ending around 11 at night.  It’s tedious, tiring, and terrible and made worse by the uncomfortably close quarter my boss and I must be in. For the most part, we talked about our data, schedule, procedure, and analysis — very typical science-y things.  Rarely do we talk about life outside the lab; I don’t think he even knows that I’ve graduated from college.

Anyway, in the few instances that we did struck up a non-science related conversation, there was one that was particularly amusing to me. I thought I’d share. It begins with my boss, wiping a mango with a napkin as he reads some plots on the screen:

“You know, these were just sitting on the table for days.”

“The plots?”

“No these mangos. My wife bought a bunch of mangos and left them on the table. But none of the kids wanted to eat them. So they were just sitting there for days.”

“Interesting.”

“They were getting ripe. And you know, when a mango gets ripe, they start tasting a little leathery. Such a crime.”

“That’s why I never let a mango ripe.”

“Oh you eat them right away?”

“Oh no. I just never buy them. I don’t like mangos.”

“Really? You don’t like mangos. How could you not like mangos?”

“I mean I’m ok with it. I’m not crazy about it. They’re like apples.”

“How are they like apples?”

“Like I’d eat it because it’s there. But if it’s not I’d be like ok whatever. I wouldn’t go out of my way to get one.”

“So what fruit do you like?”

“Hmm…I guess pineapple.”

“Jesus, so exotic.”

“Well, I really like pineapples, but I don’t think I’d buy them either. They’re expensive and kind of a pain to prepare. Actually I don’t really eat fruits.”

“I guess I shouldn’t offer you this mango then.”

“Oh no worries. I mean I’d eat it and probably like it. But you can have it because I don’t really like mangos. I mean I’m not crazy about it. If it’s a pineapple, then that’s a different story. Pineapples and peaches.”

“I’m just going to eat this mango.”

“Probably a good idea.”

“I can’t listen to music when I run. Fucks up my rhythm.” 

“Oh I don’t listen to music. I listen to the Economist podcast.”

“You pretentious douche.”

“Yeah…it gets a little difficult with the monocle on.”

We made a camp fire, and my nephew was about to throw in another pine cone:

“Hao! Stop throwing those in! We have like 20 pine cones already.”

“But I want 21.”

It was our sister-in-law’s birthday, and we decided to throw her a piñata-themed birthday party.  We got the piñata somewhere in a deep recluse of San Jose, a place decorated with the fabulous colors of the rainbow. We marched in with confidence and demanded from the cashier, give us the most surprising piñata you have! This isn’t for a scanty 9 nine year old! This is for a grown woman with too much talent to measure! And so the cashier looked at us and pondered and smiled and said I got just the thing and went to the back. When he came out, he gave us a commonplace donkey piñata. We gave each other a skeptical glance and readied ourselves to leave until the cashier yelled, but wait, it’s what’s inside that’s makes the piñata. You just have to see. Not wanting to waste more time on this search, we paid the man his due and trotted off.

The party was in full swing. We hung the piñata from the backyard tree and got every one to gather around. The first swing is for the birthday girl! She stepped up to the hitting spot, was blindfolded and given a bat. She coiled back and with all her might, swung at the piñata. Whack! It broke in two, and then out came a donkey, dazed and confused at first, and then frantically jumped over the fence and trotted away.

I read this article recently about Asian-Americans and how, because of our Asian culture/values, we were raised to be risk-averse, socially awkward, followers, meek, etc.  And because of these characteristics, we could never be assertive, creative leaders and never fully be accepted by the dominant “white” culture.  The article is sort of a response to the Tiger Mom article.

I don’t like reading articles like this because 1) it always makes me feel insecure, 2) it inadvertently reinforces stereotypes, and 3) issues of race are boring and redundant. I can’t stand it. I couldn’t even finish the rest of the article because of the massive bs that was seeping through the pages and into my brain. It was hurting me. My brain was crying, why are you doing this? Because I need you to be angry right now!

The author comes off as this pretentious, self-indulgent douche, who thinks he’s better than the rest of the Asians because he was able to break from the “Asian” mold. He confuses “American” with “White” as if American culture was strictly a White thing, which everyone should strive to be. I don’t like this guy. I want to fight this dude in a ring. Seriously. I feel like a lot of things can be solved through a little rough housing. Some people deserve to be punched. He’ll probably act like the better man by saying, “This is stupid. What are we? Still living in the 16th century?” And I’ll be like, “Thou stop acting like a bitch!”

I think when I was younger, I would’ve been up in arms and probably agreed and indulge myself with the author’s elitist perspective on it. Now I just don’t care. All of this Asian shit. I don’t care. It’s petty and lame, and it’s tiring. I’m too preoccupied with just being me. I suppose sharing this article sort of defeats the purpose of my intent of putting it to rest and moving on but I wanted to share it because I thought the comments were interesting, and it seems like many of them share the same sentiment.

“Ah fuck, fuck, fuck.”

“What?”

“Someone sub for me!”

“What is it?

“My shoulder. I dislocated it again.”

“Oh Jesus…I thought you forgot to turn off the stove or something.”

It was the championship game, the last game for all the marbles. I was feeling pumped at the time, ready to give it all I got, when just barely five minutes in, my shoulder gave out. Sadly it wasn’t from any fancy play; I ran into someone’s screen, and my arm was caught in an awkward position. I felt my arm slowly slip out of its socket, and I went down and rolled out like a tumble weed. My teammates rushed towards me to see what the fuck was going on.

“This better not be one of your lame jokes.”

And then they saw me clutch my arm.

“It’s his lame arm!”

The team called a time out and helped me up. I scrambled to the sideline and found the nearest chair to sit on. 

“You need ice?”

“No, I’m good. Give me a few minutes.”

I knew the drill. I dislocated my shoulder many times before. I lost count after 13… five years ago. It was a good thing a doctor taught me how to relocate the shoulder after I injured it for the 5th time. “You again? Well if this is going to be habit, might as well save some time and money. Let me show you something.”  

So I proceeded to pop it back in as my teammates played on. I sat back and with both arms, grabbed my knee. Slowly I straightened my knee to pull the dislocated arm slightly outward and then letting it slide back into its socket. Done. And that took a mere 2 minutes to do. My shoulder was slightly sore, but it felt pretty good. Team time out.

“How’s my comedian?”

“Pretty good. A little sore, but I’ll manage.”

“Nice. It’s a good thing Big Mike decided to show up today. We wouldn’t have enough players right now.”

Big Mike grinned, “Hopefully, no one else dislocates their shoulder. Knock on wood.”

And then minutes later, Mike tripped and went down like a tree. 

“Aaaahhhhhhh!”

“Is this some kind of sick joke!”

Big Mike sprained his ankle and wasn’t capable of standing up. They carried him to the side where I was sitting and let him lay there for the rest of the game. In his grimace, he yelled, “Get em team!” Now we were down two players, no subs and only playing with four guys/gals. We played like this for about five minutes and then found ourselves down 15 points. “Time out!”  Everyone huddled, panting with hands on the knees, and Mike, lying on floor and looking from afar, was yelling rallying words, “You can do it!” “Defense. Defense. Defense” “Heeeeeyyyyy”.

“Can someone shut him up?”

“Hey listen up! They’re killing us down in the post.  We need to rotate a lot quicker and help down low on the big man. And keep moving the ball around”

“I don’t know how much quicker I can move.  I am fucking tired.”

“Same. Maybe we should bring in Don. How about it Donnie boy? You up for it?”

They all looked at me. I wanted to play. I had to play. I didn’t drive 50 miles to play just five minutes. And I’d been playing so well in the past games and worked so hard to get better. There’s no way I’m done yet.

“I can play.”

“Your arm’s ok?”

“No, but I can still shoot.”

“Whoa, you sure dude?”

“Yeah I’ll be ok. I’ll take number 7.”

And I was back in the game.  I played harder than I usually did, played mostly with my left arm and cautiously kept my right (bad) arm close to me.  And I did all right.  Made a few jumpers and played some solid defense. We able to cut the lead down to 5 with about a minute to go. But in the end they held us off and ran the clock down. Buzz. End of the game, and we lost the championship. Our team regrouped.

“Well that sucked.”

We went back to benches to grab our stuff.  My friend came up to me:

“Hey, way to play.” 

“Thanks.”

“How’s the shoulder?”

“All right.”

“Hmm. I’m very impressed, you know. Didn’t think you were going to play.”

“Yeah I didn’t think so either.” Pause. “I couldn’t go out like that, Sam. Not like that.”

“Yeah. I know. I know you wouldn’t.”

I was sitting in the back of the class, daydreaming my usual daydream, when suddenly this noise exploded at me:

“HAWWHAEEEHAHAHA.”

What the fuck was that, I thought as fear and panic began to creep in.  It was a laughter unlike any I have ever heard of.  I sat up straight and quickly scanned the room like a frightened squirrel, wondering whether or not he had left the stove on.  I didn’t need to look far to locate the source, however, for it was sitting right in front me, a twenty something year-old woman whose head was still thrown back and hair dangling from side to side.  Jesus, of course, I thought.  That’s how I would have pictured her laughter.  As I began to calm a little, I slid back down into my chair and continued my daydream and wondered whether or not I had left the stove on.

My classmates created this facebook group called the SJSU Teaching Cohort, which is basically a forum for people to share ideas, ask questions, and discuss about the latest issues and trends in education.  It’s a way for us to stay informed and grow together as teachers.

“Who wants to get happy hour tomorrow before class starts?”

The only post so far to pique my interest, I instantly replied: “I love happy!”

“Let’s meet up in front of Sweeney around 3.”

I was looking forward to this little get together before my multicultural class, a class that doesn’t require me to remain sober.  It is painstakingly boring and offensive.  Each day, the instructor, in her trying efforts, instills in us this idea that all White people are racist, whether they believe or not (confusingly enough, the instructor is White).  ”That’s not fair!” cried a White classmate.  ”See, now you’re empathizing with minorities,” replied the White instructor.  And they continue to argue back in forth, as I sat there, watching and listening with the rest of the class who not seeming to realize that I was the only minority in the classroom.  The appropriate thing to do is to say something only a minority could say and get everyone to calm the fuck down.  That would be the appropriate thing.  However, there was still 2 hours left, and I needed something to get me through the day.

Happy hour came soon enough, and I waited for the gang to arrive in front of the deteriorating building where we all agreed to meet, the building I’m going to have my class in.  Well, it turns out no one was as enthusiastic about happy hour as me and the guy who suggested it were.  He was the only one that came, and after acknowledging each other’s presence, we gave each other a half-assed shrug.  Not even a full shrug, which by itself, is already a half-assed response.  The laziness was impeccable on each of our part.  The future of students’ education.

We trekked across campus to a nearby bar, ordered our drinks, and shot the shit.  Well, he talked mostly while I just sat there listening.  One thing I noticed about most teachers-to-be is their love for talking and hearing themselves talk.  They can talk for hours and hours, stretching a mundane topic to an unnecessary length of time.  ”And I said, well I didn’t know there was difference between the toothpastes.”  I was listening in on a conversation one time between two teachers, and I swear, if you piece the snippets of conversation together, it’ll be two long monologues with nothing in common, except maybe a child named Ernie.  Not that I really mind these conversations, so long as they are amusing.  But this one wasn’t, and I was too polite in my current state to interrupt.

After the monologue, we got up and left. It was 4 o’clock, and class has already started.  Fuck it.  I decided to just take my time and arrive 10 minutes late.  I sneaked in the back as the teacher wrote something on the chalkboard.  4:15.  Three hours and 15 minutes to go.  ”Who can tell me what we talked about last week?”  Not in the mood to answer, I dazed out and stared at the person’s head in front me, wondering what it would be like to lecture for one hour straight.  And after a while, even that became a drag.