July 31, 2005

This morning I ushered at St. Columban for probably the last time – and would you guess, it was a baptism. (You can always count on baptisms and funerals at St. Columban, but I’ve never heard of a wedding there.) Unlike previous weeks, I actually got some help with the ushering today.

I’m still going to keep helping St. Columban out: I’m on their five-person “commission” to redesign their website, and I constantly get called about e-mail issues at the Parish Office. So today wasn’t a very significant occasion, but it did remind me that my time in Cincinnati is coming to a close. *sniff*

June 1, 2005

Thanks everyone. I’ll miss you all.

May 30, 2005

Sometime last year, the school Counseling Dept. asked me to write out a tedious profile of myself, including things like accomplishments I’m proud of, activities I’m involved in, and the like. Naturally, I procrastinated the assignment until the night before it was due. So at around 11:30 at night, after laboring through the Biology workbook, I get to the section where I have to list ten words that would describe me. The first word that my pen could come up with for me was, of all things, maverick.

If you’ve ever met me in person, I don’t seem like a very nonconformist person. I’m not a goth, not emo, not punk, not a hippie, not “gangsta,” and not quite geeky. Between the olive green polo shirt, light tan khakis, and black tennis shoes, you’d think that I work after school as a caddy at an exclusive golf club. But I don’t.

See, the way I look at it, the typical nonconformist just wants to break rules – they want to go against the status quo. And they do it so well that they end up conforming to a counterculture (sorry Nick). That’s not the way I “deconform.” I do things my own way when I can find a good reason to.

I can only get away with calling myself a maverick because I try my best not to fall right into a stereotype, without falling right into the stereotype of a nonconformist. As an Asian-American, I suppose I’m expected to get unnaturally high grades at school, excel at math and piano, and have no life whatsoever. Although some of that may be the case with me – I claim that I have a life, but some people just won’t believe me – I have my own identity, and it’s a source of pride for me.

Part of that is in my opinions. I don’t blindly follow anyone when it comes to agreeing or disagreeing with something. I’m proud that I resisted the urge to chant “Four more years!” and wear all the Bush paraphernalia at school, and actually discussed the issues before the elections instead of complaining afterwards; proud that I’m quite possibly the only senior not to get his name in the Blueprint at least once – my name appears to be infamous in some parts.

Another part of that is in my preferences. I’m proud that I used Mozilla Firefox back when it was still called m/b and Phoenix, before anyone had even heard of it around here; that I never got into money-wasting fads like Pogs, Furbys, Jelly-Roll pens, or Pokémon, which I never would’ve enjoyed anyways. It’s the little things, too: I’m quite satisfied knowing that I have yet to eat Thai Chicken of my own volition. And since the Fourth Grade, I’ve abandoned half of the cursive script that my teachers forced upon me – namely, the capital letters.

To the left, the standard capital letter Q. To the right, my version. Ramona Quimby would be proud.

But it’s not all about pride. Really, it isn’t, and I don’t want to turn this into a bragging contest between me, myself, and I. There’s always another reason behind my desire to go the other way. For example, my intense disdain for the cliché.

If someone were to ask me what I’d like most for the world, I would not parrot the “world peace and an end to world hunger” mantra. Not that I don’t believe in an end to needless death – I do – but why repeat what ten thousand others have said, if one more mention by me, of all people, won’t help? I have to say something more meaningful to the person asking me the question. And that’s what makes retreats so hard for me, especially when we go in small groups and start going around the circle with our responses.

Hold on, let me come up with something!

In writing this essay, I’m not trying to find out what the meaning of my life is. There’s not use in asking that. I give my life a little more meaning each time I stray from the easy path of conformity, because each time I do something novel, whether it’s writing a Q the right way or writing a program in Python instead of Java, there’s a reason behind that.

So, come graduation this Wednesday, you won’t be seeing me in a pink cap and sunglasses, “just because.” Instead, you’ll be glad to know that I haven’t stopped giving purpose to my life. It’s just, I’m still thinking of something to say when I break the rules.

[Correction] Justin Lorenz dutifully points out that my name has appeared in the Blueprint – not once, but twice in the same issue. The Blueprint’s last-last-last-last issue, a little leaflet passed around on MusicFest. It mentioned me in the comprehensive list of seniors going to college (so there’s no escaping for me), and in a list of “most likely” futures for us: I was “most likely to become a gym teacher.” Can you imagine me becoming a Mr. Rasso when I grow up? Oh, I can just see it now…

  1. A last time
  2. And that’s all she wrote.
  3. Going Out: Breaking the rules
  4. Going Out: Making a point
  5. Going out