Mourning a dream of the symphony

Without any prior warning, I experienced a profound moment of mourning while sitting in the audience for the Seattle Symphony, listening to the Nimrod movement of Elgar's Enigma Variations.
I wanted to listen to the performance since it had been announced - the piece is both fascinating and beautiful - but (no offence to Elgar and Elgar fans) it has never been my favorite. I was expecting to go in, enjoy a lovely performance, and walk out largely feeling the same as I had when I first walked in. This is not what occurred.
In the movements prior to Nimrod, I was already marveling in the sound. Having been away from playing in an orchestral setting for over a year, my emotions were a wash of reminiscence.
The moment Nimrod started, having being played attacca from the prior movement, I knew that something was different. The symphony had dedicated the movement to the recent horrific attack in Las Vegas over the past week, and the sound as a result was heavy with grief. My breath caught in my throat as the music swelled, and although there was a small smile on my face I found myself slowly crying.
I would like to say that I was overwhelmed with emotion from heartbreak over the violence in Nevada, but while it was present in my mind, I knew that I was crying for an entirely different reason.
Since I was in middle school I knew I wanted to be a musician. By the time I was in high school, I knew I wanted to play in a symphony. I wanted to be a part of that sound. I wanted to play beautiful, legendary music.
Throughout my collegiate career, I had slowly abandoned that dream. Not with anger, and not out of spite, but because my interests had shifted. I wanted to create new music. I wanted to make sounds no one had heard before. I am lucky to say that these days, I am living that idea. I am making that idea into a career. I find joy in the music that I make. I am absolutely thrilled in the direction that my life has turned. But along the way, I had not yet said goodbye to the symphony. I had not yet grieved the loss of my dream.
So sitting in the audience, looking up at the symphony, I said my goodbyes.

A letter, to myself. Love, me.

"Dear me, in 10 years."
You wrote one of these right?
Your middle/high school English teacher told you to write it. You'd put everything that was happening now, and everything that you hoped would happen. Then they'd make you write down your address, and they said they'd send it to you in 10 years.

I never got mine. I think it would be near impossible for my high school to know where to send it. At that point, I lived in a vastly different house, my parents have moved twice since then. I've moved across the country. Chances are, I'm never going to see it.

Here's the thing though - my high school self had absolutely no idea what was going to happen. And if I were to write a letter to myself in ten years from now, I am positive that I would get it all wrong now too.

So instead, we're going to pretend. Let's pretend that the internet stores all the information, from every possible timeline, forwards and backwards. Let's pretend that 10 years ago, when I was 14, I found this blog, and I read this. This is what I would want my 14 year old self to know.

Dear 14 Year Old Me,

Your life sucks right now. Seriously, I know. You can't really imagine it getting any worse.
And it does. Sorry. That's going to happen.

Wait don't stop reading yet! There's something amazing at the end of this letter, just read the whole thing okay? Promise? Alright.

Really though, things are about to get awful. You're gonna think about jumping off of the roof of a building. You're gonna dangle your foot over the side and that's a really dumb idea so don't do that. You don't hurt yourself, or anyone else, but it does freak out literally everyone who knows you so don't. Save yourself the long winded speeches.

Things are gonna get so freaking bad that you're gonna think that you're all alone in the dang universe. But you're gonna have the best friends you could possibly rely on. Everyone's gonna be there for you. Well, not everyone, but everyone who really counts. (The ones you'll keep in touch with! More on that later.)

Not gonna lie me, you're gonna make a lot of mistakes. I mean a ton of them. And you're gonna hurt some people - not intentionally - but you're gonna have to live with that. But you are stubborn as a mule, and you're gonna learn that despite anyone's advice you have a tendency to do whatever you feel is right regardless. Sometimes you're right. A lot of the times you aren't. But they're your mistakes. Own them. Learn from them.    

You're gonna go through some shit. And it's gonna suck. But you're gonna survive. You're gonna do better than survive. You're gonna get out.

Yes.

You heard me.

You fucking escape. You get out of that hellhole. It's AWESOME.

And yes, you'll stop talking to like, 90% of the people you know in school. It's GREAT. You're gonna meet new people. People who actually get you, and not just pretend to get you, so that they can get more gossip on you to spread around to those really awful people. You'll have friends, in the plural. You won't be soul crushingly lonely anymore. Surprise! Wow, I sound lame. Yep, sorry, you continue to be pretty socially awkward and you never really quite get over that. But that's okay, because you learn to communicate like a normal human being. 

You're gonna do exactly what you want to do with your life. Isn't that fucking crazy? Turns out, you don't totally suck at that thing you really enjoy doing. That's cool. And it turns into a career. It's gonna be a real struggle, but it's so worth it. I mean, literally everything in your life hasn't been easy and will continue to be a struggle so you're already used to that. 

Speaking of which, you stop puking after running the mile sometime in high school! Running is still hard, but at least you become slightly more athletically competent. No more puking up your guts from a little cardio though. No, you don't get weird and sporty, don't worry about that. You do martial arts and circus stuff. All that shit in movies that you really wish you were physically able to try? You just do it because you reach a point where your body doesn't revolt anymore from exercise. Hooray!

I'm sure you're wondering the most important thing, and yes. 
Yes you did. 
Your hair is purple and it looks awesome. It is exactly what you hoped it would look like on your head. 

So yeah, get ready me. You're gonna start jumping through hurdles like you wouldn't believe. Buckle up, and try to enjoy the ride. In the end, you'll get out. You're gonna be grateful for everyday you wake up instead of wondering why you bothered with waking up. Life is gonna be beautiful and you'll pretend to be jaded, but really you're gonna be so happy it'll be hard convincing people that you're jaded. It's that good. So hang in there. Chin up, don't let the assholes bring you down.

With much love,
Me, 24 years old.

Mind Pollution and Resistance

After the confirmation of Betsy DeVos as Secretary of Education - a new bill has been tabled not even 24 hours later.

HR 899 is one sentence. "The Department of Education (ED) shall terminate on December 31, 2018."

Representative Thomas Massie of Kentucky is the one who created this bill, stating that: “Unelected bureaucrats in Washington, D.C. should not be in charge of our children’s intellectual and moral development.”

The segment about "moral development" is what worries me the most, especially after the election of creationist Betsy DeVos. Of course, if the bill passed she would be out of a job, but the result would essentially be the same.  An emphasis on private schooling, or the introduction of "moral teachings" in school - and in the United States - that means bringing Christianity into the school and ignoring all other religions as if they were merely fairy tales.


When looking at arguments by politicians on why they voted for Betsy Devos, or why they're backing HR 899, I see mostly the same rhetoric. Dangerous liberal schools are "polluting" young minds. One nation under God means God should be emphasized. These teachers are dangerous for our children.

While it's not quite on the same level, I can't help but be reminded of my mother, and the way that she grew up. My mother was a young child during the Cultural Revolution in China. My mother saw first-hand when it started to become dangerous to go to school. The Red Guard came and dragged teachers out of their classrooms and beat them for "polluting young minds". Schools were shut down.

My mother was taught in the basement of a library by her grandfather, alongside other children from her neighborhood. She remembers the hushed tones - sometimes waiting in darkness and silence to make sure that the guard was not near. Her grandfather loved learning, and loved books. He saved books from burning in that basement. He taught the children regardless of the risk, because he knew they had to learn.

My mother loves learning. She ended up eventually getting her bachelor's and master's degree in education, and she instilled that love of learning in me from a young age. But she rarely talks about those days, hiding away, soaking up knowledge in a secret classroom.

Every time I see a news article about whats happening in politics, I can't help but see the connections to the past. A light goes off in my head, an alarm of warning. I wish I could say that the phone calls we do have helped, but despite the volume of phone calls to the senate creating record numbers in opposition to Betsy DeVos, I can't help but feel a little bit defeated. I can't help but feel dread. But most of all, I feel the need to resist. I just hope that if the time came, I could be as brave as my great-grandfather, but mostly I hope that we do not let that ever come to pass.

I almost quit.

I know that for the past few days people have been waiting for a large facebook post telling everyone how thankful I am for coming to UW to get my degree, how happy I am now, etc etc etc.
This is the reason why I have not posted it yet. I am trying to figure out the words to politely say, but there is a dark cloud hanging over my head that I have to address before I can say anything just yet.

So I have to write this. I have to tell you, that the last two years of my life has been one of the biggest struggles with my own self-worth, my confidence, my desire to continue in the arts at all.

In short: Graduate school killed my love of music.

Don't go anywhere just yet - this is an overarching statement that I need to address in pieces.

First: I am aware that love comes from within. No one can take away your passion. Something inside me died and I allowed it to, and that is my own fault.

Secondly: Academia didn't single-handedly destroy it. It just helped along a feeling that I was already growing before I came to Seattle.

Thirdly: I still love music. But differently now.

To understand how this happens, you need context. I can't remember a time in which I was not passionate about new music - music written by living composers, that crossed boundaries and pushed the limits of my instrument. I remember my senior year of HIGH SCHOOL, where I competed in the Nebraska Solo and Ensemble: I played a piece that included timbral trills and multiphonics. I didn't even come close to "placing" - the judges thought my piece was too avant-guard. But I didn't care. I wanted to play it anyway, and was thrilled that most of my classmates came to my performance, and that I got to share this cool music with them.

When I auditioned to graduate school, when the teachers would ask me: "Do you have any questions?" I would always ask: "Can you tell me a little bit about your modern ensemble program?" I wanted to be involved. I wanted to focus on new music. When I arrived to UW, I contacted programs, I told them I was there. I contacted the composition department too, telling them I'd workshop their student's pieces. I practically threw myself at the modern ensemble saying: "Please - I don't even need to play flute, just let me be a part of this."

But they never did.

Not one single time at my time at UW did I play in the university modern ensemble.
It didn't stop me. I became involved in local professional modern ensembles - but they already had their own musicians, and I rarely got to play. I contacted composer students on my own: and made great relationships which resulted in great pieces. I joined the Harry Partch Ensemble, where I learned Bass Marimba and Harmonic Cannons, and sometimes microtonal flute. But I wanted to be recognized in this at the university. I wanted to be the "go-to" girl for modern flute. But every time I offered to play, I was told that someone else would do it instead.

I tried to work on Voice by Takemitsu, and was told to work on Ibert instead. I tried to work on a new piece involving flute and electronics, and had to play Muczynski instead. Every time I presented to work on something new and exciting, I was questioned about the worth of the piece, whether it would add to my career or detract, whether I should even bother.

And slowly, I kept getting pushed down in every turn. I began to feel like it didn't matter what I believed in, I was not good enough as a player to be involved in the world I loved.

So I practiced. I played standard works. I drilled patterns over and over and over to make my technical skills better. I spent hours in the practice room working on pieces that I didn't care for but knew I needed to learn to better myself. I had to be GOOD ENOUGH. I had to be BETTER THAN GOOD ENOUGH. I needed to show that I can do it, and I deserve it. And I began to hate.

In the meantime, I did shows with my flute/guitar duo. I traveled to Chicago, Phoenix, Denver, and even Canada. I presented strange new works at each show and felt accomplished. But I would bring this information back to the university and no one would bat an eye. No one cared. I wasn't winning national/international competitions on Nielson flute concerto or playing in extremely expensive summer orchestra festivals. I may as well have been taking a vacation on all those days as far as they cared. And so I sank further into depression. I sought out opportunities to play on my own. I pushed my way into playing Ferneyhough. I went behind the flute studio's back to play with SO Percussion.

I spent days in bed, questioning how badly I wanted to be here. Did I even deserve to do what I love? I wasn't good enough anyway. I should just quit and do something else with my life.

I made small victories. I got to play a piece with multiphonics in my spring recital. I got to play Berio in my Master's recital. But my studies always made it seem like these were just bonuses for me - I was allowed to play them, not that I should. Apathy took over in my practice and my attitude towards my flute.

But there was one thing that kept me going.

Taiko.

Twice a week, I would put down my flute, regardless of how much I felt like I needed to practice. I would grab my bachi (drumsticks), and go to taiko.

I was not good. I understood when I needed to hit the drum, but not how. I heard the rhythms but was unable to accomplish it with my untrained hands.

But not once did the team say: "Sorry, you can't play." I played on every song I could. I hit the practice drums when they played songs I didn't know. I kept working to get better, but no matter how bad I was - I could make music.

I felt the energy of the group. I found joy in our music, in being a part of a ensemble that is more like a family.

Every single weekend, I learned how to love music again. It was a lesson that I needed to learn over and over. Some days was harder than others. Sometime I would come to practice feeling as if I couldn't play music anymore, but not an hour later I'd realize how wrong I was.

I remembered that music could be fun.

Taiko is the reason why I stayed. Without it, there's absolutely no way I'd have my Master of Music degree now.

Now that I've graduated, I want to re-learn how to love the flute. I want to become passionate about new music again. I have to re-learn how to love myself, and to truly believe that I am worth it. I know how I'm going to do it. I'm going to take my attitude towards taiko and apply it to my flute. I am so excited to be able to work on myself and get rid of my self-loathing.
And of course, I'm going to taiko practice.

I wore men's boxer briefs for a day and the world didn't implode

Yes, my friends, you read that correctly. I wore men's underwear, for an entire day. The last time I reviewed underwear, you seemed to enjoy it, so now I'm back to review the underwear designed for people without periods. (if you missed it, I reviewed the underwear for people with periods here.)

Now you might be asking yourself - why? Why would you want/need to wear underwear that is specifically designed for someone that isn't you? Well I had an opportunity and I took it. An opportunity which presented itself in the form of my own laziness when it comes to laundry.

You see, I had run out of clean underwear. In my foolishness and laziness, I had allowed this to happen, and was in dire need of some clean undergarments. Enter: my boyfriend. A man who decided to buy a pack of new boxer briefs and not take them out of the package for a month. So I took one of his - brand new, straight from the package.

I wore them for a full day. I was warned by my boyfriend that I would be spending most of my time pulling them down my thighs as they have a tendency to rise up and bunch at the top of the legs. But I had a fairly different experience. So here's some good and some bad about wearing the underwear for the opposite gender.

Initial reaction:
Comfy as fuck. That being said, I had a ton of fabric - some of it on my legs. Which was super bizarre, and took a while to get used to.

Visible Fabric:
I had to determine what clothing to wear by my underwear. Not that I normally wear super short shorts, but the underwear quite literally would be visible through the bottom of my shorts if I wasn't careful. Also, the underwear came up to my friggin belly-button. No crop tops for me.

Totally Wedgie-less:
Which is awesome. Furthermore, I didn't have to pull them down at any point, the underwear never bunched up. My boyfriend and I determined that I don't have his (awesome) hulk thighs so I didn't have his problem.

Obviously designed for man-butt:
Yeah. No seriously, my butt looked like a sad, deflated grey balloon. Lets be honest here - girls' underwear is cute. Regardless of whether we're wearing it so others can see it or if we just have that knowledge for ourselves, we don't wear pink underwear covered in koalas because koalas make the undies innately more comfortable. We wear it because it's friggin adorable. Men's boxer briefs (in grey) are not adorable.

Obviously designed for...something in the front:
Also awkward. I didn't do anything with it.

Final thoughts?
There wasn't anything terrible about wearing men's boxer briefs, and they were comfy as heck. I was really happy wearing them all day, and I basically forgot that I was doing anything out of the ordinary pretty quickly.
It really comes down to preference. Wanna wear men's boxer briefs? By all means, do it. It's just clothing. Wear what you like.

Never Underestimate an 8 Year Old's Love for Cheetos

So for the past week I've been teaching kungfu/wushu at a bible camp. Not because I'm religious (in any way), but because mega-churches pay real damn good for you to babysit their kids for two hours while they learn something "culturally relevant". The class structure is quite interesting - the kids go to church for an hour, come to learn martial arts from me for two hours, and then they have 10 minutes of bible study at the end with volunteer parents. I typically warm-up during the church part, but I do hear the 10 minute section where they talk about their bit of scripture for the day.

Well during this 10 minute talk, the kids also get a snack. Today's snack - Cheetos.
The volunteer decided that today, she was going to liken Jesus to bread. Basically, she was saying that bread fills you up, but Jesus does so too - spiritually.

Keep in mind, these students are like, 7 - 11 years old. They've been running around yelling their heads off for the past two hours pretending to be Po from Kungfu Panda, and they're pretty much 100% done listening.

So upon hearing that "Jesus fills you up", one of the 8 year olds excitedly responds: "Cheetos fill me up!"
The volunteer then said: "Yes, but you'll get tired of Cheetos. You will never get tired of Jesus!"
The 8 year old thinks about this, frowns and then says: "I never get tired of Cheetos. I eat Cheetos all the time."
The volunteer, now losing her patience says: "Well, sometimes we get tired of the things we like to eat, but Jesus still fills us - " and as she's talking, the 8 year old - quite ignoring the volunteer at this point states:
"God is like Cheetos - for the world."

Cue me - trying desperately hard not to laugh. This kid had quite made up his mind about the nature of God and Cheetos as a whole. This is the point in which the parents showed up to take everyone home, and the volunteer had to stop her lecture. Cheetos won today. And frankly, if that kid loves Cheetos that much - I think his analogy was spot on for bible school.

The weird shadow that is my relationship with my mom.

Warning: If you've experienced verbal/emotional abuse, physical abuse, or gaslighting, you may not want to read this if you feel that you may find this brings back bad memories. 

I'm having trouble catching my breath.

I've never written about this before, but after what I found today, I feel like I have to say something or I'll just explode.

Back in 2011, I wrote this article, talking about my relationship with my mother and the nature of tiger moms in America. Many of you found it very informative, and interesting, and I felt like after writing the piece I had gained a better understanding of my mother. Looking back, it occurred to me that I only focused on the aspects of our relationship that fell into the "Tiger Mom" category - anything that didn't fit was thrown out. It wasn't a complete evaluation of our relationship. There was this dark strange cloud that hovered in the background, that I wasn't sure how to approach. My upbringing certainly included many aspects of the Tiger Mom phenomenon - but there was more to it.

Today, by nearly complete accident, I discovered the missing half. The weird shadow. I am relieved that I am not alone. I am terrified by the implications.

After stumbling around on the internet, my boyfriend found a reddit entitled: Raised by Narcissists - which is a support group for survivors of narcissist parents. After reading a few posts, he told me that I should give it a look.

I was dumbfounded.

It was like looking back in my own diary.

"My mother says: I love you more than anyone. I care for you the most. Do you know where you'd be if I didn't care for you? You should be grateful."

"My mother says I make my food the wrong way. If I don't like something, she'll make it for me and tell me that I've always liked it that way."

"Today, I ruined Easter."

"Today, I ruined Christmas."

"Am I just overreacting?"

"I'm thinking of running away from home."

As I read the articles, a million scenarios ran through my head.
When I was 10, my mother called me a demon child, and that I couldn't possibly be her child. She had raised me better. All because I wouldn't drink cough syrup.

When I was 15, my mother told me that I was all she had in the world. She disowned me the next day because we had an argument over something trivial.

I've been disowned 12 times.

When I was 18, my mother tackled me beside 144th st. She was screaming at me in the car. I had escaped when she was stopped at a light. I thought I had gotten away, but she screeched the car into a u-turn, drove the car off the side of the road (nearly hitting me), slammed the breaks, and than tackled me on the sidewalk. Because I had forgotten a bag in the car - this was my fault.

I've ruined Christmas more times than I can count. I can't remember a Christmas with my family where I didn't end up crying for most of the days. I learned to hate the holidays since I was very young.

When I was a senior in high school, I ran away from home. I couldn't take it anymore. My mother pleaded and guilted me into coming home during the summer (She missed me. She needed me to be home. What if something happened to her while I was gone?), but I almost cut all ties back then.

When people told me that their mom was their best friend, I honestly couldn't believe it. I couldn't imagine being friends with my mom. I had an obligation to love and fulfill my mother's wishes - I wasn't her friend. I thought they were lying to make me jealous.

I had trust issues with anyone older than 25 until I hit graduate school.

My mother constantly tells me that I need designer clothes and bags to fit her image of what I need to look like to be "presentable". She throws away my old clothes when I'm not looking.

Thing is, I never thought my mom was abusive.  I just thought that she was weird, controlling, and just a tiger a mom. But I was wrong. Turns out, there's a lot of people out there with parents like mine. And I didn't really understand it until I read this article:
6 Signs You Were Raised by a Narcissist

Aside from the section about siblings, every single bullet fit.

It's strange that this article came into my life at this time. Now that I live in Seattle, I'm farther away from my mother than I've ever been. She's still controlling in little ways - if she texts me and I don't respond in 30 minutes, she panics and sends a million and 1 messages asking if I'm OK. This sounds sweet, but not when she sends that to me at 4am.

I visit her less and less.
It keeps me sane.
And I feel like a terrible person for it. She's my mother. And I love her. She supports me, and she loves me.

But when a simple question of whether to park in one parking spot or the other can become a full blown screaming match - it's hard for me to want to be around her.

The last bullet on the list mentions that people who are raised by narcissists tend to have a lack of a sense of self, wants and needs. And as I near graduation, I find this more true than anything. I have been following my mother's wants and goals for my entire life. She wanted me to get all A's in school, so I did. She wanted me to get a full-ride to my undergrad, so I did. She wanted me to get my master's degree, and now I'm almost done. Without her goals to follow, I no longer understand what I want in life. I can't determine what is my own desires verses what she's told me is my own desires.

I feel lost.
But now, at least, I know that I'm not alone. I'm not some crazy person who made up this weird thing where my mother can love me, but still cause me harm. It's not just me.

It's a start.

I'll figure out where to go next, but it's gonna take time.

For now, I'll just breathe.