There is a poem by the Turkish poet Nazim Hikmet called, “Things I Didn’t Know I Loved.” The title gets me right off the bat - the idea of the sudden, bittersweet recognition of feelings you forgot to have, or refused to acknowledge. It’s the poem of a man who knows what it’s like to be wrenched away suddenly and meaninglessly from all that he knew and didn’t realize he loved at the time.

In the smallest of ways, I feel like Nazim Hikmet right now. I’ve spent the last nine months of my life wishing I was somewhere else, doing something different. And now I finally have the opportunity to make that a reality. In two weeks time, this life I’ve been leading will be but a distant memory.

All of the sudden, I’m gripped with the fear that I missed something, or WILL miss something. Did I go to enough bars? Should I have told my parents I loved them more? Am I preemptively ending something before it even began?

I realize this is mostly fear-induced nostalgia. But the fear of not appreciating everything I had before me while I had the chance always rings true, especially for a wandering type like me. I think I may be afflicted with chronic dissatisfaction (so I’ve been told). If that is the case, I shall probably spend the next few months of my life in a new city, wondering if I should have stayed in the old one.

If and when that happens, I guess I’ll attempt my own poem. I’ll call it, “Things I’m Sure I Love Right Now.” Hopefully that will be enough to affect even my most cynical of dispositions.

A few weeks ago, Amy Chua caused an uproar when an excerpt of her new book, Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother, was published in the Wall Street Journal. In the article, broadly titled, “Why Chinese Mothers Are Superior,” she argues that Eastern parenting styles are much more successful in raising successful children than Western parenting styles. By enforcing strict routines and high standards, providing harsh criticism as a basis for motivation, and allowing their children only the most “intellectual” of pursuits, Chua claims that Tiger Mothers ensure for their children a life full of accomplishment.

Reading the article, I was overcome with a combination of horror and recognition. Horror, because some of the parenting stories that Chua recounted were understandably upsetting, like the time she called her older daughter “garbage” or forced her younger daughter to sit at the piano for hours without food, water, or a bathroom break until she had perfected a certain piece.

But with those stories came a tinge of recognition. See, I was raised by a “Tiger Mother” of sorts. And while my mother was nowhere near as strict as Amy Chua seems to be, I can certainly identify with many aspects of Eastern parenting that Ms. Chua describes.

She explains that the reason why Asian parents can get away with so many things that Western parents can’t is because they do not have the same conception, or rather, concern, for self-esteem as Western parents do. I have heard many Asian parents, mine included, call their children fat or lazy. But it has never seemed like a judgment-rather a statement of fact. And I think that is the most important aspect to highlight when trying to understand Eastern parenting. Asian parents just tell it like it is. There is no coddling, no sugar-coating or beating around the bush.

My own mother’s response to the article? “I think she’s right. The reason why you’re not the best is because I didn’t raise you this way.” And she’s absolutely right. In some ways.

I was raised in a strange middle-ground between Western and Eastern parenting - my mother is Thai, and my father is Jewish-American. While I’ve lived abroad, I was mostly raised in the United States. My mother tried to enforce activities like piano and dance when I was younger, but gave up pretty easily once she saw that I would prefer to pursue other interests instead, like theatre (one of the activities Ms. Chua adamantly insisted her children could not participate in). But while my mother might not have been stereotypically Asian in that sense, she was in other ways. Her every criticism used to send me reeling, and she would respond by calling me too sensitive. At times, it was hard to reconcile the way my mother was raising me emotionally with what I saw on Western television or in movies as “good parenting” - that is to say, extremely close-knit and reassuring. At times, the discrepancy between how I perceived American children being raised and my own upbringing would upset me.  It took me years to accept the fact that when it came to my parents, I would forever be straddling two different worlds and thus two different parenting styles.

As I look back on my childhood and reflect on the person I have become, I think I was raised with a healthy dose of both East and West. There are times when I wish my parents had pushed me much like Ms. Chua pushed her children to develop a talent or skill, rather than letting me give up the piano or ballet when I got sick of it. And sometimes I wish my mother had offered me more emotional support and realized the conflicting implications of raising her half-Asian daughter in a Western world in the way that she did.

It’s easy to criticize Ms. Chua or the Eastern method of parenting, especially from a Western perspective which puts so much emphasis on self-esteem and instilling confidence in one-self. But it is undeniably the Asian part of my upbringing that has truly brought strength to my character. If I have learned anything from my Tiger Mother, it has been emotional strength and true self-awareness. I know that I can be better, in every way. That I am not even close to being my best (something that even now my mother continues to remind me). While my mother’s continual critiques motivate me to become more successful, I can always count on my father to voice what I know both he and my mother believe, even if she can’t say it: “We love you anyway.” 

The average grocery store aisle in New York City is 3 feet wide. Shopping carts are half the size than usual, and believe it or not, there are rush hours. At one point during college, I resolved to only get groceries between the hours of midnight and 6am in order to avoid the crowds.

For someone who doesn’t usually suffer from claustrophobia, I would find myself getting sweaty and nervous every time I had to claw my way through the cereal aisle. But I have recently become re-accustomed to the semi-surburban life, where grocery store aisles feel like giant highways, and the carts like SUVs.

It’s times like these when I don’t miss New York. Leisurely pushing my cart along without feeling rushed or getting bumped into by 64095345 people. I also don’t miss carrying my heavy groceries the long 6 blocks to my apartment. These days it’s just a short walk to my car.

But for every one thing I don’t miss about New York City, there are invariably 3 things that I do. I don’t miss the mountains of blackened snow piled up on the street corners after every blizzard, but I do miss the curmudgeonly camaraderie of everyone suffering from the same inconvenience. I don’t miss fighting my way to grab the last box of over-priced Cheerios from the shelf, but I do miss the sense of pride and relief after having made it through the long and labored walk home, bags in hand.

I miss people-watching up close. I miss the crazy antics of strangers and friends. Of strangers with friends. Sometimes I even miss fighting the elements.

But we must try to be happy wherever we find ourselves. And so, I will remind myself of the many reasons why I hated New York, like small aisles. And rats.

This afternoon I went to a cafe near the restaurant that I often go to in between shifts at work. It’s your standard independent coffeehouse, with exposed brick, tattooed baristas, and funky music playing in the background that can be found in any gentrified neighborhood in most any city. I swear I’ve gone to at least three just like it in Cleveland, New York, even Paris.

As I was leaving, I passed a 20-something girl who was just coming in— and did a double take. We were wearing the exact same jacket. It was army green, with faux-flannel lining (which, as one of my friends says, means it must be warm by the very virtue of resembling flannel), and an enormous hood with fur trim. Clearly this girl had picked up the same issue of InStyle as I had that deemed the military look was back in. (In my defense, I get that magazine for free). I looked at her and thought to myself, “I’m so unoriginal.”

There I was, wearing a “trendy” coat (which… [dare I admit it?] came from Old Navy), buzzing on the final dregs of the “full-bodied, spicy, with hints of cherry” coffee blend from Indonesia that some blond hipster with a set of knives drawn on his bicep had just suggested to me. Might I add that I had just spent the last two hours perusing the latest issue of The New Yorker. God, I’m an asshole.

However, I still maintain that I am not a “hipster” (also known as the most derogatory term of our generation - perhaps one day I’ll expand upon why). Who likes being called a hipster? The way I see it, at least I’m self-aware of the aesthetic similarities I share with “those” people. And isn’t acceptance the first step toward rehabilitation?

Not willing to give up my new coat though…

Since graduating from college, I have been pursuing an illustrious career in the service industry.  I just started a new job a few months ago as a hostess at an upscale restaurant downtown.  The restaurant is pretty nice – two floors, decorated in various shades of beige, with cushy suede seats and an open kitchen.  My job consists of standing by the front door and smiling maniacally at guests upon arrival, then seating them.  In between that, I spend my time staring out across the street at the comings and goings of various hobos, winos, and people about town.

My boss reminds me somewhat of a bulldog.  He’s stocky and thick, and tends to cough uncontrollably with his mouth closed, which always makes him sound like he’s growling.  I don’t know if the bulldog image is a subconscious allusion to where he went to school or just a coincidence.

The other day I came in to work to find a handgun stashed in the hostess stand.  I was rifling around, looking for a pen, when all of the sudden I felt something square and smooth.  I took it out to examine – it was sitting in a holster – and it took me a few moments before I could register that I HAD A GUN IN MY HAND.  I put it back like a shot and when I asked my boss about it, he said, “Oh, my bad,” and stuffed it in the back of his pants like he was John Wayne.

Other notable events at work include watching “The Mad Hatter” walk back and forth in front of the restaurant.  The Mad Hatter wears an oversized white-and-red-striped hat, the tacky kind you buy at Disney World, and pushes around a stroller made for twins with two baby dolls sitting in it.  He sings and dances and asks you to please help me feed my babies, laughing all the while.  He’s homeless, but at least he’s got a sense of humor.

Another time a woman came in to ask about the menu.  I saw her coming from afar – the entrance to the restaurant is made of glass (which means people run smack into it from time to time, leaving grease marks on the pane with their foreheads).  She stopped just outside the door, took a puff on her cigarette, put it gently on the ground for safekeeping, came in, and blew a cloud of smoke in my face.  Then she asked, “Do y’all have collard greens?”

It’s certainly not my dream job, but at least it gives me decent stories.

As per request, my thoughts on marriage. Pretend I’m Carrie Bradshaw, coquettishly typing this up on my laptop in some ridiculous outfit, but minus the endless rhetorical questions and stupidly placed ellipses (“Is marriage really marriage? Or is it just… marriage?”).

Anyways, this shall be somewhat of a Jekyll-and-Hyde type argument because, despite my staunch-ish views on the subject, I must admit that I haven’t been able to entirely escape the effects of a lifetime spent observing seductive images in popular culture that portray marriage as the apex of domestic bliss. Damn those reality shows on TLC that make me fantasize about wedding dresses and bridal parties.

But all romantic notions aside, I’m not really sure I believe in the institution of marriage. Well, maybe I shouldn’t put it that way. It’s not that I don’t believe in it per se, I think I’m mostly just wary of it. Which is odd, considering the fact that my parents have been more or less happily married for 25 years. In fact, their marriage is the only one that has lasted in my entire immediate family. That might have something to do with it.

Either way, I think that marriage is a practice that has been grossly exploited. Just look at Henry VIII. In the 16th century, marriage was a religiously sanctioned exercise in procreation which King Henry ended up abusing in a frantic effort to produce a suitable male heir. Nowadays, marriage is no longer solely a prerequisite for having children - one can be married without children, or have children without being married. Not that this wasn’t the case in the 16th century, the laws of human reproduction being what they are, but now these situations are more widely accepted. Which goes to show, in my opinion, the outdated nature of this institution and especially how we define it.

The way I see it, marriage has become unnecessary in this day and age. Not being married does not preclude getting involved with another person and building a life and a family together. That I do not scoff at by any means. It’s the false illusion of the redeeming qualities of marriage that I don’t approve of. Marriage by no means breeds commitment or fidelity. The rates of divorce worldwide provide more than enough evidence that putting a ring on it isn’t going to necessarily make a relationship last any longer or work out any better. While marriage does offer great legal benefits, it can also become somewhat of a nuisance when things go badly and you’re trying to get out of your contract (otherwise known as getting a divorce). The ever-present, looming specter of divorce is probably another reason why I regard marriage with such a skeptical eye. I guess I figure that if I avoid marriage, then I can avoid divorce too.

German politician Gabriele Pauli might have found a way to avoid the pesky issue of divorce however. She ran for the head of the Bavarian Christian Social Union in 2007 and proposed that a seven-year limit be imposed on all marriages. At the end of every seven-year period, marriages would automatically be dissolved and couples would have the option of either walking away or choosing to renew their vows for another seven years. Obviously she didn’t get elected, but I thought it was a pretty enlightened idea at the time. It addresses the theory that a marriage loses its luster after seven years - otherwise known as the “seven-year itch” - an idea made infamous by the film that features the iconic image of Marilyn Monroe standing over a steam vent in a white dress. Pauli’s proposal also addresses all the legal issues that I balk at when it comes to marriage. Of course it’s a lot easier to say on paper than to put into practice. The legal issues wouldn’t necessarily go away - what if you have children? Also, what if one partner wants to renew the vows while the other doesn’t? On the whole though, I appreciate the idea of having a fixed time-length commitment. It kind of takes the pressure off of “forever”.

There is something admirable about those who believe in “forever” though. Whether it’s their first time or their fifth time, it’s nice to see people be so hopeful and trusting with their hearts. Also - who doesn’t love a great, drunken wedding?

To sum it up, I believe in commitment over marriage, since the two are not always synonymous. I’m not completely ruling out marriage in my personal future, but it’s not likely to be something I do anytime soon, or rush into. (My parents, on the other hand, got engaged after knowing each other for only a few days). Did I mention that not-getting-married is the trendy thing to do these days? Everyone is doing it. Or not doing it, rather.

I’m sure my views on the subject might change as I get older and possibly more sentimental. For now though, I’m still a cynic.

I just finished watching the latest episode of Mad Men, and I have to say that Peggy Olson is quickly becoming my new favorite character in the series. She’s been given the best quips and most interesting story arcs these past few episodes - I loved the party scene a few weeks ago when that beatnik chick was coming on to her:

Peggy: I have a boyfriend.

Beat Chick: Does he own your vagina?

Peggy: No, but he’s renting it.

In this most recent episode, she stripped naked to prove a point to an idiotic art director. It was clever and hilarious. I love Peggy because she’s evolved from being a stick in the mud to blossoming into a funny, sarcastic, smart woman. Clearly she is the woman that today’s woman is meant to most identify with. She’s the mother of today’s woman, to be more precise. Or maybe the grandmother. She’s a career gal, she (usually) doesn’t take shit from men, she’s smart and hard-working, she even gave up premature motherhood in the first season.

Meanwhile, my love affair with Don Draper is quickly dwindling. I am just waiting for Matthew Weiner to write him a story arc where he gets syphilis. It seems like every season we get to see this mystery man unravel… only to see him unravel again and again. Remember when he ran away to California? I really thought that was the end. Clearly, it wasn’t. As the show continues, he seems to become even more flawed. Not that he wasn’t flawed from the beginning, but it was somehow disguised by his glamour. Because Don Draper certainly is glamorous - he’s one part gentleman, one part lothario, which proves to be a lethal combination. He’s a creative genuis, manipulative yet strangely moral. Which is to say he upholds a certain moral code, albeit one that doesn’t include fidelity. But other than that, morality seems to be very important to him. He believes in what’s “right” - whatever that is.

But I think the glamour has worn off now. His promiscuity is getting tiresome. Tonight he got rejected by that new blonde consultant, and it was more exciting to me than any sex scene. Let’s hope Don can get his shit together soon. Or that maybe Peggy gets a promotion!

There are a few things I aspire to in life. One is to create a more authentic film adaptation of the classic, Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Let’s be honest - in Capote’s short yet captivating story of a gold digger, Holly Golightly is actually more of a potty-mouthed prostitute than a glamorous vixen with a podunk past. But that’s neither here nor there… Another one of my lofty creative goals which will probably never be fulfilled is to establish a women’s magazine that isn’t just falsely empowering gendered bullshit. Forgive my incendiary tone - sometimes I just like to say shit like that for dramatic effect.

But honestly. I opened up a Marie Claire today to find a rather interesting article on “househusbands” - the new phenomenon of stay-at-home dads paired with working moms. The article, while meant to bend our apparently staunch view of gender roles, attempts to enlighten the reader as to the benefits and pitfalls of such an arrangement. It goes on to follow the stories of several real-life couples where the mother is the sole breadwinner and the father takes care of the kids. Sound familiar? In actuality, this is the exact same arrangement American families have been living with for decades, but now the fact that it’s reversed makes it revolutionary in some way.

The title caption of the story reads, “What’s the new status symbol for alpha women? … A stay-at-home hubby.” Stop right there. Are we supposed to see stay-at-home dads as the new trophy wives? Apparently. The author goes on to quote working moms as saying, “A man who changes diapers is just sexy.” Don’t get me wrong - I guess it is somewhat titillating to see people behave out of the norm, but what I find most “sexy” about the image of a man say, changing a diaper or doing the dishes is the idea of sharing the load - equal partnership in parenting and the daily responsibilities therein.

One househusband, PJ, mentions how angry he gets when other women treat his status as a stay-at-home dad as a dalliance. “Are you babysitting today? Giving Mommy a break?” they coo. “Babysitting?! I’m his father,” seethes PJ. Which is exactly the right attitude to have. Why should it be shocking to see a father taking equal care of his child? Because the traditional stipulations of our value system as well as our economic system tend to keep one parent in the home - which usually ends up being the mother.

However, whatever respect I garnered for PJ was lost a few paragraphs later when, after a particularly rough day at home with the kids, he turns to his wife and says, “I don’t know if I’m man enough to be a woman.” What does that even mean??! He’s not “man” enough to have a vagina? To possess a uterus? Or just not man enough to take care of children? He attempts to equate bravery and strength with masculinity… while ironically admitting that he feels neither brave nor strong enough to fulfill this typically female gender role. Which also inherently implies that women are stronger than men. What is revolutionary about this, pray tell?

The whole thing reminds me of this Malian movie I saw last year - Taafe Fanga, which means “Skirt Power”. It takes place in a Dogon village where the gender roles are similarly entrenched. A village woman, sick of being bossed around and beaten by her husband, pretends to be a mystical spirit and orders the men of the village to turn power over to the women. The men and the women switch places, with the men wearing skirts and the women wearing pants. The men learn the hardships of being women, and the women revel in working the men down to the bone. Eventually, both sides realize that they’ve merely switched places and haven’t actually done anything to better the lot of the other. Clearly the message in the film is about equality. Instead of merely switching places and seeing how the other half lives, they realize they must make concessions and compromise to reach a healthy balance.

In this Marie Claire article, many of the househusbands admit to feeling the same symptoms of malaise as their female counterparts did nearly half a century ago when Betty Friedan first wrote The Feminine Mystique. In addition to feeling unfulfilled, they ask themselves, “What is my true worth as a person if I don’t make a paycheck?” I love how the author of this article fails to connect the dots to realize that replacing stay-at-home women with stay-at-home men does not resolve those existential questions.

Perhaps we can learn a thing or two from the Swedes when it comes to housewives vs. househusbands. Did you know that in Sweden both parents are offered parental leave after a baby is born? In fact, the “minority” parent (the one who will be less in the home) is required to take at least 2 months off in order to encourage more equal parenting.

Let’s just say, if things haven’t changed around here in ten years… I’m moving to Sweden.

P.S. Here is the link to the original article if you want to take a look and see if you agree or disagree with me - http://www.marieclaire.com/sex-love/relationship-issues/articles/stay-at-home-husband-status-symbol

So the other day I was looking after someone else’s children, as I am apt to do when I am hard up for cash, when the son, Luke, asked me if I believe in Santa Claus. I sidestepped the question by explaining that I’m Jewish (sort of) and don’t celebrate Christmas, making my faith in Santa Claus irrelevant. Later on the subject of vampires came up, creatures whom he staunchly claimed not to believe in. I know this is an 8-year old we’re talking about, but I thought it was kind of funny that he could believe in one mystical creature but not the other. Granted, vampires are a little scarier to comprehend than Santa Claus, but if we can claim to believe in at least one of these sorts of beings, doesn’t it make sense that we should probably believe in all of them?

I believe this was the premise that was used to win the case in Miracle on 34th Street - the remake with that cute girl who played Matilda who hasn’t had a career since.  The idea being that if we can believe in any kind of god, then we must allow for the possibility of the existence of Santa Claus, vampires, werewolves, you name it.  Of course, this same argument works in reverse - if you do not believe in any god, then you probably don’t believe in any other mystical beings either.

This clearly isn’t a new hypothesis by any means, but I think I believe in a God. Kind of. Either way, I told Luke I believe in vampires, so I guess that’s that.