It's moving day!

More accurately, it's moving week / month / time. All the posts have been transferred, but formatting and links get wonky during a transition (not unlike myself) so the cleanup process will take a bit more time.

New home: fernlim.com/blog.

To The Graduate

A year from now, you might face the same sinking feeling that's been nipping at my heels for the past month… It's been a year since I graduated? Already?! What do I even have to show for it?

You might feel the need to report on what you've been up to out there in the real world in a nice succinct "I'm going somewhere with my life" manner. Accountability, to put a positive spin on it. Social pressure, to spin it in the other direction.

When I graduated, I felt the pressure to have an awesome answer to the question "So, what's next?" But that question never leaves. A year later, the big picture is still ambiguous. I highly doubt it'll resolve into crystal clear clarity anytime soon.

In other words, it's completely okay to not know what you're doing next or what "The Plan" is.

So go explore. Read. Meet people. Talk to strangers. Enter their worlds. Expand your world. Do stuff.

But stop for stillness and reflection.

And though I'm giving advice, take advice lightly. Don't discount it. But take it lightly.

It's a balance.

Because we need the guidance of others. But we also need to understand how their paths parallel or intersect with our own, even if we don’t have a clear picture of where our path is headed.

Guess where I'm going?

This time? I've learned.

I visited two candy stores (read: my mom's bookshelf and the SDSU library) for a delicious feast four whole months before heading off to China. Which isn't exactly the one year I was aiming for, but it's certainly better than the two weeks and threefourfive days I gave myself to devour every tidbit of information I could find on Australia and New Zealand last year.

This trip will be rather different because I'll living in one location (studying Chinese) for one year rather than traipsing all over two countries for two months.

After that year? I don't know. Ambiguity seems to be a common theme in life. More language studies? (Scholarships please!) Job searching in the U.S.? Job searching in China? I'm open to anything.

Two and a half months ago, I wrote about goals and said that I'd wander the paths towards 3D animation, graphic design and learning Chinese in China.

3D animation? Reality check. I have a very, very, very long way to go. I'm not giving you up. But you are now in much further realms of possible futures.

Graphic design? Reality check. There is so much more to learn. But you're alive and kicking.

(Learning the above, plus some real-world design projects.)

Studying Chinese in China? Reality check. All the wandering keeps leading back to this path even when I resisted. It hasn't sunk it yet. But that's okay. I'm going to China.

I'm going to China!

Life Lessons Learned on a Bus

Another installment of a peek into the mind of my high school self. Another installment of I haven't really changed. Another installment of why don't I write like this anymore? Another installment of, right, I don't take the time to. Another installment of, well what are you going to do about it?

Now, go.

Life Lessons Learned on a Bus

As I stroll toward the bus stop, I restlessly finger the smooth token whose clones have found a daily home in the pocket of my favorite jeans. Before, its dulled golden center rimmed with a wide band of silver spoke of exciting travels in some foreign country. Now, it’s just the fare for my ride home. I used to scrutinize every facet of the token and feel the raised words and designs. I used to get excited like a five year old in Disneyland when I got to take the bus home. But repetition takes its toll. The once impressive token and adventurous bus ride has turned into a tedious and unwanted addition to my busy high school days.

Lost in my thoughts, I step up into the bus, feed the token to the hungry fare box and wait absentmindedly for my bus transfer. The bus driver hands the rectangular slip to me and without a second thought, I trundle toward the back of the bus hunting for a seat, preferably several empty ones in a row, where I can retain some semblance of my treasured personal space. Alas, the only vacancies are singletons scattered randomly throughout the bus. Yet again, I will have to rub shoulders with complete strangers, all of whom are wrapped up in their own little worlds. Which, in all honesty, is perfectly fine by me. I have more than enough worries, ideas, and random thoughts to keep myself occupied in my own little world during the lengthy ride home.

As the bus starts off again, it slowly becomes apparent that not everyone in the bus is isolated in solitary worlds. Near the front of the bus, a large man with scraggly brown hair and large glasses happily chatters, patters, natters, then chatters again to all and anyone who will listen. He’s like a human megaphone booming his childlike enjoyment of the nuances of life throughout the length of the bus. He doesn’t seem to care – or maybe it doesn’t occur to him – that other people may not want to hear his stories. Yet… there’s something about this man that begins to draw my attention. My solitary world begins to expand slightly as snippets of his chatter filter through my senses.

The bus grinds to a halt at a shady spot downtown for a single passenger. As he steps onto the bus, I note his ripped, grimy clothes and greasy, unwashed hair. He carries a bulging trash bag and I can’t help but wonder what circumstance caused his demise. Perhaps he had a comfortable life at one time or mayb– Ugh. That smell! Light travels faster than smell but the latter certainly demands the most attention. I don’t seem to be the only one whose solitary world has been permeated by the man’s inescapable reek. Aren’t there places where he can go to take a shower? Just one shower would do so much… just one.

The grimy man sits across from me and next to a lean woman who shifts uncomfortably in her seat. Her body instinctively slants away from the man as her hand moves toward her nose in a purposefully vague motion. She makes eye contact across the aisle with the man seated to my left and makes a slight face. A glance. A grimace. A glance and a grimace. That is all it takes to form a connection, a thread, between the two solitary worlds. That is all it takes to erect a wall for the deliberate exclusion of another. That is all it takes to reveal to me that cliques extend far beyond the dramas of the high school scene. That is all it takes to show the power of actions. The bus stops and the woman stands up with an air of relief, interrupting the exclusive connection, and exits the bus without a word.

A young Asian American man with sharp spiked hair, a tight white muscle shirt and a tattoo of a sun creeping over his left shoulder enters and fills the freshly evacuated seat. As the bus begins to move, he leans forward with his hands together and his elbows resting on his knees while a half-empty Coke bottle dangles from his fingers. I follow his tapping feet to the grimy man’s torn and tattered shoes to the immaculate high heels of the African American businesswoman sitting next to him. She sits tall in her seat as she taps efficiently on her PDA with her stylus. I follow the rapid movements of her hand to the motionless hands of the woman next to her whose only movement comes from the jostling of the bus. Her entire body is covered in dark blue, accented by a light gray head covering which frames a dark face with expressive eyes. I follow her head covering and dark eyes to the baseball hat and closed eyes of the old Latino man sitting next to her. He leans wearily on his armrest with his chin in his hand and a transfer pass in his fist.

Five seats.

Five people.

Five cultures.

Five different walks of life that convene for a momentary journey together on the bus before each hurtles off in their own directions and after their own dreams.

As my eyes travel back over the group, I realize that this group is America; the land where differences in cultures can be accepted and understood, the land where communities and connections are created between the most unexpected people, the land where… I become aware of the rhythm of the man’s rapping feet… the tapping of the woman’s stylus… the movements of the covered woman… the rustle of the old man’s bus transfer… the heavy breathing of the grimy man … the rhythm and the beat… the rhythm and the beat… the rhythm and the be–

A sudden piercing screech of abrupt brakes jerks me out of my rhythmic world as all of our bodies jolt heavily toward the front of the bus and we grab at whatever we can for support. After the initial shock, as the bus pulls into the next stop, a frazzled woman behind me begins to curse angrily at the driver as she grabs at her many bags of fallen groceries in frustration. A teenage boy with a Mohawk and headphones wrapped around his head quickly jumps to her aid, helping her to carry her bags out of the bus. The frazzled woman smiles at him with gratitude touched with a hint of surprise as I turn around and note the half-full Coke bottle dangling from the fingers of the foot-rapping man.

I turn back again and look at the mohawked teenager with a surprise similar to the frazzled woman’s. I had seen him and immediately shoved him into a box of a molded stereotype: Mohawk + Piercings = Uncaring Troublemaker. By his simple action he had destroyed his box, perhaps for more people than just the frazzled lady and I. By his simple action he had bettered the day of one person in particular and perhaps he had even caused a chain reaction of little acts of kindness.

With one last enlightened glance, I stand up and head toward the front as the bus slows to a stop. Yes, each person on this bus may be in their own little world, but we share a larger world, even if it’s just the slightly larger world of the bus. And it doesn’t take very much for a connection in this larger world to be made. Just an action or a word or two could–

“Wait!” yells a voice behind me as I hop out of the bus. I glance over my shoulder and see the grimy man dashing after me with my little blue cell phone clasped high over his head in his hand.

“Wait!” he repeated again, “You left your cell phone on your seat.”

I freeze for a moment remembering my stereotypes, my thoughts, and my connections, both past and present, to people encountered.

A connection is to be found by two powerful words.

“Thank you.”

The kind man smiles, nods, and darts back into the bus with a friendly wave.

“Thank you.”