While I do appreciate the occasional luxury item from Lush, I consider myself to be unmaterialistic on the whole. I don't care for bags, cars, gadgets, Starbucks beverages, etc. My soft spot is for old books, which makes me a big fan of second hand book stores. Old books to me are like abandoned puppies. I see them in the window and get all emotional over how lonely it must be to be yellowing (the book equivalent of balding) and to smell like brittle glue. New books just don't do it for me. They're too shiny and untouchable and sterile.

Why yes that is a first-edition, French-version Waiting for Godot printed in France. Doesn't it just make you want to contemplate your lack of meaningful existence? I wasn't going to buy the Tom Sawyer because it wasn't hardcover or first edition but in the end I thought it might be a good read for Trumon (so far he's made no sign that he's ever going to pick it up).

I spend most of my time in the children's section. I am currently oogling a Little House on the Prarie set, an old edition of Little Women, as well as several Madeline and Calvin and Hobbes titles. What I really want though, is the complete and illustrated hardcover edition of the Winnie-the-Pooh stories and french Asterix comics, and after that I'll consider starting a Dr. Seuss collection.

I walked past an elementary school today at 3 o'clock. A little blond boy was running by with a huge grin on his face and suddenly I wanted to pick him up and swing him around and give him a hug.

I don't think of my kids as much anymore, but when I do I still miss them. I wish I had Keven in my arms again. It's funny how safe I felt myself while sheltering his little body in mine. I miss having Lydia climb all over me, all kicks and violence and wiggles. I miss having gentle Annabelle on my lap and watching her draw pictures. It's been two years now. Are they too old to remember?

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We watched two videos today in tutorial. I think it's significant that while everyone thought the [caucasian] hockey coach freakout was funny, nobody laughed at Asian Bus Uncle.

"Asshole!" I cried at Bus Uncle. I rounded on poor Jeremy beside me and demanded, "Why would anyone do that?" I wanted to charge at the projector screen. I wanted to tear off Bus Uncle's arms and throw him from the vehicle, at at the same time I wanted to cry. And then I snapped back to Communications 130 and remembered it was just a Youtube video.

It's obvious what it was that had caused me to react so violently. Bus Uncle, after all, sounded exactly like my own parents.

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[Cheer] and I were good friends in high school. She was such a darling - very gwai and gentle and soft spoken. Cheer took on a retail job at the mall because she didn't want to be a burden to her parents. She told me that after her first day on the job, she went home and cried because the people had been so awful.

Now I'm what you'd call a pushover (My piano students would tell you that readily enough). It's not hard to convince me to do anything if the person asking is a friend, and I never put my foot down for anything. But I feel like one bad ass motherbitch when people are yelling in my face. You'd expect people of my caliber to immediately take on a resemblance to crushed jello, but no matter how hard they try I just can't bring myself to care. Nothing scares me anymore after living with Asian parents.

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I know my mom worries about money a lot, and I know a lot of her anger is a result of this fear and frusturation. My parents only ever argue about money. So yesterday while we were alone in the car waiting for dad and Trumon to join us, I thought I'd reassure my mom by letting her know that in the summer, I plan to find work and also that Salina had given me a student because she was leaving for HK.

"How much does Salina get paid?" she asked immediately.

"Her rate is $5 more than mine."

Her voice took on a threatening tone. "You better accept just as much then. You're not lowering your rate are you?"

"Well..." I said. "I don't see why I need to accept more."

She immediately went all Bus Uncle on me and told me I was an ungrateful child for not bringing home more money after all that she and dad had spent on me. Mom explained the situation to Dad when he came in, and he told me I was a fool for not understanding that in business, people will do anything to take your money and that you should do the same whenever possible. He called me a Communist and said it was because I was born in a Communist country, and then both mom and dad continued to pile on their abuses.

Trumon and I deal with anger in a way that is completely opposite to our parents - they yell and escalate, but my brother and I retreat into ourselves and fall silent. BusUncle.com says "It's actually amazing how the younger man just sits there and doesn't move practically at all." But I know the reason why he didn't defend himself is because he and I come from a generation that's seen too many Bus Uncles. We're tired of the conflict and clash, and silence is the only weapon left to us.

I was crying silently by the end of the ride. Nobody can hurt me so much as my own parents. I don't expect kindness from stangers, so with them I don't care. But nothing hurts like when your own parents tell you you're stupid and ungrateful and unworthy and useless.

In the car I had asked my mom, "Would you rather I had lied to you?" 

"Sure go ahead. Why don't you?" she snapped. "I know you lie to me all the time. What's one more time's difference?"

I asked myself too, why didn't I just lie? This is a family that doesn't value truth and honesty, and they definitely don't deserve it from me. I don't always manage to do the right thing, but who says I have to try at all?

I write like it was righteous of me to tell the truth and to question the ethics of something as trivial as an extra $5. But in reality, I do it because I'm scared shitless about living in a world full of lies and people who look at you like you're only as good as your bank account. If it's scary to try and do what's right, it's even scarier to live without its guidance and direction.

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I went home and had the house to myself for awhile. When Trumon got home I was still visibly upset, but he was his usual loud and joking self. I don't expect him to stick up for me, but I could have done with a bit of sensitivity. He kept cracking jokes and being loud and talking about kids at school and I couldn't take it, you know? I wanted either an "Are you okay?" or some alone time.

It's incidents like these that make me realize that Trumon isn't mine. The parents can take that away from me too.

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Dad thought he was punishing me when said he wasn't going to support my studies (piano and academic) anymore. I was more upset at the fact that he thought his power to punish lay in his ability to stop giving me money. It's the words that hurt, something they'll never understand.

Actually, I felt relieved. I feel like there's nothing worse in life than be indebted to these people who resent my existence. And you know what? My parents are old. They should hurry up and retire, and Trumon and I are all that are in their way. I don't want to be a burden anymore.

I know it's so precious of me to say that I'll pay for my own education when I'm all of 19 years young and capable of getting a job. I know other people work hard to pay for their own everything. It's just because piano is so damn expensive that I've had to rely on my parents for support, and I've been infantilized by this dependency. I'll plan my finances so that I can continue piano until the end of the year and give myself one last chance in November's competition before I quit for good.

This was the first big argument the parents and I have had in awhile, and I'm actually glad it happened. I need to be reminded not to get too comfortable with these people. It prevents me from becoming complacent.

I wish these words would drop in for a chat
throngs of them through the door
and even those uninvited are brought in like old friends
that I seat in squashy couches and
fill with tea and cookies
who, upon finding themselves at home
put their feet up on the coffee table

Instead they elude me
and tease from beyond reach
it's only the cobwebs
that tickle these cranium cracks
leaving me dumb and without speech

for I have much to say to you
at least these feelings insist I do
but I won't know
until the words
[inked and fleshed]
make their drama
all suspense and teenage expression

there is nothing to see
[and for me, nothing to be]
until I become the words that I write

I don't like holidays. The buses stop running and I can't go to school and then I don't get stuff done. When I'm home I don't do anything except eat. And wash dishes. And once the dishes are washed it's nearly time to cook for the next meal. When I'm not eating a meal I'm snacking or thinking of things to cook. I should stop eating like I'm preparing for an apocalypse.

The holidays however, allow me to spend a lot more time with my brother. Today I listened to Trumon grumble about piano. We watched a bad filler episode from Buffy the Vampire Slayer. We tried making peanut dessert soup and gagged after drinking three bowls each. We hid in my room and turned up the music while the parents yelled at each other downstairs. We argued ourselves over his abuse of maplestory and at the end of the day we played out our nightly routine where I'm at the computer blogging and Trumon comes in to plop down on my bed to whine about how I have too much "bloggerface" to pay attention to him. He continues to chatter like he'll never go to sleep until it's well past his bedtime. When I start threatening he knows to push *just* before I'm annoyed enough to physically bully him out.

Then he springs up and runs out and slams the door, and from the safety of his room he yells out:

"Goodnight buttface!"

"Goodnight smelly," I reply.

It doesn't matter that he's 13 now, or that he's taller than me. As long as I have Trumon I will never grow up.

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I can't even say where I keep all my piano certificates. I'd guess they were tucked away in some filing somewhere. Up for display instead are drawings that have been given to me, and the ones that don't fit on the wall are tucked away safe on my shelf. There is no higher compliment I give personally than to draw a picture or to write a letter to someone, and I like to think that these artworks were given to me with the same weighty investment (even if they did come from very little people). My dad told me once that my decor is ugly, but I wouldn't be more proud of these worthless pieces of papers if they had been trophies.

Vivian gave me the one on the left last week after her piano lesson. It's a picture of me. Vivian's mom asked her why the drawing was so ugly and Vivian burst into tears, insisting that she had made jiejie very beautiful. That happened days before the lesson and Vivian's mom thought it would be funny to relay the story to me.

I don't understand why Asian parents like to act like they hate their children.

Vivian asked me last week, "Why do you and your brother always laugh?" I thought it was rather an odd observation for a six-year-old to have made, especially since what little she knows about Trumon comes mostly from the stories that I entertain her with.

"I don't laugh." she then confessed. I was saddened by the remark but I wasted no time in grinning at her little face and making her grin back.

"Huh!" I teased. "You just said that you don't laugh!"

Her hands flew to her mouth as a flurry of giggles escaped her. Part of the reason why I love kids is because I can make the lamest jokes that aren't even jokes and still have people laugh with me. It wasn't long until she sobered up however, and she added: "I only laugh when you're here."

I wonder sometimes what it's like to be Vivian, or what she'll grow up to be. She's smart and pretty and rich. Honestly - what else do you need in life? I see again and again the same formula at my piano teacher's: your family buys you a piano and after practicing hard for 15 years you get to teach and make lots of money. And all you need to do is to get born into a rich family that can afford your lessons.

After class, Vivian asked if I could stay and play with her ("I want you to play with me everyday!"). I can see her spending all those days in that big West Vancouver home with only her toys and her parents. She's without friends in that house. And I have more than that - I have someone who understands.

Every day I find reasons to be thankful for Trumon.

I hate Bikram yoga cause it's hard and the class never seems to end. Why did anyone ever think it was good idea to do rigorous exercises in a sauna? Sometimes it gets to the point where all I can do is crawl pathetically around the mat. But Bikram is addicting at the same time because you get the most fantastic results in only 90 minutes. I swear it's like INSTANT ABDOMINALS immediately when I come out and I keep touching them to make sure I'm not dreaming.

Unfortunately, after a weekend of greasy dim sum and another week of atrocious eating habits coupled with no exercise I have returned to having a bit of tummy : (

I think it became evident after working at the mall that there is honestly nothing to interest me there. I don't like buying things and there is nothing I need or want. While I like looking put-together, I don't care at all about make-up or buying pretty clothes - but that doesn't mean I'm any less vain. What I care about are sculpted abs and having biceps.

Unfortunately, you wouldn't be able to tell by looking me now : (

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When I was little I was everything girls are raised to be: quiet, soft spoken, unassuming and see mun. I was conditioned into what Thomas from the yesmeansyes blog calls "the good-girl role, the selfless role, the not-making-trouble, not-taking-up-space role."

This made it really hard to perform in gym class; I simply did not have the required aggression. I'd be the awkwad last survivor in dodgeball because I had spent the beginning of the game hiding in a corner. Whenever I acidentally got the puck in hockey I'd either flinch and lose it or entrust it immediately to the class jock or jockette. All the Chinese kids (especially the girls) in my class were like that. We could hit the books no problem, but in P.E. we got B's and C's. Nobody expected a Little Asian Girl to do well in P.E. And so I didn't.

That mentality of being a second-rate athlete persisted in me even as I took up various sports in high school. I did everything I could: Ultimate, dragonboat, swimming, cheerleading, cross country, even the boys' Strength & Conditioning class. It made me so angry to see Asian kids stand around hopelessly in gym while the white kids ran and scored that I became competitive -- literally fighting off the stereotype of who I was supposed to be. I had so much timidity and inactivity to make up for that it never occured to me that I had become athletic until someone pointed it out. It's a title I earned despite the glasses, despite being told that vegetarians can't do sports, and despite the lack of athletic background.

I think the reason why I care so superficially about abs and biceps today is because they were all that separated me from who I used to be. They're proof that I've moved on from being a frightened, quiet, nobody. Without them I am again a useless Little Asian Girl.

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I can't help but check people out when I'm in a yoga room full of half-naked people. I look at boobs. Don't tell me you don't! How is it possible for people to have so much boob? @_______@

I feel better however, knowing that skinny is so validated in the fashion world. I'm glad that there are so many skinny models in the media for me to look up to.

Right? It's a lot easier to subscribe to this standard of beauty than it is to grow a new rack.

When posting stuff like this I wish I had more female readers ==

 
Mall decorations taken during the Olympics. China gets pwned in a window sticker from the mall entrance.

   
From a health shop window. Why turn a beautiful animal into capsules just to have it sit on a shelf for years? It's SEAL OIL okay gross. Omega-3 isn't exactly hard to get.

View from skytrain window.

I went to visit Yonex at Chapters and wandered into the teen section. Every book cover was designed to look like a Twilight spinoff.

  
I'm not particularly poised in this photo, but it's one of my favourites of Trumon and me together.

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I quit my job at EB! Hurrah!

I had been planning to for awhile, for all sorts of reasons, but last week's God of War III and the Pokemon release helped to put me over the edge. I used to volunteer at community centre childcare, and this kid whom I used to watch over when he was six came in during the God of War III midnight release with his dad to get a copy. What the fudge? Nicholas is only thirteen - same as Trumon. Where could he have cultivated a love for hack-n-slash violence, and mini-games about threesomes with bisexual goddesses? Who put in his mind that he has the right to $60 first-run video games?

Then Pokemon came out and leagues of children dragged their parents in to pay for their games. I swindled a good bunch of them into buying game warranties.

And it's not just the warranties that bug me, but the entire retail experience. It's not the work or the people that I mind, but the gluttony of consummerism. I was sorely depressed this one time after watching this kid whine his way into getting a video game. He literally threw the game in my face and insisted that his dad pay for it - and his dad did!

In another instance a chinese girl's family came in with her to buy games for her birthday.

"Give your grandpa a hug," instructed her mom, after I had taken money from him for her three games and their warranties. Her grandpa smiled and tried to put his arms around her, but she made whining sounds and wiggled away. He laughed awkwardly and tried to pretend she was being cute.

I obviously must not understand what it's like to be a parent.

I was telling Blenz how much I hated the mall. She laughed and call me a Communications student, and said that I would have found it fascinating had I been in Marketing or Business.

I cite my aversion to mall materialism and unscrupulus salesmanship as a reason for leaving, but if I wasn't able to teach piano I'd probably have stayed there for years. Morals are for those who can, literally, afford to have them. I feel guilty for quitting, if only because I know I'm lucky enough to be able to.

I played really shitty in my last competition. It's my own fault of course; my competitors weren't even that good. I could have taken home first in every category, but I spent the last few months emo-ing about how classical music wasn't right for me and how I didn't feel like I belonged. It wasn't making me happy, I said. So I sat at home and despaired and didn't practice.

Last month I taught piano to these adorable girls, Jamie and Sammi, ages 4 and 5, while their regular teacher was away in Hong Kong. Last week when their mom, Chloe, handed me their tuition she told me that she had seen an improvement in her daughters' technique and also that Sammi had been particularly fond of me. She thanked me and said that she would think of me next time she needed a substitute piano teacher.

I'm actually hugely insecure as a music instructor; I don't think I know enough music theory and I don't think I'm talented or hardworking enough to warrant the salary that I get (my salary is set by my own piano teacher. Apparently his prestige rubs off on me like that). I'm afraid that the reason why children won't listen to me because I'm petite and don't carry enough authority, and that parents will think I'm stealing from them if I don't produce quick enough results.

People say all the time to their friends: "I know you can do it!" But that's an expression of faith, and you have faith for the people you love. But I barely know Chloe - this parent who had entrusted her kids to a near stranger. And here she was blatantly asserting confidence in me for a job well done (It helped that she was simultaneously handing me a wad of cash). I felt like I hadn't been useless, and that I had taught someone something worth learning.

I think the reason why I wasn't motivated to practice before is because it didn't mean anything to me. It's unfortunate that the hierarchies of classical music dictate that good musicians must win a lot of competitions, because that isn't what music is about. Prize money and trophies don't mean anything to me. I don't see a point becoming intimate with Beethoven just because it's Beethoven. I don't see a point in practicing for my own sake.

But to become better so that I can better make a positive difference in a child's life? That makes me excited to do what I do.

-----------------------------------------------------

I don't yet have my own students - I only tutor for my teacher's. All of Mr. Sum's students come from wealthy families, and they all happen to go to the same elite private school in Vancouver. I enter a different world when I take the bus into the nice part of town to tutor spoiled children in their big and fancy houses. I'm made acutely aware that it's a privilege for me to be here.

I tutor small children, so their rate of learning comes in the tiniest of increments. It's beyond my comprehension how parents can pay these ridiculous oodles of money to both me and Mr. Sum to have their kids learn basically nothing. Most of them don't practice either. It's humbling to remember that my own parents have done the same for me and Trumon for most of our lives, and still continue to do so today.

I used to whine about how classical music was too restrictive, how I wanted instead to compose and to learn jazz. But I study with the best piano teacher in the region, and it's luxurious to get to do music at all. I should own this moment in my life. Tutoring wealthy children is easy and rewarding and lucrative. CBC and EB are just side gigs, the stepping stones to a future I'm not even sure I'll have. Piano is something I could feasibly stay with for the rest of my life. Our family isn't rich - not by the standards set by Mr. Sum's circle of students anyway - but my parents worked hard to buy me into where I am today. My parents literally bought me a place in society, and for that I am grateful.

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I've worked at EB Games since October, but I still get scared each time I go in because I'm not a gamer and there are too many things about games that I don't know. I'm always afraid I'll damage the store reputation by being unknowledgable, or by being misinformative. I'm a bit of a loose-head too (direct Chinese translation); I forget things due to my complete inability to focus on more than one thing at once, and often I don't see things that are right in right of me. Also, I'm atrocious with counting cash and doing numbers in my head. It's really a wonder I'm able to work retail at all.

I guess it says something about my character when I'm always so ready to see faults and make up excuses for why I can't. Whatever. I'm allowed to have my insecurities.

I do, however, consistently have one of the highest percentages in warranty sales (and I should think that any profit you make should overrule any consideration of your other mistakes). Does this mean I am good with people or that I am good at lying to them? I don't know, but at least I can't be written off as completely useless.

Wow I'm glad employers only stalk Facebook. If they came to my Xanga I'd never get hired for anything ever again. Thank goodness my bosses are so patient and forgiving with me.

I had a good time at work today. I think it helps, knowing in the back of my mind that I don't have to rely on a minimum wage job. I'm here only for the work experience. Not having to worry about money helps me to enjoy my time here.

It's easier to live through music than it is to figure out what it is you think you're feeling.

P.S. Does anyone have any theories as to the meaning of this video? It's so intriguing but I can't make heads or tails out of it.

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I find it barbaric how there isn't a definition for the word mo liu on Google search. There isn't an English equivalent of the meaning, but a person is mo liu when they're not doing anything in particular and they don't feel like wanting to do anything either. Being mo liu doesn't necessarily mean you're depressed. The closest translation of the word I think would be "lifeless'" or "without energy".

Any Canto-Xangans out there? Help me out here.

I think part of the reason why I've been so mo liu these days is because Trumon lived at grandma's for a few days while he was sick. Is it pathetic that I don't function normally without Trumon around?

Trumon came back yesterday and all night we were giggling over everything. I love my brother : )

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I've been abnormally skinny for a few months now. I weigh in usually at 110 lbs (I'm 5'3") but lately I've been only 105 lbs. I wear size 0 American Eagle jeans and I can still fit a hand down the waist band.

I do subscribe to the fashion ideal of stick-thin-ness. I have nothing against girls who aren't; I think all body types are beautiful. But small and slender is what I want to be.

But right now I'm skinny for the wrong reasons: I've been physically inactive since the end of summer. I lost those pounds after I stopped exercising, so I'm guessing that extra weight was the muscle I used to have.

I haven't yet allocated time for working out, so I squeeze in exercise wherever I can. I do discreet ab/butt crunches while sitting on the bus. It looks like I'm madly late to everywhere because I run home from the bus stop and I take stairs two at a time. Squeeze in some squats while brushing teeth. Ta-dum! Now I'm only 95% lethargic.

It's starting to be really beautiful out now, so no more excuses! The Vancouver 10k Sun Run is in a few short months so imma get training. Running 3x a week. mmm thunder thighs.

---------------------------------------------

I miss Mint and Kitkat, but something keeps me from seeing them more.

We're all in university now, but the difference is they have house parties and sororities and makeup and boyfriends. Their favourite activity is to take facebook photos with one another. I will never be so talented at cam whoring.

I don't mean to incriminate my friends with being shallow: my point is that I can't relate. I don't know how to be young or hip or how to consume copious amounts of alcohol. We don't have anything to do when we get together except drink and talk about boys. They seem to have so much fun when I'm not around that I feel like a burden; one of those acquaintances you keep up with because it's polite to do so.

I don't know how old [Blenz] is, but she's married, and about 30 or 29. She's white, has no kids, and is articulate and in control of her opinions. We hang out now in our Communications class.

Blenz wanted to go for coffee after class last Monday. I hesitated at first because I'm afraid of spending long periods of time alone with people, but we had a great time talking about Canadian indie bands, structural changes to CBC radio programming, Olympic tenant evictions, and Michael Buble's brand image.

Who else my age is going to care about stuff like that? I don't need to dress up and go to parties. I don't want to stay out late and spend money at clubs. I used to think I was so awkward and boring, but it turns out I just haven't yet found my niche. 

I think I want to find a new job. EB is more mentally stimulating than a number of minimum wage jobs out there, but I worry how much of a jaded corporate tool I'm becoming when I persuade people to buy products I don't believe in. Being a salesman isn't difficult, but it's not exactly rewarding work.

Not that I don't respect video games a lot more than I used to... but sometimes I think people should just find a park and ride their bike, y'know? 

Even if I'm just a barista and the work is mindnumbingly repetitive, at least food is about hospitality. I don't think you should call it customer service when you're selling to people junk they don't need.

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I worked as an usher at several CBC concerts (if you live near a CBC building go to their live concerts! They're free all year and it's an fun way to support indie Canadian talent). Audience members cannot return to the concert studio once they've left the building, so during intermission people would ask me if there was any food or beverage around for sale.

The CBC however, runs completely on public funds so we don't partner with commercial food providers. "Don't you at least have a vending machine?" people would ask. "I just want a bottled water." Here, I'm thinking water is such a basic necessity. Even if you have money in your pocket for water-buying, how can you leave home without it? We've forgotten how to take care of ourselves. People gripe about how the world is run on commercialism, but we've allowed it into our society because it's convenient. Why feed yourself when someone else will do it for you? Hand over some money and someone will serve you with a smile.

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You're bound to get some crazies when you work on the streets of downtown Vancouver. Last Saturday I tried to give this man a button and he launched into a vengeful narrative of how the CBC costs "billions" of taxpaper dollars every year (the CBC received $1.1 billion CAD for the 2009 year, compared to the BBC's $4.8 billion CAD in 2008).

Art makes people happy; it's what makes life worth living. Few will disagree with me, so it's surprising that while many people support arts funding, a number of them will still be quick to slam the CBC. We think it's right and correct that the government takes care of our health with universal healthcare. Is it so absurd to think that they care for our happiness with the CBC? CBC is the arts. Not only does the CBC produce pieces in the form of radio and TV programming, it also supports other arts - music, drama, writing, film, sports, etc. - on those same shows. Everything is 100% Canadian. All the indie music I listen to now I found first on CBC radio. CBC supports Canadian talent because no one else will.

I can only speak for the Ambassador program, but I will admit that even at the entry level of employment the inefficiencies of government programs are painfully evident. There were 10 Ambassadors working at any time, when in reality the work could probably have been done by 5. There also wasn't much motivation to do well at our job, and it's difficult to tell exacty what good job performance is when we aren't working for profit, when there aren't numbers and dollar signs to judge us by.

I imagine these inefficiencies are echoed around many government programs. But you know what? We (the Ambassadors) were were just the groundrunners; you treat your work differently when you're an artist on the frontlines. Furthermore, if the CBC was completely, financially streamlined it'd be a private enterprise. But we're Canadian and we're socialist, so we don't leave one another to sink and float. We support out arts. We take care of one another here in Canada.

It's obvious I'm more than a little in love with the CBC. The combination of intellect, art, people, Canadian-ness and the smidge of priviledged authority just has me giddy in all the right places. And it's not just me: everyone at the CBC are here because they love what they do. Canadian public broadcasting is work you can believe in. I don't mind a bit of extra spending when it means we still have our CBC.

Wednesday, February 17, 2010

Apparently there's this cool thing that people do where they collect pins and wear them all simultaneously on their shirts. There's an entire pin collecting convention at the Olympics sponsored by Coca Cola where people do nothing but play Biggest Lion with their assemblage of metal shirt tacks.

I thought the whole thing quite uncouth and geeky until my own CBC starting releasing limited edition pins. Most other events in the city are throwing around their pins like pin whores, but the CBC knows how to play hard to get. CBC distributes only 10-20 pins per day at unannounced times, every day throughout the Olympics. People are absolutely going beserk for these things. We have people coming back everyday asking for pins, but not even the Ambassadors are told when they will be released.

Yesterday I persuaded a white-haired lady and her husband to take a flag and a button each. When I asked her about the pins she was wearing she launched into a intricate narrative of each one. The lady's son is an RCMP officer who travels all over Canada, and whenever she goes to visit she always makes sure to take home a pin.

The pins seemed to me very beautiful after that, and when I continued to express my interest she reached into her pocket and handed me a pin of my own, just like that.

Later on in the day, I tried to give a flag to a lady in a pink jacket. Somehow, we got into conversing about the limited CBC pins when she said, "I actually have some cause I work here. Did you want one?" I watched her hand go into her pocket and she gave away her pin without a second thought.

It's only about the size of my thumb and it reads "CBC Vancouver Feb 12-28, 2010". I admired the CBC logo, embossed gold against a red backing, and I wondered at how much respect and reverence I had for such a tiny object.

I shoved both pins in my jacket and went back to work, partly because I didn't want to be seen slacking, and partly because I didn't want to share my newfound treasures.

The great thing about the Olympics is that it is the ultimate icebreaker. People everywhere are starting conversations with compete strangers, and so far I've found someone to talk to on every ride home on the skytrain.

I saw a guy with pins all over his shirt on the train and I decided to say hi. Having nothing else to talk about, I inevitably told him about the generosity of the women I had met and about my new, limited edition CBC pin.

Without skipping a beat or the frills of politesse, he asked, "Can I have it?"

I was quite put off by his boldness, and I thought to myself, how un-Asian of him to ask for handouts like that! In Chinese culture we are taught to be hak hei, which means literally to have "the air of a guest". Being hak hei means you never impose and you never ask anything of anyone.

He saw me hesitate and pressed on, "Please? I'm leaving tomorrow."

I was grateful for the change of topic and when I asked him where he's from, he said Texas. That conversation didn't last long. Soon, he told me he was getting off at the next stop and we fell back into silence, waiting.

In the awkward quiet I thought about the generosity I had been shown by these selfless strangers, and how it would be poor repayment to these giving ladies by keeping a tight fist. He's going to Texas; he'll never get another chance. In a moment of whim and guilt, I dug into my pockets and thrust out my hand.

He grabbed the pin without looking at either it or me, and with barely a Thanks he was off the train.

My mother tells me regularly not to be too generous or nice to people. What is the point of giving, she asks, when the world isn't going to give back to you? For the first time I thought maybe she was right. I felt very stupid. My precious pin! He didn't care a bit about my generosity or the CBC - he just wanted another number for his collection. He had pins all over his shirt and not once did he offer at least to trade. It's not that I shouldn't have given out the pin, but I should have given it to someone deserving. I thought of Digi's mom, who is the most generous person I know. And now I had no pin to give her.

When you dislike people you begin to stereotype them and I did so liberally stupid Texan. Stupid fat, nerdy, American. Geeky pin collector.

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A scammer has been going around my city recently. An article in the local paper warned residents of a man who pretends to be a tourist. He stages conversations with his mom in Britan on a cellphone about being stuck in Canada due to lack of funds. He speaks so that he can be overheard, and when sympathetic people ask how much he needs, he says, "Oh, about $30 will do."

A flood of angry letters to the editor appeared in subsequent papers: apparently hundreds of people had been scammed by the same guy. Many despaired over how pockets were bound to become tighter due to this one man's evil, but one enlightened person wrote in expressing how glad she was to live in a community made up of hundreds of generous people.

And that's how I've decided to feel about this. Maybe sometimes I'll be generous to the wrong people, but in the end, what's important is that I still remember how to give.

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Thursday, February 25, 2010

It's now well into the last half of the Olympics. Two other ladies have now given me pins (a Canada and an RCMP pin), and a guy named Paul, after chatting with me for about 20 mins, went to an Olympic venue and came back to give me a free handout they were distributing at the Bell Ice Cube (white earplugs). As a Street Team Ambassador, it's my job to give out CBC freebies - pins and flags - but I've been overwhelmed so far by the generosity I've been shown by people whose names I'll never know. People are not only generous with pins, but also with their time, their conversation, and their smiles and thank yous.

My pins and earphones with a glass sculpture given to me by [PianoCat].

In the end, I managed to swindle a CBC pin from work and give it to Digi's mom. I'm totally proud of myself.

Here's a picture of the CBC pin I found on eBay. I was so mad to see CBC pins for sale on eBay. How could they sell such a precious thing! And for a mere $10! </3