box of Jack

Listen to People When They Tell You Something is Racist

07:50 PST - November 19th, 2014

Julie Carrie Wong recently wrote an article for Buzzfeed, The Problem with “Serial” and the Model Minority Myth.

To summarize, Serial is an immensely popular podcast (from the people that produce This American Life) and it attempts to unravel the murder of Hae Min Lin and her ex-boyfriend, Adnan Syed, who was convincted of her murder. Wong believes that the podcast fails to account for complicated racial contexts here and actively tries to paint a picture of harmful stereotypes; the Asian couple were high achievers, the black friend was a criminal.

All I’m telling you to do is listen. Listen to the podcast; it’s very entertaining and I listened to all 8 episodes over 2 days. And then read the article. And then just sit and think about it a lot. Spends some time on Google and see what others have to say about white privilege, the model minority, and whatever other jargon you haven’t really explored. And then sit and think about it some more. Stew in it.

Don’t get all defensive about it and don’t write a piece for the New York Observer where you throw your arms up in the air and complain about political correctness choking every possible form of expression and then come to the absurd conclusion that everything’s racist and therefore nothing is racist. Wong has come forward and tried to intelligently engage on an issue that already draws the ire of the majority white audience, don’t write an emotional plea to dismiss her and to rally the troops against her.

Nobody is calling you a racist. But some of your actions are. And some of your favorite pieces of media rely on racist tropes. And we’ve all got a lot of growing to do, both personally and as a society. And it’s so hard for me to find people that intelligently critique pop culture on its depictions of race, I’d appreciate if you didn’t try to chase them out of the industry.

Love Letter to Myself

05:58 PST - September 3rd, 2014

Dearest.. uh, me. I may seem like a stranger to you but I don’t blame you; it’s hard to recognize love when you’ve been at war for so long.

(Ha, do you like that one? Love, war. Get it? I thought I was being particularly clever.)

I am writing to say, I love you/me/us. We’re ok. You may feel, especially as of late, that you’ve failed. You’ve dug a hole so deep for yourself that you cannot possibly crawl out. Why, your time must definitely be up! You’re nibbling at the edge of 30, you’re done growing. –30–, it means the end of a story. It’s when your parents finished their story as young adults and started down the journey of parenthood and responsibilities (or so you imagine).

You may feel these anxieties creep upon you each day, pinching at your throat and screaming from inside the pit of your stomach. They’ll twist your eyes to look down at the floor. They’ll whisper that the floor is all you have in this world and pretty soon that will be gone too. It will take days for the lump in your throat to subside. And only temporarily.

I’m writing you a love letter to let you know that firstly I understand but more importantly that I can see the other side of the coin. You may not believe it and your friends might not believe it but you/me/us? We’re doing great.

Allow me to elucidate.

Women. (By god, you do get so hung up about women.) There was a time in your life when a girl would ask you a simple question and you would die of embarrassment. But since then, you’ve made plenty of female friends and you’ve learned much of what you missed out on growing up with zero sisters and attending an all-boys high school and earning your degree in a grossly male-dominated field. The smart money would have you involved in a long string of failures but you’ve handled both serious and casual relationships well and never done anything terrible that you wish you could take back.

(Ok, there were a few moments that still inspire cringing.)

Career. You’re not a career-minded person, it falls pretty low on your list of priorities. You take pride in your work but you’re not excited to network and climb the ladder. But somehow you’ve found a place where you do get noticed for your results and lately you’ve been kicking a lot of butt. You’re remarkably at the right place in history at the right time but you also worked really hard to get there and stay there.

Being an adult in general. Things at times might appear bleak but you’ve grown up a lot since you graduated from university. You’ve always been a late bloomer in many regards and while it’s frustrating at times, it’s served you well to be a cautious and patient person. I do hope you’ll give yourself some slack and keep progressing, no matter how slow it may seem.

All this is to say, step away from your dizzying whirlwind of thoughts once in a while and love the person you are. You made it. You might not have accomplished what your parents had by this age but that’s because you’ve walked a different path with a whole different set of remarkable accomplishments, ones they never imagined they could hope for. They never asked you to do as they did.

Dear Inner Critic

21:32 PST - September 1st, 2014

The first writing challenge is to write a letter to your inner critic and fire them… What kind of bullshit is that?

My inner critic is the reason that I completely scrapped the first draft to this. I wanted to frame the letter as one of a survivor. I lived through the worst parts of my life with my inner critic as a very real crutch and now I’ve grown beyond it. Empowering! Free!

I got to 300 words before I wanted to burn my computer down.

I’m not sure if I’ve ever shut off the inner critic. I like to think I’m much more of an editor than a writer. Unbridled creativity is terrifying. How do people decide they’re going to sit down and will something new into existence? How do you put pen to paper without first knowing exactly what is going to appear? It’s so much easier to fit a mold and be something familiar.

I like to be a support person. I’d like to take others’ work and polish off the hard edges and uneven surfaces. Sometimes, the only reason I create anything is so that I can edit and refine it.

How does one fire their inner critic? How do you tell your internal tastemaker to go away? Maybe others can do that but it’s a concept that’s entirely foreign to me. You can’t just cut that piece off and start slamming away at the keyboard. It would be chaos! The beginning of end times. If we all started doing exactly what we want then nothing productive would get done.

In spite of all of this, I have been learning to enjoy the journey lately rather than fret about the destination. There have been a few esoteric programming projects that I started and promptly dropped without feeling an ounce of guilt.

One was a node.js web site that would ask you for your current weight and your target weight and then show a calendar-style interface and you could cross off each milestone as you hit it. For a future version, I thought it would be fun to combine those features with a stock tracker where you’d note down a purchase (real or hypothetical) and it would track how much you’d make if you sold it right this instant.

Why combine these features? Because in bodybuilding circles, they like to refer to bulking up as “gainz” and, in the finance world, the profit you stand to make if you sold today is called “unrealized gain”. I thought it would be a fun piece of worldplay.

The other app idea was an iOS app written in Swift. I’ve been a (very) heavy tumblr user recently but I’ve not been good about tagging things and the mobile interface is not very good for tagging. So I thought I’d write a specialized tagging client that made it easy to tag multiple posts in Tumblr and even surface posts that have zero tags. I would call it “Tag Daddy” and it would have dumb dad fashion for graphics and if it ever got popular, people would have to cringe at the awful name and how all the buttons either say “Yes, daddy” or “No, daddy”. I want to subject people to this.

I don’t look back on these two scrapped codebases as regrets. I enjoyed thinking about them and I learned a little bit of code in the process. I’m a better programmer for doing it, despite these apps having very little value. If I had ever “shipped” them, they would have been like telling a joke to an empty room.

Maybe that’s what I need to do with my writing. Make peace with the idea of telling jokes to an empty room but feeling secure that I’ll walk out of that room a slightly wiser person for the experience.

Personal Space

17:11 PST - August 17th, 2014

When I was 19, my friends and I were out at a club. It was a pretense to get closer to my crush, to drink and dance with her. There was a lull in the evening as we sat around the quiet lobby, the bass now a dull throbbing memory in our ears. I’d settled down on a low slung lounge chair and doubted whether night clubs were something I could really ever enjoy.

My crush sifted her way through the crowd and, seeing no empty chairs, she slumped down next to me. I was excited to sit so close to her.

She stared into the middle distance. “Someone just grabbed my butt.”

“What? Like just now?” Sickeningly, I was jealous. I hadn’t gone anywhere near her butt and it was something that crossed my mind often.

“I was walking off the dance floor and someone just grabbed me. I turned around and tried to slap him but it was too crowded.”

I… laughed. I cooed at her and asked if she was ok now. She could be such a cartoon character. I might have even asked if she wanted a hug, preoccupied with how I could subtly feel her body next to mine. She brushed me off and decided to talk to someone who actually gave a shit about her.

When I was 20, I was catching the train home alone. It was peak hour and the trains were predictably delayed and crowded. I stood to the side of the doorway, trying to carve out a pocket of space. The next load of passengers boarded and personal bubbles were dispensed with. Taller people balanced themselves with one hand against the ceiling of the train car. Others adjusted their stance and found ways to lean against the crowd, with a polite shoulder and an apologetic smile.

Inside my bubble was a balding businessman, sweaty in his grey suit and functional tie. His left hand reached past me and gripped a steel pole. His right hand was at his side, wrapped tight around a binder full of papers. Like good commuters, we avoided eye contact. My eyes remained locked on the fast-moving scenery outside the window.

The train neared its next stop and his weight shifted forward. I distinctly felt the hard plastic binder press against my dick. I didn’t shift my gaze, I didn’t say anything. I made myself take up as little space as possible, pressing my body hard against the little corner of doorway, wishing I could shrink down into a tiny insect.

The brakes eased up, the man and his binder shifted back. I took the opportunity to subtly turn away from him and focus even harder on the outside world.

As the shock faded, I told myself this was an accident. Caused by a very oblivious and ignorant person. I’m 99% convinced it was. Anger replaced the shock; my breath grew shallow and my hands clenched into impotent little fists. My teeth mashed together and my vision started to blur. I fantasized about the depths of shame and physical pain I could inflict. I reasoned that I’m not an angry person but that doesn’t mean I couldn’t really hurt someone.

I never saw the man’s face. He got off the train before I did. Years later, I can still recall that anger and rage even if it is just a dull throb of what it was at the time. But despite the time and distance, I can’t see a way to laugh about it.

Learning Las Vegas

00:48 PST - July 17th, 2014

I just got back from my fourth trip I’ve ever made to Las Vegas.

I think I’m starting to understand how to have fun in Vegas:

  1. Go with a group people that know exactly what they want to get out of Vegas (gambling, drinking, clubbing, shows, strippers, etc.)
  2. Spend time and a lot of money to accomplish that
  3. Do not stay for longer than the weekend

This most recent trip was a surprise bachelor party and it was well-organized. We used Airbnb to get a suite for 8 people at a steal; centrally located on the strip. We secured a contact in advance to help us get a small discount at the club and help us skip the line. We planned ahead for the embarrassing challenges that the bachelor had to do. And when I say “we”, I mean the best man did everything. I just showed up, had fun, and paid my fair share. (We used a cool app to track all the costs and arrange settlement.)