N'awlins and some thoughts on the South

This past weekend, I went to my newly discovered best bahn-mi shop in NYC - Saigon Vietnamese Sandwiches in the LES. The sandwiches here are delicious - Falls Church, VA delicious. Even though I'd been there before, it was the first time that I noticed that they sold Cafe du Monde coffee, and I realized that this post has long been overdue.

Early in December of last year, I was lucky enough to go visit Maria Luisa down in New Orleans.

Now, before this visit, N'awlins was described to me through MLM's blog posts and photos as a place that loves her as much as she loves it, a place that is "Southern with a latin flair". It was also romantically painted to me in Gone With the Wind as Rhett Butler's favorite city - full of fashion and debauchery. Then I began to imagine it from its Cajun angle from King of the Hill - you know, that one episode where Hank gets to throw a football at the Superdome, and they make a stop at Bill Dauterive's aunt's plantation on their drive down to N'awlins. And everyone at the plantation speaks a strange, nasally guttural kind of French and a insipid, loping English while commanding the knowledge of velvet versus velveteen and all its finery even in the bayou humidity - I'm clearly a big fan of this show. And of course, we all know N'awlins is notorious for Bourbon Street and Mardi Gras, and more tragically known for post-Katrina chaos.

The first thing I noticed immediately from just sitting in the Jet Blue terminal at JFK was that everyone waiting for the flight down approached and seemed to gauge each other by asking about their experience during Katrina. Katrina was years ago, but I could see that it still weighs heavily on the hearts of most if not all New Orleanians. Hearing them talk about Katrina made me feel as if it happened a few months ago, not years ago. It also made me realize that these people could immediately bond over that tragedy, and it was part of their identity as New Orleanians.

N'awlins was warm. Even in December and after an afternoon rain shower, the night I arrived was balmy. I quickly shed my New York layers, and got ready to bask in the unseasonable warmth. That first night, MLM and I met up with her friends at a local favorite, Jacques-Imo's, an excellent first meal and introduction to Cajun cooking - had some gator sausage, fried oysters, corn maquechoux, blackened redfish and some Abita - everything was delicious. Here we are standing outside in front of the landmark post-dinner and drinks (hence the Asian glow).

Afterwards, as it was a Saturday night, we made our way to Bourbon Street, my first and probably last time there ;). Two distinct memories stick out: 1) watching a NOPD on horseback do the chacha y'all, on his horse...with his horse a-la-dressage in the middle of Bourbon Street while drunk middle-aged mid-westerners danced alongside holding Hurricanes and half-naked strippers watched from their foyers and 2) singing along with the raspy smoker's voice at the Piano Bar (which is kind of like group karaoke, but the singer/host plays the tunes on a piano on the stage) to the likes of Don McLean, Dusty Springfield, and Journey while nursing my very own liter of a Hurricane. (note: a Hurricane = white rum + dark rum + Bacardi 151 + pineapple juice + orange juice + grenadine) Then, we made our way to Frenchmen Street, where the locals hang out and where we could dance to some brass bands. This was incredible to see for me - it felt like a chill Vegas strip. Everyone was just hanging out, dancing, drinking, talking, in the street, in the bars, as trumpets, saxophones and trombones blared away into the night. The memory of those brass bands is enough to make me want to go back.

On Sunday, we rented a scooter from Big Easy Scooters and scooted around the whole city with MLM in the driver's seat and me clutching her from behind as I tried to take as many pictures of everything - especially all the beautifully colored houses as we zoomed down St. Charles Street. My favorite part of that day was, well, just being on that scooter all day long, stopping at various spots like the French Quarter, City Park, driving by the water, and marveling at the grandiose mansions in the Garden district. It was an amazing way to see the city in a day, and even though we had a bit of a fiasco returning the scooter in one, unbroken piece, everything worked out. And on Monday, I borrowed Maria's cruiser bike and wandered around the city by myself to sit and relax by the fountains at Audubon Park and watch the ships pass through the Mississippi at the Fly.

 

 Robert E. Lee, facing North, ever vigilant. 

Edit: some suggestions on places to eat for Moonie - of course, Jacques-Imo's; beignets from Cafe du Monde (I never got to go, but I wish I had!); Parkway bakery and Tavern for some po boys; gelato from Angelo Brocato; some good veggie fare from Satsuma; and three places I didn't get to try but wanted to: Pascal's Manale; Casamento's; and Restaurant August. Oh and Dragos for oysters, but I don't think she's a big fan of seafood. 

So, I started this post talking about Saigon Vietnamese Sandwiches, but I haven't once mentioned an interaction with a Vietnamese person in N'awlins, although New Orleans is home to a huge  Vietnamese community. And this is where this visit to the South was a bit of a rude awakening. I hate to share this part of my trip because I don't want MLM to think I didn't like N'awlins because that's definitely not the case.

It's just, I've always carried this romanticized view of the South - influenced by such inflammatory classics like Gone with the Wind, and lots of Pat Conroy, Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil, and The Help, dominating my Kindle library under the category "Novels on Dixie". Even when I visited the South earlier in 2012 for Kate's wedding in Chattanooga, TN and proceeded to have an amazing food-filled road trip with stops through Dalton, GA; Birmingham, AL; Atlanta, GA; Savannah, GA; and Charleston, SC I realize that I've always viewed the South with rose-colored glasses. This is also due to the fact that the first Southerners I'd ever really met happened to be SKEM's very own Kate and Maria Luisa - who do their hometowns proud and also happen to be two of my most respected friends from Wellesley. Mostly because of them, I really had nothing but a great impression of the South - after all, if they were born and raised there, it must be a wonderful place - not the backwards, derided place it often is.

So, this is difficult to explain because a) I don't want to offend and b) I don't want to sound petty and hyper-sensitive. But here goes...

I didn't meet or see very many Vietnamese, or non-white/black people during my trip, but I did talk to a Vietnamese guy during my visit - he was our elderly waiter at the pho place on Magazine Street, and he struck me as a self-hater. He approved of Maria's choice of noodles and chicken while shaking his head at me while he handed me my pho and wondered aloud in broken English, why anyone would want to eat the same thing he/she eats every day at home. He assumed I was Vietnamese and odd or stupid to want to eat something he assumed I probably ate at home every day. I was annoyed and confused momentarily but tried to brush it off. Maybe I was reading too much into it.

Then, I started noticing and thinking about small things. Things like how nobody seemed to want to just start small talk with me even though there were plenty of opportunities or even make eye contact with me or smile at me in the friendly way they did to Maria. These were really tiny, minimal interactions, but they really started to build for me. The way the cashier at the grocery store was able to talk to the white guy in front of me as if they were old friends (they clearly weren't from what I deduced from the initial part of the conversation) but wouldn't even look at me as I made my purchase. How when I was on the scooter with Maria on Sunday, random people she didn't know would wave and holler hello, but when I was biking around on Monday, I could have very well been invisible. No one even flinched when I flew over the bike after I hit a particularly nasty bit of the sidewalk. How wherever we went, I felt like people were only addressing Maria, as if they didn't notice that there was someone else standing next to her. And then something really put me over the edge. On Monday night, as a farewell and thank you of sorts to Maria's hospitality, I made reservations at Cochon - a renowned New Orleans specialty Cajun restaurant. I was super excited to make a small dent in the New Orleans foodie scene by eating here, but I was quickly disappointed by the service (the food was overrated, probably tainted by my overall experience). The waiter came and acted as if Maria was sitting at that table by herself - he didn't even bother to lift his eyes as he shifted his feet ever so minimally in my direction to take my order. He was dismissive and even quite rude when I asked him what he might recommend. When the check came, I asked Maria if it would be terrible to give him a $2 tip on a $100+ dinner. She was surprised and looked confused as she reassured me that the service was pretty decent. I told her that the service was actually terrible, and for her sake (coming back in the future), I'd leave 10% and a note saying, "your service was awful - learn to address everyone at the table."
(note: none of Maria's friends were rude to me ever. I just wanted to clarify this - I'm specifically referring to instances when I/we were interacting with other random people.) 

I'm not an unreasonable person - I'm not a needy person, but I do demand a certain level of treatment especially when I'm paying for something. I realized then and still understand now that Maria probably had no idea that I felt insulted by that waiter's behavior all night because he was treating her, admittedly, very very well - as one should at a restaurant of that caliber. And it's okay that she didn't notice because I don't know if she could understand or even be aware of the subtle racism that I felt in New Orleans (a Southern city touted for its multiculturalism - I'll admit there were more non-white people there and more mixing in general than compared to say, Savannah, but it was still pretty homogeneous to me) because she looks white, because she doesn't obviously look ethnic - whereas I am very obviously Asian.

I've dealt with racism before in a much more blatant but no less despicable manner in NYC, in LA in Boston, in Cádiz, in Jerusalem - I get it, racism is everywhere - that's not news to me either. What was new to me though, was this experience with racism that was so uniquely...southern. Racism that was displayed in such a way that reflects Southern hospitality, good manners and gentility mixed in with generations of homogeneity. A racism that wasn't someone making chink-eyes at me or mockingly ching-chong-wah-ing at me - instead this was racism by ignoring me and pretending or hoping I didn't exist.

I'll leave this ultra long post with this. When Fernando and I decided to extend our visit to the South for Kate's wedding back in May with our multi-city roadtrip, we joked about how odd we might look as a Mexican and Korean couple there and how hilarious it could be to document a roadtrip through the South with a Mexican, a Korean, a black gay guy, and a hijab-wearing Arab girl (edited from something worse - don't judge me). Hilarious on the one hand, but potentially dangerous on the other. But now I wonder, we probably could have traveled through without event, virtually unseen.

2013: Meaning Over Happiness

It's almost two weeks into 2013 already, and I finally got around to writing my New Year's resolutions.

In a nutshell:

1. be less angry with the world. 
2. learn to not sweat the small stuff - essentially, don't let things get to me as easily or as often.
3. when I do find myself about to lose it, promise to take a deep breath first.
4. let my friends know when I'm thinking of them, at that moment. 
5. laugh more - and practice smiling in the mirror...it seems I have forgotten how to smile.

As you can see, much of my new year's resolutions have to do with anger, or better yet, reducing it. I found myself blowing up too often this past year - shaking with rage, blind with fury, sleepless with ever-mounting anger - and I really hate that. I don't want to be like that or get like that - I'm not that...there's a reason why Fernando calls me the "Shulk" half in jest, half in earnest.

Why am I so angry you ask? The easy answer is because I am not happy. But that's not a real or even truthful answer. Not real or truthful because it's an incorrect assessment of what's really going on here.

From the beginning and mostly throughout 2012, my focus for the year was light. And I equated light with happiness. I used to write to myself little notes all the time with things like, "Why aren't you happy?"; "What makes you happy?"; "How could I make me happy again?"; and mostly, that didn't help. Mostly, I just ended up focusing again on how unhappy I felt. And now I realize, much of 2012 may have been a futile pursuit of happiness. 

Today, I read an article from The Atlantic about this vain pursuit of happiness.
In it, the author explains that the pursuit of happiness is simply about feeling good. Whereas the pursuit of meaning is investing the self in something bigger than the self both in scope and in time, but it also comes with self-sacrifice, stress and worrying. Ultimately then, meaning is enduring - happiness is fleeting. And in the end, "a meaningful and happy life overlap in certain ways, but are ultimately very different."

This got me thinking - when were the times I was most happy? And then I wonder, was it really happiness or something else that I was experiencing? An obvious period of my life jumps out in clear first: my semester abroad in Jerusalem - six months of the highest of highs and well, a few of the lowest lows too. And then I think about the times I was most unhappy, and there's a clear first in my mind too: my first few months in Cádiz. Yet, Cádiz also wins for the most hedonistic and shallow time in my life. Ham, fried fish (¡pescao frito, chocho!), beer, endless vodka limón, siestas, beach and sunshine all day every day. I often used to wonder angrily at myself, what more could I ask for?
edit: please don't get me wrong. Cádiz was beautiful, and I came to love the city and the friends I made during my time there. In the end, nothing was wasted. 

Well, apparently a lot more than all that wonderful stuff of instant gratification (, which to be honest, now, as I think about it from my shoebox apartment in the dead of winter in NYC, it all makes me smile and wish I could partake in a bit of that again..). And that's because I had all the things that let me be happy, easily satisfied, selfish and self-absorbed. But I was no longer part of something bigger than myself - something like being part (even as just a first-hand observer) of an intense and passionate conflict, mired by history and religion.

Trawling through old blog posts, I found this post that I wrote after having arrived in Cádiz:
"But the difference is that even when I was unhappy in Jerusalem, I still had so much to write about and think about and talk about. I'm not unhappy here in Cadiz, but I'm bored. Apathy to me is far worse than extreme emotion whether it be hate or love. Life in Jerusalem was never easy, but it was always interesting."
At that moment, I was just coming away from Jerusalem with one of those lowest lows experiences, yet I preferred that to the days of sun-bronzed, sparkly beaches in Cádiz.

Another period of my life stands out in stark relief when I think about these happy vs. unhappy times in my life: the time I spent working on research after graduating. And this makes me laugh because anyone who knows me or knew me during this time will be horrified to think I consider this time a clear high point in my life. And this is because I was probably psychologically deeply unwell - there was simply no balance. I was working on something that could consume me just by the pure fact that my passion for it is endless. On top of that, this was yearning was never tempered - almost like I was so thirsty that I forgot to breathe and then was subsequently waterboarded - it was perceived as diligence and speed, and more insane and incessant deadlines were piled on.

But it was a high point, because in the end, I was not only doing what I loved but I was part of something bigger and way cooler - writing a book on a subject I am so passionate about. And I was so happy - so happy that I was delirious, starving my body so I could feed my mind, and manic. Was that happiness? No one in their right mind (so, excluding myself) thought so.

And so now, I realize that "When was I most un/happy?" is the wrong question. Instead, the right question is "When did I feel the most fulfilled?" or "When did my life and my work feel the most meaningful?". And this is so clear to me when I see what I wrote to SKEM back in those dark days of post-graduation pre-work limbo:
"I wish that I woke up every morning with a fight to win and tasks to accomplish towards a greater goal-whatever it may be. I really need that again in my life." 
And even more clear to me when I look back again on 2011:
"2011, you were surprisingly a year full of light, a harsh, jarring, neon, evanescent light."
It was a year of light, but not a year of joy and mirth. And now I think, that's okay because that must have been one of those times where meaning and happiness didn't overlap in the healthiest of ways in my life, but I was still more fulfilled and excited every morning I woke up then, than I ever have been since then.

However, I do acknowledge that a nasty habit developed all the while, that is, my anger, which is an easy and now instinctive reaction that I've unfortunately learned to practice in the face of adversity many times before. So my anger has nothing to do with my happiness (or at least not as deeply connected) - it is a byproduct of ups and downs and extreme ups and extreme downs, and I no longer choose to use it.

So on top of my resolutions to abandon the anger this year, I have two more resolutions:

6. paint again. 
7. focus on finding and doing something bigger than myself and the present moment

And I will accomplish #7 by first, taking my Coursera classes more seriously and investing my time in them. And second, by applying to go back to school this year because I now understand that it's not just something as shallow as my route to happiness, but it's a huge step towards my pursuit of meaning.