Luh Moar Jwayuh

Hot mess.

Alarm clock went way the fuck off. It got me completely conscious…but I zoned it out and refused to open my eyes. I stretched out in bed for a bit, yawning, my body still half asleep and that weird racing feeling running through my chest. I collapsed back down and opened my eyes. Greeted by the white ceiling. I tilted my head to the right and gazed around my room. Sunlight slipped through the cracks in my window blinds and striped the mounds of unpacked boxes that were spilling all over my carpet. I stretched out my right arm to turn the alarm off, and I rolled out of my bed, feet first. I stepped on something that wasn’t carpet. It was smooth, slick. I sat up and glanced down at it. Les fleurs du mal—it was a collection of poems written by Charles Baudelaire. I bent down and picked it up, flipped to a random page in the middle, and began to read.

“Le Mort Joyeux”
Charles Baudelaire

Dans une terre grasse et pleine d’escargots
Je veux creuser moi-même une fosse profonde,
Où je puisse à loisir étaler mes vieux os
Et dormir dans l’oubli comme un requin dans l’onde.

Je hais les testaments et je hais les tombeaux ;
Plutôt que d’implorer une larme du monde,
Vivant, j’aimerais mieux inviter les corbeaux
A saigner tous les bouts de ma carcasse immonde.

Ô vers ! noirs compagnons sans oreille et sans yeux,
Voyez venir à vous un mort libre et joyeux ;
Philosophes viveurs, fils de la pourriture,

A travers ma ruine allez donc sans remords,
Et dites-moi s’il est encor quelque torture
Pour ce vieux corps sans âme et mort parmi les morts !

Wow, I breathed. My arms dropped onto my lap. Overwhelming. Way overwhelming. What was the poem saying? I had no fucking idea. Juh nuh sahveh pah.

I picked the book back up and flipped to the front cover. I chuckled. Printed so proudly in the corner was, “Brian ‘Marc’ Dinh.” “Marc” was the French name that I chose for myself my first year in high school, and it stuck through all four years. Stuck so much that if “Brian” was ever mentioned out in class, someone would have to ask, “Kee eh Brian?”

I guess, to this day, that is still a good question.

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“The Computer-Engineer-to-Bagel-Shop-Owner Complex”
Written May 14th, 2007 (Excerpted)

Tonight, before I left Borders, where I was studying AP Psych review books, I made the mistake of buying a rather advanced French language practice book. Now, I’ve been sitting in front of my lap top with several Wikipedia pages on psychology open, but my hand has hardly touched the mouse during the last hour. I’ve been flipping through the practice book, skimming over old and new info, immediately finding stuff far more useful found in the school French book or Madame’s classroom.

When senior year starts, I plan to take the French Language SATII (in addition to the other SATII’s) and I’m going to have to branch off from Madame’s regular lesson plans if I want to pass. Hell, I might even sign up to take the French Language AP test next year; the AP class isn’t offered at my school, but hopefully with enough of my individual studies and passion, I’ll be prepared for it. This summer, since it looks like I’ll be rather alone, I’m going to cram in all the French movies, French music, French novels, and French practice that I can get. I’ll come back senior year speaking more nasally than ever.

So, where am I going with my “passion for French?” I’ve been thinking about my college major more often recently, and I’ve come to realize that when the time comes, I will definitely be marking the checkbox for “French” under college majors.

Years later, after enduring four wild years of college partying, I see myself settling down in a still suburban town somewhere along the California coast and working a steady job as a French teacher.

While I do know that this kind of career is something I’m passionate about, it still seems pretty scary and exciting, especially since, once again, I’m going to be going against the norms of not just my immediate family, but all my relatives too. And, the norm in our whole family is already pretty weird. This same pattern has been played out by three of my grown adult cousins and one of my uncles, and my brother and father are already on the same path. The pattern started with all their parents preaching to them starting at an early age “America have many opportunity; find good job; make lot o’ money,” AKA, become a doctor, whether or not they hated their job.

The next part of the pattern would come when they decided on their majors for college, which, were all related to computer engineering somehow. They completed four years of college and got their degree. Shortly after, guess what they all became.

[Me holding bagels. Taken at a late night Thanksgiving get-together with John, Peter, and Miranda in 2005.]

Bagel shop owners. Each of my three cousins and one uncle own their own bagel shop (which explains why my freezer is often overstocked with bagels).

I don’t know that much else about them and their bagel shop businesses. Maybe they love their job; maybe they secretly desired to make civilians smile with each giant dough cheerio served.

My brother, who I think is currently doing computer-related engineering shit in UC Davis, already joked about running a bagel shop when he grows up. I wouldn’t be surprised if he did. And right now, my dad’s out of a job. With all the obscure technology companies that would hire him moving overseas to revel in the sweatshop joys of Asia, my dad might break and open his own bagel shop too (if he doesn’t die soon).

[More fucking bagels. I was unattractive. No wonder my first crush didn’t wanna dodate me.]

So within the next year, when I’m sitting down with my parents at a cousin’s bagel shop, I don’t really know how to tell them that I am not going to major in shit like medicine, law, Molecular Biochemistry Engineering Aquatics; that once again, I’m making life-devastating choices by not aiming to walk the clear and obvious $100-bill-lined path straight to happiness. Well, those who see that path only for the $100 bills littered in the streets might never get to the end if they spend all their time picking up every single bill that blows up to their feet.

(It should be noted that I am not criticizing people who do choose to practice medicine or something really fancy as careers that they are really passionate about. I am criticizing those who choose a job solely for extrinsic gain and/or conformity.)

Maybe my parents will actually understand. Ironically enough, they were both high school teachers when they lived in Vietnam. But they probably didn’t think so highly of their old jobs because the commies sure did make things bitchy for them or whatever whatever. But, whether or not I’ll be hunted down if our country is overtaken by communism, the Computer-Engineer-to-Bagel-Shop-Owner Complex won’t apply to me.