Restoration 4.0

I have not updated this blog in a long time. I have been having a difficult time finding the right words or even putting a pencil to paper to just write. Just write...this advice resounds in my head but my hands do not respond. I find it difficult to write on paper because I'm used to typing and texting. My fingers struggle in a weighty dance, a limbo, to find the right curves and to supplant the awkward jerks of my wrist that struggle to empower the point of my pen. I've been contemplating the reason that I write in this blog. There are a few reasons as to why I update my blog: I read it to reflect and to introspect; I send the link to my friends and acquaintances so that I can feel a sense of self-validation as soon as they read it (I tempt them to read it by including them in my post, which I closely classify as a very honest journal, candid to the bone, and incredibly frank); I relieve myself of built-up tension that have resulted from two and a half months of not writing in this blog. I'm keen to the lasting effects of not having written anything at all; I feel as if I do not have an appropriate outlet to empty my bottled emotions. Although this blog does not completely satisfy my voracious appetite to write and to release my emotions, it is a comfortable place to continue my entries and to revisit past entries that harbor strange evaporated sentiments I scrutinize with awe and surprise. Perhaps I have transformed from a remarkably cynical person to a groundhog peeking out of its cave for the very first time; I compare my self-transformation allegorically to Plato's Cave. While my cynicism and viewpoint of the world melts at the perception of the "realistic" world, one thing that I have not shed is my burdensome tendency to overthink which beleaguers me to the point in which I writhe in bed and lie awake as dark, forlorn thoughts travel through my head. I doubt that anyone has finished reading this part of my post. Now I will begin my next paragraph. Hopefully Thomas reads my post after I read and comment on his latest post. And Elizabeth will read my blog and scrutinize it for errors as I have been doing to every piece of text I've encountered in the past two months since I am an English teacher.

First and foremost, I have to learn how to lock myself out of Facebook; I have to bar myself from the social networking site just as I did with Myspace five years ago. I became addicted to Facebook several months after I signed up for an account. Lately I've been habitually checking my Facebook first thing in the morning and accessing it from my homeboy and my friend Ivan's smartphones. It has possessed me to the point that I update statuses preaching my partly hypocritical values and comments and I casually post dogmatic statements that slowly tread on my friends' rights. I also forget that my aunt and my high school teachers also roam Facebook; any hazardous comments or risque images will result in embarrassment and loss of face. Facebook has inundated my mind and it has debilitated my ability to think for myself. With every status I post I seek a high amount of "likes." When I upload videos of my acoustic performances I hope that I get an overwhelming high amount of "likes." If I attain this I will jump for joy and feel validated. I will tell myself that other people like my music because they clicked "like" and left a wholesome comment which may or may not accurately reflect a genuine opinion/statement. It is difficult for me to forget about Facebook as if it is a book that I have lost interest in reading. I treat Facebook as a lifeline to the world around me. I no longer seek the telephone or my cell phone for connectivity. I feel a surge of power to connect with my friends and total strangers via Facebook. When I see the constant stream of updates I feel pleasant, I feel comfortable, and I feel like I am alive. The world has stopped turning and revolving on its wholesome axis if the update stream froze and updates no longer popped up generously on my screen. I feel as if with every status and every meme that I see, I am invigorated with a sentiment that life goes on no matter what the adversity comes my way. That is why I felt deprived of life when my electricity went out last week during the devastating storm Sandy. When Sandy hit last Monday night I had previously belittled the power of the storm; I had underestimated its magnitude of destruction. An hour and a half before the ten o'clock news, my lights dimmed and flickered without notice. A half hour later the lights went out and left me and my parents in the dark. When I gazed out the window my entire block was shrouded in darkness. The buildings were battered by a coal-colored mist and strong winds that hesitated on dying down. The angry whispers of the wind blended with an uproar downstairs in my building mezzanine where residents brandished flashlights and lanterns that they had purchased a day before. I was left in the dark because I did not prepare myself or my family for this storm.

Throughout the storm I was worried about my homeboy, my homegirl, Kathy, my parents, my aunt and uncle, my students, and my Facebook account. I had trouble understanding why restoring power took more than a day. After day two of the blackout I was fed up; I decided to abscond to my friend Ivan's apartment in the Upper East Side. I hopped two buses to reach Ivan whose neighborhood has already received power. On my way to catch the M66 crosstown bus, I realized the lavish and luxurious lifestyle of Upper East Siders covering the sidewalk of Columbus Circle vicinity. Young women were dressed elegantly in parkas and petticoats; older women were clad in furs and thick jackets that breathed style in the midst of a blackout a few neighborhoods below Columbus Circle. I began to fathom a wealth disparity. My ebbs of cynicism motivated the sociological part of my brain. I began to allow my sociological part of my brain to analyze what I saw. I even told Pedro, the superinterdent of my building that the reason the power was restored to other parts of the city was because of a wealth disparity. After trading comments on Facebook I learned that this was not the case; power was not restored to the edges of New York City and it was due to the extent of damage. It had little to do with wealth disparity and the ghettoization of neighborhoods. My sociological brain definitely overanalyzed and my immediate drive to scapegoat simply played tricks on me. Finding an answer in a time of crisis is definitely soothing.

At my friend's house we ordered Farinella pizza. During my stay I partially overstayed my welcome by showering at his bathroom and making a mess in the bathtub by leaving traces of pubic hair and body dirt called "loh-nuy" in Chinese. Ordering pizza was a way to make up for the food I have not been able to eat in the past two days. Ordering from Farinella was especially distinct for me because I considered it a top pizza-maker in the borough, which Ivan had informed me about, and eating their pizza would bring me closer to his neighborhood. Because Farinella was part of his luscious neighborhood I wanted to experience the lap of luxury even though the truth is Ivan is mostly masquerading as a yuppie. Ivan and I have long acknowledged that we are both wanna-bes who order exquisite merchandise from J.Crew and J.Crew and think that we are of a higher social class. We both acknowledge that our false consciousness exposes us to materialism and hypocrisy, yet we continue to regal our finances on expensive clothing which we consider to be a mark of high class when in reality, J.Crew is not a brand for the rich "one percent." J.Crew has built up a fan-base which no longer reaches out to "rich persons"; even the Asians who are trying to scrape by with financial aid are purchasing J.Crew. This does not mean that rich persons will continue to buy from J.Crew. If they see that more and more out-of-social-class persons patronizing the brand, they will change their allegiance to subtly and quietly distinguish themselves. When I saw a man on the elevator he was toting a Salvatore Ferragamo briefcase; when I located the bag online I swooned at its retail price. That man is the epitome of high class, true high class. But then again, anyone can purchase luxurious goods once they have the money, my Dad strong advises me. "Ah sui da yew ten mai oh la," it means whoever has the money can buy it. Therefore, if a person has money, he or she can afford it and own it. This doesn't mean that this person is sitting in a high class position. He or she could have bequeathed funds or poured out his life savings. A good example of this incongruity is middle-aged men and women in Chinatown. Some older men and women who resemble parents wear Gucci bags which could symbolize wealth. But this is just an assumption. Perhaps they have no idea what the brand Gucci symbolizes. Perhaps their affluent sons or daughters have cashed their financial aid check to purchase a bag. When they get tired of this bag they allow their parents or grandparents to wear it for the day, even when they go shopping (mai-toy). GASP! This seems almost unfathomable and wrong, in my opinion. How can elderly persons or middle-aged fathers wear luxurious clothing and name brands? Why do they dress this way? I cannot believe that I had asked this question a few months ago...they have every right to dress whatever way they want and they can certainly choose to wear a bag because they had no other bag to wear. There are a myriad of reasons why they dressed the way they do and I cannot judge them based on their appearance for a few seconds. The real socialites and elites are not the ones we espy on Gossip Girls; they are the invisible ones as Ivan said. They go to work in helicopters; we do not see them on the subway or on sidewalks. They arrive in choppers and claim entrance on heliports; they regal their cash because they can and they run this world without leaving a trace on its surface. The real one percent are obscured from sight. Those who "bahn yeah" (pretend/pretentious) are the ones who wear luxurious brands in public and carry expensive bags. But these brands are not that expensive because if they can buy it, someone else can! Real, genuine wealth is not superficial and vanity-based, it is skin-deep and lineally-traced through bloodline and dignity.

I've been struggling with one thing: focus and concentration. Tonight I was able to sit down and separate my thoughts as they appeared in my head like beads of sweat that hop up on my skin and make themselves present. I was able to consider my parents and assist them when needed. I had a clearer mind and reminded myself that I do not live in a hotel. Instead I live in an apartment that I am grateful to live in with my two parents who have authored me and taken care of me to this very day. I realized that the more I distance my parents the more I will feel regret in the future when my parents' health and spirit languish. I immediately recall Please Look After Mom, a novel by Kyung-Sook Shin and my Facebook status post that praised my mother and her nimble hands on the Singer. I remember my Dad's advice coating the cells of bloodstream. As my mind became crystal clear I remembered my father's words racing through my head and slowing down. Their power was marshalled and I heeded its pull.