Shakespeare once wrote, "What's in a name? A rose by any other name would smell as sweet." I guess a name doesn't make a difference since a person will still be made of the same stuff on the inside. (But I do wonder if a name contributes to making who you are. For example, I've met some mean Rachels so now I am wary when I meet a Rachel.) Anyway, maybe a name doesn't make a difference, but a good one can sure be fun! In Asia, people get to name themselves. Here are some great ones I have come across so far.
5. Elvis. Hello, Asian Elvis.
4. Sunny. My male cousin. Not Sonny.
3. Feeling Chan.
2. Bingo! Call him Bing(!) for short.
1. Anfernee. (When asked if it was Anthony, he adamantly insisted on Anfernee.) This is my personal favorite so far.
When I wrote a thank you email to my Aunt Eliane, I tried to write in Chinese. In response, she wrote, "tiffany:Thks a lot.Your letä»–er I can read,but cannot write.Donot write in chinese." Auntie Eliane, you have not shattered my self-esteem and I will continue trying to write to people in Chinese!
If you could change your name, would you?
May 31, 2010
May 17, 2010
When I Was Nine...
During my tutoring session today, my third grader and I read a book entitled "When I Was Nine". It was a collection of memories from someone who must've been a lot older than us because it included World War I and telephone numbers that were only 4 digits long. There were some cool memories, though. Like climbing on top of trees to watch the steam boat and locomotives go by (in Missouri...). Afterward, I made my third grader pretend he was 50 and write a letter to his nine-year old self, which should've been easy because he was already nine. He ended up writing about his first win from a swim meet a couple weeks ago.
I also did the same "assignment" so that it'd look like I was doing work. [He reads my stuff and I get to read his. It's a fair trade-off.] It's interesting to look back and see what actually sticks to you and what doesn't.
When I was nine, I was in third grade. One of my favorite grades despite being bullied, which I also told him about because bullying is a big problem in schools. That is a story for another time. When I was nine, I liked playing dodgeball, prisonball, and jump rope at recess. My siblings and I watched a lot of tv. One of our favorite shows was Power Rangers. The first season was the best. I remember being really happy when I got an A on a literature assignment because the only time the boy I liked would talk to me was when he wanted to compare grades. I liked beating him. Was that mean? My mom told me it was puppy love. I didn't understand what that meant because we didn't have any pets.
My grandparents lived with us and I have memories of my grandma working really hard. I think it gave her a sense of purpose to help our family with house matters and I remember feeling like I really needed to help her. I remember folding laundry and trying to stuff all the towels in our linen closet because they wouldn't fit. She'd clean the floors everyday, often getting down on her hands and knees to pick up anything she'd missed. I am reminded of her when I clean the floor like that. My grandma also chased my youngest brother around during meal times because he wouldn't sit still. She really loved him. I remember singing Christian songs to her because I wanted to her to believe in God. She also told us stories about World War 2 and experiencing the bombing in her apt. There was also always a sense of urgency with her. Like every little thing mattered and made a difference. I think it does.
People say a person never dies because we carry them in our memories and that is how they live on. I see parts of my grandma ingrained in me, in memory or in action. But what happens when no one remembers anymore?
I also did the same "assignment" so that it'd look like I was doing work. [He reads my stuff and I get to read his. It's a fair trade-off.] It's interesting to look back and see what actually sticks to you and what doesn't.
When I was nine, I was in third grade. One of my favorite grades despite being bullied, which I also told him about because bullying is a big problem in schools. That is a story for another time. When I was nine, I liked playing dodgeball, prisonball, and jump rope at recess. My siblings and I watched a lot of tv. One of our favorite shows was Power Rangers. The first season was the best. I remember being really happy when I got an A on a literature assignment because the only time the boy I liked would talk to me was when he wanted to compare grades. I liked beating him. Was that mean? My mom told me it was puppy love. I didn't understand what that meant because we didn't have any pets.
My grandparents lived with us and I have memories of my grandma working really hard. I think it gave her a sense of purpose to help our family with house matters and I remember feeling like I really needed to help her. I remember folding laundry and trying to stuff all the towels in our linen closet because they wouldn't fit. She'd clean the floors everyday, often getting down on her hands and knees to pick up anything she'd missed. I am reminded of her when I clean the floor like that. My grandma also chased my youngest brother around during meal times because he wouldn't sit still. She really loved him. I remember singing Christian songs to her because I wanted to her to believe in God. She also told us stories about World War 2 and experiencing the bombing in her apt. There was also always a sense of urgency with her. Like every little thing mattered and made a difference. I think it does.
People say a person never dies because we carry them in our memories and that is how they live on. I see parts of my grandma ingrained in me, in memory or in action. But what happens when no one remembers anymore?
When I was nine, my grandma really loved us.
And I tried really hard to love her back.
And I tried really hard to love her back.
May 5, 2010
Hello. Goodbye.
I've been babysitting for a classmate this semester so that she can attend class. Today, the boys showed me their caterpillars. They named them Humongo, Tiny, Chub-Chub, and Junior. Brother1 tells me about caterpillars. Brother 2 tells me all about penguins, especially Emperor penguins that can weigh up to 80-100lbs. They tell me about baseball and make me listen to the Giants vs. Marlin game. (Note to self: Must expose them to basketball.) Because of them, I have read and watched Dragonball Z, Justice League, and Sponge Bob. I like helping them with their homework and reading bedtime stories. Tonight, I read a story about a Princess and Pizza to expose them to girl stuff. (I once asked them what it'd be like if they had a sister, which rendered them speechless. )
As this semester draws to a close, I am confronted with the idea of saying goodbye. It's strange but you think that saying goodbye would get easier the older you get and the more you have to say it. Not true. It still hurts. And as we sat at the dinner table, the youngest brother looked up at me.
"You'll still be my babysitter, right?"
How do you say no?
How do you say goodbye?
Can we press pause on our moments together please?
I'm not ready for goodbye.
But time doesn't wait.
As this semester draws to a close, I am confronted with the idea of saying goodbye. It's strange but you think that saying goodbye would get easier the older you get and the more you have to say it. Not true. It still hurts. And as we sat at the dinner table, the youngest brother looked up at me.
"You'll still be my babysitter, right?"
How do you say no?
How do you say goodbye?
Can we press pause on our moments together please?
I'm not ready for goodbye.
But time doesn't wait.
(How about "See you later" instead of "goodbye"?)
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