Let's Listen to the Noise: Day 1 & 2

This campus view...

Long post ahead!

JVC Silent Retreat is on the horizon. Get it? Like the picture above! Haha... hah... ha... On to serious stuff. The Jesuits that have supported us recommended that we take some time to be comfortable with silence in preparation. So what did I do in response? I decided to make as much noise as possible this past weekend.

I'm not uncomfortable with silence. I actually love silence. It allows me to think and find my personal safe haven. Life tends to be noisy and a lot of the noise tends to be disingenuous. Most of the time, I believe people tend to make noise so that they don't have to feel the real weight of the silence. But, this past weekend I found myself in the middle of noise.

It will ALWAYS be Sears Tower

I haven't been in Chicago for 5 months. I have missed the noise, the people, the walking, the food, the public transit, the culture, the friends, the neighborhoods, the university, the suburbs and the lake. Pretty much everything about the Windy City (I missed Chiberia season so hah). Of course I squeezed as much as I can.

Day 1 just involved taking the bus to Chicago. Nothing beats seeing the Chicago skyline at night. I was coming home. I stayed at my friends' apartment in Lakeview. Nikki was my roommate for three years and I've known Andrew since highschool. It was nice to just kick back and talk that first night/day. We talked about where we're headed, what we're doing, and of course Game of Thrones. As par for the course, Nikki and I ended up watching an episode of Futurama before we both left Friday morning. It's funny how easily we fall back into old habits.

The social justice bug has me.

Friday morning, I went back to campus to see some of my old co-workers and my mentors. I have been blessed to meet some amazing professors at Loyola. Dr. Garbarino invited me to be his guest at the Center for the Human Rights of Children's conference on the protection of children from corporal punishment. This was never an issue I had considered before, but after listening to psychologists and neurobiologists discuss the distinctions of discipline vs punishment, the neurochemistry of cortisol levels in children who are spanked, and false notions of the advantages of corporal punishment, I became convinced that corporal punishment should be more openly discussed in our society. I have missed the university setting where you can just hear about issues that you would not regularly encounter.

Afterward, Dr. Garbarino and I had a chance for a quick conversation. I spoke of how much I have changed since JVC and how thankful I was that his class opened me up to global issues of social justice. He spoke of how he was nominated for a university Ignatian teaching award and how as part of his talk about Ignatian values he mentioned a senior in his class that ended up doing JVC because that senior learned about stories of social injustice. Guess who that senior was? Dr. Garbarino spoke of how he got the impression that I am a lot more centered now. I'm not sure if centered would be the word I would use. I have felt de-centered, but I feel more willing to tackle whatever confusion I may have.

Next, I went back to my lab and spoke to Ro and John. I worked with Ro for two and a half years and John was my Biochemistry TA. It's funny. Chemistry has its own language. Being back made me realize one thing: I'm still a chemist at heart. Discussing the progress of the project and giving my ideas about hydrolyzation, auto-fluorescence, and protein chemistry actually felt familiar. I have been out of touch with that side of me that it felt good to use a language I hadn't used in the past year.

After going to lab, I went to visit Dr. Vigen. I credit Dr. Vigen as the first professor to set me on my path as a socially conscious individual. During my second year in college, I went on a medical trip to Honduras. There, I remember a woman who had a leg wound that had gone necrotic. She had two options: 1) to get her leg amputated or 2) to go home and die. She chose to go home because if she chose to have her leg amputated she would have ruined her family. This shocked and traumatized me. For a year, I no longer knew if I wanted to become a doctor. It would have been easy for me to pursue my love of biochemical research. But, I ended up in Dr. Vigen's theology of healthcare. In that class, I began the path of understanding how to accompany people in the path of suffering through the words of Paul Farmer, Anne Fadiman, Arthur Kleinman, and Atul Gawande. A lot of my conversation with Dr. Vigen became about accompaniment, my own growth through JVC, and how I can use my perspective to better my path in healthcare. In the end, all I could say was thank you for what she helped me become.

I finished my time with a two hour conversation with Dr. Olsen and Dr. Dale. (Dr. Olsen is my biochemistry mentor who has helped me develop into the kind of analytical thinker that I am today; Dr. Dale is a lab collaborator that I worked with during my last undergraduate year). A lot of our discussion revolved around what kind of scientist I wanted to become and the change that is happening around Loyola. I became aware of the tension between teaching and research at the university level. The same tension they spoke of is the same tension I am becoming more aware of when I think of myself as a clinician versus a scientist. I still have no answers, but I did come to the realization that I love research. I curse Dr. Olsen's tutelage because that's one more thing that I want to pursue. (Geeknote, Dr. Olsen talked about the new Biochemistry discussion class for majors that revolved around paper discussions, 3D molecular modeling, and homology modeling; I was actually annoyed that my Biochemistry discussion did not involve any of that; Dr. Olsen did his job in turning me into a Biochemistry nerd). But, science is cool so I can't be that mad.

I was unable to meet up with Dr. Vaillancourt or Dr. Parks who developed my notions of aesthetics and ethics respectively, but it was already a full day so I went back to the apartment to take a nap.

Of course, the noise didn't end. I ended up going to drinks with a fellow JV in Chicago. We spent two and a half hours talking about a myriad number of things. We spoke about our respective families (25 cousins vs 16 cousins), our high school days (pop culture nerd vs social justice nerd), our mutual exhaustion over social work, our experiences with JV community life, our respective universities' politics, our hopes for nationwide politics, our mentors in college, our mutual idolization of Paul Farmer, my gripes with idealism, her passion for social justice, my plans for medical school, her plans for grad school/career, my development as a chemist, her experience as a journalist, my excitement about Detroit, her growing love for Chicago, and pretty much anything we could think of. All in all, it was a pretty good conversation about real experiences. That conversation became the seeds of this post. (Sidenote, I found out my hometown has a brewery!)

"A little faith goes a long way."

As the night was ending and she went back to her apartment, I had time to be quiet and reflect. What would a Chicago trip be without a CTA mishap? As par for the course, my connecting bus never came. For any future Chicagoan, get lost as often as possible because that's how you get to know the city! I ended up walking the last two and a half miles from Roscoe Village to Lakeview. I love the CTA! But that walk made me think of my first two days back in Chicago.

What is the noise in our lives? They tend to pull us in different directions. Should I care about global issues or urban issues in my hometown? How do I deal with the suffering and trauma that I see? Do I want to be a clinician or a researcher? Am I on the path of becoming an activist or a scientist? Being pulled in so many directions is beautiful. It made me realize how blessed I am. I have had mentors, friends, and family that have developed who I am to the point where I feel like I have a rich life. The noise has made me an aware advocate, a curious chemist, an imaginative artist, a caring friend, a kind human and a romantic Chicagoan. I love who I'm becoming. The noise nurtures us when we're lucky and aware enough to use the noise to our advantage. Creating silence when we're lucky allows us to become aware to what the noise means. They work hand-in-hand.

The above billboard made me chuckle because of its initial dig on the Cubs. I'm a Cubs fan so of course all I have is faith that someday, one day, all the MLB teams will pity us and let us win a World Series. One can hope right? Upon further reflection, I'm coming to the conclusion that faith will carry us where we have to go. I'm not talking about faith in God (I don't think I'll ever be comfortable with any notion of god or God), but faith in love and in life. If we have faith that love is beautiful, that life will nourish us, we can make a home between the noise and the silence.

Story time!

Journal screenshot #1

A few nights ago I decided to do lead a community night around story telling. I love stories. I'll let a more eloquent writer describe stories better than I ever could:

You are your stories. You are the product of all the stories you have heard and live - and of many that you have never heard. They have shaped how you see yourself, the world, and your place in it. Your first great storytellers were home, school, popular culture, and, perhaps, church. Knowing and embracing healthy stories are crucial to living rightly and well. - Daniel Taylor

That night got me thinking of how many stories we carry everyday from our first memories, our  feared traumas, and our whimsical dreams. I began wondering why at once these stories are so easy to hide but also so easy to share. What makes us fearful and needy in letting others see our vulnerabilities or our inspirations? Let me tell you about the first artist I met.

I love art. I like to write and to draw. My writing is so-so, but if I could show some brashness, I think I'm a damned good artist. I wish I could play the piano or the violin, but I'll have to accept my inadequacy and listen on in jealousy. I don't think I realized until this year why I was so drawn to notions of creativity. I can give some very pretentious and idealistic blabber about Plato's Symposium or Romantic poets like Yeats. Fact is, that doesn't really touch on a few things.

Journal screenshot #2

I am lucky enough to call myself a LaSallian (I didn't graduate as one, but I grew up as one so I win). Funny story on my path becoming a LaSallian: I was a dumb kid. Like really dumb. I spent most of my time watching TV as a child. I remember a lot of Flintstones and maybe some show about other cavemen and dinosaurs. School was never a priority. To start kindergarten in La Salle Greenhills, a prospective student had to pass an initial interview. I remember my mom's anxiety over the fact that I barely knew my colors and didn't care about letters or numbers. We were driving to the school and I didn't even know what colors were on the stop lights or what they meant. Again, dumb kid. There was another kid at the interview with flash cards and one of those fancy educational computers. Yep, I was gonna bomb that interview; I believe I did. But, as with most things in the Philippines, my mom had a friend whose friend was friends with a school administrator. Dumb kid became a LaSallian! Nepotism for the win! Not proud of it, but I believe I made the best out of it. (Side note, what's the point of interviews for children? I didn't care then, but I eventually blossomed into a damned good scholar. Just give children the opportunity to achieve!).

The school was amazing. Not only did they give me a foundation that allowed me to succeed once I moved to the United States, but they taught me to open my eyes. As part of my schooling, we went on several "outreach" trips. As a kid, I took this as a break away from the monotony of grammar and math. As an adult, I cherish these trips because they taught me what being human means.

Journal screenshot #3

The trips took on many different forms. A few trips involved going to retirement homes. In the Philippines, the norm is for the elderly to live with their children. Generally, if an elder lived in a retirement home it would reflect the reality that they may not have a family (I'm generalizing, but that's how I perceived it as a child). From these souls, I learned how to listen.

Some trips involved going to public schools and orphanages. In the Philippines, the school system was/is(?) terrible. Going to a private school with the social capital that a student had automatically meant that they were set for a better paying job down the line. Public schools were underfunded. Also, there is a huge population of homeless people in Manila. When worst comes to worst, a lot of these children would be orphaned and funneled into a terrible school system. What was I to think of this reality as a child? I had a driver to drive me to school, a maid to cook my meals, AC to keep me cool, and a school to truly educate me. It would have been so easy to shut myself off and believe in my socioeconomic and therefore "intrinsic" superiority. No. My school refused to let that happen.

The value of those outreach programs were to say, "hey, before you get a big head, meet these kids first!" How I loved it. The magic of children is that they don't care who they play with as long as they get to play. Money, education, "class," and status don't matter. I got to see them as children that laughed and played rather than what children of privilege might see: poverty, dirt, and disease. That was my first memories of meeting people where they are at rather than seeing people with how society has been trained to perceive them.

Journal screenshot #4

The main reason I'm writing this is because of my experience with a school for the blind. So what do children think of people with disabilities? Well, some would say people with disabilities are broken, or missing something, or incomplete. Kids can be really mean. I remember sitting there and thinking "I'm lucky to be able to see!" I could not imagine a life without eyesight and I was afraid. I probably pitied them deep down. But, what would you expect from a sheltered and privileged brat?

Well how wrong I was! At that school, I was taught how to read braille. I was showed how the blind can develop their senses to be sharper and are better able to doing more things than I could have imagined. My imagination was severely lacking in the power of human creativity and will. I remember one experience brought me to tears.

We came to a room with a man sitting next to his piano. He explained how he had nubs on the keys so that he could align himself when he played. He proceeded to wow me with the music that he created. I have no musical bone in my body and am jealous of any that can play an instrument. There I was, a kid who thought he was better because he was healthy and I was floored by a blind man playing the piano. To this day, I still remember the feeling of being lifted up and nearly brought to tears by that man's creativity. What I learned that day and have kept on learning throughout my life is that creativity doesn't give a crap about what's "wrong" with people. Nothing's wrong with anybody. People are people and creativity just does what creativity does: it creates.

To Pens, Magic Wands, and TARDISes (?)

Shiny Loyola folder with shiny pens.

I bought myself a birthday gift: Marina Keegan's The Opposite of Loneliness and two shiny Parker Jotters. I plan on getting to Marina's book once I've read more of it. Let's get to the shiny things! I like nice and shiny things. I'm like a cat; shiny things that move attract my attention. Did I mention they're shiny? I LOVE shiny things.

I made dinner last night. Just a simple lentil, garbanzo bean, kale, tomato, and asparagus salad. No big. Then Sarah left for class, Elizabeth went for a run, and Kevin was still at work. Of course, I wanted to test out my new shiny pens. They were just crying to be written with! I made myself a nice cocktail of Two James gin, homemade ginger simple syrup, and tonic water. I curled up in the comfiest chair in the house and I wrote. I don't think I journaled like I did last night in a long while. I wrote pages of nonsense, life, romance, and of course pens.

There's something about pens. I think I narrowed it down to a few things. One, I'm kind of vain. I like details about how I carry myself. I think it's partly the Catholic school upbringing. We had a class about etiquette and appearance yearly for crying out loud. We talked about being presentable and respectable at all times. Surprisingly, I took it seriously. Now, I'm neurotic and OCD about certain things. Pens, like shoes or watches, are one of those personal flourishes and touches that make me smile. So pens are an extravagance I like to indulge in (actually just shiny things in general). Sue me for being vain.

Most importantly though, I wrote about the romance of pens and words. I moved to the United States when I was 12 and had 5 months off of school. Of course I had no friends. You expect me to be outside, all whatever my weight was, all pre-teen awkwardness and all of my discomfort with English? Heck no! I had internet, but my friends from home were asleep when I was awake and vice versa. My friends were Raistlin Majere, Tasslehoff Burrfoot, Aragorn Elassar, Bilbo Baggins, Harry Potter, and Hermione Granger. I probably re-read the Dragonlance, Lord of the Rings, and Harry Potter books several times over that summer. The written word allowed my childhood self to have a safe haven away from the confusion, discomfort, awkwardness, and angst of pre-teen all-over crappiness.

I think we're all magical and our magic is in words. The written word allows thinkers and artists like Plato, Flaubert, Yeats, Tolkien, McCarthy, Martin, Rowling, Cronin, and Keegan to transmit their words and thoughts through space and time, life and death. It allows people to be inspired with thoughts of morality and progress, children to dream about being wizards and time lords, adults to cry over lost friends and missed potentials, and for all to share their insecurities and vulnerabilities. I've read friends' blogs that make me smile and chuckle. I've read stories of Harry Potter, Frodo Baggins, and the Stark family that frustrated and excited me. I've read the words of Dr. Paul Farmer and Dr. Atul Gawande that have inspired me to do and be better.

I believe in the magic of words because they transport us and allow us to imagine a better world and our better selves. They allow us to communicate and to feel things from those that have passed, those that are far away, and those that we would not meet in our daily lives. Our words can become our legacy for the children that will come after we are long gone. As long as we write and communicate, we are magical creatures.

Harry Potter has his 11" holly wand with a Phoenix feather core. The Doctor has his blue police box TARDIS of wibbly wobbly timey wimey stuff. I have two stainless steel pens powered by a pressurized black ink tube. To me, a pen is as magical as a wand and as powerful as a TARDIS (what began as the oral tradition became written became published and is now the digital word, but I find pen and paper to be my instruments of choice - I know the irony of saying that as I type so shush!) because it allows all of us to share in what makes us, well, us. In the end, what's your magic wand made of or what shape does your TARDIS take? Well, whatever. We're all wizards and time lords.