“I think everyone must love life more than anything else in the world.”

> >>>>>   “Love life more than the meaning of it?”

“Yes, certainly. Love it regardless of logic, as you say. Yes, most certainly regardless of logic, for only then will you grasp its meaning.

– The Brothers Karamazov, Fyodor Dostoyevsky

It is 3 AM and I am standing at a crosswalk in New York City.

Times Square is quiet tonight.

It is not silent, mind you – no, the “city that never sleeps” could never be silent. It is 3 AM and the gaudy charmer still churns, twists, flashes its vitality of energy and movement – “You CANNOT miss this show! Buy your tickets now!” HSBC M-M-M-M yellow Barclays FOREVER 21 laughter bubbles summer “would you mind taking a picture of us?” girls in pink uniforms flash-dance camera pretzels Mary Poppins Starbucks grande skinny vanilla lattes smoke from cigarettes MAC make-up American Eagle . . .

And yet, Times Square is quiet.

I stand here – in the midst of all the bustle, honking, explosive color and lights – and the world suddenly blurs, its violent contrast abruptly muted to an almost harmonious hum.

And in the pulse that remains along its softened edges, I find what I have been searching.

“There is nothing to writing. You just sit down and bleed”  – Ernest Hemingway

Kivu at the TFF Filmmaker/Industry Lounge

I see a trajectory in the chaos. The need for an answer, the desperate desire for meaning that drives us here and there, in and out of cities, jobs, interests, and relationships in its pursuit. But here in Times Square, at this precise moment, the structure momentarily fades and in the absence of form and projections telling me what to value and what to believe – I suddenly feel meaning.

Standing next to me is Kivu Ruhorahoza. Those of you who follow my blog may remember Kivu.

Five months ago when I was in Rwanda, I met Kivu at Papyrus through mutual friends. A five-second introduction turned into dinner at New Cactus, a couple parties, and a promise to stay in touch. His nomadic lifestyle inspired me – a life of spontaneity and adventure lived for the sake of artistic creation and expression.

When I met Kivu, he was a struggling filmmaker trying to secure post-production funding for his film. He briefly explained to me the plot of his film (an explanation, by the way, that did not do the film justice), but I was more interested in Kivu’s plans to publish a novel. Then, in March, I received an unexpected email – Kivu’s film, Grey Matter, had been selected for a world premiere at the TriBeCa Film Festival! Grey Matter set a precedent not just as Kivu’s first feature film – but also as the first feature film by a Rwandan filmmaker.

VERY, VERY EXCITING STUFF.

A couple emails and gchat conversations later, I had a plane ticket to New York City and a one-week pass to TriBeCa.

Yes, that is Robert De Niro.

During the day, I would follow Kivu around the TFF/Filmmaker Lounge and the Cadillac Press Lounge where he did interviews with The New Yorker, Slant Magazine, radio stations, etc. Then, starting at about 5pm, we would begin attending the cocktail parties, press meet and greets, filmmaker industry parties, Screen Actors Guild (SAG) parties, film premiere after parties, etc. etc.

I’ve never felt so networked-out in my life.

I always get this “WOW” response when I say that I ate with Robert De Niro at the Directors Brunch, or that Adrian Brody and Eva Mendes were also at the Cadillac Press Lounge. And apparently, I met a lot of famous people that I didn’t recognize – like Jay O. Sanders, Denis Leary, Anna Kendrick, Tristan Wilds, etc. – among others.

Kivu at the world premiere of Grey Matter.

Then, there are those on the red carpet just a stone’s throw away – Julia Roberts, Miranda Kerr and Orlando Bloom, Hayden Panetierre, Sean Penn, the list goes on and on.

But honestly, the most remarkable people that I met were not the glitzy glamorous celebrities, but the aspiring filmmakers and struggling writers. I was so impressed and inspired by the artists who traveled from across the world to premiere their films at TriBeCa. For many of them, they brought their life’s work to the festival – creations that have cost years of frustrating labor and fortunes, relationships, opportunities, and maybe even nearly their lives – because they believed they had something worth expressing and communicating to the rest of the world. I admire their nervousness and modesty, the way their eyes light up whenever someone loves their film, the way they despair when others hate it.

Filmmakers Logi Hilmarsson (from Iceland) and Dor Fadlon (from Israel).

Initially, attending all the networking events was a bit tiring and difficult. For starters, I have no connection to the film industry whatsoever. When people came up to me, I always prefaced with a disclaimer “I’m just a friend, no one important – feel free to move on” but I found that people were relieved and talked to me more naturally because I was not another person to impress. The whole thing seemed rather silly – milling about a room with a cocktail in hand, trying to appear as someone “important” so that you can meet and talk to someone “more important” and use whatever skills or connections they can offer to you. In the meantime, there are staff members whose designated roles are to whisper in your ear and tell you exactly who to approach and prep for. The whole thing becomes an evaluation and estimation of people and how useful they can be to you.

Obviously, I wasn’t “important” and wasn’t going to be particularly useful to anyone in the room. Even worse, I hadn’t seen Kivu’s film. So naturally, after admitting my unimportance, I dreaded the second and third questions: “Who is your friend?” and “What is his film about?”

“Uh … that’s him over there – Kivu Ruhorahoza. And … haha … I actually haven’t seen his film.”

Awkward.

Kivu insisted that I see his film at the second screening, which meant that I had to endure three days of networking as the “filmmaker’s-guest-who-has-not-seen-the-filmmaker’s-film.”

When I finally saw Kivu’s film, I had even less to say.

Many people call Kivu a “genius” and say that his film is “phenomenal” “fantastic” “amazing” “powerful” and even (much to Kivu’s dismay) “awesome.” His film has garnered very high ratings from critics and generated a lot of buzz in the press and at the festival.

But these words are so empty, so clumsy, so devoid of meaning.

“What did you think of the film?” Kivu asked me.

How can I explain this to you?

I didn’t respond. I couldn’t respond.

How could I synthesize my reaction to his film in words when every second of the film was so precisely and sensitively selected and executed? The scenes that I remember vividly – the elevator going up and then down, the taxi-moto, the mirrored reflection, the swarming flies, the lipstick, the machete catching on the fabric, the mini-skirt – do not adequately represent the meaning that I absorbed and that I continue to process.

It was the first time I had watched a film and known its maker.

Every scene became a creation and extension of the artist, and the film felt that much more intimate and captivating. I entered the story knowing that I was entering into Kivu’s imagination, his memory, his experience and his pain. The characters communicated so much more than what they verbalized and I sat in the cinema mesmerized by all that I watched, experienced, and learned. Two thoughts came immediately to mind as I watched Kivu’s film: 1) I really need to stop watching so many crappy films when there are films like this out there, and 2) Damn, I’m going to need to re-write my thesis.

But the true impact of his film is something that I continue to probe and process.

How do I respond to Yvan? Here is a character whose pain and torture is so far removed from everything I know, and who is himself distanced from the horrors that he imagines, and yet his experience is so unbearably personal and resonant. I watch him suffer from demons he cannot control and, as a viewer, I am also helpless as I watch the cycle unfold. The insanity of a madman and the silent, almost-invisible struggles of two siblings communicate the trauma of genocide with far greater precision and truth than graphic images of violence and killing. I grasp the “Cycle of the Cockroach” and its explicit tie to Rwanda and to Africa, but I feel uneasy with its implications – not just for the characters in the film, but also for the parallel reality that the characters represent. What does it mean to make a film about a cycle? The “Cycle of the Cockroach” implies no end to pain and suffering, but like the characters, I continue to ignore its inevitability and hope that things will get better.

Kivu accepts an award at the TFF Award Ceremony.

The camera pans out on the struggling filmmaker as the film ends, and I feel no hope. But I do not think that is what you are trying to say.

What do you want me to know?

Overnight, Kivu transformed from a struggling filmmaker to a celebrity. His film, Grey Matter, won two awards – a Special Jury Commendation for Best New Narrative Director, and also, the award for Best Actor. So many doors seemed to open that night, but it was humbling to see how Kivu took all of the film’s success in stride and continued to prefer a quiet dinner and evening stroll over the clamoring press, distributors, producers, etc that all suddenly wanted to be his best friends.

Which leads us back to Times Square.

So much has happened since our five-second meeting in December.

How can I explain this to you?

I’m not sure that I can.

But as we stand here in all of life’s vitality, energy, and promise – in Times Square, but also in Kigali, Chicago, Texas, Brussels, Paris – I sense meaning in the moment. Who knows why things happen and why we meet the people we do?

Life is terribly predictable and unpredictable in turns, but I know that every second of all of this – this tenuous, finicky, messy battle/race/journey we call life – matters.

And perhaps it is this embrace of all of life’s minor details and random encounters, that leads us to a better comprehension of life’s meaning.

I cannot explain this to you.

But I hope you understand.

Links to interviews with Kivu about his film, Grey Matter:

TriBeCa’s interview with Kivu: http://www.tribecafilm.com/festival/features/Kivu_Ruhorahoza_Grey_Matter.html

New York Times: http://artsbeat.blogs.nytimes.com/tag/kivu-ruhorahoza/

Film Review by Slant Magazine: http://www.slantmagazine.com/film/review/grey-matter/5464

Every end has a beginning.

Every beginning has an end.

We often associate endings in life with great pain and heartbreak, but sometimes it’s the moments that are neither ending nor beginning that are the most agonizing.

For the past few months, I’ve meandered along a familiar path. Even when the road became rocky and the potholes forebode a dangerous end ahead, I persisted. Occasionally, I hesitated and wondered whether I should take heed of the warnings, but the moments of sunshine or occasional flock of butterflies kept me to the trodden path.

Sometimes our fear of the unknown leads us to embrace the comfort of familiarity – even when that familiarity is toxic. However, as the path continues it becomes more and more apparent that the promises of novelty and excitement from the beginning do not lie ahead. The longer I remained on the path the more I regretted not abandoning it long ago when I could at least have left with sunny memories of beauty and warmth.

By the time I reached the cliff, it was too late to go back. I stood on the precipice like a fool with only doubts and regrets to keep me company. Why did I ever take the path? Were the moments of sun and happiness worth it? Or even worse – was there ever happiness or sun, or were those just constructs of my wishful mind?

Senior year thus far has seemed to either align with long stretches of aimless monotony or unexpected loss.

The periods of limbo – periods of doubts and uncertainties about people, purpose, and existence – seem to be prevailing themes. I am stuck in the middle of spring quarter senior year with no clue about what comes next. Or rather, I have clues but I’m not sure that they are the clues that I want. I have been waiting for months and I’ve taken many paths that have led to closed doors and others that have led to open ones, but I’m wary and hesitant about the options currently available.

So, I’m still waiting.

Don’t get me wrong, some of the open doors are amazing opportunities – how could I forget to mention:

I GOT A GRANT TO GO BACK TO RWANDA THIS SUMMER!

I will be returning to the Rwanda Multi-Learning Centre to start “Vocation for Education” – a program that will pair students at the school with part-time internships. The hope is that if students accompany learning in the classroom with experiential learning, they will accumulate the work experience necessary to find jobs to support the continuation of their education.

I’m still waiting to hear back from another grant before I officially launch the project. But can you believe it was only a year ago when I started this blog and prepared for my first trip to Rwanda?

I digress…

I guess I am currently more concerned with what comes after summer and where I’m ultimately going with my life – what happens next?

In addition to confusion, the sense of loss, too, has grown more acute in the past few weeks. Last quarter, it was the loss of a kindred spirit – a confidante and beloved friend. It was a loss that defied comprehension in its unexpectedness and tragedy.

This quarter, the loss is even less tangible. It is the loss of silly puckered faces, of barley soup, missing hairpins and earrings, undesired vegetables, a warm gray scarf, and half-watched movies. It is the loss of carefree laughter and spontaneity. Five months can disappear into flashes of memories. The most mundane moments become the most memorable. Small gestures – pinkie promises on sunny days, broken promises on dark days, laughter during tragedy, tears during hilarity – become the character of what once was.

But can you really lose something you never had?

Whispers lead to doubt. Perhaps more difficult than loss is the acknowledgment of questions that will never be answered. Was it painful? What does this mean? Why did it happen? What if…?

Sometimes these questions find answers after time, but more often than not, they remain unaddressed and we must accept the lack of resolution.

I guess the good thing is that we never end up exactly where we started. Each time we fall, we learn new lessons on how to avoid another fall. Sometimes this means that we take a longer time to get up and sometimes we even tell ourselves that we will never try again, but so much of who we are as people is defined by the bruises, scars, and broken bones we have sustained in the messy race we call life.

The scrapes from the most recent fall still sting.

I’ve had worse injuries, but it has still been difficult to get back up and remember how to walk again. Sometimes I still look back at the path and I wonder how its natural turns and slopes led to this. However, I’m starting to realize that while the destination was not ideal, the sun-drenched warmth and random rainbows along the journey still outweigh the ultimate denouement.

As F. Scott Fitzgerald once said, “Vitality shows not only in the ability to persist but the ability to start over.”

Here’s to endings and new beginnings.

A voice message from my sister on Saturday, February 26, 2011 at 05:30:15 PM. “Hi. Lydia? [pause] It’s me. I think you should know … that an hour ago a policeman came to Joseph’s house … and asked him to go to Cayuga Medical to identify a dead body. [pause, heavy breathing] Which they think is Victoria. It’s all the information we’ve got. When you get this message, you have to pray, okay? That hopefully it’s a miracle. Hopefully, it’s not Victoria.”

A text message on Saturday at 05:51:17 PM: “Body is confirmed to be victorias. No more details now. Kat is going to prayer meeting and will tell me more after

On Saturday, I pulled my easel out from behind the heater.

It has been two years since I sat in the same corner of the room and scripted, blotted, and splotched my pain onto canvas. Then, the absence of meaning drowned words with Twombly-inspired pink carnations. I pressed the pink and watched black rivers run down white. Once-precious words rewritten by that red fountain pen and then distorted by carnations in bloom, words washed into meaningless rivulets of ink. I saw love run black as promises and dreams flowed off the page into a pool of discarded liquid.

And yet, when I pull out the canvas two years later, I find that the messages are still there – pressed into the canvas by the metal tip, absent of substance but impressioned remains just as haunting.

Since Saturday, I have been painting on a new canvas.

I am trying to find the right colors, lines, and shapes to communicate loss. I’ve had trouble breathing as of late. Memories choke me, and my strokes strike the page with desperation, slashing slices of blue, burnt orange, and red across the white – as if the turmoil within can be released through violent color. But sometimes, when I dwell on your gentleness and I remember the sun, I begin to make sense of the mess and I start to find shapes within the disorder. I follow the guidance of grief to discover an embrace, my final message and ode to you. Instead of words, I have your scarf draped over my easel – an inspiration of bright purple infused with memories of a Christmas not too long ago.

God, why was there nobody to walk you home?

A press release by theithacan.org:

Freshman Victoria Cheng was found dead outside an off-campus residence early Saturday afternoon. Residents of 380 Pennsylvania Ave. said they first noticed a body lying in the snow on the side of the house when they looked through an apartment window. Deputies responded to an unresponsive female report on Pennsylvania Avenue at approximately 12:40 p.m. Saturday, according to the Tompkins County Sheriff’s Department. The Ithaca City Fire Department and Bangs Ambulance soon followed to assist.Cheng, 17, was pronounced dead at the scene.

You were my mini-me.

A girl that I have known, played with, mentored, and loved for over ten years. I was eight and you were four when I moved to Ithaca. I can still see those bouncing pigtails and that poofy white dress you used to wear to church. Remember the games we used to play during those long Wednesday prayer meetings? We would get in so much trouble for creating them and leading all the kids to squeal and clamber over the floors and furniture to keep balls of paper in the air.

But it was so worth it.

As the years passed, you became less of a protege and more of a confidante. You were my partner in crime at church when we didn’t want to listen to the sermons and we spent our Sunday mornings doodling caricatures on church bulletins. You cut your bangs and taught me how; you also introduced me to Sun-in Spray. Ever since then, I’ve had bangs and brown hair. Just like you.

But most importantly, you loved me – and loved me without judgment.

When nobody else cared to listen, you did. You embraced me with all of my flaws and my weaknesses, and loved me despite them. We shared our guilty pleasures, our temptations, our disillusionment, our secrets, our frustrations, and our hopes. We were the ones who aspired to break the mold and explore all of the options and possibilities out there.

You understood me.

I didn’t always agree with what you did or how you handled situations, but I never held your actions against you. I wonder now whether I should have been harsher. I discouraged you in high school when you told me about your first encounter with alcohol, but you laughed off my rebuke and assured me that it was just a trivial experiment. I never thought that it would lead to this.

It was much too soon.

Someone once told me “Never waste your grief.” Black brings out the meaning in the painting – there is something pacifying about a tangible product of sadness.When I first heard the news, my heart froze and I was lost in the familiarity of my own apartment. I spoke matter-of-factly to others about your death – as if hearing the words aloud would make the reality hit. It wasn’t until I had finished the final black stroke at 4:00 AM Sunday morning that I broke down and wept long and hard.

I miss you so much, Vic.

Forty-eight juniors at Highland Park High School now know your name. I shared with them the history of our friendship and the circumstances of your passing. Through that lesson, I introduced to them the terms of argumentation and persuasion, but also gave them a window into my life and a message about responsibility to oneself and others. This is an excerpt of what I read aloud to them:

Life is about making choices. Sometimes we make good choices, sometimes we make bad ones. It’s all a part of being human. However, what I do want to communicate is that all of our choices have consequences – consequences that don’t just impact our lives, but also the lives of others. When we make decisions, we often only see the immediate implications in our own lives. I want to take this opportunity to remind you of how our decisions impact the lives of others.

I am not asking you to abstain from alcohol (although I sincerely hope that you will), but I am asking for you to be responsible – to know your limits, to make sure there are others there to take care of you. Not only for your sake, but for the sake of those who care about you – your family, your friends, your loved ones. Remember that your pain is not your own, but it is shared with those who care deeply about you.

This past weekend has taught me about the importance of faith, family, and friends. The Cheng family has been an emblem of resilience and inspiration of faith, lifting up others even when their own hearts are bleeding. From a distance, the family looks small and worn from the tragedy, but the words of comfort and hope that they offer to others and the warmth of their embrace demonstrate a capacity of love that is difficult to comprehend. Joseph did not waver once when he stood at the pulpit and entreated students not to “flirt with alcohol.” Sarah held me up when I felt I would splinter into pieces.

I hope you can see how much your parents love you and how much you have touched all of our lives.

Plato once said, “Be kind for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.”

You lived by this philosophy, Victoria, and now I will try my best to follow.

When I was little, I had this theory that “If I can’t see you, you can’t see me.”

It mostly applied to the monsters living underneath my bed, the murderers and robbers that might walk into the room, and the scary shadows of ghostly kings that the curtains left on the walls – but I applied the theory to everything in my life by day as well.

At night, it meant that I would “protect” myself by curling up into a little ball and tucking my blanket around me until I was completely encased in a comforter shell. Making these preparations against the night demons required very careful and thorough measures. One unsecured corner of the blanket and the tiniest monster would be able to peep in and see just one toe to know that I was there.

By day, the theory translated more into “If you can do something, I can do it better.” Time was the only limiting factor – nothing was beyond my grasp given enough time.

I still sleep curled up in a little ball, but over time my day-time theory has changed somewhat to “If you can do something, I can and will try to do it better.”

It never occurred to me that some things are beyond my reach. Or, more importantly, that perhaps some things are not worth pursuing even if they are within my reach.

Croissants and Bruschetta

He hates the word “Awesome” more than any other word in the [American] English vocabulary.

“Do you realize that in our first conversation, you used the word “awesome” three times?” he asks me. When I laugh, he shakes his head disapprovingly. “You are such an American sometimes, you know.”

I remember that night.

It was my first evening back in Kigali, and the DJ had invited me out to dinner with friends. And, of course, where else would dinner be but at Papyrus? (Truly, in Kigali, all roads lead to Papyrus, not just on Friday and Saturday nights).

My friend G parked the car across from the bar. From the front seat, I could see Alex standing behind the counter of the newly relocated patisserie. He looked the same – he was wearing a white dress shirt I hadn’t seen during the summer, but still the same white Givova cap.

As G and the others headed into the restaurant, I told them I’d say hi to an old friend and join them soon. G glanced over at the patisserie and laughed. “A friend?” he said devilishly, “Hm hm.” I pushed him into the car and then ran off.

I stood breathless at the top of the stairs and watched Alex take an order from a customer. He turned to grab a pizza and when he turned back he finally saw me. I smiled and waved. He smiled his big smile and finished his customer’s order as I walked down and went through the back entrance into the patisserie.

“How are you?” he said.

“I’m good. How are you?”

“Same same. Nothing change,” he said and laughs, “Papyrus – always the same.”

“Well, it’s a new bakery,” I said. I peek over the new array of food displayed at the front. “You sell hamburgers now? And brochettes? And fried chicken?”

“Yes, but you know, not good,” he said, using the tongs to prod one of the brochettes, “These people, they like meat when they drink, so – I make meat. Business.”

“The croissants look different. And what happened to the cookies?”

“Cookies are not good. All burned. You see, new staff, have to train. They get it all wrong.” He shakes his head and then laughs.

A lot can change in three months.

Few things in life are static – people least of all. People are constantly in motion, changing and tuning into the stimuli of experiences and circumstances around them. Nothing is stable. Nothing lasts forever. Change means that sometimes people grow closer, and other times, they grow farther apart.

I told Alex it was nice to see him and that I probably had to join G and my friends inside Papyrus. I think he understood. I left the patisserie and Hassan behind the counter, but not without wondering whether the croissants were still as sinfully sumptuous as before. Not sure if I’ll ever know, but it’s hard to ever match up to that incredible first time.

Back inside the Papyrus restaurant, slow laid-back service makes for long, laid-back meals. The candle barely lasts through the night, flickering and twinkling lower and lower as old friends reconnect and new friends meet in the midst of a crowd that cycles in and out even as it grows larger in the restaurant bar. Deep inside Papyrus in the new club, a girl displays her vocal prowess, crooning and belting out the lyrics of classic oldies.

Our food had just arrived when he walked in.

I remember the sharp taste of mozzarella on the bruschetta as vividly as the fitted gray suit and crisp British accent. Serge, the owner of Papyrus, had just joined our table and two others walked in with him, but I don’t recall their names. Then, my friend nudged me and I looked up.

“Daddy, this is Lydia,” she said, “Lydia, this is Daddy.”

We shake hands. “Call me Kivu,” he says. His poise and demeanor are very polished, and his smile short and curt.

“Oh, okay. Kivu, nice to meet you.”

He bows his head slightly and walks into the restaurant. I lean toward my friend and whisper, “Did you really say his name was ‘Daddy’?”

“Yeah, but apparently he wants you to call him Kivu. Not sure what’s going on there,” she said with a shrug, and returned to her pasta.

If someone had told me that two weeks later Kivu and I would be friends, I would have laughed in disbelief. He was the first Rwandan I had met who seemed so cold and disinterested in conversing. Most Rwandans seem warm and friendly, hospitable, easy to know, easy to talk to – he seemed not only disinterested, but also not thrilled that I was sitting with his friends.

I’d already proven my childhood theory wrong at this point, but somehow still forgot that just because I “saw” something, it didn’t mean that it was truly the case. A week later, when we met at my housemate’s warehouse party, we’d realize how much was miscommunciated.

As I was to learn, Kivu is a writer and filmmaker. But not just any writer and filmmaker.

Kivu dropped out of school when he was little because he felt it was a waste of time. He hated being told what to do and what to learn, and felt that his time was better spent learning things on his own. He taught himself to be fluent in French and English … and his English is better than mine. Even now, he is opposed to formalized education and refuses to work for anyone. He tells me that he “works” 30 days out of the year to make enough money to do what he wants. Apparently, he is the liaison for BBC, CNN, National Geographic, and whatever film companies that want to come in to produce something on Rwanda. They pay him the big bucks to do all the logistical planning. After one or two gigs like that, he’s set for the rest of the year.

He travels around the world, finding studios in which to reflect, create, and write. For the holidays this year, he’s staying at a monastery in the south of Rwanda.

He is a paradox.

He lives his life from moment to moment and describes himself as “impulsive and spontaneous.” We will be sitting and having a deep conversation in a cafe, and suddenly he will spring up and ask me if I want to take a stroll to Serena Hotel. At midnight. Or he will randomly decide that he wants to spend the months of February and March in Cambodia and Thailand. He gets bored easily and likes to try new things, but at the same time, only wears white dress shirts (he says he has fifty in his closet) and is determined to order the same thing every time that he goes to Bourbon “for health reasons” (he always orders salad “with extra anchovies”).

His is the life I have always dreamed of living, but have never dared to embark. I’ve had small moments of rebellion against organized education – skipping class to spend a day walking through the entire Art Institute, lying on the lake fill and listening to all of Rach. 2 instead of writing a looming ten-page paper due the next day. I grumble all the time about school work and will declare about a class, “My time would be better spent oil painting in a field!”

I often tell people that “In the grand scheme of these things, grades don’t matter. When you’re eighty years old and you look back on your life, you’re not going to remember the hours you spent studying for orgo or the lectures you attended – you’re going to remember the times you spent doing absolutely nothing, breathing, reflecting on life, laughing with friends, building relationships.”

Still, I can’t help but obsess over grades and fall into the mentality that if I spend X amount of time doing A, then sometime down the line, I will have Z amount of time to do what I really want. I push myself to do things so that I can later do other things. And I find that this is the mentality that so many of my peers have – that if they force themselves to labor through med school or do consulting or investment banking – that their hard work will pay off and they will achieve “success” or finally open up the door to the life that they hope to have. One of my friends recently told me that she has always been told that life must be lived in thirds – one third spent working relentlessly in order to enjoy the other two thirds.

This makes sense to me. But at the same time, I wonder whether we – or let’s just say, I – would be so much happier if I just pursued what I wanted from the get-go. What if I had really spent a quarter oil-painting in a meadow instead of attending classes? It disheartens me to ride the metra every morning to work and see so many tired, drawn faces. Why do we force ourselves to do things that we do not enjoy?

Perhaps it is because we believe that the dream is worth it. Or perhaps it is because we do not know what we want so we aim for the dream of comfort, financial security, and stability, thinking that these things will make us happy.

I’m not sure.

But when I look at Kivu, I envy him. I envy his ability to throw everything into the air – commitments, responsibilities, obligations, the heavy weight of the future – to not be obliged to anyone or anything, to be a free spirit drifting around the world exploring, meeting, experiencing.

To be done with doing, to just focus on living.

However, a part of me still believes that we each have a purpose for living, that each one of us has a responsibility to humanity that is greater than our individual needs and desires. Finding that purpose and uniting it with our strengths and passions seems to be the challenge. Perhaps one day I will have the opportunity to oil paint in a meadow, or write in a cottage in the south of France, or publish a novel that leaves a lasting legacy – but have I truly lived if I have not maximized what I have been given to give back to the world?

My hope is that teaching will balance out this responsibility while still engaging me in doing what I love. It may not be the most glamorous occupation filled with luxury, extravagance, and comfort – and, at this point, I know that if I truly want to pursue these paths, they are within my reach. But teaching, as one of my professors once said, is “sacred work.”

To be honest, at this point there is nothing that I want to do more. I’m not sure where teaching will take me, but I am more excited than anything else to see where I will embark!

Thank you for following me on this adventure 🙂

On my first morning in Kigali this summer, I woke up to Jason Derulo singing “Whatcha Say.”

I had one of those surreal moments where I panicked, forgot where I was, remembered I was in Rwanda, and then promptly wondered whether I was sure it wasn’t a dream because Derulo was definitely playing outside my window. When I finally untangled myself from the mosquito net and confirmed that I hadn’t left my iPod on, I opened the curtains and saw the answer. There, on the dewy lawn beneath the faint pink rays of a Kigali sunrise, was Alphonse (our security guard) sweeping leaves into a pile while jamming to “Watcha Say.” I looked on for a moment, watching Alphonse step and sway to the beat while humming the radio lyrics under a warming golden sky.

Here was my first lesson: Don’t assume that just because you’re in Rwanda, you’re on a different planet.

As I would quickly realize, everywhere you go in Kigali – the supermarkets, the taxis, hotels, even just walking down the street – you’ll hear radios playing top-forty American hits, African pop and sometimes even jazz. Often, the songs that are played are mash-ups and remixes of American pop with African artists. However, out of all the familiar songs and music genres that I heard around me, I missed the one that was dearest to my heart: Classical.

As far as I know, there are only two pianos in Kigali. One is missing a third of its keys and sits in a cobwebbed corner of the church at One Love. The other sits on the second floor lobby of Kigali’s most luxurious hotel, Serena, where it functions more as a piece of art than an instrument. It took me over a month to discover the Serena baby grand, but once I did, we were inseparable. Whenever I had time outside of teaching, lesson-planning, research, meetings, etc – I grabbed my Rach. 2 and Liszt’s “Un Sospiro,” hailed a taxi-moto and seated myself on the cushioned bench at Serena for at least the next three hours.

On my first day with the baby grand, I almost choked on the dust that flew from beneath my fingertips into my nose and lungs. But as we got to know each other and I downloaded more of my favorite pieces – by Chopin, Debussy, Brahms, Mozart – we also started to make more friends at Serena. Classical seemed to be a novelty in Rwanda, and a person who played it was considered even more of an oddity.

I mentioned before that when I first came to Rwanda, the thing I missed most was playing piano. Funny thing is that my search for a piano in Kigali and the subsequent hours of playing Chopin, Debussy, Rachmaninoff, and Liszt brought me in touch with some of the most important contacts I made in Rwanda. I’ve spent hours at Bourbon Coffee over cups of steaming African tea discussing classical music with future sponsors, NGO workers, foreign diplomats, and Rwandan government officials who had heard me play the piano at Serena Hotel.

Most were completely unfamiliar with classical repertoire and asked me why I played music, how I came to play music, and what I thought about while I played.

They may as well have asked me, “What is the meaning of life?”

To which I would respond, “That’s easy. It’s Piano Concerto No. 2 by Sergei Rachmaninoff.”

You may disagree – which is fine – but what we can agree on is that the answer cannot be easily expressed in words. Which is why it is through music and art that I have developed my “philosophy of life,” if you will. Words are finite. For any given language, there are a limited number of ways that we can describe our experiences and express how we feel. As George Orwell says, “If thought corrupts language, language can also corrupt thought.” We are simultaneously limited and enabled in our thinking by our grasp of words.

Music is a language.

You’ve heard the old adage “A picture is worth a thousand words.” Music, like art, is more expansive and powerful of a language than words. Unlike the language of words, music and art have an infinite vocabulary. The possible combinations of notes, chords, harmonies, and colors are endless – which means that the amount of experiences and emotions that both mediums can express is also infinite.

Individually, each note on the keyboard may not stimulate a response – just like each alphabetic letter has no meaning when it stands alone – but combined with others, we can create meaning. Infinite meanings.

However, “meaning” is still complex because with an infinite number of combinations comes an infinite number of perspectives and interpretations. We may both look at red and agree that it is “red” but I may see your “green” and you may see my “purple.” Neither of us is more right or wrong than the other, but the point is that we have looked at the same thing and come away with two very different meanings.

We live our lives constantly striving to find meaning in what we do, trying to find a purpose for our existence. Just as there is one history and many “stories” of that history, there is one world and many different experiences of that world. Within each person is an entirely different “world,” and within communities and societies, entire “universes” to be discovered.

My philosophy of life is to hear as many stories and live in as many worlds as possible, in order to enrich and expand my own “world” to more closely approximate meaning and truth. As a corollary to this philosophy is a desire to expand and enrich the worlds of others by facilitating an exchange of stories and worlds to promote understanding.

I find that music gives me a medium through which to express and communicate greater meanings across language and cultural barriers. More than just sharing and expressing my experiences and feelings through playing the piano, music allows me to process experiences in a way that words cannot.

Only through sharing, learning, and trying to understand other perspectives can we work towards making the world a better place for everyone – wouldn’t you agree?

In any case, food for thought. Give Rach. 2 a listen – I promise it won’t disappoint!

Happy holidays.

What is it about Rwanda that makes even ten days so intoxicating?

During the summer, I learned so much about life, about teaching, and about myself. I learned to breathe. I remembered how to stroll. I realized how vibrant and satiating life could be and I started to absorb that energy and vitality. I did things that I believed in and that I wanted to do.

My friend at the Art Institute

I love Chicago – really, I do. I spent my last few days paying a visit to the Thorne Rooms and my favorite friend in the Asian exhibit of the Art Institute, and attending the Chicago Symphony Orchestra’s Boulez/Glagolitic Mass concert. But Rwanda was still constantly on my mind and I desperately wanted to return.

The Undergraduate Research Grant opened up that possibility for me.

The past few weeks have been a blur of logistical preparations, post-grad job applications, interviews, classes, and other commitments. As I prepared for the trip, I also tried to lower my expectations and mentally prepare to be disappointed. I thought that the charm and excitement of the first trip might partially wear out with a second visit. I was prepared to see flaws that I hadn’t realized during my first trip, to be disappointed with the glorified vision of a surreal summer experience.

I won’t say that I didn’t experience any disappointments during my time here, but I was genuinely surprised by how much change I saw when I stepped out of the airport in Kigali. Rwanda is moving at such a fast pace right now that, even in three months, everything can seem completely different and virtually unrecognizable. It isn’t just the visible changes – the buildings that seem to pop out of the ground overnight, the paved roads (that have thankfully meant fewer injuries to my bottom when I take motos).

Learning Centre students who just graduated with English certificates!

A new school building in Gasabo District that leaves the old Learning Centre classrooms at Solace Ministries dark and empty. The addition of a club at Papyrus that has changed the warm, relaxed vibe of the old bar restaurant and brings an entirely different type of clientele on Friday nights. The relocation of Alex’s patisserie to the old Papyrus kitchen. The new shape of the croissants and sugar cookies, the addition of hamburgers, fried chicken, and meat pastries. The expanded menu and changed staff at Bourbon Coffee.

But most of all – the changes of people and in people.

Who is this old friend who has suddenly become a promising filmmaker featured in The New Timesand who interacts daily with Rwanda’s most prominent and powerful to promote his documentary on the diaspora? Who is the clean and polished gentleman offering his assistance and driving me around downtown who was so despairing and disillusioned during the summer? Who are all these bright-faced students who greet me confidently in English and stand beaming as they receive their graduation certificates?

Future famous filmmaker friend

On the surface, I see them and embrace them, but when I step back, I seriously wonder whether they are still the same individuals I knew during the summer. I can’t get over the changes, but then sometimes in the middle of a conversation, a little wink or sudden flash of a smile, brings it all back.

In some cases, I realize that it isn’t Rwanda that has changed on me, but that I am the one who has changed. Part of the brevity of this trip has meant that my two worlds – which had seemed infinitely far apart during the summer – have come closer together and, in some cases, even overlapped. Now that Rwanda is no longer foreign to me, I am not struggling to cast aside my preconceptions and my old lens of seeing the world to learn and try to understand a new culture. I have a bit of both in me, and this trip has been less about learning one perspective than trying to reconcile two lenses and two lifestyles that are both equally a part of my identity.

As I start to reexamine these experiences and write, I know that part of my reflection this time around will be negotiating my experiences in both worlds, and in the process, trying to figure out where I stand in both.

Before I get too carried away with telling you another miserable story of traveling woes, I would like to say: Even in the hell that is Washington Dulles International Airport, there are so many angels.

I was hoping that my next blog post would be titled: “SURPRISE! I MADE IT BACK TO RWANDA!” Instead, I’m sitting shivering in Terminal D4, alternating between typing a few lines of text on a rapidly dying netbook and warming my hands on a cup of green tea purchased from a nearby Dunkin Donuts – the only store that is open 24/7 in my airport terminal. Thank God I decided to pack an extra Northface fleece in my carry-on suitcase.

Apparently this is the hardest charger to procure in the world...

When I first arrived at O’Hare and realized that I forgot my netbook charger, one of my friends texted me something along the lines of “Well at least you learned a lesson.” At the time (before things were that bad), I was already miffed by how unhelpful that statement was. I mean, I don’t know if I’ve necessarily learned a lesson from this, but I’ve certainly suffered from the consequences of my actions. Now, fourteen hours later, I have paid more heavily for my failure than I had originally anticipated, and have learned a very painful lesson – not about the importance of packing thoroughly, but about recognizing my limitations.

This has, indeed, been a quarter of realizing my limitations.

I have a very vivid image in my mind right now of my family and friends rolling their eyes and sighing, but before all of you open your mouths to utter those dreaded four words, “I-told-you-so,” let me just say that I know that all of you have “told-me-so” but I am finally starting to actually understand what one of my friends meant when he told me “Be careful. You think that you can get away with doing everything now, but the higher you climb, the harder you fall. And eventually, you will fall.”

I laughed then. I am certainly not laughing now.

History does have a funny way of repeating itself. The last time that I tried to go to Rwanda, I also got stuck in DC, but at least then it wasn’t my fault, and I got a lovely voucher from United Airlines to stay overnight at a resort and enjoy $50 worth of airport restaurant fare. No such thing this time around.

So as I relate to you the story of my (mis)adventures thus far, I hope that I am not only sharing with you stories but also conveying to you at least a bit of the lesson I have finally learned after a long career of trying to over-achieve. Not that I have necessarily retired from this post, but I think I will certainly tone it down a notch after this…

On Limitations

I am one of those kids who has never needed my parents to tell me to boost my grades or work harder to succeed. Instead of pushing me to do more like many Asian parents – to take more AP classes and join more extracurriculars – my parents were the ones who actively sought to hold me back. They enforced a 10 PM curfew so that I would sleep, and established specific times for meals so that I would eat. They tried to limit my extracurriculars, warned me not to reach too high on certain goals, and discouraged me from attaining the perfection that I sought. I didn’t appreciate it then, but I finally see and understand the love and caring behind it now. In high school, over-achieving meant packing my class schedule to get rid of lunch, taking unnecessary AP classes, spending every possible hour doing community service, and taking on Rachmaninoff pieces that were almost impossible for small hands like my own. In college, it has meant course-overloading with seven classes a quarter, working three jobs, taking advantage of every academic opportunity, and being involved with anything I deemed “meaningful.” My definition of “success” came first, and everything else – sleep, nutrition, mental/social/emotional/spiritual health, family, and even friendships – came second. Maybe it was the exhilaration of taking on challenges, or the pride that came with success, or maybe it was the thrill of living on the edge – I’m not sure, but my family and friends told me over and over that I was over-committed and spreading myself too thin. I knew they were right, but I would only laugh and tell them that success was only a couple sleepless nights and meal-less days away. I plowed forward, adding another class here, another job there, compromising my health and my relationships with others for a dream of success that I’ve never quite defined.

My friend warned me that I would fall.

Well, I finally fell this quarter. And I fell hard.

Somewhere between my teaching practicum, senior thesis papers, classes, leadership positions, job applications, and other commitments and responsibilities, I began to compromise quality for quantity. It used to take just a couple all-nighters to pull myself through the most stressful periods, but this quarter, I’ve been forced to make some very hard decisions and pick and choose where I would not fail. My practicum coordinator told me that student teaching would require 110%. At the place that I was this quarter, I could only afford to offer 70%. I ended up disappointing many people which culminated in poor-quality work and a stern request for me to “reflect on whether you are truly committed to teaching.”

When this whole flight fiasco happened and I called my parents for help, I was surprised and dismayed when my dad told me that this was the product of being over-committed. “How can you focus on the essentials when you have so many things to do?” he said. My dad was right. My past week is a complete blur of all-nighters and frantic-runningaround-interviewsmeetingsfinalspaperspackingetcetc.

I had literally just passed airport security at O’Hare when I realized that I forgot the charger for my netbook. Without the charger, it would be impossible for me to do my research. I had two options at this point: to ask one of my friends to drive it over and risk missing my flight, or to suck it up and buy a new one at one of the airport electronics stores. I chose the latter and ran around until I found a vendor that looked at my netbook and said he had the charger for $50. I bought it, took it out of the box to fit in my purse, and ran to my flight on the other side of the airport, so immensely relieved that I had avoided a near scare.

I arrived at Dulles and went to Moe’s for dinner, relishing the fact that this time around, I wasn’t going to be stranded in DC because I was on time for my Ethiopian Airlines departure at 8:30 PM. Major pat-on-the-back for Lydia.

Now, imagine my consternation when I discovered that the charger was incompatible with my netbook.

Yes, just like that except with more horror and freaking out.

With two hours remaining before boarding, I had to evaluate my options … except I did not have very many. If I got on the flight – no, I couldn’t get on the flight because I needed my charger to do research and 1) they don’t sell my netbook, much less the charger, in Rwanda, 2) shipping is unreliable and would take far too long, even with the fastest rate. If I rebooked my flight for $100, what were my options then? I would have to first run around this airport to see if they carried my charger. If that failed, I could call a cab and search DC for a charger. Or Johnny, my friend in Evanston, suggested that he would bring my charger to O’Hare and pay someone who was going to Dulles to bring it to me. The latter option seemed far too risky.

So I frantically ran around the Dulles airport until I determined that no one sold my charger, and then I tearfully returned to the Ethiopian Airlines counter and delayed my flight for $100. I sat in the terminal and made phone calls to electronics stores as I watched everyone board the flight to Ethiopia – my flight – and leave. One store, Best Buy, claimed that they carried a limited stock of chargers that would be compatible with my netbook, but at this point they were closing, and would reopen in the morning at 9 AM.

What to do?

NOTE: Netbook dies here, conveniently marking a new section of this post.

On Perspective

This was when things started looking up. (P.S. I’m currently still sitting in Terminal D4 crossing my fingers that this is going to work out because I still don’t have a charger. Explanation to come). One of the Ethiopian Airlines workers who had noted my distress came to me to say that he had spoken with his boss and waived the $100 fee. A small hint of a smile? Yes, I should say so!

Then, as I continued to sit in D4, another employee who was a vendor at one of the small food chains came to me and asked how he could help. After listening to my story, he suggested that instead of taking a cab to Best Buy in the morning and having to reenter security and pay for an expensive cab ride, he could pick up the charger for me and have it to me by 9:30 AM the next morning.

Full smile, now.

A little more relieved that this might actually work out, I accepted his offer and spent the remainder of my evening wandering around Dulles in search of warm terminals to sleep in. I finally settled on D4 and went into another small convenience store to pick up a snack. Aisha, the woman who worked there, must have seen how tired I looked and soon she learned my story as well.

“Honey,” she said, “I always tell both my sons that when bad things happen, you can’t focus on them and worry so much! If you worry, worry, worry, then something else happens and you are still worrying about this one thing and then you have another problem.”

I nodded and sighed. Then, all of a sudden, tears started forming in her eyes.

“My sister – my baby – had to have lung surgery and just yesterday, the hospital finally dispatched her,” she told me, wiping away tears, “I am driving on the highway, driving, driving, and thinking about my sister and then all of a sudden [she gestured a collision with her hands] – my car ppshttt – done! Gone!”

Yesterday????

“Yes,” she said and nodded, “And this car – oh, the most beautiful car, beautiful seats and doors, with GPS [she shook her head] – I spent three years making payments for this car, I work forty hours every week for this car, and now – gone! Gone, gone!”

I didn’t know what to say.

“Thank God, I am okay,” she continued. She showed me her scalp where there was a slight cut, and the cuts and bruises on her legs and her arms. “I lose three years of work, but you know, those three years – nothing – is worth as much as my baby sister. So you lose a charger, you delay a flight one day, two days. Life is still okay. You are still here, so don’t worry, okay?”

I nodded, tried not to cry as well, and we hugged.

That was the best gift that I could have received from anybody.

As I made a cozy nest out of my Northface fleece and peacoat on the seats in D4, I felt better even though nothing had changed. I’ll admit it wasn’t the best night of sleep that I’ve had in my life, but learning not to worry and to put things in perspective definitely helped me not to panic.

This morning, more good news! After the vendor came by with the supposed Best Buy charger, which unfortunately turned out to be incompatible as well (at this point, I have completely lost faith in the expertise of electronics store employees), another Dulles employee joined the growing ranks of people trying to help me sort through this mess. This employee booked a pseudo-flight from O’Hare to Dulles so that instead of trusting a passenger with my charger, my friend Johnny could directly check it in in a large box.

In the meantime, a random passenger in D4 (who is currently sitting across from me) overheard the whole ordeal, and revealed that he has the exact same netbook. So my netbook is back to life for at least the next ten hours, and I’m crossing my fingers that this whole pseudo-flight check-in-large-box-with-tiny-charger thing will work!

Hopefully, I’ll be able to post good news in the next few hours. Otherwise, I will likely start freaking out at 5 PM because I am out of ideas on how else to procure this elusive charger…but I’ll try my best to keep things in perspective and not worry too much.

WOW. WHAT AN ADVENTURE ALREADY.

But I am so grateful to Johnny and my family, the friends who have called and comforted (SML, LR, NT, BR – you know who you are!) and the many angels that have come into my life in the past 24 hours.

Thank you.

UPDATE 4:30 PM: I GOT MY CHARGER!!! THANK YOU, JOHNNY! PLUS, I get to stay in a hotel in Ethiopia, which means another stamp on my passport! Wooooooooo 🙂