tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-64983646895345260602024-03-14T03:57:04.876+08:00Garlic SaltSisi Messickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11406692782355321875noreply@blogger.comBlogger333125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6498364689534526060.post-35566912818475264342015-07-24T01:33:00.001+08:002015-07-24T01:33:14.487+08:00Pura Vida - Costa Rica Honeymoon<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
One of our first proud savvy-traveler decisions was to rent a car our second day in Costa Rica. She waited for us patiently in the garage of the run down car rental in downtown San Jose as a tired agent recited the well-worn facts about the famous beaches or lush rain forests in his country that he had never been to. She was a gleaming white automatic, nicer than either of us were accustomed to driving, one that promised adventure and freedom. A terrible decision considering the rocky gravel paths awaiting us and the supposedly shady insurance charges that many online reviews warned about. But in the afterglow of our recent wedding, it seemed the only logical choice for our honeymoon, a beginning to all cliched and yet much anticipated beginnings, a gap in between wrapping up our stressful job/ school and packing up our lives to move across America to adulthood.<br />
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After navigating the crooked alleyways, chaotic highways and dim neighborhoods of San Jose for beef empanadas and fresh hot churros drizzled with dark chocolate and condensed milk, we set off for the famed Pacific coasts of Guanacaste. We whizzed along the highway, singing along the random fragments of latino radio songs I memorized in my brief college flirtation with Spanish, while google translating the road signs (<i>Oh, that meant that the lane will merge and disappear - Yeah, I figured!</i> Austin retorted as he slammed on the brakes to allow two cars into his diminishing lane). We munched on the endless supply of energy bars, gifts from winking bridesmaids meant to refuel us for more bedroom stints, and marveled at the lush greenery that surrounded us. Costa Rican highways seemed to be hacked from the jungle, tickling the underbelly of the all-encompasing rainforest. We couldn't help but imagine a pedestrian dinosaur crossing, casually tossing an unfortunate car out of its way. Incidentally, Costa Rica was actually the backdrop of the <i>Jurassic Park </i>series, but none of the scenes were filmed here because Steven Spielberg thought the roads were too unpredictable - a big pity since if he came, he would realize that unlike how it was portrayed in <i>Jurassic Park</i>, Costa Rica was not an island and San Jose was not a dusty beach town.<br />
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Anyhow, Hollywood facts aside, the drive revealed an ordinary slice of Costa Rica, served without any glamorization or <i>top 10 must see! </i> exclamations. Villages sprang up all along the lip of the crooked highway but did not venture very deep into the jungle. Kids crossed the two lane highway toting their school bags in between the whizzing cars. Cows grazed nonchalantly in the noon day sun, always just a fragile fence away from the traffic. The sodas, rickety local diners, served hot fried chicken that would rival any Southern state in America.<br />
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One of the many fantastic <i>sodas</i> (local diners)</div>
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Standards of beauty</div>
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After five hours, we pulled into the beach town <i>Tamarindo</i>. Stoned surfers gave us the nod, welcoming us to the place that best embodied <i>pura vida</i>, literally translated as pure life, or the Costa Rican version of Hakuna Matata. We saw backpackers who were lulled into staying here for a whole month, just waiting to shred the next wave. We heard of Americans who quit their jobs and moved to Costa Rica after swimming in the turquoise waters of Playa Conchal, where ivory sea shells carpeted the ocean floor.<br />
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We were also drunk on the honeymoon high. We kayaked and snorkeled, holding hands under water as we chased rainbow fish around the corals. We took surfing lessons and kept congratulating each other even though I was pretty terrible on the board. We beach hopped after lazy afternoon naps, driving to whichever beach sounded fancier. And for a while, I was even tempted to persuade Austin that we should just abandon our plans and stay. Open a hostel. Learn Spanish. Surf every day.<br />
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But after a week or so, we started to tire. Sand spilled everywhere. We averaged three showers a day and still got our beds all sandy. Paradise was surprisingly claustrophobic too. We walked the entire town every times on some night and could probably write a restaurant review by the end. Everybody was frenetically trying to relax, booking endless tours by day and bouncing to different clubs by night. People were too loud and predictable at happy hour. <i>Pura vida</i> just seemed so . . . commercial.<br />
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On our last day, we rented stand up paddle boards and paddled out to sea. We floated aimlessly around and watched the seagulls land their catch. We talked about everything and nothing, our thoughts blending with the rhythm of the water. All of a sudden, Austin looked behind me and yelled for me to jump because of the big wave that was about to crash on us. I whelped and plopped into the water. But there was no wave, just a laughing husband. I climbed back on, swearing revenge. Then he shushed me and gestured at the setting sun and its soft plumes of blush and purple. We sat in comfortable silence, watching the dimming light, soothed by the gentle tug of the waves while we got washed back to shore.<br />
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As we pulled our heavy board across the beach, I wondered if maybe this was what <i>pura vida</i> really was. Just a simple awe at the natural wonder around us. Just breathing that in and knowing you were in the presence of something divine.<br />
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Sisi Messickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11406692782355321875noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6498364689534526060.post-90117246175252641602015-06-27T13:40:00.000+08:002015-06-27T13:40:07.770+08:00#Driving Fears<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Two months ago, Austin joked about how it would be <i>so great</i> if I could get my driver's license before we got married. </div>
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Yeah. I know. I was 25 and I didn't know how to drive. I had always been afraid of the road and there had always been a boy(friend) with a car. </div>
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In the heat of over-optimism and an eagerness to be the perfect fiance, I signed up for a driving class. The online one. </div>
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Sometimes when I was staring at the computer screen, trying to memorize how many feet of distance you're supposed to leave when parking away from the fire hydrant (15!), I felt my heart beating down on my ribs, demanding to be let out. </div>
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What if I remembered all the facts and passed my online test? </div>
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Then I would actually be on the road. </div>
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The big day came. Austin randomly pulled into a church parking lot after errands one day and waved the keys in my face with a large grin. <i>Your turn, babe.</i> </div>
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I swallowed and managed my sweetest smile. <i>Why don't we do something else? Like catch a movie? Go grab drive through? Make out? </i>No go. I dragged my feet over to the left side of the car. Austin explained the mechanics of the stick shift in way too logical terms while I anxiously scanned the parking lot for stray dogs. Ok go. </div>
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Clutch. Gas. Clutch. Desperate brake. I cried the first four times I was behind the wheel. Story of our drives.</div>
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Anyhow, Austin kept asking me what I was so scared of. So I finally made him a list:</div>
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Random dead body in my trunk. </div>
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It happens.</div>
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Proving the Asian female stereotype true.</div>
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I asked my driving instructor whether this was true or not -</div>
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his hilarious answer is for the next blog post. </div>
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Oh dear. There's a deer so near.</div>
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The stick snaps.</div>
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Run out of gas in the middle of the desert.</div>
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And water.</div>
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Broken brakes.</div>
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During a classic car chase scene.</div>
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Jack falls on me when changing tires.</div>
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After all, Jack did fall down the hill. </div>
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And he dragged Jill with him.</div>
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The text that got me in an accident was a lame one.</div>
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Sometime like "hey sorry. Can't text. Driving now"</div>
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My fiance would reconsider us when he sees me drive.</div>
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Others warned us not to risk our relationship on </div>
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having Austin teach me how to drive.</div>
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We should have listened. </div>
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Ultimately, I am just afraid that I will hit somebody and kill them. On a Christmas eve. When his wife is giving birth in the hospital .... yeah. Too complicated for a sticky note.</div>
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At the end of the day, I am learning. Not very well, but I'm making progress. And we're still getting married. Miraculously (#6 days!). </div>
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Sisi Messickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11406692782355321875noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6498364689534526060.post-51270149013146174932014-11-09T19:21:00.001+08:002014-11-09T19:21:52.225+08:00Umbrella - ella - ella- eh -eh -eh <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
8th grade. Life Skills class. Probably the most useless class ever. Except the class in Senior Year where they taught us how to iron a shirt and make guacamole for a beer party to order to prepare us for college.<br />
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This particular class was about strength in diversity. Good topic since we were in an international school where kids hailed from all corners of the world. In order to get us interacting, our British teacher called out different countries and asked the kids to stand up when their home country was called. </div>
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Turkey.</div>
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India.</div>
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Korea.</div>
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UK.</div>
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Pakistan.</div>
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The cheap black chairs were screeching from kids standing up in a hasty attempt at patriotism, a brief moment of solidarity with their motherland, which they have long since abandoned for the metropolis of Hong Kong.</div>
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China.</div>
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Only one chair was pulled back. And one girl shakily stood up. That was me.</div>
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Our teacher looked around the room, dumbfounded. He pointed to nearly half of the class. "Aren't you . . . aren't you all . . . Chinese?" The group of black eyes stared back at him. </div>
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A tall boy from the track team, my neighbor who I had had a major crush on since forever, shook his head emphatically. "No. No. We're Hong Kongers. We're not like <i>those</i> Mainland Chinese."</div>
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After class, I was surrounded and taunted. "Sisi, you have to pick a side. You're one of us. You were born here. You're lucky. So why did you say that you are Chinese?"</div>
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Maybe they did not know, or maybe they did know, but my mom was from Mainland China.</div>
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Around a month and a half ago, the world watched as tens of thousands of people spilled into the busiest main streets of Hong Kong and demanded universal suffrage where they can freely elect their Chief Executive (equivalent to city mayor) without any pre-selection from the Communist Party which runs the PRC government seated in Beijing.<br />
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The protest was started by a group of high school and university students, but when the police used tear gas on them, tens of thousands of Hong Kong citizens joined in a rare moment of solidarity and indignation. A movement was born. The propagandistic <i>China Daily</i> newspaper angrily called it a "bad Color Revolution" that the United States conspired to spark. The Hong Kongers proudly labeled it the "Umbrella Revolution" - a nod to the umbrellas that protesters brought to protect themselves from the tear gas. People were chanting "Our Hong Kong. Ours to Save." and wearing pollution face masks in lieu of gas masks.</div>
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There's something powerful in that statement. It is not "Our Hong Kong - because we don't want to be Chinese." But rather, now it is "Our Hong Kong - because we are willing to fight for our democratic rights."</div>
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Magic happens when the young are galvanized enough to take action. Now my generation is increasingly well-versed in the Basic Law, our "mini-constitution" that governs Hong Kong after the handover from China. We are no longer apathetic and only concerned about buying the iPhone 6. We are finally awake and aware.<br />
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I cried when I first read about the protests on the news. I was in Greece and felt like my childhood home was calling to me to return and take a stand. I followed all the major news thread about Occupy Central and imagined myself on the streets with my rainbow umbrella.<br />
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After six weeks, A. and I finally went to Hong Kong this weekend and walked around the <i>Occupy Central</i> zone. The protesters still have the major highways and roads under hostage, stacking makeshift fences to delineate their territory. Whenever the police have tried to storm in and retake control of the road, more crowds will rally to the cause and push the police back. So that's how Hong Kong is stuck in this uneasy impasse, the police always alert to an opportunity to move in and the students and protesters at large carry on life within the bright tents that line the highway.<br />
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The protesters do not show signs of letting up. Many have brought their sofas, clothing racks, and juicers. They erected a study hall with wifi access and wooden tables so students will not fall too far behind their studies. Most leave during the week days to go to school or work and return on the weekends to continue the sit in. Parents bring their children to the tents on the weekends and eat McDonald's together while leaning against a road block.<br />
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While the society at large respects the patriotism underlying the cause, not everybody appreciates the inconvenience caused by the protests, cutting off a major traffic artery to the heart of Hong Kong. The taxi drivers grumble at the lower demand for taxis because of traffic and the nearby small shopkeepers also feel the pinch in their business. The local mafia (first time I knew that they existed outside of Jackie Chan movies) even incited a group of anti-protesters to go and tear down the barricades because they couldn't operate in their usual under-the-radar zones with all the students camped there.<br />
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I am mixed. Sometimes my chest burns with youthful idealism and hope that somehow all the umbrellas will be enough to bring democracy and solidarity to Hong Kong. Other times, I am worried that this will just deepen the fissure between Hong Kong and Mainland China for a pipe dream of true democracy that logically the PRC Chinese government will never relent to. And if universal suffrage will never happen, then maybe we should just let go and try to mend our fences with Mainland China so we can build a unified country?<br />
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. . . What was that line I learned in American politics 101? "Give me freedom or give me death" - Americans always made the pursuit of democracy seem so natural.<br />
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Sisi Messickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11406692782355321875noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6498364689534526060.post-23017323240169020152014-10-08T02:09:00.000+08:002014-10-08T02:09:11.540+08:00Santorini Sunset<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Santorini, Greece.<br />
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I have been waiting for this moment for a long time. I have waited ever since I sported those round glasses in third grade that Harry Potter hadn't made cool yet (or that he never did). I used to hide under the especially pink blankets, picked by my mom's interior designer friend to match our unfortunately pink and green persian rug, after lights out to read all about the ancient Greeks. The moment mom's worn slippers slapped their way back into her bedroom, seemingly on constant patrol of kids who had snucked out of bed, I pulled out my mini flashlight and scurried under the covers with my latest novel. I shoved the flashlight into my mouth and shone the light on my precious book. Ever so often, I took out the flashlight to gulp down the saliva building up in my mouth. I always told the librarian that I accidentally flicked water onto some of the pages. She bought it.<br />
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When I got to college and watched a movie about two old men on their death beds making lists of things they wished they could have done, I made a bucket list too. Item #5 - <i>Walk among ancient ruins of Athens</i>. Sometime in my junior year, I crossed it out and replaced it with <i>Watch a sunset in Santorini</i>. Still in Greece, just a more sophisticated version, that's all. I thought it was one of the most romantic, adult thing to wish for and was slightly mortified to find that this specific item was also on the list of almost every pedestrian <i>Most Stunning Sunsets You MUST See!!</i> travel/ honeymoon magazine column.<br />
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Anyhow, I am here now.<br />
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Despite the throngs of adoring tourists, the Oia village of Santorini sits untouched. She doesn't dress to impress because she doesn't need to. White washed walls, churches, and cafes are offset by the brilliant hue of royal blue that colors select rooftops, evoking childhood memories of fine China. Everywhere you turn, there's another prime location for a bridal shoot. The well-worn cobblestone foot paths, every creaking door, the occasional surprises of auburn neighborhood walls, the hanging balcony restaurants that serve up ocean fresh octopus and warmly baked moussaka all add to its beauty - heck, even the dog napping by the rustic turquoise school gate is photogenic.<br />
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There is something in the air too. A sense of light airiness rests gently on the cliffs, greatly enhanced by the soft ocean breeze and the almost tangible expectations of the crowd waiting for something magical to happen. This is Santorini after all and it must deliver.<br />
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As the orange sun dips slowly, the crowd moves urgently toward the tip of Oia, to the edge where the best sunset views are promised. No more lingering in front of the jewelry boutique that sells handmade crystal pieces. No more posing thoughtfully against a ledge. This is the culminating moment, the one that will grace many instagram accounts.<br />
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I hurry in my Grecian leather sandals. A guides me gently along, expertly fielding away those bumping from behind us. Tugging at my navy jumpsuit, I am nervous. What if the sunset isn't what I have always imagined it to be?<br />
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And what if it <i>is</i> what I have always imagined it to be? I chased the sun in the last three years and have been fortunate enough to watch it light upon many famed sights. Purple and pink dawn like berry blush in Ankor Wat, Cambodia. Burnt almond sunset in land of the 4000 temples in Bagan, Myanmar. Brilliant specks of every color on the shores of Maldives. Majestic and lonely osage orange on the Masai Mara plains in Kenya. A casual and dark disappearance around the Eiffel Tower in France.<br />
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Each sunrise and sunset evoked different emotions in me. Grateful. Peaceful. Lonely. Happy. All beautiful in its own way.<br />
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I am nervous because intermingled with the awe and wonder of nature while watching the last few "bucket list" sunsets, I felt that I wanted more. I wanted somebody to share it with. I was always with great friends, family, or "a boy", but I could never shake that feeling. I was afraid that I was getting ungrateful. That I was growing up and getting bored of sunsets.<br />
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But I shuffle onwards, because I am still curious about the sunset of Oia and because I am pushed forward by the crowd.<br />
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But the crowds! The travel magazines never warn you about the pesky crowd who also wants a slice of your bucket list moment, especially when everybody seems to be taller than you, barricading against any hopeful glimpses on tip toe with the wall of smartphones and tablets. The hum of the tourists crescendoes as the sun slips ever lower in the sky. I resign myself to watch through the screens, with the single solace that I will be watching through a high res iPad screen.<br />
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A looks around and drops his cotopaxi backpack. Without waiting for my ladylike protests, he hoists me onto his shoulders, heads above the tourists. And there I sit and watch as the sun kisses the horizons, casting a lingering splay of soft coral and plum glow. The crowd, hushed for a brief moment, breaks out in a spontaneous cheer and claps for the appreciation of beauty that unites us all on the tip of that cliff.<br />
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And then I feel -<br />
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Fulfilled.<br />
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I stay sitting on his shoulders and playing with his familiar sandy hair for an extra moment as the waves glisten with the day's last remaining rays below.<br />
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Sisi Messickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11406692782355321875noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6498364689534526060.post-65438724039510019952014-09-11T03:06:00.000+08:002014-09-11T03:06:35.737+08:00A Provincial Province<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Before I flew out of Shanghai, A asked me to do one thing for him. <i>Please don't laugh at the Fujianese - everybody on my mission did</i>. I smirked at his bizarre request and then took off.<br />
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My boss and I just landed in Fujian, a coastal province where people were known for being provincial, and breathed in the overwhelming humidity. The local taxi driver was playing the perennial favorite Chinese game of "Guess where the foreigner's from." Meanwhile, I was trying not to mimic his feminine quacking accent that was so stereotypical Fujian. As we drove away from the airport, the driver started tapping his steering wheel, perplexed that it was so hard to guess my boss' nationality.<br />
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<i>Hmm. You don't look like us. </i><br />
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<i>Are you Japanese? But your Mandarin is so good. </i><br />
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<i>Oh wait, you're darker. Indian?</i><br />
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<i>I know! You must be German. </i><br />
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<i>No, wait! You can't be - your arm hair is too long.</i><br />
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My boss was a standard six foot three American complete with five every day polos that he rotated.<br />
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Fujian is also known for its food.<br />
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A said that it was Fujian seafood that taught him to appreciate all other Chinese food.<br />
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After a late night dinner at a local stall, I finally gained more appreciation for<i> Panda Express</i>. Everything I was eating was just so . . . <i>ugly</i>.<br />
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These fish look like retired bull dogs who have given up on life.</div>
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Worms writhing wearily in the water. </div>
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Fish breathing thing.</div>
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Surprising texture of chicken cartilage - crunchy yet chewy.</div>
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Durian. Gooey texture with pungent smell. </div>
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A little like eating your own throw up. With chopsticks.</div>
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My colleague brought it back to our hotel room</div>
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Mini lobsters in chili oil. The messiest ever.</div>
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Definitely not a first date dish.</div>
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Sisi Messickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11406692782355321875noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6498364689534526060.post-70667448052580430722014-05-07T00:12:00.000+08:002014-05-07T00:16:46.051+08:00Discussing Love on a Lake<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
We discussed love while rowing on a freshly painted boat on Phewa Lake in Nepal.<br />
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He rowed. And I pretended I knew how to.<br />
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In the far distance, we could make out the faint outlines of the Annapura, the more accessible mountain range of the mythical Himalayas, which stood proud and silent on that hazy spring day.<br />
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Alex steered our boat around the small island that held the non-descript Hindu temple, dressed up like a blushing schoolgirl for the tourists, while we gazed upwards towards the pearly white Buddhist stupa planted up on a neighboring hill.<br />
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Sandwiched between the two symbols, we talked of love in the abstract. In the practical. In the religious.<br />
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I asked Alex what he knew about Buddhism. He shared with me the few tenets that he knew, most notably that of non-attachment.<br />
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I leaned back and frowned at a memory of a dear friend who recently embraced Buddhism. A year ago, she was bitterly and vocally unhappy with her marriage because of a void of understanding, touch, love, and common ideals. She had dreamed of something different and contemplated divorce. Now, with the smile of the recently converted playing on her lips, she preached non-attachment to me in a crowded, cheap Italian restaurant. While her rambunctious 7 year old son screamed and kicked for his mom's iPhone, she patted him absentmindedly and explained to me why she was happy now. The key was letting go. All couples, regardless of the quality of their relationship, would end up apart at the end of mortal life. So why obsess about the journey? If she stopped hoping for love, then she would not despair over the deafening silence between them. Or the late nights she waited up for him to come home. Or the lack of gentleness.<br />
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If she stopped being attached to her husband, then she would be happy.<br />
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I swirled around my cream of mushroom soup with the tin spoon, hiding the torrent of anger behind my masked attempt to understand her sentiments. I wanted to scream that she was giving up. That she was settling for a shell of a happy life. We ended our lunch early because her son whined about going to the arcades and snatched my spoon to drum out his demands. I also grew weary of my curious burst of anger.<br />
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Alex listened quietly to my story and disillusionment with the concept of letting go.<br />
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I passionately argued that at least for myself, I either cared all the way or didn't care at all. Despite my parents cautioning temperance and 'it's just a job' whenever I cried on the phone because I wasn't sure how much more I could physically/ emotionally give to my work, I would still dip into my bank of inner reserve and drum out more energy to find solutions to never-ending problems. Or how I kept reaching out to a family member with a hopeful tentativeness even though she's hung up on me multiple times.<br />
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Isn't that what love is? I asked urgently. Not letting go?<br />
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In between a few more gentle paddles to maneuver us to a quiet alcove, Alex mused that love, in its ultimate form, is one of letting go of expectations of outcomes. It is the unconditional love that Christ spoke of, because He still loves us eternally regardless of our actions. He brought up the example of a proverbial modern mom who became angry because despite repeated reminders, the daughter was not practicing her instrument. The motive was love and hope that the daughter would develop her talents. But the anger arose because the daughter was not conforming to a set image the mom had crafted. Love, within the context of our conversation, would be for the mom to let go of the story she had weaved in her mind about her reality and instead persevere in love through the difficult, messy, and wonderfully unplotted life she ended up sharing with her daughter.<br />
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On our way paddling back to the muddy shores, I scanned the lake for the attachments in my life and saw them splayed out across the rippled surface of the the deepening water. Tangled in my thoughts, I decided to throw my stories, chained to their imagined endings, overboard and just let them sink to the bottom of Phewa. I decided to try to love in the best way I knew how and let things happen as they may. I would let go but not give up.<br />
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Across the lake, a proper Nepali storm was rolling in, a harbinger of the monsoon season.<br />
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Sisi Messickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11406692782355321875noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6498364689534526060.post-45996988101621226882014-04-27T21:05:00.000+08:002014-05-06T22:14:29.138+08:00Two Minutes Away from Being a Gypsy's Daughter<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I was two minutes away from being a gypsy's daughter.<br />
<br />
Let me explain.<br />
<br />
One cold Toronto winter, my mom sat huddled on the bus, her mind stumbling over the accounting concepts she had just barely learned, and noticed two shiny black tags. The tags were worn by two girls, young and bright eyed, as they animated Jesus Christ and salvation with their excited hands, deep in a conversation with an indulgent Indian woman.<br />
<br />
My mom, who could never mask her facial expressions particularly well, simply stared. The girls must have noticed and smiled. They eagerly pulled out their notebooks and asked for her phone number. My mom, who had recently awakened to her blossoming yearning for higher meaning, started reciting her familiar digits. All of a sudden, the bus pulled to a violent screech and the girls got up to go. It was their stop. They hurried off the bus, while twisting behind to catch the last of my mom's number.<br />
<br />
The door closed with a stubborn finality. My mom shrugged. She never did finish telling them the last two digits of her number.<br />
<br />
--<br />
<br />
Another frustrating accounting class. Another bus ride.<br />
<br />
This time my mom plopped down tiredly beside a large woman. The woman looked at my mom intensely and asked her if her birthday was May XX. Spot on. My mom whipped her head around, frowned, and consciously checked to see if her ID was exposed.<br />
<br />
The large woman with the fleshy hands and the exaggerated rings ('a really gypsy type' as my mom later explained) patted her and told her to stop checking. She nonchalantly explained that she had looked into the crystal ball that morning and foresaw that she would sit next to a person that day who was born on May XX.<br />
<br />
For the next few stops, my mom sat, spellbound, by tales of stars and tea leaves. She promised that she would make it to their large convention on divination later that week.<br />
<br />
And she tried. Through trains, buses, crowds, she made her way uptown after class one day, racing to catch the shuttle that took everybody to the convention. She arrived, panting, just to see the bus pull out of the parking lot. Through the blue-tinted window, the gypsy woman pursed her lips and gestured resigned acceptance with her large palms face up, shaking her head at my mother who was standing pathetically on the lawn.<br />
<br />
Two minutes. She was two minutes late.<br />
<br />
A little down, she retraced her steps back to the temporary house she was staying in. She had barely sat down when the tired old phone rang.<br />
<br />
<i>Hello? Hi, we're missionaries from the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Saints! Did you happen to meet some sister missionaries on a bus around a month ago and start giving them your number? Well they relocated to a different zone, but er, if you're this woman, we would love to teach you more about Jesus Christ.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
There were 100 combinations of the phone numbers. There were endless number of scenarios where my mom could have missed that fateful call. There were two minutes that could have launched my mother, and our family, down a completely different path.<br />
<br />
But God chose this particularly curious sequence of events. And that was how my mom became a Mormon.<br />
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Sisi Messickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11406692782355321875noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6498364689534526060.post-27454638109720012732014-04-12T13:30:00.000+08:002014-04-13T22:50:36.731+08:00Vacation Philosophy<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Once upon a time, a little sheepish with guilt, I asked my boss if he thought I was taking too many days off to go on random backpacking trips.<br />
<br />
He smirked and scribbled a signature on my leave request form. His philosophy was that while it's good to be passionate about your work, it's even better to have a job that allowed you to enjoy other things that you were also drawn to. The only way to maintain the drive and the love for what you do was, ironically, to take time off from it once in a while.<br />
<br />
He also believed that my trips were an investment back into the company because I always came back brimming with ideas for my team.<br />
<br />
Clutching my form, I wasn't about to argue with him.<br />
<br />
The next year when I got promoted, he added another two weeks to my annual paid holiday count.<br />
<br />
I was so happy that I cried. Now even <i>I</i> have a hard time burning off my holidays.<br />
<br />
I guess that is to be expected from a boss who graduated with an MBA before becoming a missionary at 19, while defying the nerd stereotype as a competitive skateboarder and mountain biker. Oh, and he's a sailor and certified pilot with his own "toys" (aka a plane or two).<br />
<br />
So, a little concerned that I wasn't putting my vacation days to good use this year, sometime late last night/ early this morning, I simply decided that Nepal needed to be in my future.<br />
<br />
Hopped online, called up a friend, grimaced at the tickets, and took the plunge.<br />
<br />
See you in two weeks, Kathmandu.<br />
<br />
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Sisi Messickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11406692782355321875noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6498364689534526060.post-37626592087356898282014-04-05T21:14:00.002+08:002014-04-05T21:24:46.324+08:00Don't Play the Victim<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I once loved a boy.<br />
<br />
People thought we were really cute together. We thought so too. We would both get so pumped about the same things, volleying our excitement back and forth with wild gestures, and yet get so incredibly mad at completely different things, scattering confusion and hurt in our wake.<br />
<br />
Sometimes he would make an offhand comment that would sting in the tender and secret places. I loved him so I didn't make a big deal out of it. I knew he didn't mean it that way so what was the point of brining it up? Since I cared, I would brush it off.<br />
<br />
But the comments would continue - not because he knew they hurt, but because he didn't know they hurt. He was just being funny.<br />
<br />
Meanwhile, I swallowed one and another and another till I was ready to burst with resentment. Even though I <i>knew</i> that he didn't have bad intentions, I started to question why he wasn't sensitive enough to figure it out. I wondered if that's what he really thought of me. I instinctively flinched every time the topic came up because I was mentally expecting to be hurt. I started to doubt whether we were good together. And so we weren't so good together anymore.<br />
<br />
A few years and some growing up later, I realized that I had purposefully played the victim, even though I didn't realize it.<br />
<br />
Ironically, in the name of love, I jeopardized our relationship. I wasn't fair to him because I judged him more and more and he had absolutely no idea. When you play the victim, you are turning your loved ones into attackers. That is not fair to them or to you because they didn't even know they were in the arena in the first place.<br />
<br />
Sometimes, being faithful to somebody you care about means not giving yourself an opportunity to be a victim. If you really want a meaningful relationship, whether with friends, family, boyfriends or colleagues, you have to be ready to <b>teach others how to love you</b>.<br />
<br />
Take the time to carefully explain why a certain comment bothers you and how you prefer they rephrase it. Bring it up (lovingly) right when it happens so it's a low risk conversation. Here are some phrases I try to use:<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">'Hey, by the way, can you explain to me why you said that? Right now, it makes me feel X" </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"I don't think you mean it this way, but it makes me feel a little judged. Do you really feel that way about me?"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"That kind of hurts. I think it's because I'm having a hard time with ____ right now."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"Honestly, I need some time to process it alone and then I will love to discuss it with you. So can you not ask me about it in the mean time? I feel pressure when people ask me about it."</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Hint: it helps when you're saying these things while smiling or touching them reassuringly (except when it's a colleague)</span><br />
<br />
Most of the time, the other person will be genuinely surprised that her comment has that effect and if she cares, she will do her best to change her future approach.<br />
<br />
And yes, it will be easier to brush it off this time. But how about the next time? You need to take a stand for your relationships and fight for them. Taking the initiative to have those tough and awkward conversations. Show how you want to be loved. Don't play the victim. You and your loved one deserve more than that.<br />
<br /></div>
Sisi Messickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11406692782355321875noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6498364689534526060.post-16316735179640843642014-02-11T21:32:00.000+08:002014-02-11T21:32:01.213+08:00A Standing Ticket<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<b>One.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
The man with the weathered face and the large canvas bag launches himself into the ticket office window. On the other side, the intern hears the dull thud, and yawns. She repositions the microphone and tries to explain to him again that without his confirmation code, he cannot collect his train ticket.<br />
<br />
<i>But I lost my code and my train is leaving in half an hour! </i>He wails. He slaps down some creased bills and demands to buy a new ticket and even those in the long lines behind him shake their heads at his wishful thinking. During Chinese New Year season, the largest human migration in the world, who can magic up a ticket, especially to the undeveloped regions to which 350 million migrant workers must somehow make their way home?<br />
<br />
She checks her phone. No new message, no legitimate distraction. Exhaling dramatically, she turns back to him and tells him that he should have brought his code. Now will he please stand aside so she can help these good people buy tickets?<br />
<br />
He pounds on the window with his sun-baked hands, not in anger anymore, but in a futile attempt for her to really see him. <i>I haven't been home in years. I have finally saved enough days off and money to buy them all presents. Find me a standing ticket, anything will do, please - my son, he doesn't even remember what I look like. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
She pauses and calls her boss. Her boss puffs his chest, confiscates the man's ID, and yells for the guards to kick him out of the train station.<br />
<br />
<b>Two.</b><br />
<br />
The HR team passed out company postcards, with our smiling faces plastered all over, and encouraged us to write our loved ones during this festive season.<br />
<br />
I wrote to him, thanking him for being the first one to encourage me to deviate from the secure path of a prestigious company and take the plunge into a roller coaster startup life. His was the voice that tipped the balance.<br />
<br />
Three weeks later, the soppy words and the shaky handwriting are still on my desk - the cherry on top of the pile of presents I never sent.<br />
<br />
He had made it clear that I was no longer welcome at the address on the postcard. I wasn't ready to find out if he was also referring to my mail.<br />
<br />
<b>Three. </b><br />
<b><br /></b>
The team is trickling back from their Chinese New Year holidays. It's technically a work day, but everybody is still on their holiday high.<br />
<br />
This is the part I dread every year. The proud procession of returnees bringing back their local specialty and insisting that you personally try it in front of them. You know, because I'm from Hong Kong and must have never tried homemade sesame biscuits gone stale from the days of train travel/ nameless nuts that break my nutcracker/ rubbery duck neck in spicy sauce/ pickled donkey meat/ suspicious brown goo in a plastic tube (liver paste?).<br />
<br />
Later in heaven when God asks me how I've developed my talents, I definitely will show him how I can store semi-chewed pieces of chicken feet in my left cheek for eventual secret disposal while still cracking Chinese New Year jokes.<br />
<br /></div>
Sisi Messickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11406692782355321875noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6498364689534526060.post-40271462857718906342014-01-08T00:55:00.001+08:002014-01-08T00:55:57.292+08:00Christmas Palooza Chinese Style<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
In some ways, celebrating Christmas in a largely atheist country means that you have to get creative and be prepared for the heart melting moments when somebody receives an unexpected gift and the awkward times when the first-timers take it way overboard.<br />
<br />
One of our American interns, Kenton, suggested that we should all go caroling at a nursing home. The staff were excited and started organizing practice choirs during lunch time. And then somehow, the day before our nursing home trip, we realized that they had switched "We wish you a Merry Christmas" to a Communist song instead. "From the East rose a red sun, and his name was Mao Ze Dong. He will save our people . . . " At least they got the Christmas theme of color red right on that count.<br />
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The old people were not too impressed with our multi-part rendition of "Hark the Herald Angels Sing," but they really enjoyed it when we started handing out biscuits, bananas, and soap. They were so excited about the soap that some started eating it. The nursing home managers freaked out and confiscated the soaps. Luckily, we were not responsible for anybody's early demise. Some old people enthusiastically shared with us the stories from their glory or sad days, depending on whether they were the persecuted landlords or the uprising peasants. Others just wanted their picture taken with us and asked us to send it to their grandkids.<br />
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We also had our own Christmas party back at the office. The format was show-off-your-cooking potluck. In the ambitious spirit of Christmas, I made three apple pies the morning of, zipped up my mobile toaster oven in Lesley's gigantic suitcase and enlisted two friends to help me wheel it all the way to the office. Worst/ best idea ever.<br />
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People kept running over to turn off my oven because the pie was "getting brown." I explained that that is the point of baking but they would still sneak over to turn the dial. At the end, I just had to park myself as a guardian of the oven and conduct all my meetings there. Went home that night smelling like a pie. When it came time to eating it, people were confused. Then they figured it out. They each conjured up a pair of chopsticks (Asians, I know) and started fishing for the apple pieces <i>through</i> the lattice work. At the end, I had all pie, no apples.<br />
<br />
We also did a White Elephant gift exchange at our office. A few days before the Christmas party, when I first explained to them the concept of a gag gift, the table fell silent. <i>But this will be my first Christmas present . . . I don't want somebody's 2012 calendar</i>. Other heads nodded in agreement. So HR came out with an official email decreeing that each present must be sparkly new, professionally wrapped, and worth at least 100 RMB. And they added more rules. Each person must be blindfolded and spun around before they reached the tree to pick their gifts. And they must pick their gifts within 5 seconds otherwise they miss out. Oh and if you wanted to steal somebody's gift, you had to complete a special mission.<br />
<br />
It wasn't long before I figured out that all the missions had a similar theme: do something sexy. Yeah. Workplace sexual harassment is a non-existant concept here. I won't even mention my mission. Just something to do with a pole. But that nerf gun was worth it. Later in the day, an IT guy told me that he had never seen me so "womanly" before. Ha. Awkward.<br />
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<br />
Of course, the best part of Christmas was the constant reminders of what it was really about. It's not only about the wonderful nativity scenes you dressed up for or the retelling of one of the most important stories in our history. It's about being with your family and sharing what you were most grateful for this year - all made possible because of the Atonement of Jesus Christ and the Gospel.<br />
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Nativity set for a youth activity.</div>
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Sisi Messickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11406692782355321875noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6498364689534526060.post-31322539222204138782013-12-15T23:33:00.001+08:002013-12-15T23:34:27.258+08:00The Sounds of Hell<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
If hell had a sound effect, this would be it.<br />
<br />
The moment I stepped out of the dust blaster, a tight compartment riddled with super blow dryers that pummeled your whole body with shots of stale air, I was bombarded by the high pitched wails.<br />
<br />
It was an ungodly combination of the cries from a tortured elephant and the screechiness of yellowing nails scratching an old chalkboard. The heavy industrial machines shrieked out their frustrated sounds every five seconds, acting even more animated than the streams of workers loading plastic cups onto the conveyor belts woodenly below.<br />
<br />
I tried my best not to cover up my ears (even though we already had ear plugs in), as some of my colleagues have done, because the plant boss was personally showing us around. I rearranged my expression, covering up my wide-eyed surprise with a seemingly relaxed professional smile.<br />
<br />
I've been to many many factories and worker dorms and yet this was the first time I was so anxious to get out as soon as politely possible.<br />
<br />
The plant boss pointed at the monster machines and explained how the giant rolls of plastic were molded and then shot up the tubes to be plastered with our favorite coffee and fast food brand labels. I watched as my little sister's favorite sundae cup twirled around the machine in a frenzied little dance. The plant was eerily devoid of human noises apart from our heels hitting the concrete floor. None of the workers were talking - everybody had hair nets on and ear plugs in. I wondered how much these workers knew about each other even after standing together, loading, unloading, loading, unloading plastic cups for years on end.<br />
<br />
My eyes watered. The air inside the plant was hazy from the machine exhaust because windows had to be sealed to maintain the dust-free environment. My nose also twitched from smelling the burning plastic around the corner.<br />
<br />
A line supervisor walked over to us slowly and nodded acknowledgement at the boss. I motioned to his ears and asked him why he was not wearing his ear plugs - I was barely staying sane with the noise. He gestured to the ink mixer behind us. These were his machines, he explained proudly, and he wanted to hear them. Every screech represented production and every wail meant smooth operation. He could decipher a breakdown issue just by hearing the sputtering of the machines. He patted the back of a nearby young man bent over the packaging boxes on our way out and told him to do a recount. He could tell with one glance that there were fewer than the required 300 plastic cups in there. It turned out that he was right.<br />
<br />
<i><br /></i>
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Sporting the sexy hair net.</div>
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This is how we roll in factory towns. Because many plants are</div>
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in special export zones where taxis are not allowed to enter, so</div>
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we hitch rides on little motorbikes.</div>
<i><br /></i>
There are days like this when I wonder if we can even move the dial a little bit and make some sort of impact on the lives of the factory workers. When I run out of certain factories, gasping for fresh air, I can't imagine how our little apps can possibly make any dent in this overall situation. The plant managers I've met aren't evil, contrary to the easy monster archetypes Western media likes to draw of factory management, in fact, most of them are scratching their heads trying to figure out how to make meaningful improvements while meeting production quotas.<br />
<br />
We're all scratching our heads. But sometimes I do see a glimmer of a solution. Sometimes, when we demo our CompanyIQ app to the workers and watch them compete with each other for the right answers in the fire safety manual quiz with intense concentration and loud, easy laughs, I see that we're heading in the right direction. We gamify corporate training so workers who have been eliminated from China's hyper competitive education system because they do not excel in the traditional classroom can continue to learn on their own terms and in a fun and interactive environment.<br />
<br />
The promise of accessible education means that they also dare voice their dreams. Two girls shyly came up to me, nervously tugging at their hair nets, and asked if our app could teach them how to use computer programs like Word or Excel so that some day they could also work in an air-conditioned office. Another young man told us that he was convinced he could make it as a line supervisor one day if only he could learn the techniques to speak convincingly in front of a crowd. A middle-aged woman with a round, honest face wanted to know how to be a better mother via the crackling phone lines so she could actually emotionally connect with her little son back home.<br />
<br />
I don't think we have it absolutely right right now. Heck, I'm only too painfully aware of all the ways we need to improve our app. But I do know the young man from the cup packaging department who stood up to be applauded by his fellow workers and receive a bottle of shampoo as a prize for getting the best scores on his app training quizzes. He had studied the training materials on the app back in his dorm the night before, he confided to us. He also added, shyly, that nobody had ever clapped for him before. Whenever I think of him and how he tried not to smile too broadly as he was being applauded, I know we must be doing something right.<br />
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Sisi Messickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11406692782355321875noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6498364689534526060.post-13972463187966978322013-12-06T23:55:00.001+08:002013-12-07T00:04:52.482+08:00Chinese Masketeers<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Mike and I hunched our shoulders and sped into the tunnel that led to the underground mall to seek refuge from the bitter Beijing cold. I reached out to lift the heavy double-layered insulating curtains that typically hung from most entrances in this city when I suddenly screamed. <i>Something</i> on the other side was panting unnaturally loud. The curtain lifted. Out of the dim tunnel emerged two determined eyes, a pink forehand, and a metallic contraption that shielded almost his entire face.<br />
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I was staring at a beanie-wearing Bane.<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-HZV4rMm3ido/UqHmPJPdDWI/AAAAAAAADU8/kf9yh5gryEk/s1600/Bane.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-HZV4rMm3ido/UqHmPJPdDWI/AAAAAAAADU8/kf9yh5gryEk/s320/Bane.jpg" width="212" /></a></div>
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He really did look like this </div>
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(without the overhead strap).</div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ei2rSFasJp4/UqH1jCGHlxI/AAAAAAAADVw/Uhjlem1Blwc/s1600/chinese_man_in_a_gas_mask.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ei2rSFasJp4/UqH1jCGHlxI/AAAAAAAADVw/Uhjlem1Blwc/s400/chinese_man_in_a_gas_mask.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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I think I freaked him out too. He was just another Beijing biker trying to find a warmer shortcut and wheezing heavily through his air filtration mask. He looked at us strangely, as if thinking we were crazy for not strapping on our own respiratory protection. But then again, I don't know if we would have been able to afford the several hundred USD worth of WWII-esque gas mask gear he sported. </div>
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Air pollution is so bad in Beijing that BJ is experiencing somewhat of a brain drain because the smarties want to move somewhere where they can actually <i>breathe</i>. We Shanghai/ Suzhou-ers down south have participated in the pollution frenzy by downloading the ubiquitous air pollution monitoring apps and comparing the daily stats officially released by the American consulate vs Chinese government. Some Chinese nationalists even made a big deal about the Americans purposefully stirring up local discontent by revealing the daily air pollution index. </div>
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Normally it's more like "Woah - look how bad Beijing is today!" and we feel lucky. But today we Southerners are starting to feel the pain. </div>
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We are officially in the HAZARDOUS category. Actually, correction - apparently, we overshot the upward bound and went beyond hazardous. Most apps freaked out and went blank today because they did not know how to classify 500 and above. Friends in my US college town, Provo, flipped when earlier inversion caused the air quality index to register 164 ("unhealthy") - 164 is more like a hallelujah here in Shanghai. We often reminisce about the good ol' days of 164 like that golden period of the magical beanie babies craze that nobody understood. </div>
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The number of air quality index screen shots </div>
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trounced even that of self-conscious selfies today.</div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-AtATM80efug/UqHpxyhVFWI/AAAAAAAADVI/wxqXZVIXKjk/s1600/pants+building.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-AtATM80efug/UqHpxyhVFWI/AAAAAAAADVI/wxqXZVIXKjk/s400/pants+building.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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We typically look up at the crotch of the infamous</div>
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"Pants Building" (aka the tallest building in our province</div>
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upon completion) from our office. Above is taken on a</div>
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beautiful summer day. Below is taken today.<br />
Creds to Danica.</div>
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The ongoing air situation has bred some fascinating social phenomena. Soccer moms no longer brag all day about their children - now they engage in passive aggressive "whose air filtration mask is better?" comparisons, analyzing in excruciating detail the science behind pollution and mechanics of face masks. And instead of rare medicines or gold-plated busts, Chinese sycophants switched gears and gifted government officials with high end air filters, attached with poems about the importance of health. </div>
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The radio is also full of jokes about the pollution. Here's one: Workers at the post office have been so desperate for clean air that they resorted to popping the bubble wraps on foreign packages and sucking in the fresh "imported" air . . . until the postmaster sadly pointed out that the bubble wraps were made in China too.</div>
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Office portrait a while back. I think this time we were</div>
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donning masks for the bird flu.</div>
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Sisi Messickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11406692782355321875noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6498364689534526060.post-36990873026276709262013-11-24T23:49:00.001+08:002013-11-24T23:51:43.382+08:00It's a Slaughter World After All<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I have a legit neck phobia. Ever since I was a little kid, I have always been convinced that I will be murdered getting pierced through the throat with a javelin. Or hung like a limp doll off a lonely bridge. Or violently choked from behind because I beat somebody at a board game. So <a href="http://sisimessick.blogspot.com/2010/05/kiss-and-tell.html" target="_blank">that one time</a>, when a stranger kissed me on the neck in the Beijing metro, I freaked out and avoided public transportation for a week.<br />
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Ever since I started dating in college, I've gotten a lot better. As in, I don't flinch as noticeably when other people's hands hover dangerously close to my vulnerable zone. And I don't end up subconsciously slapping the boy who accidentally touched my neck because he was trying to be flirtatious.<br />
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Last weekend, I decided to overcome my fear once and for all by doing something that I had always imagined being done to me. It's sort of like getting somebody who was deathly afraid of heights to jump off an air plane. I was going to slaughter an animal by slitting its throat.<br />
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A bunch of us drove out to a turkey farm in Changshu to pick out our Thanksgiving bird. My mom asked me to bring one home so I was determined to take care of the turkey myself to feed my family. I was finally shedding my city girl skin and living a rustic vision of Little House on the Prairie.<br />
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As the cityscape faded into the lush patches of oversized leafy greens, I started feeling nauseated. I hunched my shoulders and retreated into my maroon hoodie - especially picked out to camouflage the blood I would inevitably get splashed all over myself - and fingered my swiss pocket knife. Would I be able to do a clean slit and spare unnecessary pain? Would the turkey, in its full ugliness, peck at my throat in retaliation? Can swiss army knives actually cut things other than fruit?<br />
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My first mistake was looking at him straight in the eyes. They were oddly intelligent and hauntingly dignified. Second mistake? Naming him Turk.<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-q2cIT0y3uo4/UpILkOuSLNI/AAAAAAAADTo/l5rbMLR5mOU/s1600/IMG_4220.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-q2cIT0y3uo4/UpILkOuSLNI/AAAAAAAADTo/l5rbMLR5mOU/s400/IMG_4220.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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Getting a photoshoot with Turk.</div>
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Somehow Miles still manages to look good when</div>
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caught mid-moment holding a turkey.</div>
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Turk<br />
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The farmer weighed our turkeys and I felt oddly proud that Turk was one of the largest at nine <i>jing</i> (roughly 5 pounds). He stuffed Turk and his buddies into a fertilizer bag and threw them into the back of the van. We drove to the slaughterhouse, chatting with the farmer about his new plans to start an orchard and listening to the turkeys nervously shifting in the trunk.<br />
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The lady at the slaughterhouse was really tickled to see so many foreigners. She started showing off her techniques and waved over other ladies nearby to help out with the turkeys. I clutched my pocket knife more tightly, unsure when it was my/ Turk's turn. The lady laughed and flicked her long hair back. She had another woman hold a squirming turkey, and she pressed the head down and starting snipping the throbbing neck vein with a pair of scissors. The turkey did a death thrash while its little heart beat faster and faster, pumping out the rest of its life. The lady swirled her little pinkie in the tin bowl she placed underneath the turkey to fish out any feathers in the blood (to sell for blood pudding later).<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dy6JgpEE_f3WFZi7Hr-dveNN_YHXCW1Ps4z4GNrQ8s69u0xbWrwsSR6DLG_whIzDVIJHQPaS-acU_xKM9nW' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
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Watch this video and prepare a barf bag.</div>
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One of my friends jumped up next for an opportunity to wield the scissors. She hacked away with reckless abandon and lustful determination. She later explained to me that a boy had arranged for her to kill a duck for her birthday last year so she was experienced. Another twelve year-old little boy volunteered. By that point, the pair of dull scissors was slick with blood and didn't open and close very well so he ended up just jabbing at his turkey. The poor turkey cried.<br />
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I had come expecting to overcome my fear - but instead, I now have an additional nightmare scenario to add to my repertoire of death by throat scenes. I've never considered how scary scissors were before.<br />
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Slaughter lady at her finest. </div>
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She had to steam it first to defeather it.</div>
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RIP Turk.</div>
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I had to snap his legs off. Utterly traumatized.</div>
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Btw - terrible blog post title, I know. I was playing a board game with the younger siblings tonight and the instruction manual came with ads for other board games. One of the advertised games had a slogan "It's a Slaughter World After All" . . . they ought to pay somebody professional to come up with a better one.<br />
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Sisi Messickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11406692782355321875noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6498364689534526060.post-71257104938829796842013-11-11T00:33:00.000+08:002013-11-11T00:37:01.559+08:00When They Call Me Well Endowed<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The best thing about expanding the team is that we're getting a whole new crew of awesome people with even better names. I've mentioned the <a href="http://sisimessick.blogspot.com/2011/07/first-day.html" target="_blank">previous crop</a> of eyebrow-raising names when I first arrived in China. But our new team is giving the Cinderella, Elvis, and Hawk of yesteryears a run for their holy-crap-how-did-you-pick-that-name money.<br />
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Introducing the new lineup:<br />
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First, there's our bubbly over-the-top foodie who doubled as our course developer by day. In our first standup team meeting when we're all doing self-introductions, she looked at me dead pan in the eye and said "Smile." I did, awkwardly. Then I realized that she wasn't commanding me to smile - that's her name. Smile. Her last name was Li. So she's Smile Li (read it) and then she later switched to Smiley Li because she wanted a singalong three syllable.<br />
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One of the new QA engineers shyly introduced herself to me as Nemo. I welcomed her and mentioned that we'd had another Nemo before and asked if she really liked the movie. She looked startled for a minute and shook her head slowly as if surprised that my English was so bad - "No, no. My name is nee-mon. You know, the fruit." Ah. Lemon. Too bad that Apple had left us already, otherwise we could have a fruit salad party.<br />
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Out of the blue, we also hired two app developers who were called Seven and Cywen, but both pronounced them like the number. They were going to do a stone paper scissors for the rights, when Seven told us that his name reminded him of his first love because he used to hang out in his ex-girlfriend's college dorm of six girls all day long and got tagged as the seventh. Cywen just deflated after that and settled for a life of being called Max. We were all disappointed he didn't pick Eleven, but certainly glad that he passed on Six because he always said sex instead.<br />
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I won't even mention Coco (guy), Afra (girl), and Hello Kitty (asexual?). Ok, well Hello Kitty was really an American intern called Katie but the staff just thought it's hilarious and <i>so</i> Japanese hip to call her a cartoon instead.<br />
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Then in walked a girl who sweetly whispered on her first day that her name was Sissi.<br />
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I spent my entire childhood glaring at people who pronounced my name "Sis - see". I even ran a high school student body president campaign on the slogan "Sisi not a Sissy." But, even though HR had called to persuade new girl to give up her name because there's already another Sisi around, she still showed up, utterly unrepentant. So now it's Big S and Small S. I'm technically Big S and she's Small S even though we're the same size and I'm younger. But I'm going to put a stop to that too because sometimes the local Chinese staff slip and say "Big Ass" instead.<br />
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Good thing that was never my nick name in high school. I wouldn't have known how to work that one into a pep rally slogan.<br />
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Nothing to do with names but this is a shirt</div>
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I regularly see at the office. </div>
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Caption: "THE MAN: The employees walked</div>
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around in jeans and sweaters."</div>
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Now that's how you show attitude around here. </div>
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Sisi Messickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11406692782355321875noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6498364689534526060.post-82656845653634131042013-11-04T22:35:00.000+08:002013-11-04T22:35:07.464+08:00Give Said the Little Stream<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<i>In between Shanghai and Provo</i><br />
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"Happy birthday!!!" we sang into the phone, shrieking out our last off key note for maximum thematic flair.<br />
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My brother Casey squinted at the camera through his half sleepy eyes.<br />
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Then I spotted the all familiar Y banners floating in the background. "Wait. Are you on campus already at 8 am . . . on your birthday?"<br />
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"Yeah."<br />
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"So what fancy plans do you have for your big day?"<br />
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"Umm. Well I'm building houses today. It'll probably take the whole day, but maybe if I'm done early then I'll go hang out with some friends."<br />
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"Build houses? You know these people?"<br />
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"Nah. I just signed up to volunteer."<br />
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"But . . . it's your birthday! Why choose this day out of all days to volunteer?" I wailed while fiddling with the phone to make sure I heard him correctly.<br />
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"Well, I can't think of anything better else to do than helping other people on my birthday."<br />
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The reception faded in and out and his voice crackled. "Ok. Love you! I've got to go."<br />
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Girls, those dramatically coursing veins aren't photoshopped.</div>
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<br />
<i>Palawan, Philippines</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
They flashed their thousand watt smiles at us, volleying question after question about where we're from, what we loved about Philippines, and what our boyfriends looked like.<br />
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The three girls giggled non stop, covering their mouths in moments of barely contained teenage excitement and self-consciousness. Their eyes widened when I mentioned that I happened to be the president of our church Young Women group back in China. They wanted to know what church activities we did and whether we made dumplings all day long.<br />
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A church leader got up on the pulpit and cleared his throat. I signaled that we should stop chatting and concentrate on the speaker.<br />
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After ten minutes, the girls on my row started fiddling. The three of them unzipped their mini purses and emptied them out on the bench, sifting through lip balms, hand mirrors, and forgotten mints. <i>Kids will be kids</i>. I thought, smiling inside, sitting more upright to show how real adults stay reverent during the Sacrament.<br />
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The girl with the long silky hair tugged at my elbow. She cupped her hands, as if protecting an injured little bird, and hovered over my open palms.<br />
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"Sorry, this is the only thing we have." She dipped her head apologetically and deposited her hidden gift in my hands. It was a mangy candy land pink teddy bear keychain. The fur was slightly caked with suspicious stains and the rust on the keychain indicated its love worn status.<br />
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I knitted my eyebrows in obvious confusion. "For me?"<br />
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She nodded enthusiastically and leaned in and whispered, "We want you to remember us. Tell the girls in China that we said hi. And let them know that there are other girls in Philippines who also like going to church as much as they do."<br />
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I swallowed. The other two girls peeked behind in the first and nodded their joint excitement at the gift. I turned back to the speaker, simply overwhelmed.<br />
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<br />
<i>Vatican City</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
The crowds spilled out of the Vatican City, running mindlessly towards the first shelter in sight. The storm clouds that had hung threateningly all morning finally made good on their promise and poured down vengeance on those unprepared with sturdy umbrellas.<br />
<br />
So we started running too. We ran past the guards dressed in anachronistic courtly uniforms, tripped on centuries old cobblestones, and jetted across the large square where the Pope makes his official addresses. The crowds streamed past the crooked old gypsy woman who tried to lift her head to make eye contact while feebly holding her hand out for a spare coin.<br />
<br />
I had checked my purse before I reached her and was disappointed that I had only Chinese money. My mom always reminded us to bring a few extra coins for the needy but I was simply out of Euros. Apologetically, I avoided her gaze and rushed past. After reaching a dry spot, I looked around for my little brother, Cody. I anxiously scanned the crowds and saw him standing out there in the rain, hesitating. He had seen her too. He stuck his hand into one pocket. Nothing. Another pocket. Spare gum. Some burly guy ran past Cody, knocking into his left shoulder, and shot the gypsy a disgusted look. Cody walked over to the old woman, bent down slightly, and held out his umbrella. He nodded briefly at her to let her know it was ok, threw on his hood, and sprinted for the columns where I stood watching.<br />
<br />
All around, hundreds of Christians who had just glimpsed in awe God and Adam's near touch at the Sistine Chapel ran past, barely noticing the huddled figure and her new umbrella near the fire hydrant.<br />
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Lining up for the Vatican City</div>
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Sisi Messickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11406692782355321875noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6498364689534526060.post-91761422750909131582013-10-15T00:26:00.001+08:002013-10-15T00:26:35.271+08:00One Schilling and Noe More<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I picked him because his last name was Bragg. He sounded kind of gangster even though he'd been dead for more than 250 years and he was a white plantation owner from Virginia.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
More specifically, he's Joseph Bragg*, alive for a full century from 1647-1747. Bragg finally got rich/desirable enough to leave behind bachelorhood when he was 42 by marrying Mary Tapp, who was just a blushing 19 year old. Despite actuarial odds, he outlived his wife by 16 years. </div>
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This is how I imagined their wedding day.</div>
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<div>
I was doing family history research for a Church Youth activity and pulled up the family tree that my grandma from my dad's side had lovingly created. We Mormons are obsessed with tracing our ancestry and have a forest worth of family trees because we believe that families are connected forever. So I sat cross-legged on the floor, zoomed in and out throughout the centuries of our family tree and clicked at random census files of my ancestors just to look like I was doing serious genealogical research.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
One kid yelled out that according to her genealogy chart she was actually some distant descendent of the King of Franks (a fairytale kingdom as far as I'm concerned but a real person according to Wiki). Huh. I figured that I would google my guy as well just to see if any living Braggs out there work in the rap music industry and sport oversized bling.</div>
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<div>
<br /></div>
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And Holy King of Franks, <a href="http://familytreemaker.genealogy.com/users/g/e/e/Harold-E-Geeting/WEBSITE-0001/UHP-0444.html" target="_blank">he's online</a>. As in <i>my</i> Joseph Bragg is online.</div>
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<div>
I looked through quite a few sources, which all differed slightly on dates, to start piecing together his spunky/controlling personality and contentious family life. He owned at least 500 acres of land, five "negroes," and a tobacco plantation. He did not go to Church and was called to court for it. </div>
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<span style="background-color: white; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><i>"On July 7, 1715 at Richmond County, Virginia, it was noted in the court records; "Joseph Bragg of North Farmingham Parish being summoned to answer the presentment of the Grand Jury against him for not going to Church for two months, but not appearing when called. It is ordered that he be fined one hundred pounds of tobacco and that he pay the same to the church wardens of the said parish with costs."</i></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #ffffcc; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><br /></span></div>
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Yeah. Back then, they fined you tobacco for not going to Church. The Catholics should try that sometime.</div>
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<br />
I also found his will. What a gem. He probably scrunched up his wrinkly old face and gleefully penned his last words to spite some of his kids. </div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><i><span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;">"Joseph Bragg Sr [9648] left a will on January 26, 1746 at Lunenberg Parish, Richmond County, Virginia. "In the name of God Amen I Joseph Bragg Sr of Lunenberg Parish in the County of Richmond being very sick and weak but of perfect sence and memory thanks be to God for the same do make and ordain this to be my Will and Testament in the manner and from the following: that is to say first and principally I bequeath my soul to God and that gave it my body to the earth to be decently buried in a christianlike manner at the descretion of my Executor hereafter named.'</span><br style="text-align: -webkit-auto;" /><br style="text-align: -webkit-auto;" /><span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;">A. I give and bequeath to my son Joseph Bragg my negro girl named Mariah to him and his heirs forever with her increase only the first child of the of the said nego girl shall have that lives to be two years old it is my will and desire my young son Joseph shall have delivered to him at the age of twenty years or without lawful heirs to my son Newman Bragg and his heirs.</span><br style="text-align: -webkit-auto;" /><br style="text-align: -webkit-auto;" /><span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;">B. I give and it is my desire that my son Monroe Bragg shall have the plantationtha he now lives on. Together with my negroe girl Hannah to him and the lawful heirs of his body begotten and if in case this my son dye before he should without such heirs of his body to fall to my son John Bragg and his heirs.</span><br style="text-align: -webkit-auto;" /><br style="text-align: -webkit-auto;" /><span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;">C. I give to my daughter Elizabeth A Bragg on cow and calf.</span><br style="text-align: -webkit-auto;" /><br style="text-align: -webkit-auto;" /><span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;">D. I give and bequeath to my daughter Catherine Bragg one Schilling and noe more.</span><br style="text-align: -webkit-auto;" /><br style="text-align: -webkit-auto;" /><span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;">E. It is my will and desire that my two sons Moore and Newman Bragg should have three years schooling out of my personal estate.</span><br style="text-align: -webkit-auto;" /><br style="text-align: -webkit-auto;" /><span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;">F. If please to God my negro wench Whinney should have anouther child after __________</span><br style="text-align: -webkit-auto;" /><br style="text-align: -webkit-auto;" /><span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;">This will was probated May 4, 1747 (Ref: John Emmett Suttle, 13462 Photo Drive, Woodbridge, Virginia 22193) (Family Search)"</span></i></span></div>
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One schilling and noe more. John even left his daughter a pathetic momento to remind her of him. Classic.<br />
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----<br />
<br />
Want to learn more about your own mean-spirited ancestors and figure out where that crazy streak in you comes from?<br />
<br />
Just head over to www.familysearch.org for a free and super cool way to search for and create your own family tree now!<br />
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Sisi Messickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11406692782355321875noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6498364689534526060.post-86301011372927017642013-10-13T00:14:00.003+08:002013-10-13T00:14:55.651+08:00Building a Rocket<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div>
Tonight, I feel 24.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
Curled up in a hotel room in Shen Zhen, soaking up the alone time when my colleagues are out scavenging for dinner, I feel too young. Too young to be powering through on a Saturday night, trying to figure out what is the bottleneck in our implementation process (and realize that maybe I'm the biggest bottleneck of all). Too inexperienced to be leading a metastasizing team with people all older than me and be somebody's boss's boss. Too weak to really do all the things I scribble down in my journal.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I'm not burned out. Because that was this summer. This time is different - I still keep moving. Meeting after meeting. Email after email. Weekend after weekend. I am slowing down though and it's painful and shameful to hear the screechiness of my own engine.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Maybe I'm just tired. But I can't sleep at night because I keep hearing our app background music play on a loop, taunting me, accusing me of sleeping so early.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
We used to joke around and say that when we sign up company X, then we know we've got it made. Well, on our trip to America last month, we did just that. This is the deal that starts the snowball rolling, the momentum that will push us to the tipping point and to profitability. This is the beginning of the future of our startup.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But nobody ever tells you that the tipping point is scary as hell.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I feel like we're building a rocket after it's already left the launchpad, hoping we will not run out of fuel, find out our astronaut is crappy, or realize that the market actually wants a submarine. And somehow, somewhere, somebody thinks that I can be trusted to figure out how to build several rockets at the same time. </div>
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To do list tomorrow: Change that background music.</div>
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Sisi Messickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11406692782355321875noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6498364689534526060.post-47374557259307697092013-10-03T04:30:00.000+08:002013-10-03T04:30:01.855+08:00Reexamining Evelyn<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I was raised by Filipino women. So for me going to the Philippines was like getting off the steam boat and arriving in an ancestral homeland that you had only ever heard about. Except Andrea and I had stepped off a budget airline and booked ourselves onto an eight hour bus ride across the Pilipino countryside to unplug in a little fishing town called El Nido. We wandered around a lot, got lost in curio shops and avoided chickens on our bicycles.<br />
<br />
Street snacks like <i>Chippy</i> (chips) or<i> polveron</i> (crumbly cake) made me feel like a happy little kid again, who was rewarded for finally putting my school shoes on without a tantrum or for keeping my mouth shut/ stuffed when I watched cartoon as Evelyn, our maid, talked future plans with her fiancee on the phone. She annoyed me with her incessant stories of sunshine and happy endings. I tried to explain to her in my six year old bossy tone that she needed to stop pouring sugar over every story twist when we played pretend. Life was more like scolding nuns, school rankings and custody battles. I hated her stories because they were so naive but somehow she was hurt when I didn't buy them. Like that story about the cashew nut tree and how the nuts ended up growing hung upside down outside their protective fruit because they complained so much. Or how you should always be smiling in case the wind changed all of a sudden and your expression froze like that the rest of your life. She really believed the one story about how the more you counted your freckles, the more you would get them. She always applied face creams to "whiten" her freckles. As a weapon of last resort, I terrorized her by loudly counting her freckles when she made me take baths at night.<br />
<br />
In a weird way, she did seem to get more freckles after each count. After I noticed that trend, I also started practicing my "wind-changing" face when she wasn't looking. Sometimes penitent, I hugged her and assured her that she was the most beautiful out of all the maids in the park because she was my Evelyn.<br />
<br />
I figured out why she thought us playing marbles was the solution to everything. On our frequent walks back to the hostel from the bakery, Andrea and I often saw giggling filipino kids squatting outside their slated tin huts flicking marbles for hours, always narrowly missing their prized fighting roosters who looked at them indignantly from their wooden poles. I could wax philosophical about how happiness was simple there, or rather, simplicity was happiness but that would be understating what dodging torrential rains in the Philippines or laughing with our local hosts did for me in reexamining Evelyn.<br />
<br />
I wonder if Evelyn was excited to be in a big cosmopolitan city like Hong Kong and whether she welcomed the wafts of cool air conditioning to the sticky heat in her village. She was probably lonely, so far away from her large family, and a little irrational with her love for her fiancee. She constantly verged between reading me lines from her love letters she was about to send (to help me with my English) and ranting about how men were unreliable because they just gambled away your nest egg money. Her fiancee was at once the most talented prince and the laziest artist. She peddled his drawings during Sundays after church to fellow Filipinos. My impression of him was slick hair and an exaggerated Minnie Mouse card he drew me once for my birthday. She never ended up marrying him. She never ended up married at all.<br />
<br />
Honestly, I had never really considered Evelyn as a separate entity from me. In my selfish little six year old world, Evelyn was the nucleus of my life, there to make me happy. But I was unhappy a lot. So I chalked it up to her stories not being good enough, to her not letting me stay up late to watch TV, to her not being able to learn Cantonese as fast as I could teach her. She wasn't able to magic away my parents' divorce so I exacted revenge by being as difficult as I possibly could. But somehow her optimism was indefatigable and the stories about fishing and nuts and marbles kept coming. She really was trying to teach me to be happy and more trusting.<br />
<br />
I fancied that whenever I turned a corner on the streets in El Nido, I would somehow bump into Evelyn selling bread or her fantastic deep fried banana fritters. Maybe she did eventually find her prince and build her dream house. Then I could finally show her what "wind-changing" face I had decided on. I think that would really make her throw her head back and laugh.<br />
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Evelyn used to make the best fried chicken in town. </div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
Somehow these kids were always so happy. Even when one</div>
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of their balls fell into the water.</div>
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Chickens roamed free everywhere.</div>
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A stereotypical Filipino hut. </div>
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Wooden fences, tin roofs, and banana leaves walls.</div>
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Sisi Messickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11406692782355321875noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6498364689534526060.post-13522290580170108382013-09-22T15:57:00.002+08:002013-09-22T15:57:45.176+08:00Finding Nemo in Phillippines<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
We stood in our adolescent awkwardness, self-consciously tugging at our cling film-esque navy school swimming suits, while waiting for our PE teacher to sound the call for class to start.<br />
<br />
It was second period of seventh grade and also my first day at a new school.<br />
<br />
The boys and the girls naturally segregated themselves on opposite ends of the benches. Boys pushed each other around, testing out their new gained muscles from the summer, while the girls showed off their haircuts or friendship bracelets from camp.<br />
<br />
Mr Lant, who constantly reminded me of a sleek greyhound that would nip at your ankles if you slowed down, walked in with his clip board and barked out the training itinerary. After surveying the row of nervous fresh meat with his piercing blue eyes, he paused in my direction. "Welcome," he looked down at his clipboard, "Class, it seems that we have another Messick with us."<br />
<br />
All little heads bobbed acknowledgement at me. "Glad to have another superstar athlete at this school. We love 'em Messicks. Ok, kids. Jump in the pool quickly and do your laps. And if you guys finish fast, then we're going to have an epic showdown between Casey and Sisi! Who do you think will win?"<br />
<br />
The kids bounced off the bleachers and yelled out their allegiance as they splashed into the pool. "Casey! Casey!" "Sisi! Sisi!"<br />
<br />
I waddled over to Mr Lant and tugged at his shirt.<br />
<br />
"Mr Lant," I mumbled, "I don't know how to swim."<br />
<br />
"What? What do you mean you can't swim? You have your period or something?"<br />
<br />
". . . No. I just mean that I can't swim."<br />
<br />
"You're just nervous about the race with your brother later. Jump in the pool."<br />
<br />
Desperately, I splashed into the pool like a baby penguin diving off the iceberg and landing straight into the mouth of a polar bear. He watched me for a few seconds, then swearing in surprise, pulled me out and directed me to the handicap lane.<br />
<br />
And there I stayed throughout high school.<br />
<br />
-----<br />
<br />
But the thing was I did learn how to swim.<br />
<br />
And every time I travel to a new place and snap on my snorkeling mask, I think of Mr Lant. Sometimes, still self-consciously checking my strokes, but mostly, just grateful that I didn't fake periods to get out of PE like all the other girls because I actually liked Mr Lant belting out the "A sailor went to Si-si-si" nursery songs and giving me the "Best Attitude" awards while I huffed and puffed in PE.<br />
<br />
I thought of Mr Lant a lot when Andrea and I went on our spontaneous girls' trip to Philippines in July.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
Nothing beats swimming in warm waters, staring down </div>
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at fish that ignore you because they are too busy</div>
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chasing each other among the corals.</div>
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From the right angle, corals look like magical snow cones.</div>
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From a different angle, they look like your worst vegetable nightmare.<br />
Either way, it's hauntingly beautiful.</div>
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Swimming with the cast of <i>Finding Nemo </i>- well all except</div>
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for the dentist and the sharks. </div>
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We kayaked around caves, looked for swallows that flew down</div>
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and attacked you, and claimed empty stretches of</div>
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beach as our own. We covered up in floppy hats because<br />
an Irish boy at our hostel got burned and stayed brick red the<br />
entire time we were there.</div>
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<br />
Rings of blue. Yeah, this was really the color of<br />
the water. No filter. Just pure amazement.<br />
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<br />
I got lots of awkward board shorts tan lines,<br />
which refuse to go away even now.<br />
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<br />
We always managed to stow away our kayaks away<br />
just in time before a huge storm rolled in.<br />
<br /></div>
</div>
Sisi Messickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11406692782355321875noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6498364689534526060.post-2044099389441646142013-09-21T17:53:00.000+08:002013-09-21T17:53:00.419+08:00Telling Stories<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I come from a heritage of storytellers.<br />
<br />
My waipo captured hearts and rallied the morale of many Chinese soldiers fighting in the Korean War as night after night she starred in <i>White Hair Girl</i>, an epic Communist opera, and belted out the woes of the village girl who suffered at the hands of incredibly evil and fat landlords. Many years later, she still told the best war stories, with sound effects and all.<br />
<br />
My mom's brand of nighttime stories steered clear of overt propaganda. Instead, she melded Kung Fu + musketeer + Book of Mormon heroes and made them fight each other for the love of a stubborn aristocrat who dressed as a beggar.<br />
<br />
Where my waipo and mom can whip a mystical story up from thin air, I can only tell my own.<br />
<br />
I hoard my stories like a jealous little squirrel hiding away its nuts. I wait for the perfect time to tell it so I can see people's expressions, that moment when their eyes open wider in surprise or when they toss their heads back and laugh out loud. So I'm torn when it comes to blogging. When I write stories down, I feel like I've somehow given away that moment of engaging with others and that I can't tell it in person anymore because they've "read it somewhere."<br />
<br />
As a result, my list of "To blog" stories grows longer and lonelier.<br />
<br />
When I read the afterword from <i>The Lizard Cage</i> by Karen Connelly (I always read the afterword because it is so important to know the person behind the book), I stopped upon this line - "While writing <i>The Lizard Cage</i>, I came to understand that the most useful thing I could do as a writer was contribute to the history of kindness."<br />
<br />
Wow. What self-awareness. What a beautiful mission.<br />
<br />
Last week, a speaker in Church also admonished that we should tell our stories loud and often, because in a country like China where we can't proselyte among locals, we can still share the core principles that guide our lives through stories that touch people's hearts.<br />
<br />
I have a nagging feeling that I've neglected to tell many stories - not necessarily the silly-cute trivialities or the glossed over travelogues, but the important ones, like the heart aching but character strengthening experiences from the summer or the faith-building realizations from hours of study.<br />
<br />
So . . . who's up for a story (or a bajillion)?<br />
<br /></div>
Sisi Messickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11406692782355321875noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6498364689534526060.post-17140277191374089602013-08-29T00:46:00.001+08:002013-08-29T00:46:32.213+08:00No Japanese Allowed<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
For a client lunch recently, I was led to a themed restaurant in a chic part of downtown Shen Zhen. The restaurant<i> Da Lang Wo </i>(Big Wolf Lair) was a confusing mix of neanderthal caves with animal wall etchings, displays of super-nationalism, and the occasional nod to wolves.<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Outside the cave entrance hung, non-apologetically, a bold sign that read "No Japanese allowed." I was caught between feeling offended for the entire Japanese race, appalled at the blatant discrimination, ashamed at such exclusive nationalism, secretly relieved that I was welcome, and anxious that they were going to kick me out because many Chinese people thought I looked Japanese. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I kept up a constant stream of Mandarin monologue in front of the waitress to prove that I was somehow more Chinese than I came across. I threw out as many slangs as I knew, but not too many so that I stuck out like a conspicuous Chinese-learner. </div>
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Cave drawings and stick monuments.</div>
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"Our store does not use Japanese goods."</div>
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"No Japanese allowed."</div>
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Handwritten notices and newspapers reminding customers</div>
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of the Rape of Nanjing, when Japanese soldiers committed</div>
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an unspeakable number of crimes during a three month </div>
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occupation of a Chinese city.</div>
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While the round moon (baked naan bread) and the wolves' prey pot (lamb stew) tasted delicious, it definitely felt weird eating at a place where others were not allowed simply because of their race or national history. It smacked of the civil rights era that I had read about in high school textbooks, where African Americans were routinely denied entrance into certain public areas. It felt wrong, but yet others around me laughed about it, took photos of it with their bejeweled Japanese phones, and pumped their fists in the air proclaiming their sudden bursts of China pride. And while I didn't join in, I certainly tried to fit in. And that's really what bothered me the most. </div>
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Sisi Messickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11406692782355321875noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6498364689534526060.post-11174043380855271362013-08-27T23:51:00.001+08:002013-08-27T23:51:29.987+08:0072 Hours of a Startup<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<b>Day One</b><br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
We sat around in bean bag circles, sort of like a benign underground brotherhood of nerds, and volleyed questions back and forth on the next steps of gamifying our apps. We argued passionately for elements that should be in there, weighed it carefully against our actual IT development capacity, and sketched out/ erased/ redrew UI designs on our glass walls. Man, assumptions. We had too many assumptions about the blue collar workers and the HR. So we jotted down the ones that we needed to test and braced ourselves for the humbling and fascinating discovery of their actual behaviors. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
We're trying to go more lean in our product development. Fail fast. Succeed faster. We're very good at the failing, so so on the fast, and blah on the succeed. But we're good at learning and applying. A gamification professor from Columbia University hung out with us while we went through this process so we could pummel him with questions as he chowed down on cold pizza.<br />
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<br />
<br />
I spent the afternoon interviewing candidates, so we could fill our empty chairs and dramatically increase our capacity. We're projected to double by the end of the year, expand to 95 next year, and grow to 200 ish by 2015. That meant a lot of interviews. And a lot of tears (from the interviewees). We're super picky about our candidates because we wanted to not only hire talent, but also potential and cultural fit. So we did interview panels, where regardless of whether you were a receptionist, a finance manager, a product developer, or a salesperson, you had a chance to get to know the applicants and pitch in about whether you would want to sit next to this person on a plane for 14 hours.<br />
<br />
Then there was the email that sucked out the positive energy of the whole day.<br />
<br />
We had hit an unexpected snag in our fundraising, especially when we were so close to tasting the term sheet. Just a delay, with the sincerest regrets. But still. I swallowed acid in my mouth just thinking about doing more client tours with potential investors for due diligence. I stayed slumped on the bean bags until somebody turned the lights off, thinking he was the last one in the office.<br />
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>Day Two</b></div>
<div>
<b><br /></b></div>
<div>
I woke up uncharacteristically earlier than my alarm, but remained hiding underneath my sheets, holding onto the momentary safety of procrastination. I felt the full vulnerability of building a startup today more than ever and wasn't ready to face it square on.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I tried to give some of my accounts a call in the morning, but couldn't bear to dial back when the line was busy. It was one of those courage zero days.<br />
<br />
I dragged my frustrations around the office like rattling cans on a frayed string. The HRD and I finally spilled our concerns to our boss, once again on the bean bags. It felt like we were back to a year ago, when fundraising was at square one and cash flow was a constant, desperate topic. He chuckled and pointed out that we're at a very different place now. We had a working model. Enough cash. Clients who loved us and gave us referrals. Actual products and services to sell. A very supportive board. A team that loved each other.<br />
<br />
Oh. And a ping pong table.<br />
<br />
I went home and watched a dumb movie, recharging before another conference call at 11 pm. Through a connection of a close friend, I had a call arranged with the CEO of an English learning company to discuss potential collaboration. Ended up with a notepad full of ideas for pushing affordable English programs to blue collar workers. Remembered why I was doing this. All of this. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>Day Three</b></div>
<div>
<b><br /></b></div>
<div>
Still groggy from the late night skype call but woke up at 8 am to talk to a brand name HQ. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Hallelujah.<br />
<br />
A major brand name wanted to work with us and asked us to fly to America to talk to them (honestly, at this point in my brain, I wasn't even thinking about the business opportunity, I was thinking friends + siblings + nieces + burgers). The brand name kept asking what our bandwidth was, how fast we could launch, and how many factories we could handle at the same time.<br />
<br />
To those in sales like me, those were the most beautiful questions a client could ask.<br />
<br />
This collaboration pushed us closer to our tipping point - the defining moment that could launch us.<br />
<br />
The rest of the day was set on fast forward with sales reports, investor briefings, and a panel interview of a designer who teared up when he couldn't give an example of his innovation track record but somehow all the women, but me, voted for him.<br />
<br />
Marketing called all hands on deck to help unpack/repack product kits for an upcoming client launch because of an error in printing. Man. We really needed to standardize our processes so we could catch avoidable mistakes like this. Some time while unpacking the 3000 kits, a team member told me it was obvious that I was burning out and that I was stressing out at every one. He told me that people loved me and appreciated my hard work but I had not been acting myself. While my eyes turned watery and my nose red, he said that he wouldn't say this to anybody else, but only to me because he knew that I could do better, since I was Sisi.<br />
<br />
I was so tired of being Sisi.<br />
<br />
But he was right. I had not been managing my perfectionism and laser focusing it to help the team optimize its performance, instead, I had been letting it manage me and my emotions all summer long.<br />
<br />
That night, we grabbed Korean BBQ as a team and as we did our signature group cinnamon twist and yells of "Vegas!" (that's a different story), I realized that I really did belong here. Here where I constantly stretched and shrunk and then stretched some more. Here with people who loved me, forgave my excesses and laughed at my whims. Here dreaming, creating, building something that we're all proud of because we're still young and idealistic enough to brave the roller coaster of a startup 72 hours at a time.<br />
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Sisi Messickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11406692782355321875noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6498364689534526060.post-23086307987268569652013-08-08T20:44:00.001+08:002013-08-09T10:52:45.379+08:00Dare Greatly<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
<br />
While walking aimlessly around Hong Kong with a dear friend one night, I spoke passionately of taking deliberate risks, especially in early career decisions.<br />
<br />
Then he looked at me earnestly and said, "You can say all that about taking risks, but you've never really failed, have you?"<br />
<br />
I paused.<br />
<br />
I have been asked that quite a few times recently. Sometimes by siblings who feel the pressure of the supposed precedent. Many times by friends who are in a frustrating job-seeking low. Other times, it is implied by colleagues who speak with a mix of awed respect.<br />
<br />
I am never sure how to respond. I know what they see. They see Sisi Messick. The girl who delivers time after time.<br />
<br />
My reality is very different from theirs. In my mind, there are many days when I have failed. Then there are some worse days when I feel like I <i>am</i> a failure.<br />
<br />
While potential investors praised me, my boss promoted me, my friends loved me, few of them understood how in the past two months, once my family took off to vacation in America like impatient migratory birds, I started having a hard time breathing. I would have a fantastically productive day when all of a sudden I would be seized by a cloud of debilitating uncertainty, weighing on my chest like a Gestapo boot coming down against the iron-grey concrete. My heart would beat faster, faster, faster!, until I felt that I physically needed to hold it down with my hands. But my hands were occupied, covering my face, encasing me, protecting me, trapping me, and there I would sit like that, torn between shielding my face or saving my heart. At first it happened only after 6 pm, when the office emptied out. Then it started happening between meetings. Finally, I had to run to the bathroom so people wouldn't notice that their boss was cradling her shreds of self-confidence so precariously.<br />
<br />
Regardless of how things really turn out that day, to me, sometimes, failure is such an intensely physical and tiring reality.<br />
<br />
As a perfectionist, I feel the magnitude of each mistake, each weakness. So when people think that I don't know how failure tastes like, I pause and fumble clumsily for a polite response because the real answer is much too raw.<br />
<br />
I won't go into it because this post isn't about failure. It's not even about perfectionism (that's for a different time) or being gung ho confident in your natural self-worth.<br />
<br />
It's about how despite feeling so weak, I still dare. More importantly, I still dare to do great things.<br />
<br />
I get up on stage and speak passionately about our solutions for blue collar workers, in Mandarin, shortly after I threw up in the bathroom. I own up to being wrong in front of my whole team to show them what it means when everybody is truly equal. I keep smiling when the potential client just yelled at me in front of her boss and our investors because we really need that sell as a startup. I lay bare how I feel about him even though that leaves me exposed and uncomfortable. I still dial that number, trembling, and leave cheerful invitations on her voicemail despite being hung up on more than five times. I choose to believe that love can be so fulfilling, regardless of how many marriages I've seen disintegrate into flames.<br />
<br />
No matter how vulnerable I feel, how much I want to stay in bed, I consistently show up. It is a constant choice, day after day, but I show up and when it comes to it, I stand up too. In the grand tally, it's not about <i>how</i> I did, it's about the fact that I simply did.<br />
<br />
And that's how I really want to explain it to people when they ask me why great things just seem to happen to me. <br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Sisi Messickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11406692782355321875noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6498364689534526060.post-57079738873434407372013-08-03T14:48:00.000+08:002013-08-03T14:48:02.488+08:00Those Nightmare Interview Stories are True (and Not)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
She kept tearing the piece of wrinkled scrap paper into smaller squares. Another tear. Another shape. Incredible.<br />
<br />
I made a conscious note to ease up on her with my interview questions.<br />
<br />
<i>So what type of work environment do you prefer?</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
There you go. That's a freebie. I smiled and tethered my inner monster interviewer persona on a tight leash.<br />
<br />
<i>Umm. </i>Another tear. <i> An open work environment?</i> She left it with a vague, slightly hopeful upward accent, as if she was throwing it out there to see if I would like that answer.<br />
<br />
I nodded, in my best professional nod, holding back my natural tendency to put people at ease by filling in the silences and empathizing about their childhood/ relationship/ work.<br />
<br />
<i>And what kind of supervisor do you work best with? </i>I sipped my panda cup slowly to buy her some time to think.<br />
<br />
<i>Somebody who gives me freedom to design? </i>She looked towards the corner of our conference room for an escape plan and found none. All of a sudden, something somehow snapped somewhere.<br />
<br />
She buried her honest round face with both her hands and wailed <i>I'm just not emotionally well enough to handle this! </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
I looked up, startled by the unexpected change in conversation temperature.<br />
<br />
<i>My previous boss used to stand behind me and watch what I was designing and it would just send me into a panic and I would blank out. He told me to suck it up and keep working. I thought I had gotten over this, but today I realize that I haven't! I'm so sorry! I should have just stayed home with my baby. I'm just not emotionally equipped to do this!</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Her shoulders heaved up and down with alarming frequency. I scrambled to put my cup down and reached out to pat her awkwardly. I told her that it's normal to feel nervous during an interview and that I didn't think any of those things about her. I gave up my interviewer facade and just spoke calm and confidence to her. Handing over her previous designs, I pointed out the highlights she should later emphasize to the HR director.<br />
<br />
After she regained the courage to put her hands down and let me see her face again, I sipped at my panda cup and finished my water. It was only 11:14 am and I had already reached my 8 cups of water quota that day. I patted her once again and summoned HR.<br />
<br />
She was 35.<br />
<br />
-----<br />
<br />
I did five interviews yesterday. All were incredibly memorable for different reasons.<br />
<br />
I'm young enough in my career that I remember very well the panic I felt when gearing up for yet another skype interview and limiting the fiddling to under the table and resisting the urge to fix the runaway strand of hair when the suits were asking you, weighing you, and finding you wanting with each seemingly innocuous question.<br />
<br />
Now that I'm sitting on the other side of the table though, I realize that while interviewers are evaluating for potential crippling weaknesses, most of them (myself included) do want to find the good in the interviewee. They are not trying to fail you despite the professional distance they maintain. Most often, apart from just experience and capability, interviewers look for the flash of personality, the surprising honesty, the refreshing confidence, the reason why they would want to sit next to you on a 14 hour flight. So as I've been telling some of my job-seeking friends who are so naturally brilliant to begin with - don't let what you think interviewers want to see obscure the "you" who would get the job. Give the interviewers a little credit and believe that they are nice human beings and see them as somebody you just met at a party who just genuinely want to know you better. Then treat them as your best friend's mom who tends to ask way too many questions when you're eating cookies in her kitchen. It might even end up being a "fun" experience.<br />
<br />
Oh, and stop tearing at pieces of scrap paper. You never know if the interviewer has recently launched a "reuse our paper" campaign at the office or not.<br />
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<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
I interviewed her and we laughed through the whole thing.</div>
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Now we're each other's biggest cheerleader during the </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
company ping pong tournaments. </div>
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Sisi Messickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11406692782355321875noreply@blogger.com1