Lack of farmer blood

I used to have this lofty illusion of being the busy-bee early-riser (a.k.a. Chelsea), who somehow manages to do all her laundry, bake some bread, and dust down all the counters before 9 a.m. So I ambitiously signed up for 8 a.m. classes my first semester at BYU. Boy, was I in for a rude awakening (most of the time quite literally). Like all respectable freshman, I partied hard till 4 in the morning, dancing on our mattresses that we had pulled into the hallway, sneaking out to belt out happy birthday to the embarrassed individual, and delivering goldfishes to the boys in our ward. Needless to say, Physical Science first thing in the morning just kicked my trash. I would stagger in midway during class and sleep through the rest of the clicker quizzes. With a habit like mine, even Edison's brightest bulb would struggle desperately.

Eventually I caught on. The next semester my earliest class was at 12.

Then the next semester my Tuesdays and Thursdays schedule started at 2.

And now once again, the night before school starts, I'm sitting in front of my computer, trying to figure out my schedule for the next four months of my life. Can I handle philosophy at 9:30 every morning? Even though I know myself pretty well, so in this case the answer would be a no, I'm still tempted to hold onto my pretensions to be an early-riser. There is just something so refined and I don't know, almost lady-like, about the concept of waking up when the first rays of morning light hit your eyes. I would imagine that Jane Austen stretched contentedly on her bed and came up with new ideas for her books every morning without jerking awake when her sister pounds on the door because she was late for class once again. No, women like Virginia Wolfe, Condoleezza Rice, and Snow White all sound like early-rising go-getters.

Looking back at the BYU screen, I sighed and dropped my philosophy class. I guess there will be no Emily Bronte aspirations for me this time, I'll just have to face reality and settle with being a Marie Antoinette.

Come back

She waits.

She watches all the others in the the brilliant azure skies and yearns to join them. But why should she ever want something more when she's got everything that could possibly make her happy?

You hope.

You wish that she'll forget the outside distractions and turn around to look at you, remembering once again that to her, you are the world.

She pecks at her cage impatiently. Chirping, always chirping about what she sees and what she thinks she can do once she's out there. You listen, feeding her confidence and ego but afraid of what this might mean.

It happened. She wants to break free. Free of this cage that doesn't seem like a cage. Liberated from the constrains that really only existed in her head. Set loose to explore the unknown and grow to be strong and beautiful.

No! You cried. You don't understand! You will only be truly happy here, safe, and with me.

Deep down, she knows that you're right. She just needs to figure it out on her own.

Shakily, you open the cage doors.

She steps out, hesitantly.

Crash! The cage doors close.

Startled, she turns around, expecting that the option of going back will always be there.

She looks at you pleadingly, wanting you to smile as you did before.

All of a sudden, the skies seem angry and dark.

Turning your back to her, you shoo her away.

You walk off, hoping that the hawks in D.C. play nice.

Migrant Worker (N) : [mahy-gruh-nt wur-ker]

I randomly bumped into a friend the other day and had lunch with him. I casually mentioned that I have a job and all of a sudden he got really excited. He launched into a whole detailed description of his sociology research project in which he has to collect data on migrant workers. I listened politely, nodding appropriately throughout, all the while wondering why on earth he's telling me all this in so much detail. All of a sudden, he paused, looked at me and asked, "Sisi, I was wondering if I can interview you as a migrant worker."

I choked on a piece of onion that the girl at Subway had accidentally put in my sandwich. To be honest I was sort of offended. Smiling confusedly, I told him that 1. I'm not a migrant and 2. I'm not a worker. You got to hand it to him, he did not seem fazed at all. He persisted and reassured me that I fit the category completely and that I would be simply perfect. Always terrible at saying no, I found myself telling him that I would love to do it.

A couple of days later, I found myself sitting on the a couch, glancing nervously at the voice recorder. He sat across me and launched in a whole series of questions that I'm sure are very pertinent to migrant worker studies. Are you dating anybody right now? Have you dated/ considered dating a boy who is not of your ethnicity? What's your GPA?What do you like to do for fun? How many kids do you want to have?

The whole interview took two hours. Although at times, I found it kind of awkward, it was actually quite fun to talk about myself (how vain!). At the same time it is also kind of weird because a random boy has recorded all the details of my life and would probably have to listen to it over and over again for his project.

He insisted on taking me to dinner to thank me for my time. He bought me a huge Subway sandwich and as I bit into my delicious chicken teriyaki (no onions this time), I couldn't help but think that maybe being a migrant worker wasn't so bad after all.