The Chronicles of Paranoia, New York Edition, Chapter 3

Hello dears!

I finally talked to my parents about me defecting from academia! Yay!

First thing, though. A big thank you to Patrick Birde for making me see the light last year and forcing me to come clean to my parents on the phone last November. I think that's one reason my folks seemed completely fine when I came back; it had enough time to sink in.

My mother was understanding, not just because she's my mom and I came out of her uterus. She was a genetics professor for 30 years, so she understood it from a genetics perspective – her side of the family had a lot of artists. Go genetics! So really, Mom, I reasoned. It's not me, it's my genome. Your half of my chromosomes made me not want to be a scientist anymore.

(That defense seemed a lot less pathetic than what I told her last November: "I'm sorry that I disappointed you and that I'm still single.")

I began with the easiest reason: I just didn't fit in. I tried, but some things are just not possible. I'm way too free-spirited and happy to be there. I think only WYA had the charity to take me in and condone my crazy ways. I paraphrased one of my art teachers at The League, too: Arrogance is for the weak and the confused, which have no place in my castle.

(Whee! Can you imagine my castle? It will be pink with balloons, goldfish in the moat, and baby Carebears instead of gargoyles. And every single knight will have a black belt in taekwondo. But I digress.)

Most of us, I feel, fail at or question our first enterprise because of the naivete of youth, or feeling that going through the stress of university makes us sufficiently equipped with going through life. In your early twenties, I think it is critical to be struggling in a new environment with hostile people. It forces you to grow up much quicker, allowing you to figure out what you really want to do and makes you so fed up with your current state that you will want to follow your bliss immediately. I've seen people who've been with the same people and environment for so long; they act as though they are still riding on training wheels. I told my mom that I didn't want to be pushing 30 and feeling like I was coasting along, with nothing much to show for what was supposed to be the most exciting time of one's life.

Being treated like dirt also forces you to seek solace elsewhere, potentially in things you never thought you would do, and become passionate about it. I think that was one reason I really wanted to be out of Manila – I'm way too spoiled here. I need to have every single breakdown imaginable now, so I won't have to deal with them later on. In New York, I was abused, rejected, disrespected, discriminated against, but I ended up trying out things I never thought I would do. Struggle is as important to me as success.

I'm trying to look at the bright side and think that all of the people I've admired (nice scientists included!) initially failed or left their first attempt at something. I'm thinking that failure gave these people motivation and drive when they finally found what they loved to do and pursued it despite societal pressure; no one wants them to be right.

My friends used to chide me that I should learn how to stand up for myself more. They still do; I think they want me to show some fangs every now and then. That will take work; I try, but I keep cracking up. It's just not in my character. But deep down, I'm sure I can be a gossipy manipulative pretentious bitch, yo! I'm sure it just takes a little imagination.

I'm really happy I found taekwondo, though. I think it gives you a certain sense of dignity, and allows you to carry yourself in a way that no one will think of taking advantage of you. I'm not particularly good at it and I guess I'm never going to be great at it; no one starts a sport at 22 and expects to compete in the Olympics. I just love it because as a writer, it's an excellent metaphor, and made me look at my life in a different light. I guess looking back during my lab rat days, I vowed to myself that I will never let any guy treat me like that again. I'll break him in half first.

But it's really useful for me here. In this country, when you're a few shades lighter and/or a couple of inches taller than the majority, you might as well tattoo your forehead with the words "Kidnap Me." This is what I didn't love about Manila – I was driven everywhere. At least my parents never hired a bodyguard. I would have likely made his life a living hell.

You have no idea how martial arts have simplified my life, yo. I walk around the city with my arnis/kali sticks, and no one harasses me anymore. Whenever I leave the house, or wear something that does not pass my dad's Chastity Control, I can tell him, "It's ok, Daddy, I can kill people now." It's amazing! I should have done this before. Maybe everyone will make way for me when I start carrying my sai. I may never have to wait in line ever again.


Lots of love,
Cathy

The Chronicles of Paranoia, New York Edition

Chapter 2: Hugs from Manila!

Hello dears,

So it seems I'll be in Manila longer than I thought. I hate to admit it, but as much as I love to be home, it's hard to be back after so long. When you come back a different person in the same environment you left, it's very unsettling. Time stopped for me in New York; I didn't care about anything and anyone except exploring new things.

It's hard to feel like an outsider in your own motherland.

As far as reconnecting with my country, though, it's not so bad. I've had three massages since I got here. At $7, it's pretty expensive – apparently it could go as low as 5. I've been duped, yo. But my masseuse comes to my house so she can work on me while I'm working on brochures, so it's fine by me. I've discovered coconut yogurt, and have been drinking mango shakes wherever I go. I've also made plans to go to the beach. I have to; I'm whiter than Mary and Phil, you guys. How on earth can I be paler than a blonde Canadian who loves the snow, and a Brit? I'm from the tropics, for the love of God.

Barely a week in the Philippines and I already sprained my foot in a taekwondo class. The next few weeks for me include graphic design classes, taekwondo, arnis, and potentially hip hop. Keeping busy is the one thing that makes the sensation of newness less apparent to me. Just like the initial retreat from academia, I am hell-bent on establishing a semblance of normalcy wherever I go. At least Bikram yoga is the same all over the world.

I have had a lot of social faux pas since I got back; think hugging complete strangers, among other things. I partially blame it on being in the lab (no people, only mice), and partly on being in NYC (I can go for days without talking to human beings). I think I should keep to myself for a while and save myself from further embarrassment.

(No more crying outburts, though. Apparently my weepy breakdowns when I left were due to a horrible case of PMS. Oops. Sorry guys. False alarm.)

Food-wise, I'm surviving here. Filipino cuisine can be a vegetarian's nightmare. My mother has given up trying to feed me, and just like in New York, I am a handicap to group lunches. Since my vow not to eat anything that walks, swims, flies and crawls, I've only nearly caved twice – once with schnitzel, and another time with sisig. It is a constant ordeal here, without Caramel Nut Brownie Luna bars to keep me happy. I suspect some of my friends are taking bets on how soon I'll go down.

I've been relatively less bouncy here because I am in a place where everything affects me. I can't shut out politics as I did back in New York. When I left Manila, they were trying to impeach our president; I'm back and they're still trying to do the same thing. In an odd way, I feel a bit sorry for her – it must be sad to be hated by so many people, knowing that you can't do anything else with your life because of how famous you are. It must be what those Enron people feel.

I think the main thing that's bothering me now is the fact that I am finally facing the consequences of my actions. It's agonizing to go through the same spiel of "I don't want to be in the academe anymore" every time I have coffee with someone I haven't seen for so long. It's humiliating, too; science was all I ever wanted not so long ago, and to come back with a completely different perspective makes me feel so irresponsible.

Not everything has been great. Some of my friends are quite disappointed with my sudden career change. That sucks. But you can't have it all. I think the most important thing I earned last year was, after all this time, a backbone. I'm from Asia; if you did well in school, you had to be a doctor or a lawyer. I often felt that it was a crime against the people who really wanted to heal people or to uphold justice. Plus, any idiot can do well in school, follow the rules, get the grades, be at the top of the class. It just takes a little effort. The best thing I've realized is that you should bring something of yourself the way no one else can. I think my biggest nightmare now isn't to fail, but to be following what everyone else does all the time, competing against them because I had nothing original to give. Mediocrity terrifies me.

But just like what I endured last year, I'm taking everything one day at a time. I had dinner with one of my mentors last night, and instead of a lecture, she said that she's totally supportive of what I do now. It also turns out that she's good friends with one of our board members; they go to the same salon. Her words to me: "You're glowing and you're thinner. I approve." Hahaha. Manila is a big city with a small town feel – we run in very tiny circles, which, I guess, makes it quite similar to New York City.

So I'm trapped in paradise, but at least I'm not schlepping in it. Tomorrow, I'm off to – of all things – a slumber party. I hope no one expects cupcakes, because they're not getting any!


Lots of love,
Cathy

My Babies!

Voila, after weeks of learning Adobe Illustrator by myself and feeling like an idiot, my children are born! Yay! Farewell to pipettes forever, yo! I can create! Whee! Watch out for these in the blogs, coloring books, comic strips, etc.

Love,
Cathy

The Chronicles of Paranoia, New York Edition

Chapter 1: Aloha in Manila!

Hello dears!

This trip home has been the most traumatic one of my life. I was ill-prepared and was packing until the last minute. I didn't sleep after the party that WYA threw for me, which meant I had a few hours to kill. I ended up taking out the trash and loading the dishwasher because I didn't know what to do with myself. When I'm really stressed out, I clean.

Mary's friend, Eduardo, unwittingly came to my rescue during the pre-flight ordeal. He reminded me of airport security's policy on bringing liquids on the plane, which of course meant I had to repack my skin care products. I had half an hour before I had to go, and still wasn't done with my luggage. It was 4 in the morning, and I was hysterical and in tears and needed to talk to a human being; he was the only one in the house who was still awake. The poor guy (and now my favorite person in my Adopted Latino Family), nearly collapsed under the weight of one of my suitcases. (I had baggage overload; I shelled out $160. This is why Filipinos applaud after a plane has landed; our suitcases alone threaten airline safety.) He stayed with me throughout the entire ordeal, partly because it was during the crack of dawn, and partly because he didn't want me to have a heart attack.**

**Mary and Tom, if you can please take this guy out to dinner, I would appreciate it. I will pay you back.

I was crying uncontrollably when I left the house, and this spell continued during the cab ride (the stupid Super Shuttle was late, leaving me no choice but to do this the expensive way. And while we're at it, I want my money back! ) and while checking in. The airport personnel were asking me what was wrong and were very sympathetic, but I couldn't for the life of me figure out why I was so emotional right then. I silently sat in a corner, transferring excess baggage into a box. It is sad, but this wasn't the first time I've waded through my underwear in public.

I wanted so badly to be home, but not like this, I guess. I'm still at the stage where I couldn't face my parents and mentors who were shocked at this sudden career change. My life has been changing repeatedly for a while now, perhaps out of habit. But I think I am at the point where these life changes aren't quaint little methods of personal discovery and self-actualization anymore, but are starting to seriously piss me off.

My last flight to Manila took 24 hours due to additional security checks; that was about two years ago and now, things are bit speedier. But I have never had a flight where the entertainment system worked for me. For both flights to Hong Kong and then to Manila, my monitor refused to work after a time. I am starting to think that my fingertips are shooting invisible gamma rays of happiness, frying the TV's circuits and leaving me quite bored for a few hours.

I remember the last time I was here and was shocked by how my parents had "memorialized" me. When your family misses you, they are going to frame everything you have ever won and done. I remember being horrified by a completely unflattering and unrecognizable portrait they had made of me. This time was no different. There are more pictures and medals on the walls, and not one, but two hideously executed portraits of myself. I felt like I died.

Ever since my breakup with academia, I have had many friends who have offered jobs, alternative paths, and collaborations. And so, barely 24 hours into the country, one of my friends already presented me with an aggressive job offer. It's incredible. It's like life is hell bent on making me productive after a year of just sitting on my scientific ass, watching cells grow.

I just got in Sunday night, but I've been so pampered and taken care of that the jet lag is completely irrelevant. Manila is so much fun; kind of like New York but with more space and less of the rush. I didn't realize how much I missed these things:

1. Cheap massages
2. Warm and happy people
3. A toilet with a bidet. Don't ask.
4. Relaxing shopping and dining experiences
5. Freshly made everything
6. A chauffeur
7. The tropical sunshine
8. The beach
9. Yummy food in non-ginormous portions
10. The metric system

But I still miss you guys!

Lots of love,

Cathy

Freeze Tag on Wall Street

Ah, New York City. Land of Broadway, Lady Liberty, and The Naked Cowboy (who currently has legal issues with the makers of M&Ms). There is something for everyone here – careers for the ones driven by ambition, education for those driven to learn, and sheer happy nonsense for those who want to take a break from the clutches of adulthood.

Perhaps because silliness is part of my job, I was ordered by President Mary to participate in something we got from one of our mailing lists – Freeze Tag on Wall Street. That’s it, no cover charge, no solicitations – just a bunch of yuppie strangers hanging out on a chilly Sunday afternoon, playing childhood games.

And so after art class at The League, I, armed with my sketchbooks and Mary’s hideous beer goggles that she dared me to wear in public (heck, I’ll try anything once), rushed to Wall Street and patiently waited for complete strangers to have a little fun while hearing the following words in my head:

“Please God, don’t let me regret this.”

A few seconds into the game and we were stopped by the cops. Matt Levy, who has organized this game for four years in a row now, vainly argued for our right to play, but apparently we were risking homeland security through freeze tag. Undeterred, still enthusiastic, and wanting to stick it to The Man, we continued the game a few blocks away.

While playing, it became immediately clear to us why adults don’t do this anymore: Freeze tag is exhausting. Towards the end, when it became too tiring for one person, we ended up playing “blob tag” – as the “It” catches you, you link hands and tag another person, until the last one who isn’t part of the “blob” wins. As the “blob” grew to six people, we screamed, “Mitosis!” and divided into two groups to catch the remaining runners. We had hot apple cider to toast the day.

Tourists would stop and stare, a couple of reporters were taking pictures, and a group of brazen breakdancers were a few steps away and encouraging us to join their gig instead, but we didn’t care. We were happy and silly and probably too old to be playing freeze tag in the snow, but for that one beautiful day in New York City, all was right with the world**.

But yes, thank God, we weren’t arrested.

** Until we see nutty photos of ourselves in The New York Sun.

From Pipettes to Pencils

To make myself better at my job, I have decided to go back to art classes. Ok, it’s also a good excuse for me to do one of the things I’ve always wanted to, but never had the motivation before. Only for art class will I wake up early on a Sunday morning with a smile on my face, and only for the Alliance will I do it for seven hours a day, every week. The class I am taking is Comics and Sequential Art at The Art Students League with Jamal Igle and Steve Walker, professional comic book artists.

Walking into a studio was a bit disconcerting for me. For years, I held a pipette in one hand and beaker in the other. To replace those with a graphite pen and a sketchbook was quite unsettling. On the first day, Jamal actually came up to me and said, “You have to relax. You’re a bit tight.” They taught me how to sharpen my pencil.

Years of art classes as a kid all came back to me. Illustration is definitely one of the earliest skills a person acquires. For three hours each class, we do figure drawing with different time limits. I’ve since taken it to the next level and started drawing friends and subway riders during the rest of the week. It’s quite fun; it’s one of those things where time just flows for me.

In addition to reclaiming my drawing skills, I also wanted to have my WYA cartoons critiqued. I’m glad I have the perfect excuse (human dignity! Whee!) to doing one of the things I’ve always wanted to do in life: make my own comic strips.

One major apprehension I’m getting is that I still have to learn all the software that artists of this century have to know. I didn’t even know that Illustrator existed until I came to WYA. Now, when people ask me how I learned it, I would respond honestly: “I pressed a button and saw what it would do.” My friends in their late twenties have told me repeatedly that I have “a long way to go” in life. I guess that is true in the Adobe context.

After showing my designs to my class, the first reaction I got was one of collective disbelief. “You did this on POWERPOINT? Are you crazy?”

“Give me a break,” I retorted. “I was decapitating rats before I met you!” I need one of those fancy graphic design gadgets. I don’t even remember what it’s called. A graph pad? Or at least learn to master the Pen tool. On the bright side, my stuff will only look better if I learn how to do it the easy way.

Artists are definitely so much nicer than scientists. I figure it’s the nature of the job. We’re all drawing the same thing, but we bring so much of ourselves into it that competition doesn’t predominate. There is always room for another person’s way of seeing the world. There’s less gossip, too; we’re just so busy talking about ourselves and our projects. I’ll take artistic narcissism over spiteful cattiness any day.

Maybe I am meant to do something artsy with my life. God knows I already dress like an artist; I’m always in black. (It’s a slimming color.) The era of lab coats and yoga pants is so over.

So after a few weeks of art class, a number of naked people, several episodes of carpal tunnel syndrome and me wrestling with my computer mouse, meet my latest character design:

Emily. b 2008


I named her Emily in honor of (what else) taekwondo. My first master, Lee, has this weird problem with names and called me Emily for months. It’s become a joke with us now; I still sign my e-mails as Emily. With her, I am immortalizing his amnesia.

One hilarious thing I did find out while working in an organization with a lot of women is that I will always get Fat Comments on my designs. I design a T-shirt: “Wait, that makes me look fat!” I propose a certain fabric: “No, that will add pounds!” This body image thing apparently extends to my illustrations.

To my blog readers,

Do you think Emily is fat? And should this matter at all?

Discuss.

Leaving the Quarter Life Crisis

You know you’ve grown up a lot when you read your writing that must be about two years old, and the first thing that pops into your mind is: “Oh my God. I’m an idiot.” Looking back at my old words, I see a kid who was half-terrified, half-excited, and eager to see what the world was like beyond the home territory.

I think it’s a reasonable fear to reach 30 years old and feel like you haven’t done much with your life, and I’ve seen it manifested enough to know exactly what I don’t want to be, six years from now. I’ve observed that people who are bitter end up more materialistic and nitpick on the pettiest of things. They are obsessed with making sure that they do not end up with the shorter end of the stick. They become close-minded, ensuring that their opinions will be the loudest and therefore the accepted, hanging on to hot air because that’s the only thing they have. They end up being nosy, listening to other people’s conversations and make sure that they know what everyone else is doing instead of concentrating on their work.

I think the most important thing I learned in the past two years is that in whatever you do with your life, it should be based on something solid that you can bring. To have nothing else but good intentions isn’t enough; I think it’s better to have a concrete vision of what you want to do, and have visible output to back it up – to do what brings you joy and what is based on actual talent. Looking back, I wanted a Ph.D. for the wrong reasons -- I thought that it would make me something I was not.

Second to this is the realization that how you do something is just as important as what you do, or possibly more. I think what ultimately got me was being so enthusiastic about working with all these famous scientists whose work I read about, then meeting them and realizing that “Oh lord, you’re a jerk. I can’t believe I wanted to meet you. Crap.” But such is the case for most professions when you end up in the wrong places.

I’m traumatized enough by bitter angsty people that I mostly hang out with creative people now, and avoid those who base their life’s work on empty blabber. I’ve observed that creative people are the happiest and the most independent bunch, because they have something tangible that only they can make. It is their take on life the way no one else can replicate, and because of this stake of authorship, they can confidently move on with life knowing that they can do something worthwhile. The hubris of man entails the desire to matter, to know that one lived and the world was the better for it.

I’m happy that I am able to laugh about what I’ve often referred to as the Incredibly Horrific Yet Oddly Hilarious Scientific Nightmare. Years ago, I would have flipped out irreversibly when something that was Not In The Plan would transpire. In another life, it would be downright humiliating to be shunned by the herd. Now, I am ecstatic! Whee! I’m not afraid of what conservative people may think! I finally have my own voice! I can now be original! I finally have an actual shot at succeeding in life! Yipee!

I hope this new perspective in life is really what the point was of traveling halfway around the world, starting life from scratch and enduring horrible 24-hour international flights, breaking out in adult acne thousands of feet above the ocean.

A (Semi)-Rhyming Prayer from One Who Went Through Her Quarter Life Crisis before Her Quarter Life:

Please God, do not let me be a bitter power-tripping person pushing 30 with manic obsessive tendencies and bad skin. Please help me maintain my joy and hyperactivity in whatever environment I’m in. Please don’t let me crack under pressure, or act like a prick when seeking tenure.

And above all, please don’t ask me to be a doctor or a lawyer.

Amen and namaste!