Dear Stockton,
You will have a piece of my heart for a very long time.
I like Sacramento and its plethora of eating options, recreational leagues, and interesting people doing different things. But I also like how many people I know in Stockton, and the fact that I can run errands in Stockton and run into three people I know, see a familiar face at Mama's Pho, run into another friend at Manny's. I can drive down Miracle Mile and see that ridiculous jeep-van thing that looks like it survived a war and is using bumper stickers to prove it. I can sit in Empresso and smile gently at the characters that show up regularly: the artist sketching on the patio, the old man with a newsboy cap who sits with him, and bikers parking their fixie or one-speed just inside the door as they pick up a drink.
I drove down on Wednesday night for Pastor Jim's goodbye dinner at my old church. The gym was full of people who have been touched by Jim, and his charge at the end of the night was reflective of his nine years of ministry there: marked by humility, a challenge for risk and failure, and belief in hope and God's grace. I miss Quail and the family I had there, how they redeemed my view of large churches, how the older women at Sunday school took me in despite how young I was, how they loved the ministry at Pacific and also the city. And while they were never my best friends, I miss the young adults and how often they were a reality check for me in contrast to the average upper-middle-class student I worked with. I saw the core group stand up and was in awe that I didn't even know half of them. Who had God brought in in the ten months I've been gone? Almost as if he is setting up for his next round of work. Do good for the kingdom, my friends.
There are so many good things happening in Stockton. Tipping Point was one of them--the house band for a church I loved, a go-to at a number of local events. But even as I sat at their farewell concert, rocking or tapping to every song (because really, their songs just make you want to move), I knew their influence has spread far beyond that room at Congregation of Zion. And I remembered the stories of these friends: when Della and I were roommates and she would share the ups and downs of the band, when they would play at UOP for student events, when Mark would excitedly tell me about their next journey or step as a band. I shot photos of them year after year at Trilogy/Journey as they blessed hundreds of students with Spirit-led worship. And even though their time as a band is over, they're all still doing good things, all still making music too. And mostly in Stockton.
When people hear I moved here from Stockton, I get a response along the lines of, "Sacramento is a step up, isn't it?" or something along the lines of pity and awe. They ask about bankruptcy, gunshots, and gangs. Today someone even asked me if I knew any gang members. I said I know former gang members and people who are working with gang members. It saddens me that this is the reputation, that this is all people know. But it also gives me the chance to defend Stockton and give them potentially the first good news they've heard about this place: that yes, there's a lot of crap, but there's also a lot of good. That there are people who care about and love Stockton and want to see things change, and if you are one of these people, you will quickly meet others who are doing the same because they are so networked, because they care deeply about their city. That churches know each other, do things together, pray together, and various outreach activities are done as a joint effort. That Christians get together downtown to pray for people in leadership: government, police force, administration, etc.
I think about the sunrise Easter service that happens every year, how believers across the city come together for a joint service celebrating the resurrection of Jesus. I think about how the worship and speaker rotates and you hear from people who are not from the bigger churches you usually hear from. I wonder who on earth even puts it together, but it happens.
A big part of me loves Stockton for the familiarity, the friends, my Alma mater, my favorite coffee shop, and Sunken Field. Those things carry nostalgia and memories that can't be replaced, and, along with dear friends, these are the things that refresh and energize me every time I visit. Those friends--alum, Quail, or randomly networked acquaintances--I miss them, they are good for me, they are good for the city. And I'll keep coming back for those people, but I'll also come back to do a photoshoot for the rescue mission I still support, for a church family I stand behind, for walks through a beautiful campus, and for a city that is still home to me.
Dear Stockton, I think you will forever have a piece of my heart.
_____________________________________________________
I finished this blog and was reminded of the Dear Stockton project, probably why the rhetoric sounds so familiar...
Sunday, May 19, 2013
Friday, May 10, 2013
Recognizing Insecurities
My race day post was full of many accomplishments and things I’m proud of, but I held back on many disclaimers and things I did poorly, though I couldn’t help but let a few areas of improvement trickle in (e.g., pacing, next race’s goal time). I actually typed a lot of them out but cut them in the editing phase, knowing that, often, my accomplishments get overshadowed when I think of how much better I can do. But this is my post on insecurities, and here are a few things I held back previously:
I left out those disclaimers because I know, I know they don’t need to be said on that first celebratory post. I know that in certain areas, I’m my hardest critic. I know Darrell exasperatedly tells me that I can’t always compare myself to people miles ahead of me (literally and figuratively). And in that first round, I wanted to stand tall and celebrate a really good race.
But I've spent this past week thinking of my PR, my instinct to downplay the accomplishment and tell people the things I did wrong, and why the heck do I feel the need to do that? As I mull over this question, I feel like something can be said about the areas in which I’m very confident versus places where it’s near to none. There’s a pretty, pretty high possibility it was to do with how many people around me are competent in the same area.
Exhibit A – On the staff team: Pulling out creative ideas like they’re stored in my back pocket, making aesthetically pleasing and well-organized handouts, writing great Excel spreadsheets, finding good ways to wordsmith or communicate things = Confident.
Exhibit B – Photography, Ultimate Frisbee, Running = totally not confident.
Theories? Actions in group A often receive much affirmation from grateful staff members. They’re also part of work, which in some ways, already requires competence. Group B, on the other hand, are pure hobbies. So perhaps the risk is because it’s a hobby, something I have chosen to care about, voluntarily participate in. The last two, being sports, are also intrinsically competitive. Photography is also often a high-publicity activity.
Maybe the things I listed are simply not helpful and not even on the same category of things that can be even compared. But churning these thoughts feels like scratching an itch I have of trying to figure out this insecurity knack in me, because clearly I don’t lack confidence in everything, I just happen to have very little confidence in a few areas. Like, to the point where I don’t recognize my own ability.
Maybe at the very bottom line, I lack confidence in the areas where I’m most exposed to people who are way better than me. All the things in Group A happen in the context of my staff team, where I’m just kinda the go-to person for those specific things. It’s almost expected of me. Group B, on the other hand, has me surrounded by professional businesses, friends who shoot such high quality images, people who play on club Ultimate teams, and people who are simply way too fast (like the running club I visit).
So maybe, I need to figure out how to have an accurate and healthy self-assessment even when I’m obviously not at the top of the game. It makes no sense, but a majority of the time, I’m comparing myself to people who are on completely different levels than I am: It makes no sense to compare myself to someone who photographs for a living, who uses their pay and business to invest in high-quality equipment. And if I haven’t devoted the energy to train and condition for a club team, then I can’t expect myself to play like one.
If I must compare, and I compare myself to people on my level, then yes: I can stand confidently. After all, I am proud of a lot of my photography, I am an asset on Ultimate leagues, and sub-10:00 paces are fast for someone who just does it as a hobby and isn't training too seriously. And that makes a lot more sense anyway.
- It wasn’t that big a race, so placing top 30% or top 20 isn’t that big a deal
- I failed my personal goal of never walking during a race
- My early fast splits don’t really count because I obviously lost momentum during the last few miles
I left out those disclaimers because I know, I know they don’t need to be said on that first celebratory post. I know that in certain areas, I’m my hardest critic. I know Darrell exasperatedly tells me that I can’t always compare myself to people miles ahead of me (literally and figuratively). And in that first round, I wanted to stand tall and celebrate a really good race.
But I've spent this past week thinking of my PR, my instinct to downplay the accomplishment and tell people the things I did wrong, and why the heck do I feel the need to do that? As I mull over this question, I feel like something can be said about the areas in which I’m very confident versus places where it’s near to none. There’s a pretty, pretty high possibility it was to do with how many people around me are competent in the same area.
Exhibit A – On the staff team: Pulling out creative ideas like they’re stored in my back pocket, making aesthetically pleasing and well-organized handouts, writing great Excel spreadsheets, finding good ways to wordsmith or communicate things = Confident.
Exhibit B – Photography, Ultimate Frisbee, Running = totally not confident.
Theories? Actions in group A often receive much affirmation from grateful staff members. They’re also part of work, which in some ways, already requires competence. Group B, on the other hand, are pure hobbies. So perhaps the risk is because it’s a hobby, something I have chosen to care about, voluntarily participate in. The last two, being sports, are also intrinsically competitive. Photography is also often a high-publicity activity.
Maybe the things I listed are simply not helpful and not even on the same category of things that can be even compared. But churning these thoughts feels like scratching an itch I have of trying to figure out this insecurity knack in me, because clearly I don’t lack confidence in everything, I just happen to have very little confidence in a few areas. Like, to the point where I don’t recognize my own ability.
Maybe at the very bottom line, I lack confidence in the areas where I’m most exposed to people who are way better than me. All the things in Group A happen in the context of my staff team, where I’m just kinda the go-to person for those specific things. It’s almost expected of me. Group B, on the other hand, has me surrounded by professional businesses, friends who shoot such high quality images, people who play on club Ultimate teams, and people who are simply way too fast (like the running club I visit).
So maybe, I need to figure out how to have an accurate and healthy self-assessment even when I’m obviously not at the top of the game. It makes no sense, but a majority of the time, I’m comparing myself to people who are on completely different levels than I am: It makes no sense to compare myself to someone who photographs for a living, who uses their pay and business to invest in high-quality equipment. And if I haven’t devoted the energy to train and condition for a club team, then I can’t expect myself to play like one.
If I must compare, and I compare myself to people on my level, then yes: I can stand confidently. After all, I am proud of a lot of my photography, I am an asset on Ultimate leagues, and sub-10:00 paces are fast for someone who just does it as a hobby and isn't training too seriously. And that makes a lot more sense anyway.
Recognizing Accomplishment
2:07:54. That zero right there...the one that makes it the minutes after two hours a single digit? I like that zero. It means I made it under 2:11:00, which means I made it under 10 min/mile.
I was taking periodic glances at my watch that last stretch, and by the time the finish line was in view, with the large digital numbers counting each second that passed; I knew I could make it, even as my pace for that last few miles was ugly, even if I was so tired when I crossed the finish I plopped straight on the grass on the side (sorry for missing the photo-op, D). After a couple minutes on the race, I stood up, made my way to lots of Gatorade and my finishers medal, and found Darrell. Then the endorphins kicked in, I was on top of the world, and I thought, Damn good job.
____________________________________________
Rewind to the start of the race. I wouldn't say aloud that I thought I could do it. I thought I had a chance, but all I did was ask Darrell over and over again if he thought I could. I guess I'm still kinda chicken about goals and dreams, fearing that verbalizing that mark and failing it means...well, failure.
But though the words never spoken, the drive inside me hoped. It's that drive, combined with race day adrenaline, that had me weaving at a 8:30 pace two minutes in as I wove my way through the crowd. I thought I was just trying to get out of traffic, and I was caught off guard when I looked at my watch to find I had been going below 9 minutes. I didn't even feel like I was going that fast. Then Emily introduced herself within that first mile and asked if I wanted to pace. We were at low 9's at that point and I said sure. I mentioned I wasn't sure if I could keep it up, but inside I was already curious to see if I could keep up that time, and what the finish line could look like. She ended up being a great running partner, though she definitely kept enough reserves to finish the last couple miles stronger than I! (sidenote: D is probably right in thinking that using up my energy for the early bursts probably aren't the best strategy for a race...)
This run was fun in that I surprised myself with how fast I actually could go. In hindsight, I thought I could, but didn't want to tell anyone for fear I was inaccurate about my own ability. But one of these days, I'll daringly publicize my challenge. I won't run just for completion anymore; I'll actually tell people that I'm aiming for a sub-2 hour time for 13.1 miles, which means I'll need to be running at 9:09 each mile. Which means that most of my miles need to be run at an 8:something pace to make up for the slower last miles. I can run sub-9 miles, I've done it in Buffalo Chips training. Maybe no one else knows this: I don't train with any peers, and in most areas of my life I compare myself with others who are better than me, thus often undermining my own achievement.
This half was something. This race day was something, because when I crossed the finish I knew both that it was better than I expected but also something I dared to imagine could happen--crossing the finish line below 2:10:00, I mean. As I think through what this race means, the surprise at how we paced nearly the first half of the race below 9:30, I think: uncovered potential. Speed I can tap into somewhere. I really am as good as I thought I could be, if not better. And that's good to recognize. And next time, I'll dare to dream of an even faster time, aim for it, and go--succeed or fail, actually declare it tangibly.
- I beat our 2011 SF Half time by 20 freaking minutes. I like to think that first race didn't really count because we ran to finish, and D and I had only done one short run together and thus didn't know each other's paces, etc. And it had a bunch of hills. But still. To go from 11:10 pace to a 9:45 pace is a big difference!
- My slowest split (mile 12) was 10:26 min. That was an average or slower-average during my training.
- My fastest split (mile 2) was 9:05 min. If I went just a little faster, I could have had an 8:59 min mile during a half marathon! Crazy! (I'll learn to pace more evenly for my next race...maybe)
- I finished in the top 20 of women ages 18-24. That just sounds pretty baller. I'm not going to let the fact that there were only 70 women in this division or that I will probably be 25 by my next race and the age 25-29 category has some really fast runners take away from how cool it sounds to say "top 20".
- I finished in the top 30% overall. That also sounds pretty cool.
Monday, May 6, 2013
On drinking soup, tea, and other things
Families and people are the strangest things. We have our own ways of doing things, so normal we never think twice until an outsider tells you they don't do it the same way. I remember the first couple times I ate dinner with Darrell's family: All of a sudden, everyone else had finished their soup and was putting their bowl on the counter to make room for rice and the main courses. At my family's dinner table, the soup stays to the side of your dinner plate so you can drink it all throughout dinner. And if it's delicious or of you want more flavor to white rice, you spoon it all over your rice. At Darrell's, I felt so caught off guard and rushed because I'm used to only drinking half my bowl of soup at a time.
Because we make our soup last throughout dinner, that also means we never serve an extra beverage. I remember having to tell myself to remember to drink the juice that was in front of me, as if I'd never had a beverage with dinner or something. Hey, it felt like a lot to juggle at that time...
Two years ago after our first half marathon, his parents took us to dim sum. It was funny, because every family has their "usual", and theirs was definitely not ours. Having grown up Adventist, there are a number of pork dishes my siblings and I didn't eat as we were younger, and after years and years of the classic Chinese brunch, you just have your favorites. My family also never flips our chopsticks when getting food from the serving plate, done so you don't use the side you've been eating from to touch food that others may eat. I tried adapting to this, but I suddenly and self-consciously found myself eating from the back end of the chopsticks when I had forgotten to flip them back. Or wanting to stop mid-way to picking up a shumai because I was still using my main eating end...
We went to a classic, family-style Chinese restaurant last night, and I was struck again with both familial and generational (with regards to how long we've been in the states) differences. His parents, grandma, him and I made five but were seated at a large table with eight seats, complete with a lazy susan. This is the usual table my family of six gets seated at, and we just leave two empty chairs together and plop mom's purse on one of them. But everyone in Darrell's family thought it was too big, and they looked around the restaurant wondering why a smaller table couldn't work.
Everyone flipped open the menu, perusing through options...or at least, the options printed in English. In my family, mom makes most of the decisions. If we want something, we describe it to mom and she tells the waiter using its formal Chinese name. I don't even know if I can figure out my favorite dishes in English translation, maybe "Shredded lamb with onions and black pepper sauce." Who knows, right? And if my parents don't like the combos offered, they just chat up a storm with the waiter or owner (who might already be their friend) to see what can be worked around. That's how we hear what the restaurant's specialty is, or what different ways they can cook the fish that they don't list in the menu.
One day I may find my access to this Chinese restaurant secret menu limited, but I've never had to think about it. But last night, I made some remark to Darrell about how every Chinese restaurant prints their specials on colored paper and tapes them straight to the wall, and he nodded a, "Yup-The stuff we don't know we're missing because we can't read it!" I've never had to think about that.
Darrell's parents asked for waters, but it's not till I noticed Darrell using his teacup as a receptacle for the spare rib bones that I realize they drink one cup of tea for starters, then water for the rest of the meal. I think I was the only one to refill my tea that night, which may be the least I've had at a Chinese restaurant in awhile. For contrast, my family's tea cups get refilled endlessly throughout dinner and even after, as we're packing our to-go boxes or waiting for the check. We even used to end with a "乾杯!" (cheers! or literal translation, "dry cup") as we clinked our tea cups one last time before leaving the restaurant. [edit: the boy has informed me that the rest of the family drinks plenty of tea. I keep forgetting that he just doesn't like tea!]
I take mental note of these things: I had never had lettuce wraps before, which is a favorite for their family. I don't have a Cantonese-speaking grandma, sitting mostly in silence except for the occasional short sentence about the food or a phrase to Darrell's mom in her native tongue. I never speak English to waiters and waitresses at a Chinese restaurant. I rarely go to a restaurant with my parents where they haven't already befriended half the workers.
But while these things catch my attention, other things flow so naturally. Everyone grabbing a take-out box to pack up leftovers. Darrell and I, the children, carry them out, not the adults. Eating from small rice bowls with chopsticks. And later that night, when we're at his grandma's eating dessert, I consciously remain standing until she takes a seat with her bowl of ice cream. Ice cream at 11 pm: on one hand, I feel like my family doesn't regularly do desserts. Yet late nights of Milo's and cookies from the snack aisle of the Chinese supermarket are not unusual, so maybe we're more alike that we think.
Because we make our soup last throughout dinner, that also means we never serve an extra beverage. I remember having to tell myself to remember to drink the juice that was in front of me, as if I'd never had a beverage with dinner or something. Hey, it felt like a lot to juggle at that time...
Two years ago after our first half marathon, his parents took us to dim sum. It was funny, because every family has their "usual", and theirs was definitely not ours. Having grown up Adventist, there are a number of pork dishes my siblings and I didn't eat as we were younger, and after years and years of the classic Chinese brunch, you just have your favorites. My family also never flips our chopsticks when getting food from the serving plate, done so you don't use the side you've been eating from to touch food that others may eat. I tried adapting to this, but I suddenly and self-consciously found myself eating from the back end of the chopsticks when I had forgotten to flip them back. Or wanting to stop mid-way to picking up a shumai because I was still using my main eating end...
We went to a classic, family-style Chinese restaurant last night, and I was struck again with both familial and generational (with regards to how long we've been in the states) differences. His parents, grandma, him and I made five but were seated at a large table with eight seats, complete with a lazy susan. This is the usual table my family of six gets seated at, and we just leave two empty chairs together and plop mom's purse on one of them. But everyone in Darrell's family thought it was too big, and they looked around the restaurant wondering why a smaller table couldn't work.
Everyone flipped open the menu, perusing through options...or at least, the options printed in English. In my family, mom makes most of the decisions. If we want something, we describe it to mom and she tells the waiter using its formal Chinese name. I don't even know if I can figure out my favorite dishes in English translation, maybe "Shredded lamb with onions and black pepper sauce." Who knows, right? And if my parents don't like the combos offered, they just chat up a storm with the waiter or owner (who might already be their friend) to see what can be worked around. That's how we hear what the restaurant's specialty is, or what different ways they can cook the fish that they don't list in the menu.
One day I may find my access to this Chinese restaurant secret menu limited, but I've never had to think about it. But last night, I made some remark to Darrell about how every Chinese restaurant prints their specials on colored paper and tapes them straight to the wall, and he nodded a, "Yup-The stuff we don't know we're missing because we can't read it!" I've never had to think about that.
Darrell's parents asked for waters, but it's not till I noticed Darrell using his teacup as a receptacle for the spare rib bones that I realize they drink one cup of tea for starters, then water for the rest of the meal. I think I was the only one to refill my tea that night, which may be the least I've had at a Chinese restaurant in awhile. For contrast, my family's tea cups get refilled endlessly throughout dinner and even after, as we're packing our to-go boxes or waiting for the check. We even used to end with a "乾杯!" (cheers! or literal translation, "dry cup") as we clinked our tea cups one last time before leaving the restaurant. [edit: the boy has informed me that the rest of the family drinks plenty of tea. I keep forgetting that he just doesn't like tea!]
I take mental note of these things: I had never had lettuce wraps before, which is a favorite for their family. I don't have a Cantonese-speaking grandma, sitting mostly in silence except for the occasional short sentence about the food or a phrase to Darrell's mom in her native tongue. I never speak English to waiters and waitresses at a Chinese restaurant. I rarely go to a restaurant with my parents where they haven't already befriended half the workers.
But while these things catch my attention, other things flow so naturally. Everyone grabbing a take-out box to pack up leftovers. Darrell and I, the children, carry them out, not the adults. Eating from small rice bowls with chopsticks. And later that night, when we're at his grandma's eating dessert, I consciously remain standing until she takes a seat with her bowl of ice cream. Ice cream at 11 pm: on one hand, I feel like my family doesn't regularly do desserts. Yet late nights of Milo's and cookies from the snack aisle of the Chinese supermarket are not unusual, so maybe we're more alike that we think.
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