My OperaReflection, opportunity cost, trade-offs, and the question of worthiness
Tuesday, January 15, 2008 8:33:18 AM
Looking at her on the white sheet bed, I contemplate about how most of us don't know how lucky and short-lasting we are.
The smell of sterilizer reminds me of the old days back in the late nineties in my seaside town, when I came to the local hospital every late morning after elementary school. I strolled around the buildings, looking for my mother; and after finding her in the Internist Department's faculty room, I would ask for 2,000 VND (20 US cents back then). The money would be used to buy some coke, contained in a plastic bag - afterward thrown into a trash bin, on top of potato skins and terribly rotten tomatoes.
Or sometimes, I would come to my father in the Pediatric Department, asking for the same thing.
Waiting for them to finish their work and take me home, I walked between corridors with large crowded rooms on both sides. Sounds of babies crying, grandmothers singing, nurses talking; smells of sterilizers and ammonia; both familiar and remote senses of indigenous and abject poverty - they all used to be a part of me. Everyday, I had the fear that both my mother and father would thought I would come home with the other, and leave me alone in the hospital, amid all those things.
Later on, after entering high school, I no longer came regularly. But the smell of sterilizers kept clinging to my daily life behind my father's clinic entrance door. I never found it unpleasing. It had never succeeded in drawing my attention.
That's why when stepping into this hospital in a far away land and realizing I had somehow noticed that familiar smell and its harshness, I felt my identity had been shifted.
"But, funny," I thought. This is the first time I visit a hospital for a sick person.
She pants hardly, covering herself with the blanket. The heat from her forehead startles me as I touch it; and her words I don't really comprehend. On the table, the juice box and the soup remain untouched. The wheelchair catches my eyes - I'm not sure why it didn't earlier, and I turn to look at her legs, which has now turned blue and stiff. She can still move them, though.
Despite having two doctors as parents, my medical knowledge is just merely average. As far as I can understand, she lacks vitamins - as she has done in the past, a chronic thing I guess. She was supposed to carry on her medical treatment; however, being an Afghanistan growing up in the time of political turmoil, she moved to India, and her illness was given into the hand of God. Recently she never had breakfast, she didn't eat enough, didn't rest enough, but stressed enough. That might be the reason, they said.
Why, I never knew that the IB is this tiresome and stressful.
How did I pass my first UWC year? I don't think I put much emphasis on the academic aspect of it, although I know my former roommates and many others would say otherwise. On the other hand, I never saw this girl without her books and notes. Yet I had the physical strength to survive - not really satisfying, but surviving. She's still struggling, and is having much more difficulties than I did. Me, I had been granted a free pass through all of that. That's something I should have been thankful for.
Today is a long, eventful day.
Atalya decided to come back, and arrived here, after two months. So did Carl. And so did Yukiko, who used to have the thought of not coming back. They didn't really change - but, in fact, it has been only two months. Nothing should significant changes.
It surprised me that even someone like Atalya was afraid that she wouldn't get into any college.
"I'll go to the army." Answered Atalya when I asked her what she would do next year, considering that her coming back is now too late for US applications, which she used to study a lot for. "Is it compulsory, or is it your choice?"
"Compulsory. For 2 years. No exception."
Israel is the only country in which girls have to serve the army. "We are afraid, we have a reason. We are surrounded by enemies that want to attack us anytime."
So I imagined what the Israel army would be. Teenagers and some 20s. But being in the army could be a worthy experience, I told her. But she didn't really think so. Would I still think so if I were in her shoes? Probably yes. I believe that life is not what given to you, but what you make out of it. "Then?" I asked.
"I'll apply to colleges."
A two year break could be nice.
Carl also intended to take a gap year, for the same reason. I asked about his family and his future plans, and he, although never lied, was always optimistic. Unlike Atalya, he knew what he wanted to study. And with that, he believed he would find his way anywhere. His answer to my "who are you?" question was something I would never forget:
Who am I? Well, who am I... I will give you three options. First, I can give you an account of who I am in the common sense of the question, such as name, nationality, jobs. Or, I can give you the philosophical answer of what I think I am. Or third, I can give you the foundation through which I define who I am. Which one do you want?
And there was Peter, who got into U of Chicago through early action, and still applying to other schools. "My mom wants me to go a public school," he said, "because public schools cost less, and she said she would give me only this amount of money."
"Can't you ask for aid?"
"Well it's difficult, because it's not that I'm poor, my mom just doesn't want to give me more money for college. So when I told her that I got into U of Chicago, she was just like : oh that's nice! But work on your other apps!"
"I find it very strange that your mom wants you to go to a public school instead of private, though."
"My mom doesn't know the difference. College is just college."
And later in the day arrived Yukiko, who then gave me an envelop with documents and new year card from my family, which she got when visiting Vietnam just a few days ago. Her brother somehow decided to quit school in Malaysia and move to study in my country instead. Why, I'm not sure. But I always feel that for her family, every decision is easily adopted.
Not so long ago, she used to consider the option of not coming back.
These are all people whom, after this June, I won't know when I'll see again.
And did I say anything about what an eventful day it has been? The musical meeting. Yearbook meeting. Band rehearsal. First draft international trade economic commentary due at midnight. Spanish presentation outline.
Just like last year, my meetings keep overlapping each other. I feel guilty to people in the yearbook, because this year due to the musical rehearsal schedule, I haven't done anything or attended any of the meetings.
We had the first Los Escarabajos band rehearsal of this semester - again after four weeks of winter break and me playing music alone. It was amazing how we all played Let it be together - what we did over and over to the point of boredom before break started - and again excited by it. Something about dynamics and the musical sense without the vocal part, I think Ken said. He also told me that we would have a real Beatles event close to our graduation, with all the repertoires we played last year and about ten more songs. How I love it here, and how I love the Beatles. At the end, I skimmed the day - people, places, music, talks, what I've done - and the answer "I am me" just suddenly made sense to me. Who am I? I am me. It's not a kind of knowledge, it's a sense of identity.
Well, I don't know who I am, but even when I don't know, I am still me. Here is the place where I have lived for one and a half year; and now it feels like it again.
Actually, I came late. As I stepped inside the room, Quique grinned and Ken smiled, saying his usual "you're rehired". I realized that Ken, Quique, and Paula too, I would hardly see them again after June. Would it make a difference for them, when next year comes with rehearsals without me and Juani? That's if next year all three of them will still be here. It always those who stay that feels the difference more deeply. Those who leave usually don't - they are two occupied with numerous differences to feel one single one.
I rediscovered two things:
My time is valuable
And
My time is limited
When I am writing this long post, I could have done my 700 word economic commentary first draft. Yes it's tedious, it's agonizing, but it's short, it takes about two hours only each draft. I could have been writing my extra economic commentary too, and maybe I can get three more points to replace and perfect my already existing 17/20 point commentary.
Or I can be writing this, which I am actually doing. Or I can be here, looking after the girl. Or I can hang out with Yuki to the Japanese restaurant. Or I can stay longer at rehearsals. These are all what I'm already doing - I just have the option to do more of them.
These are the opportunity costs.
Let's talk about the long run. Japanese food doesn't matter, uncatchable hours of playing music doesn't matter, thousands words for myself doesn't matter, some nights away doesn't matter. My economics grade does matter.
But. Relationships matter. Memories matter. The experience matters. Being able to look back at myself matter. A sense of people and place matter. Or, simply put, as Ken used to say: imagine you're having dinner with the Queen. What will you talk about, your math portfolio, or the Beatles concert that you performed in?
No, some more points for a commentary - graded collectively with three others for 25% of one of my 6 IB subjects' grades - don't worth it. Some hours for a first draft of the same thing probably won't worth it either - considering that I always revise when writing and too lazy to carry out to the end a proper revision.
Talking about which, I already missed the deadline for emailing that first draft.
The smell of sterilizer reminds me of the old days back in the late nineties in my seaside town, when I came to the local hospital every late morning after elementary school. I strolled around the buildings, looking for my mother; and after finding her in the Internist Department's faculty room, I would ask for 2,000 VND (20 US cents back then). The money would be used to buy some coke, contained in a plastic bag - afterward thrown into a trash bin, on top of potato skins and terribly rotten tomatoes.
Or sometimes, I would come to my father in the Pediatric Department, asking for the same thing.
Waiting for them to finish their work and take me home, I walked between corridors with large crowded rooms on both sides. Sounds of babies crying, grandmothers singing, nurses talking; smells of sterilizers and ammonia; both familiar and remote senses of indigenous and abject poverty - they all used to be a part of me. Everyday, I had the fear that both my mother and father would thought I would come home with the other, and leave me alone in the hospital, amid all those things.
Later on, after entering high school, I no longer came regularly. But the smell of sterilizers kept clinging to my daily life behind my father's clinic entrance door. I never found it unpleasing. It had never succeeded in drawing my attention.
That's why when stepping into this hospital in a far away land and realizing I had somehow noticed that familiar smell and its harshness, I felt my identity had been shifted.
"But, funny," I thought. This is the first time I visit a hospital for a sick person.
She pants hardly, covering herself with the blanket. The heat from her forehead startles me as I touch it; and her words I don't really comprehend. On the table, the juice box and the soup remain untouched. The wheelchair catches my eyes - I'm not sure why it didn't earlier, and I turn to look at her legs, which has now turned blue and stiff. She can still move them, though.
Despite having two doctors as parents, my medical knowledge is just merely average. As far as I can understand, she lacks vitamins - as she has done in the past, a chronic thing I guess. She was supposed to carry on her medical treatment; however, being an Afghanistan growing up in the time of political turmoil, she moved to India, and her illness was given into the hand of God. Recently she never had breakfast, she didn't eat enough, didn't rest enough, but stressed enough. That might be the reason, they said.
Why, I never knew that the IB is this tiresome and stressful.
How did I pass my first UWC year? I don't think I put much emphasis on the academic aspect of it, although I know my former roommates and many others would say otherwise. On the other hand, I never saw this girl without her books and notes. Yet I had the physical strength to survive - not really satisfying, but surviving. She's still struggling, and is having much more difficulties than I did. Me, I had been granted a free pass through all of that. That's something I should have been thankful for.
Today is a long, eventful day.
Atalya decided to come back, and arrived here, after two months. So did Carl. And so did Yukiko, who used to have the thought of not coming back. They didn't really change - but, in fact, it has been only two months. Nothing should significant changes.
It surprised me that even someone like Atalya was afraid that she wouldn't get into any college.
"I'll go to the army." Answered Atalya when I asked her what she would do next year, considering that her coming back is now too late for US applications, which she used to study a lot for. "Is it compulsory, or is it your choice?"
"Compulsory. For 2 years. No exception."
Israel is the only country in which girls have to serve the army. "We are afraid, we have a reason. We are surrounded by enemies that want to attack us anytime."
So I imagined what the Israel army would be. Teenagers and some 20s. But being in the army could be a worthy experience, I told her. But she didn't really think so. Would I still think so if I were in her shoes? Probably yes. I believe that life is not what given to you, but what you make out of it. "Then?" I asked.
"I'll apply to colleges."
A two year break could be nice.
Carl also intended to take a gap year, for the same reason. I asked about his family and his future plans, and he, although never lied, was always optimistic. Unlike Atalya, he knew what he wanted to study. And with that, he believed he would find his way anywhere. His answer to my "who are you?" question was something I would never forget:
Who am I? Well, who am I... I will give you three options. First, I can give you an account of who I am in the common sense of the question, such as name, nationality, jobs. Or, I can give you the philosophical answer of what I think I am. Or third, I can give you the foundation through which I define who I am. Which one do you want?
And there was Peter, who got into U of Chicago through early action, and still applying to other schools. "My mom wants me to go a public school," he said, "because public schools cost less, and she said she would give me only this amount of money."
"Can't you ask for aid?"
"Well it's difficult, because it's not that I'm poor, my mom just doesn't want to give me more money for college. So when I told her that I got into U of Chicago, she was just like : oh that's nice! But work on your other apps!"
"I find it very strange that your mom wants you to go to a public school instead of private, though."
"My mom doesn't know the difference. College is just college."
And later in the day arrived Yukiko, who then gave me an envelop with documents and new year card from my family, which she got when visiting Vietnam just a few days ago. Her brother somehow decided to quit school in Malaysia and move to study in my country instead. Why, I'm not sure. But I always feel that for her family, every decision is easily adopted.
Not so long ago, she used to consider the option of not coming back.
These are all people whom, after this June, I won't know when I'll see again.
And did I say anything about what an eventful day it has been? The musical meeting. Yearbook meeting. Band rehearsal. First draft international trade economic commentary due at midnight. Spanish presentation outline.
Just like last year, my meetings keep overlapping each other. I feel guilty to people in the yearbook, because this year due to the musical rehearsal schedule, I haven't done anything or attended any of the meetings.
We had the first Los Escarabajos band rehearsal of this semester - again after four weeks of winter break and me playing music alone. It was amazing how we all played Let it be together - what we did over and over to the point of boredom before break started - and again excited by it. Something about dynamics and the musical sense without the vocal part, I think Ken said. He also told me that we would have a real Beatles event close to our graduation, with all the repertoires we played last year and about ten more songs. How I love it here, and how I love the Beatles. At the end, I skimmed the day - people, places, music, talks, what I've done - and the answer "I am me" just suddenly made sense to me. Who am I? I am me. It's not a kind of knowledge, it's a sense of identity.
Well, I don't know who I am, but even when I don't know, I am still me. Here is the place where I have lived for one and a half year; and now it feels like it again.
Actually, I came late. As I stepped inside the room, Quique grinned and Ken smiled, saying his usual "you're rehired". I realized that Ken, Quique, and Paula too, I would hardly see them again after June. Would it make a difference for them, when next year comes with rehearsals without me and Juani? That's if next year all three of them will still be here. It always those who stay that feels the difference more deeply. Those who leave usually don't - they are two occupied with numerous differences to feel one single one.
I rediscovered two things:
My time is valuable
And
My time is limited
When I am writing this long post, I could have done my 700 word economic commentary first draft. Yes it's tedious, it's agonizing, but it's short, it takes about two hours only each draft. I could have been writing my extra economic commentary too, and maybe I can get three more points to replace and perfect my already existing 17/20 point commentary.
Or I can be writing this, which I am actually doing. Or I can be here, looking after the girl. Or I can hang out with Yuki to the Japanese restaurant. Or I can stay longer at rehearsals. These are all what I'm already doing - I just have the option to do more of them.
These are the opportunity costs.
Let's talk about the long run. Japanese food doesn't matter, uncatchable hours of playing music doesn't matter, thousands words for myself doesn't matter, some nights away doesn't matter. My economics grade does matter.
But. Relationships matter. Memories matter. The experience matters. Being able to look back at myself matter. A sense of people and place matter. Or, simply put, as Ken used to say: imagine you're having dinner with the Queen. What will you talk about, your math portfolio, or the Beatles concert that you performed in?
No, some more points for a commentary - graded collectively with three others for 25% of one of my 6 IB subjects' grades - don't worth it. Some hours for a first draft of the same thing probably won't worth it either - considering that I always revise when writing and too lazy to carry out to the end a proper revision.
Talking about which, I already missed the deadline for emailing that first draft.
