9 posts tagged “quarter life crisis”

Clearly playing catch up here... but just had to share that if all this learning I've been doing doesn't work out, I have a job in novelty wedding gift making. Namely, cakes made of toilet paper and kleenex. B/c really when do you ever NOT need those?

I should copy write this shit.

Made especially for the wedding of J. & J. F. summer 2008.

Originally written in January of 2008…
2007 is out, and 2008 is in, and I can honestly say I’m firmly trying to stay on the sunny side of life this year — That  being said, I’ll work through my poorly chosen metaphor in reverse to set the tone for 2008.

The Ugly:
The ugly truth is that up until the very last few seconds of 2007, shit wasn’t in my favor.

December started where I left off. A surgery for pops, that although it went well and complications were inevitable, Momma Magtonic and Poppa Magtonic spent a Saturday afternoon in the ER… Seizures, there are at least 10 kinds, and they can happen to anyone for no reason at all was what my cousin told me as my man and I sat at home, post 911 call waiting for MommaTonic to give us the go ahead to meet her at the hospital. On the real, his brain basically said “what’d you do to my home?” So seizure/ PoppaTonic watch began for the rest of the month. He’s the type who can never sit still, MommaTonic Jokes that he probably has undiagnosed ADD because back in his day no one knew what it was.

I’m not gonna lie, it wasn’t easy but it wasn’t all bad. My sister came home, though loaded with her own levels of college related drama. The extended fam was supportive as hell, but it sure wasn’t a walk in the park.

The anniversary of the shit that nearly started it all passed, everyone in my house too wrapped up in worrying about Pops. And that seemed to be a good thing, though don’t get it twisted, the waiting for the coming and going of it all was almost too much for me. Wrapped up in retarded levels of anxiety it slipped by and life continued.

Playing caretaker, and watching everyone I know go through it, in one or more senses of the phrase, was rough. And jokingly, on New Year’s Eve, standing in the kitchen surrounded by some family, we laughed at how it would soon be over. I’d be blessed with the ability to take care of myself again no more work, (more on that later) that I’d be hopefully starting that grad program in a few weeks (more on that later) and that thankfully we were in the clear so far as we knew in regards to having to RSVP to any funerals.

Though we were all in it, everyone knew the toll it took on me was a bit fierce. There was a mutual agreement that I had to let go, and everyone was down to support me in getting that shit done!

So 3 minutes to New Years there’s a knock at the door, a kid my sister has invited into our home every New Years for the past few. She told me to lie and tell him she wasn’t home b/c she was exhausted —weren’t we all? So I did, feeling as heavy as I have the entire year, it all sort of converging upon me at once. He passed me a bottle of Jack Daniel’s to give her and parted wishing us all a Happy New Year. I walked back upstairs and she had a second thought. She ran after him phoning him to come back that she had “just gotten home.” With just seconds to spare he flew through the door right at the countdown, hopping off the bus he’d been on by screaming, “STOP THE BUS! HAPPY NEW YEAR” and running to our place. She went into the New Year with a clear conscious, and I with a goal to be happy.

The Bad:

The bad began on January 2nd. A phone call from my grad program where I’m told that they never got my letters of recommendation. WTF? Two months after the deadline, one month till school starts and You’re telling me now? And then I remember I’m talking about a public University in California, what a priviledged life I lead attending one of those private east coast liberal art schools, where the financial aid office knows me by my first name! Scoff!

I should have known. I’m told to have the letters emailed in, then through secret messenger a week later am told that didn’t work. That I need that shit OVERnighted and a friend in the know will hook it up. Back and forth, back and forth loads and loads of crap. Financial aid. Ah yes bearaucracy. My favorite! And so with a week into the school year, I can say I was admitted just a day or two before classes began, no time to register just beg profs to let me in their classes, and with the fortune of receiving a grant. It’s settled but it was unecessarily chaotic.

The Good:

The good is so good. The good is better than good. The good is hella/mad good. Not that the news is all that exciting, it’s just better than it’s been.

I had been creating space between the difficult work place I’d been in, and difficult work related situations by backing off, getting paid a nominal fee to do work from home twice a month, and through mutual agreement was let go. So I am jobless but in a much better space mentally and emotionally. It’s not terrible, to be broke as shit right now, I mean broke as shit… just temporarily that is, but my dream of doing the whole Victorian home in the Sco thing is on hold even longer (though I joke it wont happen till I retire anyway).

And the year set off right. After the New Years and Rec letter debacles, I managed to enjoy the shit out of myself for the first time in months. Early January marked one year since my sister’s best friend passed, though her first memorial had been beautiful and full of laughter, the second had a more symbolic purpose —closure to those most in need of it.

Letting shit go. Native American singers and drummers were to be present, and my sis was to sing a song in her honor, first time with the Native singers ever. I however wouldn’t make it on time as I was too busy at the airport waiting for the arrival of one of my college best friends, one half of my dynamic concert promoting duo, someone who knows me like no other. And so we whisked him back to the memorial and with in seconds we were doing a round dance around the gym. He looking at me like “it’s so good to see you, but this woman is pulling me and I have no idea what beat we’re on.”

Though shit had changed in the two years since we’d seen each other we were still the same. Still functioning the way we did in school. For a week he immersed himself in my life. The one that created me, the one that, as of late had aged me. And it worked in such a way that I finally felt refreshed. On his last night, though his trip was by no means free of obligatory drama —Or in the words of my best friend of almost 20 years, “Girls just hating on other girls”— I felt some strange feeling of regeneration. Went to a club, well no. A lounge in atypical SF style— relaxed environment where I could wear my sneakers (whoot whoot) full of Asian cats donning sideways tilted sf caps (surprise surprise) and the average height there had to be 5’ 7’’. A show homey of 20 years was somehow connected to, his DJ crew. So I danced. For the first time in over a year I danced my ass off, ran into friends from yesterday that I totally missed but had no idea I did. And even when college friend left to meet up with another homegirl from college (who chose not to meet up with us for whatever reason) I kept on going. Stayed out till 3:30. Loved every second of it. Truthfully loved most of the time he was here, when he left, and reality set back in, that moms dad and I were back to being a solo trio, that school wasn’t set in stone and that I had no income.

 I finally felt like I was back. Maybe not strong, but on an upswing for the first time since it all began. For that, I can truly say I was thankful.  

The lull between Halloween and other fall and winter festivities always presents a rut of sorts for me. Halloween is by far my favorite holiday. I’ve developed a love for disguise, perhaps it also has something to do with the fact that I love playing characters, and my venture into comedy was the only other venue where I could do such a thing. Now my only opportunity to do so, that is in the real world, is on October 31st and the festivities surrounding it.

The other advantage about Halloween for me is that two days later, Dia De Los Muertos is celebrated, a tradition my family has, for nearly all 24 years I’ve been alive upheld. To memorialize those we’ve lost, welcome their spirits back for a few days. We leave them a customary glass of water, a piece of pan de muerto or piece of fruit; display their pictures and maybe a favorite trinket or two. We also celebrate the art associated with this holiday by either making or buying beautiful cut out papel picado, and on a few rare occasions I make crape paper marigolds that I was taught to make upon a chance meeting with one of the geniuses of the genre when I was only 10.

This year however we did not do these things. As I’ve explained in several posts, its not been an easy year for the Magtonic family. Death has been something we’ve confronted almost monthly. Death, something we’ve never really been the type to be afraid of, has shown its face in so many ways that I sometimes feel desensitized to it.

It begs the question how much can one person face his or her own mortality in such a short period of time?

8 losses — 2 amazing celebrations of life, filled with music, speakers, beautiful art, dancers love and laughter. One traditional Irish Catholic funeral bagpipes included. 2 traditional Filipino Catholic weeklong wakes, rosaries followed by a funeral and luncheon. One private family ceremony we were not invited to, though they were our family. One 40 days after death rosary, Filipino Catholic style.

To say I haven’t thought about how I’d like to be remembered, that it doesn’t cross my mind a few times a month, would be in vain. I think about it often.

As we approach December we also approach other news. My father’s impending minor, but also unpredictable surgery. It’s on his skull. He feels no pain; it’s merely a precautionary measure his doctors are taking. Though he is the king of comedy, albeit his own corny variety of the “weird uncle” sort, he has faced it with grace. He’s embraced the humor in it, but is inevitably scared, nervous and unsure. The months of diagnostics, waiting, and arriving at this surgery, though it has little to do with why the diagnostics began, have finally caught up with him.  He had the “if I die” talk with us.

His demands were sweet, funny and saddening of course, but he was just being real. It is a minor procedure, he just wants everyone to know he appreciates them and that he takes nothing for granted so this speech has been given to all he loves, and reacted to in different ways.

He requests:

• That no one wear black at his memorial celebration. If anyone does, the must go home and change into a bright color.
• That everyone pick his or her favorite funk song to play in his honor at said memorial.
• That my best friend of 20 years continues to come over to eat and torture the women in my family about how hard it must be to live with all three of us.
• My mother does whatever makes her happy.
• That I am kind to my sister and continue to make him proud.

In light of how much I have displayed my appreciation for those I love, my bouts of nostalgia as of late, I have also been asking myself:
So how do I want to be remembered?

• I concur with Poppa Magtonic. No one wears black. I would prefer everyone wear orange or purple.
• I want a mariachi band, and kulingtan drummers to play.
• Video, embarrassing photos and stories are absolutely and 100% welcome as an homage to my insanity.
• Something to do with peacock feathers and papel picado as far as décor. I have a peacock feather tattoo; I wouldn’t say I’m obsessed I just find them exceptionally beautiful.
• Lastly a buffet or some extreme sort of meal is mandated. Food, good music, and laughter are what I’ve always been taught are the sources of life, so thusly that’s how I want to be celebrated.

Morbid or not having to face this sort of thing only brings back to reality how much we need to live out each day, and as pessimistic as I may be, I’m really working on that one. I can’t complain too much. The beautiful things about life, have truly shown themselves, I've seen birth, I've seen love (I have not seen fire and rain though I am about to break out into song, and I am by no means a James Taylor fan), it’s just been an excruciatingly difficult terrain to navigate as of late.

Although I have been lamenting on this blog, about my inability to do anything for myself, about not taking care of myself, I've continued to practice behaviors that are contrary to any change in that manner.

But, I finally hit a wall. Two weeks ago I finally made a decision instead of using the age old "deciding not to decide now, is making a decision" excuse.

I am applying to graduate school. For me. Yes the desperation got the best of me.

The desperation for a change.
The desperation for rigidity and structure.
The desperation to be self-sacrificing by means which I determine not by someone else's.
The desperate need to follow what I always knew I wanted to do. To take charge!

And so it is with this, that I say I am submitting my application tonight. With the hopes that as of January, I will finally get that fresh start I've been asking for.

Academia best be ready fah me.

I know. Another reflective blog. I have some actual critiques in the works, things I've been meaning to publish but the fact of the matter is that the aftermath of my hell year has been hitting its peak and I'm starting to come down again.

I completely unloaded on my best friend last night. He left me with a lot of questions but also I got to say a lot about what is going on.

The biggest dilemma I'm feeling is trying to decide what behaviors and moods to be accountable for, and when I can make legitimate excuses for them.

He understood, and didn't at the same time. I didn't expect him to understand entirely. He called me hun, it bugged me. I had to step away to cry, let it out not hold it  in. Me crying bugged him.

So I let it out. Let a lot out. Stopped for a minute and released some of this shit this year has brought me. And in the end, although I was feeling a mixed bag of emotions because of the things that came up in our conversation, for the first time in months I didnt feel anxious. I didnt have that burning feeling that rises up to my throat. I felt empty. For a moment, I was able to recognize that the last two weeks, have actually been better. That today, whatever came with it, would be, at least on an internal level, better.

I'm sure I got a handful more of these moments to go, but in some weird way, whatever comes with the fall I feel ready.

In the digital age, dating websites have replaced the world of matchmakers. Reality TV too shows us that it isn’t so hard to find a mate anymore, between shows like the bachelor, and now shows on what I used to think were more credible cable TV channels (cough TLC cough) show modern day life coaches teaching people how to shack up and stay married. While divorce rates are climbing and the average age at which people seem to find “true love’ gets higher and higher I can’t help but wonder are we returning to an age where arranged marriages might be acceptable?

Last week, while on the vacation I so desperately needed, I got a phone call from a dear, dear friend who told me he was getting married. Shocked, more because I was in the middle of doing my thing, on a somewhat of a luxury vacay (Vegas on a budget, visiting another old friend mind you, but it was still Vegas none the less) I congratulated him and continued my retreat not thinking much of the news he’d just shared.

It wasn’t until I got home, and with the intention of sharing this news with my sister, who had been away and unreachable for a few days that it all sort of sunk in. As I told her the news she said,

“Yeah you did tell me, no wait you didn’t dad did, ha… oops.” Realizing she had just fauxpaud I of course was sent into an interrogation of both sis and pops.

“Uh, yeah dad called to tell me on Friday, before I even got back. He said ‘Oh our golden boy’s no longer an option.”

Shocked again, I didn’t understand and it set the two of them to explain, that for the last 10 years, as long as I’ve known this gentlemen, they had been hoping he would some day marry me. What? I thought.

I shouldn’t have been shocked, as a girl who has had more male best friends than female ones I’m sure my family, has been secretly planning behind my back whom they wanted me to marry of this bunch. There’s no doubt that they do like my current boyfriend but there’s some bit of hopeless romantic in them so I wouldn’t doubt the idea of me marrying someone I’ve known since pre-pubescense would just delight them to no avail.

I should also not be shocked that this came up, as this very man’s younger sister has been saying that she wanted us to marry for some time as well. There was a point where she expressed me being top on her list even. And, even still, when his friends used to ask him if he and I were together as I appeared at quite a few events with him for some time, he’d joke that no we weren’t but that he might ask me to marry him if when he was 30 we were both single and unmarried.

For me it was all a big joke. I never, intended to marry this man, I’ve never even had any sort of feelings towards him that would lend to future dating, marriage, or random fling. But the shock of his news was in part due to the fact that he was marrying a girl I’m almost certain he’s been dating for about a year. He’s at that age, late 20s, but even still, it made me wonder about the state of American marriages. Note: I wish him the best and trust his judgement whole heartedly, this has made me think more about a general notion than his specific situation.

When considering the ways that we in the United States look at dating, marriage and sex now, to me I see a bit of a paradox. On one hand, more liberal minded people are saying we should have an open mind about dating & sex, be free of the bonds of marriage unless we are truly interested in it, and in many cases, heterosexual couples should wait to marry until it is legal for same sex couples to do the same. On the other, there’s a whole market playing up to those in a desperate situation to find a mate and seems to be NO end to the matchmaking options for anyone interested. Commercials boast “I found my husband,” “We knew it was love,” “S/he’s my soulmate.”

I don’t want to knock it, because I know it works for some people but after this conversation with my family it made me question if they had the choice, would they have arranged this marriage for me? I’m about 6 months away from reaching my 25th birthday, clearly trying to figure my ish out, and have a very loving supportive family whom want nothing but the best for me. There’s no way they would actually want something that was against my will. But by the same token, they were still very into this idea, more so than any of the “this is what I want to do with my life” ideas I’ve shared with them.

If given the opportunity, would we revert to a world where arranged marriage was acceptable, if it meant so many people would evade the fear of living alone?

Is there such a thing as modern arranged marriage? Is that where we are now?

Yes arranged marriages are marriages set up, against your will, to someone you do not know, and usually involving some sort of status symbol. But are we so desperate that we might consider something similar? An updated version, one where you are meeting people some expert believes are of the marrying potential… oh wait… that’s what we have these services for…. Hmm something to think about.

Although I’m not a hopeless romantic, I would still rather fall in love on my own accord, even if that meant I’d have to wait till I was 80. Honestly, I’ve come to accept that I may be that lady with 3 chihuahuas she treats like her babies. It’s all good, I have no shame. No cats though, because of the allergies, so knowing I can’t be that lady is a plus.
 

My homeboy Max averts the quarter life crisis, at least for now. Check out this spot he did for Nickelodeon.

Without official recognition, my B.A. is, in practice, a result of studying the field of mixed race studies. Perhaps not just studying it, but an unofficial push for it to become a more nationally recognized field of research.

        Granted, it is in part due to a personal desire to deal with my own issues (shit how many psych majors do you know who study it to be able to sort their own issues out?), but it was also that at that time in our country’s landscape, a multitude of different things were going on concerning this new demographic that was taking over the country.

    The Census had added it's new category to reflect that, the rising population of bi racial and multiracial children was proving that there might be room, in this large and never ending debate regarding race for such contributions.

    Although there was a lot of argument about whether or not it would dilute minority populations and affect them in potentially negative ways when politics are concerned, I had hope. I felt that by broadening the research about this population, we'd have a better understanding of this new sub-cultural population. (By we I think I mean “they” would have a better understanding of “us”.)

    It was all apparently a load of crap. Recent studies have shown that less people identify themselves as multiracial.

    The reasons as to why exceed in amount to my actually being able to process them.

    dNa of toosense.net a friend and brother in mixedhood, argues its the fact that in the U.S. we'll never be able to absolutely escape the black white continuum. It all boils down to the "you either White or you ain't" / "You either black or you ain't" debate.

While I agree that's part of the issue, there's also a trillion other ones I can come up with that just depress me.

On one hand, my own urge to proclaim my mixed background and defend others in my position has been ignored only because of the location, geographically, I'm in.

The days have ceased for me to identify as anything other than Magtonic, because people just seem to care a tiny bit less here, in part because of the assumption that we're all mixed. By we, I do mean a huge population in this area. In part, its that people identify me by other things, how I'm dressed, what turf I rep (ok that is a flat out lie, I rep no turf, just my city sort of). And when it comes to my favorite (lying through my teef) issue "The Interracial Dating Game(!)" my ambiguous features aren't always a call to those guys looking for that “exotic” girl as some people can see my individual traits from individual backgrounds. Granted exotic IRKS the crap out of me, most days, but it depends on the delivery. (I will be so shallow that when a fine man of any descent says that I'm "exotic and funny" suddenly the term exotic is less offensive because I'm a comedian and being funny is the greatest compliment anyone can pay me)

You might say its as big of a deal as one makes of it to some degree, this whole "mixed or not" thing.

If even I, a scholar on the subject, am questioning what basis I have for any research or fight regarding the mater, then what is the point of mixed race studies? Is there a need? What would it do? Am I, someone who studied this, now considered obsolete? Does all the work I did in college about this become useless? (Let's not lie... I'm not using my degree right now anyway, but that's not the point of the matter).

I can dream that I'm destined to be called upon later in life to solve some sociological dilemma after a college freshmen somewhere reads my thesis. But, seriously, the longer we stay stuck in ignoring race, or in my case stuck inside a diverse bubble forgetting that beyond my city limits life resumes to be segregated, and stuck on a black white continuum instead of the light brown-black continuum I seem to perceive myself to be in, then my thesis proves to be self indulgent.

In the comments section of the article I read regarding this matter someone said that the notions of multiracial identity are "emotional and idealistic" and perhaps the real matter of the issue isn't that multiracial identity is idealistic and sentimental or whatever, but that my notions of this field of research and of mixed race community (as I perceived it so in my thesis) were a bit more idealistic.

I can say this, I'll sure as hell mark whatever the hell boxes I choose, like I've been doing for years. I just can't make it my life’s passion anymore, if even I don’t know what we’re fighting for.

(Whatever happened to Digable Planets?)

As I prepare for a meeting tomorrow morning where a lot of the work I do at my current job is hinging upon, I got to thinking... In times of crisis how do I cope?

Am I in crisis? Not exactly. Without going into gregarious detail, I must make the disclaimer that I’ve been dealt a pretty rough deck of cards in the last 6 months, making that venture into the real world just a tad more… "interesting", than most.

In an attempt to avoid playing my least favorite game of “My Life is SOOO much harder than Yours!” I will keep it simple. 4 funerals in 3 months. All tying tightly into my career(s), my family, my personal life. I’m fine, but through it all, in having so many people in my immediate life so closely affected, I have some how managed to be a rock. Emotionless at times, able to see the humor, beauty, matter of fact-ness in many otherwise difficult or awkward moments. But the truth of the matter is at quarter-life I grew up in ways I’m not sure any of us anticipated.

Last night in a phone conversation with a dear friend we talked about the fact that I don’t entirely feel like myself. As though parts of my personality are under nourished.

He, who may know me best in the world at times noted that “there is no one to feed you. You’re so busy being everyone else’s support system that there’s no one to take care of you.” I bawled.

And while it's true, I have managed to do okay. It's the mere words coming out of someone else's mouth that got me. And being the smartass that I've always been, I said something to the affect of:

          "Whatever, I'm too fly to...." Something or other.

He laughed pointed out how bipolar I had been in our conversation. "One minute you're talking about how fly your new hair cut is, the next you're crying. Then talking about how funny you are, and then how fly you are again."

I have a problem with the word fly I suppose. It developed in the wake of my roller coaster ride into the year 2007. It seemed that through it all I managed to come into my "adult look" a ruthless battle I've had with looking my age (partially due to my job at the high school where people would get enraged with the thought that I MIGHT ACTUALLY BE AN ADULT DESPITE MY LOOK, partially due to being a fat kid, and lastly a great deal to do with my own version of spiritualism that involves cutting my hair whenever there are major life changes). Through months of work I've improved my health, managed to loose a ton of doctor mandated pounds, and generally felt good about myself. (An older brother like figure pointed out that I always seem to feel best helping people, he just hoped I was taking care of myself.)

And the thing is, I DO believe I'm fly all of the sudden. I've had some amazingly wonderful things happen. Fly new job, and new hair now too.  So maybe that's how I cope. Accept, and embrace the fact that I am FLY. (Something I discovered at my last job when suddenly I was the "funny, REAL" girl that everyone had crushes on). It's a joke 90% of the time. But whatever it takes to get me through, I'll go with it.

(Although I should say this. IF one more person says I look like "Ugly Betty" but when she's pretty... I will go crazy. HER NAME IS AMERICA FERRERA, NOT UGLY BETTY. And It's hardly a compliment when UGLY is in the sentence. Yeah, it's like that. I'm keeping it real. As Nelly Furtado said recently, I'm real as they come if you don't know why I'm Fly-y-y).