Alice Yi-Li Yeh's Blog, page 6

I'm Melting

As I was cooking tonight, it struck me as funny when I considered what was on the stove. It's probably difficult to tell, but on the left, we have Chinese hot and sour soup. On the right? Risotto.

Then again, seemingly incongruous meals such as this one is likely a common occurrence in the US, a country whose citizens hail from all over the globe, bringing their customs, language, and foods with them. Instead of falling into line with their environs, they added these flavors to the pot. The end result is that those of us born in the United States grow up amidst cultural confusion and mixed tastes.

But what does that really mean? In recent years, I've come to think of apple-pie "American culture" as an artifact leftover from a time when exclusionary practices were not as clandestine. We moved from blatant caste systems to superficial attempts at open-mindedness and acceptance and then to the place where we are now, one in which the adoption of pieces of other cultures is viewed as a mark of intelligence and/or class. As such, the new American tradition is an amalgamation of  various practices from all of the refugees, migrants, religious dissenters, and academics who have made this place their home. It isn't confusion so much as it is a tacit understanding that assimilation and conformity are not the same thing.

Looking back to the picture above, I realize that while this odd pairing is a bit ridiculous, it still makes a strange sort of sense. I think.

Storytime Strangers

On Thursday, I attended The Moth StorySLAM in downtown Detroit. Coming off of a full shift at the hospital, my group and I were inevitably "on time," which means "late" when it comes to finding a spot in a bar that was now over capacity. We decided to grab a bite at the restaurant next door while waiting for intermission.

My brother and one of his buddies disappeared to the counter and returned with a stranger in tow, a mother of one who was out on the town for the first time in months and was momentarily stranded as her friends had made it into Cliff Bell's without her before they stopped letting people in.

As we ate and waited, we talked. It turns out that this stranger was a writer, married to an artist, with published works about her work teaching ESL classes to refugees. She explained that she was essentially giving a voice to those who could not tell their stories for themselves, something so deeply poetic and humbling that I couldn't help but be floored. It makes you rethink the old adage about talking to strangers — sometimes, it's an enlightening experience that shows you more of the world than your limited sight can fathom.

An hour later, we were able to find our way into the bar, seated at the foot of the stage. From there, we listened to strangers share their stories about various "secrets" in their lives. One told of a Las Vegas wedding that he had tried to hide from his parents, while another revealed that she, not her friend, was the one to pass gas prior to a theater performance. Some tales truly stretched the theme, to the point where I wondered why they weren't scored lower. From this experience, however, I gleaned a few basic truths: entertainment  valuedoes not make up for substance, honesty is more well-received than eloquence, and belaboring a point is just that — laborious. Oh, and childhood homes should not be used as the mailing address for a secret marriage certificate. That's just asking to get caught.

I went to this event with high expectations, and I am sorry to report that the most entertaining act of the night was actually the emcee. All the same, however, it was something new, and it will be filed away as another check mark on my Michigan bucket list.

Time Warp

US House GOP Plans Early Health-Care Repeal Vote

I saw this today and was immediately horrified.

The passage of the bill was a landmark event, one that inspired hope for someone who has seen the detrimental effects that a lack of health insurance can have. With the cost of my student plan increasing at the absurd rate of $300 per annum, even I was considering taking my chances and going without it. Then I remembered all of the highway accidents in the winter here and decidedly changed my mind.

On the issue of funding Medicare, I think it's universally acknowledged that there are flaws with the system. Far too many elderly patients go broke because of medication costs, and as the Baby Boomers enter into this demographic, I find it unlikely that they will stay silent about having this sort of burden placed upon their weary shoulders when they can defer payment to those who are still young and able to work. A part of me wars against the idea, but at the same time, there is a sense of social responsibility there, one foreign to a society built on entitlement and the assertion of one's "rights".

I'm ill qualified to discuss the minutiae of health care reform, and defer to the judgment of those with a better understanding. Still, I trust my gut and balk at the idea of devolution of healthcare in the US. We will see how this all pans out.

Chemical Addictions

In college, I developed the habit of treating vacations as addiction-breaking, cold-turkey periods. It's no wonder that my parents and I would argue every time I went home; if you were going through withdrawal, you would be irritable too.

The drug of choice, if you will, was caffeine. Going from five cups of coffee or espresso per day to zilch can really mess with a girl's head. Fortunately, the brief time away seemed to sensitize my body to the stimulant's effects, allowing it to do its job once I returned to school and, consequently, a lifestyle that required a great deal of work and very little sleep. I considered it a temporary - and necessary - measure, designed to help me get through four years of "eating bitterness", as it were. Apparently, I was the only one who bought into that lie.

When I entered graduate school, I vowed to keep my caffeine needs low, allowing myself two cups per day. For three years, I held to it, until rotations began. Suddenly, that minor morning dose was no longer enough; I needed a slow but constant stream of coffee, imbibed at regular intervals to keep my senses alert and my mind functioning. Those two cups have multiplied to four, and it's at the point where my brain no longer registers that I'm tired, but my legs still cry out for mercy as I drag them all over the hospital. I noticed that today before refueling on chai and sitting down for a while with an article. Any day now, they'll stop asking for clemency and will simply rebel, as they did once during my last rotation.

Amongst all the craziness, busyness, and slight numbness of mind, there is that niggling thought: we weren't made for this. Man wasn't made as a tireless machine, cycling madly day and night for some sort of purpose that we use to justify the fact that we no longer have a response unrelated to work when one asks, "How have you been?"

In the end, I find my freedom from this vicious circle by doing chores, running errands, and reading books for review, all things that are also considered productive by the world at large and thus justifiable when there are still hundreds of other rats on the table, screaming out for attention as they eat away at every resource in sight. Somehow, this can't be it either. By it, I mean purpose, as in something that makes each step worthwhile. And so I end my mental meandering for the day, returning to the narrow path of science and propriety. Perhaps I'll see you there.

Corporate Candy

Today, I had a meeting at the café in Barnes & Noble. Allotting fifteen minutes for a ten minute drive, I was shocked to find that the entire lot was completely packed. My initial thought was overflow from Whole Foods, though that was supplanted by a sneaking suspicion that some of the to-do was related to the display for the new, color Nook. The latter might have been a reasonable assumption, given the giant display that dominated the front entrance. Imagine my surprise, then, when the barista explained that the abundance of vehicles in the area was due to trick-or-treaters.

I didn't see any in the store until I was on my way out again, at which point I suddenly found myself surrounded by ragamuffins in all sorts of oddly colored garb, buckets of candy in tow. It was the strangest concept: dressing up and asking for sweets from large businesses on the day before the actual holiday. Then again, I can see why. The world isn't as idyllic as it used to be, and foodstuffs received from complete strangers are possibly poisoned, contaminated, and the like. There are all sorts of sick and negligent people out there, and financial hardship seems to bring out their darker tendencies. As I think about it, I'm almost certain that I wouldn't want to take my children around residential areas for this purpose; corporations are, at the very least, liable for any illnesses that may come from candy consumption.

This reminds me of high school, where we would host a "Trick-or-Treat Street" event annually. Student organizations or groups of students would rent classrooms, decorate them, and give out sweets that the school provided. It was a safe environment for parents to take their kids, though the candy itself was the cheap kind that one buys in bulk - Tootsie Rolls, Smarties, and Jolly Ranchers galore. Those were always the ones that I put off eating until all of the better options were gone, so I wonder what really happened to all of them after distribution to these youths. Perhaps these children more easily satisfied, or maybe it was all thrown out after sitting on the counter for eight months, untouched. In any case, I'm beginning to think that the actual trick-or-treating portion of the holiday is truly overrated. With the shift to corporate-sponsored events and cheaper candy, there isn't much to show for an afternoon's activity once the novelty of wearing a costume wears off. (If you want to pretend to be someone else, try working in retail for a while. Patience is much easier to fake than to feel!)

There is a purpose to this entry, I think, but it appears to have disappeared over the course of my meandering   ramblings, so I'll end with this: happy Halloween, everyone. I hope that you stayed safe tonight. 

Oh Shoot

Over the course of the past two years, there has been a steadily increasing number of crime alerts from the university's Department of Public Safety. Offenses range from verbal harassment to mooning to strong-arm mugging. The worst by far, however, happened last Thursday. Of course I found out about it today.

It's a testament to the quick development of jadedness and selfishness that I've stopped reading the alerts that the school sends out. They are many in number, repetitive, and happen near campus housing, which I eschewed due to its proximity to undergrads and drunken noise at odd hours of the night. I was cleaning out my inbox today, however, and a sudden curiosity prompted me to open the most recent message about armed robbery.

There weren't many details given, but it involved the Bank of America, money, and gun shots. A sudden chill ripped across skin as I realized where all of this occurred: 0.7 miles away from my house. I just used its ATM yesterday to deposit a check! All of this is a kick in the pants for not keeping up with what is happening in the community. Crime can happen anywhere, and with Michigan's economy, theft and violence are becoming increasingly common. Just last month, there was a rash of carjackings focused primarily on Honda Civics. This is becoming more and more an unfriendly place to live, and I feel vindicated in my eagerness to flee the state. Until then, however, I'll be caring for the victims and wondering how it all came down to this.

Wrong Weigh

"I eat my feelings."

The phrase itself is quite common, possibly popularized by Mean Girls or however it is that slang is perpetuated from one coast to the other. In any case, I find it such an odd concept to think about. Is one's eating habits a form of compensation or a reflection of one's current emotional state? There are those who eat because they are stressed out, those who eat because they're bored, and those who eat because they're depressed. Two-thirds of America is overweight, a third of the country is morbidly obese, the economy is down, and the fast-mover shelves at work include Celexa, Paxil, Prozac, and Zoloft. We're depressed, unhealthy, and most likely overworked. Are these the feelings that we're "eating"? Fulfilling a craving in the hopes that nourishment to one's body might translate into nourishment to one's soul? Perhaps.

With a perversity that seems to be a mainstay in many areas of my life, I don't "eat my feelings". Quite the opposite, actually. When the negativity referenced above surfaces, my body responds by increasing the sensitivity of my gag reflex and by obliterating my appetite. Even brief moments of hunger are quickly satiated by three hundred calories or less, and further eating prompts involuntary gagging and waves of nausea. While there are those who might stone me for complaining about this, there are consequences to my actions. I now tire from something as simple as washing a window or walking quickly down the hall. Clothing no longer fits properly, making getting dressed rather depressing. Waif-like figures are not attractive, no matter how much the media tells you otherwise - not that anyone can really tell, since I'm cold a great deal of the time and have to bundle up while others are comfortable without wearing three or four layers of clothing indoors. This most recent bout of "don't-wanna-eat-itis" might be classified as a sort of anorexia, albeit one that I most certainly didn't choose; it's simply how my body responds to stress and sleep deprivation, two things that nearly all healthcare practitioners have in common.

Why am I sharing this, you ask? It isn't, as some might suspect, a paltry attempt to brag about my ability not to eat. Rather, it's a plea for recognition of the fact that eating disorders (borderline or otherwise) are not necessarily controllable. Whether it's over- or under-eating, what people need is understanding, support . . . and a sensitive but constant push in the opposite direction. Telling someone "You're too fat/thin - you should eat less/more" won't bring about results. Be a friend and not a modern-day monarch, issuing decrees and expecting absolute compliance. Remember - if it were easy, they probably would have done it by now. People aren't stupid, at least in this respect.

With that, I will climb down from this rickety old soapbox to attempt to eat an adequate meal. Is it socially acceptable to converse with one's stomach? No? Oh well.

Waiting Rooms

[image error]In anticipation of heightened security measures at LAX, I arrived at the airport two and a half hours before my flight. Somehow, I managed to return the rental car, checked in, and get through security . . . in a grand total of thirty minutes, leaving me with ninety minutes on my hands and no open restaurants or coffee shop in sight. Instead, all I see are people.

Couples nap with their heads on each other's shoulders, while others watch movies on a computer or whip out newspapers and trashy magazines on the latest celebrity gossip. It makes you wonder if the interest stems from general nosiness in the affairs of others or if it is the direct result of a lack of joie de vivre in one's own life. Either way, it sells.

Like I, there are younger folk typing away at smartphones, their thumbs flying deftly over the small keys with a surprising degree of agility and efficiency. How many hours of their day are spent on perfecting this sort of skill? Is there any other area where such dexterity would come into play? I can think of only one: surgery. All the same, it seems far more likely that they trained under the tutelage of Nintendo, Playstation, and possibly Sega. You could almost define a generation by the gaming system that they used in their youth.

Lastly, there is the creepy old man staring at me and at various other passengers with a leery expression on his face. I think I'll go find that coffee now.

Sew What?

I watched my first abdominal surgery today as I finished up a rotation. I was worried that the gore would get to me, but surprisingly, I felt pretty okay so long as I didn't think about the "extra" skin and fat they were tossing into a bucket and how they came from an actual person. There was, however, a distinct smell reminding me of physiology lab and dead frogs, and it took me about an hour before I realized that it was coming from the cauterized flesh. Conceptually, burning tissue sounds rather revolting, but it became a mind game of sorts where I convinced myself that I still felt okay, and so I did. It's all in the unlocked knees.

All the same, a great deal of it was rather barbaric. There was an item that looked very much like a crowbar, clamps and cutters in every direction, and a tool that is the medical equivalent of a nail gun. Like the human body, it was all fascinating but gross. Thank goodness for skin and all that it's able to cover!

As I watched the resident stitch the man up, I realized that the method he used to push the seam inward is the same one I utilized when I closed up my first stuffed animals. I suppose that that's the point. It struck me as a grotesque form of sewing, in which the fabric is the abdominal wall, the tacking is staples, and the needle is a claw the size of a key ring. It's amazing how the human body can heal and function after this sort of procedure, and how far medicine has come since the olden days without visualization technology or sterile operating rooms. I feel so thankful to be living now instead of then, though my intention is to be the pharmacist supplying medications and not the body anesthetized upon the table. Perhaps I should keep my fingers crossed.

Playing Pretend

I've made no attempts to hide my distaste for Midwestern United States living over the course of the past for years. When asked for an explanation, all I can come up with is that sense of oppression that comes from knowing that I'm not located fifteen to twenty minutes from the ocean. Freshwater just doesn't cling to your skin, nor does it smell quite right. I'm certain that a great deal of this is only in my head, but it makes me crave the East Coast like nobody's business.

In any case, there's one street that I cut through on my way home each day, and as the autumn colors blast themselves into the fore, I pretend for those short three blocks that I'm back on Long Island, where the leaves display every radiant shade of warmth during the autumn months. In those brief moments, I feel comfortable - content, even - and the rest of my day disappears. Then I turn the corner to a road lined with abandoned buildings, rundown houses, and small businesses that are barely staying afloat, and I remember that I'm in Michigan, a state with little going for its economy besides outstanding academic programs and legalized marijuana. And soon, I'll be just another statistic of a twenty-something moving out of the deuce to find greener pastures elsewhere.

Every fiber of my being is humming in anticipation of that day. Six months and counting.