BILDUNGSROMAN

        That’s when I decided to disconnect and stop looking at social media for a day, maybe longer – I didn’t know. I logged off of Facebook, determined to keep myself from breaking my own rules even more. Call it running away, but when I saw that I couldn’t even find the love of Christ in my heart, I knew I had to retreat.

Now that I was away from any new developments, I took some time to unpack what this ball of bloated emotion sitting in my heart was. What exactly was making me so angry, and why did I keep pushing God away? For example, why was it that I couldn’t stomach posts from well-meaning friends assuring that regardless of the result, God is in control?

It took some thought, but as I put on my secular liberal thinking cap, the dissonance became glaringly obvious. A huge percentage of conservative Christians had no qualms in supporting Trump, and here we were after the fact, reassuring secular, hurt Facebook audiences that the God of these same Christians has it all under control and it’s gonna be okay for everyone. As this blog post described (sorry for clickbait-y title), it’s kind of like spouting theology at someone whose family member just died – though truth is still truth, it’s not helpful in that situation.

As I went about my typical day in dental school, I heard people express disbelief at the backlash from the “sore losers.” What made this election so different from past ones? Well, have the results of any other election in recent memory plunged almost half the nation into legitimate fear and dread? Like seriously, I live in a republican state – I’m used to things happening in the state legislature that I disagree with. Could they not understand that this was something different than just half the nation playing the sore loser? Could they not understand that people were afraid for their very lives? Could they not understand that the only thing more dangerous than Donald Trump himself, was the very idea of Donald Trump? That his influence has emboldened racists and bigots to actively spurn and hurt minorities in this nation?

The real reason I needed to disconnect though, was because I saw what I could become. So many friends and acquaintances of mine were distraught to the point of saying “if you supported Trump, unfriend me and get out of my life.” The temptation was real here – I so badly wanted to do the same. I understood the logic and the emotion but I knew, I knew that as a Christ follower I simply could not do that. It was frustrating really, not being able to take the easy way out. At the same time, it was a little scary seeing how my heart could so quickly be clouded with darkness – it was so easy to dehumanize and “other” Trump supporters until they became nothing more than the looming bad guy in our nation’s narrative, a bunch of racists that don’t deserve to be called my friends.

I had to repent. I had to repent for my very human anger, swallow my pride, and to give it up to God. No matter how “good” of a person I think I am, I’m constantly reminded that my capacity to love is so very small. And whether I like it or not, these events are a very intentional part of God’s plan. A fellow liberal Christian asked me, wouldn’t it be insane if God turned Trump around, if he really became a Christ follower? Wouldn’t that be amazing to see, and an incredible testimony to God’s power and grace after all this election cycle has dragged us through?

At !gnite two years back, Pastor Pete made a comment in the midst of all the hullabaloo about legalization of same-sex marriage. The testimony of the church was most powerful not when it dictated the law of the land, he said, but when it was just starting as a small, grassroots movement – when the church was just a neighbor helping their neighbor, despite the persecution, and actively being a witness with what little they had – that was when the church’s influence was the greatest. So where do I go from here? In that same way, I want to offer my friends the love of Christ without being tactless, seeing how some very vocal Christ followers have elected the very cause of their fear into office. At the same time, I must go back to that rule I made for myself, back when I looked in awe of LBJ’s legacy. God help me, I must continue loving, engaging, and trying to understand the very people I disagree with, no matter how infuriating those damn conservatives can be. :P

 “Be subject for the Lord's sake to every human institution, whether it be to the emperor as supreme, or to governors as sent by him to punish those who do evil and to praise those who do good. For this is the will of God, that by doing good you should put to silence the ignorance of foolish people.”

        On the night of the election, I saw the results trickle in at a watch party with some decidedly liberal classmates. True to the SNL skit, we sipped on wine and watched with mounting horror until at midnight, we conceded defeat and drove back to our respective homes. I’ll admit, I then proceeded to sit on my bed and cry until 3 in the morning. I cried for my friends who feared for the safety of themselves and their loved ones in this country they called home. I cried for the inevitable hate crimes to come, and for the emergence of the unapologetically racist underbelly of America. I cried for the future of this nation, for all the steps we’ll inevitably be taking backwards as the president-elect promises to rip up the seedlings of change planted by Obama’s administration. I wrote an impassioned status update and cried with like-minded friends on Facebook, mashing out my frustration and sorrow into message after message, carrying on multiple conversations at a time, all carrying the same emotion – grief.

I woke up the next morning and the news was still the same – Donald Trump would be our next president. A preliminary glance at Facebook was all it took for the tears to start again, and I couldn’t pull myself together enough for class until an hour into histology. But even while I was in class, my mind was far away. As I surreptitiously scrolled down my newsfeed, the hopelessness began to consume me. How could Trump supporters not understand that lives of American citizens were at stake? How could they disregard the humanity of minorities like that? How could they not see how negatively this would affect everyone who wasn’t a white, male Christian? How could they not see beyond themselves to the very real people around them?

So I became angry. Angry at Trump supporters, angry at my friends, angry at the silent bystanders, angry at anyone who joked around and didn’t understand the gravity of what had just happened. But most of all, I was angry at conservative, white evangelical Christians. How could those people applauding the election of a bigoted demagogue be my brothers and sisters in the faith? How could they possibly reconcile Trump’s behavior with the character of Christ? As a fellow believer, wasn’t I right to hold them to a higher standard? Yet they were the ones antagonizing the very people groups I fight for and try to share the love of Christ with.

Mentally, emotionally, spiritually, I was not in a good place. The sadness had turned to despair, and despair to anger. I simmered with resentment towards anyone who wasn’t also a shocked, upset mess like me. At the same time, I marveled at the strength and grace of some of the people (not necessarily Christians) around me who still willingly engaged with the people they were most hurt by. As the firestorm on social media grew, they offered calm rebuttals (one privately assured me, he most certainly was not calm) to comments that stung so much to read – whether out of the mind-boggling ignorance, or brash insensitivity, or outright racism. I examined my own heart, looking to find some of that same will to engage and understand. But once again, there was no love in my heart – only anger.

 “Be angry and do not sin; do not let the sun go down on your anger, and give no opportunity to the devil.”

        I can’t stop breaking my own rules.

Today, where I normally would have scrolled on past a post that made me angry, I stopped to offer a politely pointed comment. Today, where I normally wouldn’t message someone on why abortion is not a black and white issue, I civilly dropped my favorite article on the topic in her inbox. Today, when I told myself to take a break from social media, I spent the entirety of biochemistry lecture trying not to cry as I read about the slew of injustices my friends are already experiencing today.

Today, I thought about another rule I had made for myself. Last year, I had a strong conviction as I was walking through an exhibit at the LBJ presidential library. As I read about the victories LBJ’s administration achieved in the Great Society – the Civil Rights Act, Medicare/Medicaid, the War on Poverty – one panel proudly noted that this required a fantastic amount of bipartisan support. LBJ reached across the aisle in a bipartisan congress that clearly had a common goal, regardless of party affiliation. They didn’t eliminate poverty (even Jesus said that ain’t gonna happen), but they did pass a ton of legislation, which significantly decreased the overall income disparity in the U.S. (until Reagan’s trickle-down economics came into the picture, that is) and birthed many programs that are still in effect today.

Man, what would it be like to have that again? A legislature that actually gets stuff done, united by a common goal? Where did that bipartisanship go? A nagging thought starts to rise to the forefront – what if I’m part of the problem? If I only like discussing politics and social issues with people who agree with me, how does that remotely resemble reaching across the aisle like I expect politicians to?    

Through that experience, along with other significant conversations, God placed this conviction in my heart; as a rule, I initiated these difficult conversations on social issues with my conservative friends, and did my best to love them regardless of how immensely frustrating their responses could be. It wasn’t difficult to snag a conservative – a bunch were in the church, and many happen to be some of my closest friends. As I began my friendly verbal sparring with them, I gained a deep appreciation for these conversations – as much as I challenged my friends, their contributions would force me to articulate what I actually believed and why I believed it.  

But today, I broke that rule. As I scrolled past Facebook posts from friends who were simply ambivalent, or outright Trump supporters, or overly optimistic, or cracking jokes about the election a little too soon, I could find no love in my heart – only anger.

“Be angry and do not sin; do not let the sun go down on your anger, and give no opportunity to the devil.”

        Do you ever just stop and wonder who you would invite to your wedding at that particular moment in your life? Because I think about it quite a bit actually – not that I’m jumping the gun to get married right at this moment, but I use it as a way to stop and ponder on the friendships in my life. Would I invite friends from high school, most of which I’ve lost touch with? HMCC friends are a given, but how many acquaintances from college? How many college friendships will fade with time and go the same way high school friendships did? What about my summer missions team? I might invite my dental class out of obligation, but I wonder how long it’ll take until I invite them because I genuinely want them all to be there? How much money will I actually spend on my wedding? Will I have to pare down the number of guests because my future husband will probably have friends too? Why am I such a social extrovert? Who will I accidentally offend if I forget to invite them? This is kind of why I didn’t have a graduation party – will I get so tired of trying to figure this out that I’ll be like screw it and only have family and very, very close friends there?

Who would I even choose as bridesmaids? My maid of honor? These things are difficult because I’ve realized over time that I’m not the kind of person who has one BEST friend. A brother in the church described it pretty accurately – “best friend” for him is like a title that rotates depending on what season of life he’s in. Pick out a school grade, a year in my life, and I can tell you who my go-to best friend(s) was/were at that time. Pick another year, and those people may not be up there anymore. It certainly doesn’t mean that I’ve broken off that friendship – we’re probably just not around each other as much anymore, so naturally we’ve drifted apart. Which is okay.

Rather than a singular best friend, I always seemed to end up in a small group (in the case of HMCC, a rather large group) of really good friends. But I suppose I bought into that idea of finally finding that one best friend in dental school. Very predictably, however, that hasn’t been the case. What did I expect, looking back at the pattern of friendships in my life thus far? Nevertheless, I am thankful for the friendships that I am getting to build in dental school. But who knows? Maybe the crucible of dental school will forge some friendships that really will last a lifetime.

Deeper thoughts aside, I also like to think about these things because weddings are hella fun and I can’t wait until the next HMCC wedding LOL

        Seven weeks after the start of my dental school career, I find myself roaming the familiar campus of my alma mater. As I pass by the union, or sit here typing in the FAC, it’s almost as if I never left. With no effort at all, I’ve settled back into the smooth rhythm of undergrad that defined my life for the last four years.

But the fact is, I did leave. And so much has happened in those seven weeks – technically six weeks – since I’ve last been in Austin. I suppose now is as good a time as any to stop and reflect, before I’m swept back up into the breakneck pace of grad school life.

I’ll be honest, the beginning was difficult. I was lonely, I missed both Austin people and CSMPeople terribly, and my classmates were strangers to me. Our days were filled with orientations and introductions and the occasional lecture as they slowly eased us into the curriculum of dental school. Our evenings were packed with socials and happy hours and various ways we were supposed to meet one another. Where freshman-year-me would’ve loved meeting so many new people, DS1-me tired quickly of the dozens of “what’s your name-college-hometown” conversations that I promptly forgot as soon as I met the next person. I missed the deep friendships and substantial conversations that were a norm on missions, and had given me so much life during undergrad. I didn’t know exactly how to approach making friends in this new environment – in a class of a hundred strangers, how was I supposed to pick just a few relationships to invest in?

My first approach was to always sit next to someone new. School was mainly orientation at first, with a few baby lectures slowly mixed in – plenty of chances to sit next to different people as we were shuttled from place to place. I would pat myself on the back for getting the names of a dozen people down in a day, only to see (what I thought were) cliques forming – oh no, what if I’ve already spread myself too thin, and friend groups are gonna solidify before I find my own and then I’ll be friendless and lonely all four years in dental school??? Then as study groups and interest-focused groupmes formed, I gained almost a perverse sense of validation every time I was invited to something even unintentionally exclusive. But there was always that voice in my head, reminding me that other people felt left out and that I knew exactly how that hurt, because I felt it too.

Then there was the schoolwork itself. Trying to absorb the amount of material thrown at us is said to be like trying to drink from a fire hydrant. A med student friend described it as finals-week-level-studying, but every week. If you still don’t have a good idea of what that looks like, think of all those tiny details your professor puts into their lecture slides. When the test rolls around, you can safely ignore them because they only test you on big concepts, right? Not so in dental school – you need to understand every single one of those little points. And that’s the level of detail I need to know for probably ¾ of the 32 class hours I’m taking.

When I think back, undergrad honestly wasn’t much of a struggle for me academically. But when I saw that “55/100” pop up on my screen after submitting my first anatomy quiz in dental school, I knew undergrad-level-studying wasn’t going to cut it. As I sit here, back in the FAC where so many hours were spent studying, loitering, and goofing off with the best of friends, I feel a little out of place. The harried students around me who are furiously printing papers and studying while chomping on Chick-fil-A aren’t worried about their next dental anatomy exam, or whether they have rotations tomorrow or not. As much as I would love to go back to the workload, friends, and life of undergrad (as in missing it so much I start crying in my room sometimes), I know that those times are now in the past. Still, even if I’ve moved on to another season of my life with its own set of worries, this campus still feels more than a little bit like home.

      This particular season of my life has been pretty rough emotionally, probably because I’m such a people-oriented person. With graduation now a bygone reality, I’ve entered into this permanent state of being an alumnus of the University of Texas at Austin. It’s sort of strange to think that after this one event, my undergrad life is now officially over, and there’s no going back.

The sadness comes in fits and bursts. Most of the time, when I was on missions and around people all the time, I was okay. It’s easy to be engaged when there’s so much going on around me. But then there would be little things in Ann Arbor that would trigger it – familiar worship songs especially. When we sang “Go” and it got to the part where the congregation would shout “SET FREE! (to show the truth) OUR LIVES! (will never be the saaaaame)” and no one did it, I got the most vivid mental image of !gnite, when we were in the loft, everyone yelling along at the top of their lungs. Then I felt a pang of nostalgia for times gone by, followed by tears of sadness because, well, I can’t go back. It was pretty bad, guys – let me tell you, once the floodgates opened, it’s over man, they would not close.

But over time, CSMP helped me move on, in a way. I spent a lot of time with puppet team – whether by prepping, practicing, or having mandatory fun – and in due time they became some of the closest friends I had on the team. And as I built up friendships with more and more people outside of puppet team, God showed me that it was possible to integrate into a community of brand new people and form close relationships, all within the span of a month. Granted, this was in a missions environment full of church people, but still.

Then all too soon, my month in Ann Arbor was over, and I was abruptly launched into the hustle and bustle of moving to San Antonio. My family helped me move in over the course of this past week, and I’m not going to lie – it was difficult. It was difficult shifting gears so suddenly, from doing missions day in and day out with the same group of people, to the logistics of packing and unpacking and assembling furniture and buying things with my family. It was difficult not to lose my temper at the same problems still present in my family (see previous angsty blog posts), made obvious simply by observing the interactions between them. It took a lot of willpower and prayer to stay patient, and truthfully I didn’t completely succeed. Still, I was blessed by the great pains my family took to make sure I moved in properly, and during the long drives I was able to have some really good, in-depth conversations that I’d never gotten to have before with my parents. That was nice.

Now I’m sitting in my new room in San Antonio, in this odd state of limbo before dental school starts. As I chill in my room with more alone time than I know what to do with, I catch myself missing these people, times, and places that are now a part of my past. I’ve spent more time on Facebook than strictly necessary, just trying to get a glimpse into the lives of the friends that I’ve left behind. When I was feeling particularly masochistic, I reread the packet of notes that CSMP wrote for me as a farewell gift (and cried, what else did you expect me to do haha). But I have faith – faith that even as God proved his faithfulness over and over on CSMP, and opened my eyes to how faithful he has been in my past, He will continue to provide. So for now, it’s okay to be sad. It’s okay to cry. I embrace it, knowing full well that I’m on the cusp of the next season of my life. And even though I don’t know exactly what it holds, I know that through it all, God is so, so faithful.

Update: I drafted this last night, then this morning I checked out a church called City Church here in San Antonio. What was the theme of the sermon? Transitions. Ha. Hahaha. I c u God, I c u.

       Like the wind

You'll guide

Clear the skies before me

And I'll glide this open sea

Like the stars

Your Word

Will align my voyage

And remind me where I've been

And where I am going

        I’ve been waiting the past three years for that sermon, PTouf.

You know, when I first came to Harvest I was drawn in by many things – the people, the small and intimate community, the intensity of it all - but one thing, one thing it lacked. In the time that I drifted in and out of doubt and faith in high school, I was surrounded by friends who introduced me to the world of social justice. This is where little feminist-social justice-warrior Angela was born! As you probably know, this is still something that is immensely important to me. So imagine my sadness upon realizing that most people in HMCC weren’t very concerned about current events or the fight against all these “-isms” (racism, sexism, etc) in the outside world. I never felt ostracized for my openly liberal leanings, but it sometimes felt like I was fighting a rather lonely fight, going to various rallies and protests on my own most of the time. And one by one, the few like-minded homies I had left Harvest for one reason or another – busyness, for another ministry, graduation – until now, where I sometimes feel like I’m the only one holding down the fort for decidedly liberal evangelical Christians. Sometimes I get angry when I shouldn’t, angry that my friends don’t know what’s going on in the world and that I have to explain so many things that I think they should already know. Then I’m angry at myself for being angry, because I don’t want to shame genuinely curious people into never asking me about social justice/current events ever again. Besides, there are so many things that I don’t know and it’s unfair of me to fault others for the same thing.

This also tied into my disillusionment with the fact that Harvest has so. Many. Events. There were so many times where I had to make the choice between church obligations and social justice-y events, and a dogged sense of loyalty always ensured that I chose the former. But even as I became increasingly more bitter, I made an important realization; God had a purpose in placing me in a church that was so focused on developing that fundamental, personal connection with Him – to really edify the Christ-centered foundation that I could then build my ideas of social justice upon. So I accepted this and moved on, keeping the two in somewhat separate compartments in my life.

There was one time where I thought the two worlds would collide, but…they didn’t. It was just this past summer actually, when a white gunman entered a prayer gathering at a black church in Charleston, NC and opened fire, killing nine people. This was part of the steadily escalating stream of racial violence that had been happening in the past year, but this particular incident affected me more so than the others. Since joining Harvest, both church and the Church have become very near and dear to my heart, so to hear that something so terrible happened in a place so sacred shook me to my core. I wrote an impassioned Facebook post <link>, went to as many vigils for the victims as I could, prayed with some amazingly strong members of the black community, and then went to Sunday Celebration that following Sunday, expecting to pray for Charleston there too.

To be honest, I don’t remember what the sermon was about – it doesn’t look like I wrote sermon notes in my journal for that day either. What I do remember is waiting with bated breath for even a single mention of Charleston, about this momentous event that showed just how far we haven’t come in terms of race relations. But as the sermon ended and response time began, I began to cry. Why? Because silence on the week’s events spoke louder than words. I didn’t understand how we could claim to be a transcultural church without talking about race. I didn’t understand how something that directly attacked a church (read: THE Church) could just be glossed over so easily. I didn’t understand how we could fail to mention the God-given capacity for forgiveness that the members of that church had, as one by one they approached the killer and told him “I forgive you.” I left that service frustrated, bitter, and quite frankly disappointed.

This isn’t meant to be an angry, ranting blog post though – this is a story of redemption, remember? I talked to you pastors a few weeks later at !gnite, which made me feel better. But what I’m here to talk about is the sermon you preached a few weeks ago, PTouf. You preached on serving the least, on being salt and light in the world by going out and doing something about these injustices happening outside our Harvest bubble. You talked about racialized violence, human trafficking, and homelessness. You rebuked us pretty plainly for not being cognizant of these issues (I’ve never been happier to be rebuked in my life) and with missional initiatives coming up, you called us to action. So thank you PTouf. I’ve been told that Ann Arbor brings up social justice regularly, so thank you for bringing the Austin church one step closer to achieving that someday. Thank you, because this time when I cried during response time worship, they were tears of joy, of solidarity, and of relief.

Religion that God our Father accepts as pure and faultless is this: to look after orphans and widows in their distress and to keep oneself from being polluted by the world.

        Funny, how this human heart works. How the heart can be cold, bitter, and unforgiving towards some, yet loving, gracious, and merciful towards others.

Throughout my (almost) four years of college, I’ve certainly made more acquaintances than I can remember. Some became friends who came into my life only to drift away after a little while. Sometimes they drifted because life simply took us in different directions, and that’s okay. Other times, I was so full of bitterness that I purposely allowed the relationship to die. What scares me is how easy it is for me to simply stop caring – to completely disregard the camaraderie of the past, leaving nothing but irritation and a short fuse, utterly devoid of grace. How I simply can’t muster up the strength to love them again.

I’ve noticed that this coldness is a trend with people who have hurt me in some way – it applies pretty much to every case, with only a single exception.

Relatively recently, there was one person whose actions did strike unexpectedly deep. It was probably unintentional, but it stung all the same. Through their behavior, it seemed to me like our friendship was only an afterthought, that I was the one who had invested too much in it. But what frustrated me the most was that I knew, I knew that they were better than what they had become. So I angsted. I may have even cried a little bit. But then I moved on.

Oddly, where I normally would drift away full of bitterness, I stayed close. In fact, I consciously made efforts to keep said person in my life. I checked up on them, went to their events, texted them a Happy Thanksgiving – the whole nine yards. For some strange reason, even though it hurt I still cared. We even caught up over lunch one day, which actually cleared up a lot of misunderstandings. Then they continued doing their own thing, while I did mine.

Fast forward to about a week ago. Isn’t it funny how God works? Out of nowhere, He just broke my heart for this person and I can’t seem to shake it off. We sang “Come as You Are” at ACCESS and the moment we get to “Oh wanderer come home, you’re not too far” I just lose it and start bawling. And then at All Night Prayer I desperately try to avoid reading the story of the prodigal son because when I finally do, I immediately think of that person. The Bethel concert two days later doesn’t help, because I associate Ever Be/No Longer Slaves with !gnite, summer, and jamming with said person.

So where am I now? I got the hint after the concert that maybe we should catch up, so I sent them a text. And then ran into them in person barely half an hour later. The ironic thing? They hadn’t even seen my text yet and the first thing they say – “Hey, we need to catch up!” We agreed on Monday, so that should be interesting. I have no idea what’s going to happen, but I’ll try to keep y’all updated, dearest readers. Until then!

        So lay down your burdens

Lay down your shame

All who are broken

Lift up your face

Oh wanderer come home

You're not too far

So lay down your hurt

Lay down your heart

[Link]

        ‘Cause I am a sinner

If it’s not one thing it’s another.

Caught up in words

Tangled in lies.

But you are a savior

And you take brokenness aside,

And make it beautiful,

Beautiful.

        In the midst of this endless cycle of stress at home, of seesawing between “it’s not that bad at all” to “this is the absolute worst thing ever,” of tunneling down a rabbit hole of negativity because I’m stuck at home, constantly surrounded by the same thoughts and fears that have plagued me since the beginning of break – in the midst of it all, You are still there. You are sovereign, never changing, and You have freely given me this gift of salvation. Even when I forget or I’m distracted or I’m far away, your love still surrounds me, an endless fountain that will never run dry. So as I lay on my bed with this song on repeat, listening as the truth of these words wash over me, I feel a sense of release. I find solace in the knowledge that I am a sinner, and will never stop being a sinner. But You take my brokenness, my flaws, my fears, and somehow, inexplicably – you use it for your glory. You take something ugly and repulsive and in your hands, it becomes a thing of beauty.

[Part one here]

        The lesson concludes around 10pm. We high-five our partners and the crowd disperses, resettling at the edges of the dance floor. Whoever’s assigned as DJ queues up the Spotify playlist, and we’re off – east coast, salsa, one step, bachata, the works! As the first strains of a new song sound across the dance floor, leads and follows ask each other to dance and two by two, the crowd of wallflowers diminishes.  

There’s something almost scandalous about social dance. There aren’t many other contexts in which it’s socially acceptable to be so physically close to a stranger – hands touch, arms rest, faces pass mere inches from one another. The lead’s hand braces the follow with a firm hand on the shoulder blade while her hand rests on his arm – a connection strong enough for the follow to feel the lead’s body shift, signaling a turn. A turn and a half, coupled with a quick pass from one hand to the other puts the follow in shadow, with the pair walking side by side. Another turn and pass of the hands leads to cuddles, with the lead’s arm draped across her back, her body leaning slightly back against his.

Or course, such proximity has great potential for situations of supreme awkwardness. When facing the lead, I personally prefer to stare at a point at eye level, just to the left of the lead’s head. If he’s really tall, it ends up being a point somewhere on his chest. But then there’s that one guy who insists on making eye contact so he’s just staring at your eyes the entire time so every time you chance to look up he’s like gazing into your soul and it’s like what do you even do? Or there’s that other guy who doesn’t realize that it’s hand ON the shoulder blade, not under? Like pls no stop let’s not go there it’s kinda weird now

As one song concludes, the pulsing beat of a typical west coast song begins. After a quick survey of not-taken west coasters in the crowd, I pointedly make eye contact with Isaac. His normally stoic expression relaxes into a smirk as he takes my hand, guiding me onto the dance floor.

West coast is my favorite style of social dance, by far. It’s a slot dance, meaning that the dancers stay in a line, sort of in a confined spot of dance floor. It’s unique in that it’s characterized by a very spring-y push-and-pull tension between the lead and follow. In the most ungraceful of terms, the lead tosses the follow around – her job is just to keep on moving, following Newton’s first law to a T.  

If you watch two people who are any good at west coast, you might notice that there’s also tension of another sort between the two. With each sugar push, their faces get dangerously close before the lead propels the follow backwards again. Triple steps can be slow and languid, sometimes slow enough to throw some tasteful hip motion into the mix. More complicated spins sometimes involve catching the follow round the waist before sending her flying again with some well-timed hair flips. And with Isaac’s style of leading, he’ll throw some unexpected Jive in there, suddenly switching to closed position and seesawing around a couple of times before spinning me back out again.

When the song ends, a couple that had been keeping to themselves approaches us, asking what kind of dance we just did. Isaac shrugs. “It’s called west coast swing.”

Excitedly, the guy continues. “Cause y’all were like, man. Whoo!” He fans himself in an obviously exaggerated manner, but it gets his point across.

        One of my favorite jokes comes from a joke-a-day calendar that I got as a gift years and years ago. I’ve long since misplaced that little piece of paper, but it goes something like this:

        One night, it was raining so hard that it began to flood. Our protagonist – let’s call him Steve – happened to be inside a building at the moment. As the streets began to flood, a rescue crew drove up in a truck. “Get in the truck, we’re trying to save you!” They yelled, motioning for him to come over. But Steve refused to budge and yelled back, “No, God will save me!” So they drove away, leaving Steve still inside the building.

The floodwaters began to rise, forcing Steve to go up to the second story of the building. A rescue boat happened to stop by. “Get in the boat, we’re trying to save you!” Yet again, Steve’s reply was “No, God will save me!” So they floated away.

The building itself was starting to flood, so Steve retreated to the roof. A rescue helicopter hovered overhead. “Get in the helicopter, we’re trying to save you!” But once more, Steve’s reply was “No, God will save me!” So they flew away, leaving Steve behind.

Unfortunately, Steve died. At the pearly gates, he asked Saint Peter, “Why didn’t God save me?”

Peter looks up at him, shaking his head. “He tried! He sent you a truck, a boat, AND a helicopter!”

Why do I mention this now? Maybe it’s because I’m in a similar situation…maybe? Here’s the lowdown: at !gnite this past summer I felt convicted to give up going abroad during the summer to commit to CSMP. So that’s what I did – the deadline for the maymester and summer abroad applications came and went, and I didn’t even bother applying (tbh I was too busy to, anyhow). Dental school offers started rolling in, and so far I’ve gotten into 2 out of the 3 Texas schools: San Antonio and Houston. The thing is, my first choice is still Dallas for a number of reasons. Basically, they have a really strong public health focus (what I want to do in the future!!) and many outreach programs, and students get a lot more clinical experience there than at other schools. Additionally, the start date is in mid-August, meaning I could go on CSMP. San Antonio is my second choice, but they start in late July (no CSMP). And honestly I wasn’t really feeling it at the Houston school (even though technically I would be able to go on CSMP if I went there)

So where does that leave me? In a limbo where I’m praying that Dallas sends me something, and soon. Initially I wasn’t very concerned about it, but the new dentist at the office I go to casually mentioned how she also got the same two offers, and never heard back from Dallas. That scared me. What if Dallas never gets back to me too? I really liked that school, and I really do want to go on CSMP. If it doesn’t work out, I can already feel the bitterness that would well up at missing one of my last opportunities to study abroad for, well, nothing.

There is one thing, though. My health professions advisor told me that I could actually write a letter and send it to Dallas, explaining why I specifically want to go to that school. I didn’t give it much thought until that one dentist told me about her own experience. It may not do much, but it’s worth a shot, right? Could this be the truck/boat/helicopter that I’ve been pushing away? Or am I looking at the situation in completely the wrong way? Where is the line between praying by faith that one certain something will happen and accepting that God has a plan that we may not understand? As a beloved sister propositioned me, where’s the line between praying by faith that something will happen and simply being proactive? And even if Dallas did send me something, the main dentist at the office unintentionally screwed me over when he recommended that I don’t go to Dallas even if I do get an offer – the area is not very safe, apparently. And to my super-paranoid Asian parents, that’s the worst possible thing he could have said.

Were things too easy, too predictable before? Is this God’s way of saying “trust me” in an area where I honestly felt like I didn’t need much faith?

        And without faith it is impossible to please God, because anyone who comes to him must believe that he exists and that he rewards those who earnestly seek him. 

[Part one here]

        I think it’s safe to say that I’ve mastered the art of the silent cry. Eyes straight ahead, looking past the car window and staring unblinkingly at the drab scenery as it passes by. Tears welling up and leaking out, rolling in a well-established trail down my face. Stubbornly refusing to let even a single sniffle escape – I would rather let the mucus sit there than let the whole car know I’m crying with that one telltale sign.

When people casually ask how home has been, I crank out some variation of “good” or “relaxing.”  And that isn’t a lie, it has been a nice change of pace into a slower way of life. I’ve had nice conversations with family, eaten some heavenly home-cooked food, and gotten to sleep a lot more (my chronically sleep-deprived body will invariably wake me up before 8, however). I do miss my Austin peeps, but I’m determined to spend some quality time with family first, seeing how my breaks at home will only get shorter from here on out.

Then there are the other things. I think it’s fair to say I’m a pretty teachable person – if someone points out something to me, I do take it seriously. Even if it does hurt a bit, it’s not like I have to swallow a mountain of pride to acknowledge that they may be right. That goes for pretty much everyone but … my dad. Sometimes I credit my dad for making me into a feminist – not because he’s a feminist, but because I hated our family dynamic. I want to clarify that this is not an abusive family situation – in some ways, I won the parent lottery. But as a kid, I grew up listening to lecture after lecture from my dad, directed not just at me, but at my brother and mom (who never lectures back) as well. I didn’t like my dad’s brusque tone of voice when telling my mom to do something. I didn’t like doing things, or not doing things just to avoid a lecture or getting yelled at by my dad. You probably wouldn’t guess it looking at me now, but I was essentially trained to keep my mouth shut about things I wasn’t happy about by my well-meaning mother. In her experience, fighting with my dad had only made things worse, so the best solution was for me to just swallow my frustration and be a good girl to keep the peace. Of course, this is problematic because my dad probably thinks everything is just fine when it’s…not.

It’s taken a decent amount of time away from home to be able to characterize the situation in coherent terms, and I think I’ve made progress. Opportunities to address it have been popping up. A few days ago, some guys who were renovating our stairs needed my dad to buy something from home depot. He ran out about half an hour before my mom and I needed to leave for our dental appointments, forgetting his phone in the rush. Fifteen minutes later, we get a call from the store phone at Home Depot – I can’t find it at this home depot so I need to drive to the other one, cancel the dentist appointments! Fuming, my mom calls and calls, but the receptionist at the office doesn’t pick up. In the end, my dad rushes back in and we leave for the dentist’s. The receptionist promises to hold our spots for an additional 20 minutes, and we make it there in the nick of time.

The next day, my mom forgets the offering number at church (or something like that), so she can’t turn in the offering that day. As we buckle into the car, we all brace ourselves for a lecture, and my dad does not disappoint. In hindsight, it probably wasn’t a good idea for me to drive. My fingers tighten around the steering wheel, and I have to stop myself from saying anything until we’re safely cruising along the highway. To make a long story short, I simply told my dad how I felt – how we were all frustrated yesterday, and how that was other people’s time we would have wasted if we cancelled those appointments. I understood that he was in a difficult situation at the time, and I affirmed that. Later, I clarified that I wasn’t mad that he had to improvise, but that if would be nice if he at least recognized that he put us through all that crap (paraphrased) with at least a “thank you” or a “sorry about that.” And here’s the real kicker – you know what he said? He said “I guess that’s an American thing.”

??!?!?!!?!?!??!?!?????????!?!?!?!?!!??!!? Appreciating other people for gracefully handling your shit is an American thing?????!?!?!?!!?!?!?!?!???!??????!!!!!???

The thing about the silent cry is that it comes from pride. If something did hurt, I learned early on to put on a façade and pretend that it didn’t. Crying was a sign of weakness, that something did really affect me when that’s precisely what I didn’t want people to think. As a kid, it usually was a sad, hurt kind of cry. Then it evolved into an annoying cry that liked to pop up during heated debates (that probably don’t even count as fights) and render me a babbling, incoherent mess – game over, I forfeit. Yesterday, we were almost late to Andrew’s piano lesson (that never starts on time anyway) because we were prepping for an Asian potluck happening right after. And then my dad jumped right into lecture mode while he was driving and I just couldn’t take it anymore – no, Dad,  there wasn’t any way Mom could prepare the party food any faster because she had to do a load of laundry in the morning before church, and then heat up our lunch when we got back from church. If anything it was my fault, I should have helped her more. I refused to speak any more after that, because it already started – the angry cry. White-hot frustration with nowhere else to go found its way to my eyes, forcing the tears out. I hated it. I hated the fact that I was crying, I hated all the lecturing, but even more so I hated that sense that I had lost, that my dad had come out morally on top in this argument. And then I hated the fact that I felt like there had to be a winner in this relationship, and that it always turned out to be my dad. Why couldn’t I be right – not even once? But then why was this even a contest?

        “Jack, why is social dance so fun? We go to slosh and literally do the exact same thing with the exact same people every week – how is it still fun?”

“Yeah,” He nods, then bobs his head in thought. “I don’t know.” He laughs, and his face splits into a characteristic grin. But our pace doesn’t slow down one bit as we make the trek to Jester for our weekly dance fix.

As I sit in my apartment, slowly trudging through chapter after chapter of physics, I turn to the slosh playlist for motivation. Listening to each track, I immediately match each song with a dance style. Locked Away? Salsa. Jealous? West coast swing. King of Anything? One step. I find this happening almost automatically with songs I hear outside of a dance context as well; after a quick analysis of the tempo and feel of any song, I’ll slap a label on it. Typical pop song? Nice beat, but too slow for west coast. Nightclub it is, then. Well, unless you want a really sultry west coast…

Jack and I find our way to the area just outside J2, arriving fashionably late. A slosh leader – Kevin, probably – scrawls our names on strips of masking tape, hands us our makeshift nametags, and directs us to the lesson already in progress. It’s two-step, which frankly isn’t the most exciting dance out there. Quick-quick-slow, slow, we mosey along the perimeter to the mellow strumming of “Chicken Fried.”

My attendance at slosh this year has been near-perfect. I went intermittently during freshman year before dropping out completely, then picking it back up in full force last year. Where I was once perfectly fine with skipping a few Saturday nights, now the siren call of FOMO is too much – even if I already know the dance, I dutifully drag myself to slosh for reasons that vary from week to week. Oh, Justin is teaching this week – I should go support him! Oh, I promised Anna I would go and I can’t let her down! Actually, it’s been a stressful week and I deserve a break…

I’m still sitting in the kitchen of my apartment while staring blankly at my physics textbook, but in my mind Tori Kelly’s belting has sent me to the dance floor – one, two, sug-ar push, tri-ple step. One, two, left-side-pass, tri-ple step. The beat drops and I’m launched into a series of spins before being reined back in again, tri-ple step.

Why do I love social dance so much? It’s hard to say. Dancing is fun in and of itself, I suppose. Maybe after a lifetime of awkward dancing (I was told I danced like an awkward noodle in high school), it’s nice to actually find a style I’m good at. It isn’t difficult to reach a level in social dance that looks impressive to the casual observer – run through a couple of basic steps, a turn, and a free spin, and voila, you’ll look like a pro.

         Home is nice. Home is where family is, where I can wallow in the decadence of home-cooked meals; it’s where I can bicker with my brother and feel twelve again, or willingly sacrifice academic productivity for a precious conversation with my mom or dad that goes beyond “what did you have for lunch?”

But home can be difficult as well. Spend enough time at home, and soon the old problems begin to resurface again. Issues that I was cognizant of as a child, but never quite knew how to verbalize – things that I still can’t fully articulate even as an adult.

My time in college has taught me just how wonderfully, terribly complicated people can be. The more I learn in Austin, the more equipped I feel to handle interacting with family. I go home, confidently armed to fix whatever’s going on only to retreat to my room and find that my toolbox is full of plastic wrenches and flimsy cardboard nails and I really don’t know how to fix anything at all. I seethe at my own inability and fall into the same patterns of behavior from before college, while wondering how I could possibly be a good witness to my parents if I act pretty much the same as high-school Angela. Then I begin to wonder if God has changed me at all since college, since finding this renewed and wonderful relationship with Him. And my biggest fear is that He hasn’t.

I keep quiet about what’s really bothering me to avoid making ripples in the water that I can’t take back. I vent and rant to well-meaning friends on facebook, yet the only answer I get is to wait and not do anything rash, to keep on being a blessing and witness to them. But I don’t want to sit and wait, because I’ve spent the last 21 years waiting and not saying anything and it’s been slowly killing me inside. I feel like a child, trapped in this cycle of being angry and on-edge, then releasing it the same way I have for 21 years – letting it simmer away and die with time, while the problem still remains unresolved. It’s gotten even easier to do so with college – I go home just long enough to wear out my welcome, then conveniently retreat back to Austin before I can get angry again.

What makes it so complicated is that I understand what each member of my family is struggling with – at least, enough to sympathize with them. It’s the interaction of all these factors – like my dad snapping at my mom, but knowing that he’s really stressed and tired from his hyper-competitive job – that prevents a clear-cut solution.