Thank You

Before I start, I thought two pieces of information would be worth sharing:

1) Remember my 40-year old Korean roommate from the summer sublet? Mr. Stoic Eyes and Grimly Set Lips? Mr. Threesome with Teddy Bears? Well he recently e-mailed me offering to share his place for the winter if I should happen to stay in Boston. In other words, he misses me. Did I tell you this guy was married? If I am able to complete the life of a married man who is halfway through his expiration date, imagine what I can do for girls my age. Eazy.

2) There is a Youtube video of Celion Dion's single "My Heart Will Go On" accompanied by footage from Titanic. It's 4 minutes and 26 seconds, and quite frankly, the most stirring, poignant 4 minutes and 26 seconds I have been a part of. Do you want to know whether love is real? Listen to my girl Celion testify. She says her heart will go on wherever you are. That's right - both near and far, boys and girls. Anyway I mention this because I recently found out that Titanic was actually a passenger steamboat and not some fancy cruise ship. So that means if Leonardo and Kate had made it, they might've actually started a family together in the U.S. I don't know, that really broke my heart.

Ok, now back to the present. I've been thinking hard the last couple days trying to sum up 2010 in some eloquent, bigger-than-myself commentary on our generation's zeitgeist, the kind of discourse about our identities, beliefs, and behavior set in the background of a supremely satisfying hope for progress that is at once sobering and uplifting. I wanted to deliver that deep, ethereal shit about our challenges and successes as a civilization that shakes you to the core, the ornate expressions and the vibe of interconnectedness (immigrants and black people, you too!) that make you think as you drive home, "Goddamn, the world is in good hands and I fucking love life." But I started thinking about 2010, and the first and only things that came to my head were people I should thank. And people I kind of love, to the extent that Min Lee can love. Which, in retrospect, got a serious upgrade for a reason I can't explain. I will remember 2010 as the year I really cared about people who deserved that from me a while ago, as well as the strangers who didn't. Because when I think about all people, good and bad, I can only wonder about the thoughts and emotions that cross their minds, the minds of which I know nothing about, and marvel at the seconds which turn into minutes which turn into hours which turn into days and years during which they grew, learned, and interacted, unbeknownst to me, to arrive at the moment of our encounter. Oddly, that fact strikes me as very beautiful.

So aside from thanking my awesome family and friends who have made this year and my life in general a pleasure to live, I am grateful for the following special people/entities, knowing I am making flagrant omissions:

-Harvard security guards and police department: There have been times, I admit, when I have seriously questioned your intimidation factor and physical ability to chase down younger scoundrels with fresher legs. And the litany of unsavory accident reports this year is certainly not encouraging. But I know you're always concerned about our safety and doing your best, and I appreciate the extra vigilance sent my way when I'm walking outside with my hamper at 3 a.m.

-Harvard dining/cafeteria staff: I still don't understand how pad thai can taste sour, and why General Gao's chicken and General Gao's sauce are served on separate days. But I know there is a method to your madness, and I certainly appreciate your sincere efforts to cater to the tastes of us Asian folks. Thank you for delivering the most nutritious and culturally sensitive menu possible. I love your tater tots and fried calamari. Cafeteria staff, thank you for always being courteous and friendly and asking us how our days are going - it's a great pleasure.

-Boston weather: Cloudy and rainy days here and there, lots of wind, and capricious as always, but a lot milder than the end of last year, me thinks. Also, you were beautiful in the spring and summer.

-Quad Life: Living in the Quad has been a terrible inconvenience at times, especially waiting for the shuttle in the winter. But I love my giant single where I can blast The Next Episode, and the unobstructed view of night sky from the Cabot yard. I am also thankful for the sense of community and removal from hubbub of Harvard Square, unique to the Quad.

-Drunk girls: I hate to say this but I absolutely love how I seem way more fucking awesome when you are intoxicated out of your minds. You always laugh even when I am not trying to be funny and give me hugs over and over, as if you are continually meeting me for the first time. I try to keep an eye out, though, because yes, bad things happen when you are drunk enough to mistake me for your dad.

-Server at Chipotle: I still haven't learned your name after all these visits but I am thankful for the generous portions of lime-cilantro rice, fajita vegetables, and marinated chicken, the deftness of your hands that leave them safely nestled in the embrace of mother tortilla, the casual inquiry about my interest in obtaining a cup of water, and the cheerful "How is your day going?" within the 10 seconds of wrapping the burrito in foil, placing it in the red basket, and processing my debit card payment. If you were a chick, I would've asked you out already.

-Atdhe.net: Thanks to your courageous defense of every human being's right to enjoy Laker games, I have not missed the fourth quarter of a single game this season. This also means I fail to get any work done from about 12 to 1 a.m. but hey, life is about setting priorities.

-Kobe Bryant: You nearly shot the Lakers out of their 2009 NBA Title and are sucking right now. But you are the reason I've been watching the Lakers for the last eleven years. As I've watched those pull-ups and fadeaways clink off the rim this season, I am realizing I took you for granted when those used to be automatic.

-LeBron James: Your unique brand of douchebaggery has made Kobe look like a saint. Thank you.

-And last but not least, my blog readers: "I don't care who you are, where you're from, what you did, as long as you love me."

Thanks y'all for a great 2010.

Being a Good Person

I know this isn't news to anyone, but I'm really an old man stuck in a 20-year old's body. Some of you know that I've been alive since 4000 B.C., when I had the all-important task of blessing the Nile and ancient people of Egypt with the vital force contained within my balls. But even if you don't, you are already familiar with my sluggish gait and weary gaze. For those of you who had the unenviable challenge of planning my surprise birthday party, you are well aware of the versatility of my blank face expression. And the last time I dreamed about touching boobies, Stephon Marbury was a decent basketball player and Pluto was still a planet. Good times.

So given my knack for finding stability in life, what happened this semester came as bit of a surprise. I thought I was done with this whole self-discovery business but boy, was I wrong. First came the realization that despite never having heard the word "spooning" prior to my trip to the Dominican Republic, I had been spooning a pillow for the past 15 years. This is convergent evolution at work, folks. Then came the discovery that auditory stimulus, particularly the voice of Mandy Moore, could enhance my ramen experience. I allowed myself to completely succumb to the two-pronged attack mounted by the sweetness of her disposition and the spiciness of Shin bowl, a combination so good it bordered on sexual. But perhaps the most significant change was gaining new insights into my lifelong goal of becoming a good person. I'm glad it happened because there is nothing that matters more to me.

Like most good things in life, morality is complex stuff. Many say it's a useful societal tool for human coexistence and may have been selected evolutionarily because social behavior in which personal desires and interests are held in check for the benefit of the group promotes survival and reproduction. Our collective moral consciousness, manifested in laws and social functions, thus helps ensure the well-being and equal treatment of individuals. Yet most of us would also agree that our identities - what makes us us - are entrenched in our unique sense of right and wrong. So even though we may be exposed to the same societal moral standards, we develop differing sets of values and can argue about them. And our behavior is motivated by the discerning power of our moral perspective, not the societal one. I think one can also talk about moral beliefs as those grounded in logical constructions or emotional appeal. For instance, I believe in government providing welfare programs because I know that human beings are born into positions of life that are inherently unequal, through no fault of their own. That would be primarily a logical stance. If I were given a knife and told to kill either a moving animal or a plant, I would choose the plant not because I believe the plant's life is worth more than the animal's, but because I would be less squeamish about killing the plant. That's a decision driven by emotion. Though the distinctions I have made - societal, individual, logical, emotional - are not mutually exclusive or set in stone, I mention them because I've forgotten one or quite a few in the past.

Back in high school, I really enjoyed volunteering, as I do now, even though I didn't think much about the societal impact of my work. There were teens at the Braille Institute, kids at the Boys and Girls Club, and elders at the nursing home who expressed their gratitude to me, and that was all the validation I needed to keep going. But if you had asked me about my future career then or even last year? Doctor, I would have said with some unease. The truth was, I was on the bandwagon without really thinking it through. I've always gravitated toward a career in medicine for no really good reason at all, except that I kind of like biology, doctors do some form of helping people while making good money. So in summary, I was confusing myself on multiple fronts. I had neglected to objectively and critically assess the impact of my service, complacent with the idea that I genuinely cared about the folks I was helping, and they genuinely cared back. And as for my career choice, I was basing the decision not on where my humanitarian contribution to the world can be the greatest - a logical approach that places the interests of others above mine - but on which career can bestow me comfortable living as well as the assurance that I was making a positive impact on the lives of others - a selfish delusion to grant myself just enough emotional satisfaction to evade the truth that I don't care as much about the world as I should. I needed to stop fooling myself.

Confronting these questions, though, didn't turn out to be easy. The beginning of my freshman spring semester, I fully immersed myself in volunteer activities eager to make solid, tangible contributions. The range of opportunities to do meaningful work available to undergraduates, I thought to myself, would far exceed anything I had seen in high school. To some extent, this was true. I've had the privilege of being a part of some amazing organizations that meet important social needs in a sustainable way. Yet the immediate gratification I had been seeking, that unequivocal desirable outcome arising from my efforts which would quickly feedback onto my conscience, was often missing. Keeping the homeless company at the shelter wasn't enough for me. Despite my share of small successes at LIFT, an organization offering one-on-one client service to residents in the Boston area who need services in employment, housing, and public benefits, I STILL have not helped a client find a job. And in my short stint as a suicide hotline volunteer, I have already caught myself wishing that someone who is acutely suicidal would call.

And as for my career choice? The insidious voice of "logic" mocked my decision to abandon a career in medicine.' If you could make a lot of money, you could put it to good use by donating to NGOs and charities,' the voice would whisper to me. 'How are you going to do good in this world if you don't have money? The world doesn't need your compassion or your unconditional respect; it needs your money. If you want to really help people, be a doctor. Doctors can actually save lives. Only doctors can actually save those malaria, HIV, and TB patients in developing countries. You can't even do CPR. But you know what, you have no reason to try to pick a career that helps people. You do realize that there are no careers designated for people helpers. You can become a rapper, businessman, basketball player, barber, singer, or writer, and you can still do good for other people. Are you saying these people are not as morally good or important to the world as your doctors and humanitarians?' Of course not, I would say. The voice is absolutely right.

The only way I can reconcile these competing voices inside my head - and I'm going to borrow the playbook of Confucius here - is to remember that the world is more than words and actions. A doctor's successful performance of a life-saving surgery, a wealthy investor's generous donation to international development agency, an undergraduate student's success in helping a client find a job - none of these is sufficient to claim that the individual is morally good. What matters more than observable accomplishments is one's character and inner condition. A truly realized person always makes genuine efforts to treat others the way he/she wants to be treated, always channels the sense of right and wrong in all things, small and big. A truly benevolent person never forgets the urgency of the struggle for a more just world. And when life doesn't yield the desired outcomes, one just has to keep going. A moral life is a daily and never-ending one, and I am fortunate to have many teachers along this journey. So here is a toast to an enlightening 2010, and a better Min Lee and a better you in 2011. Cheers!

Dear College Girls - Dec 2010

Dear College Girls,

Well, another semester has gone by since I last wrote, and as promised, I am writing again. For those of you who are done with finals, congratulations on surviving what seemed to be a mentally and emotionally exhausting semester for many of us. For those of you who are done with finals and took organic chemistry, congratulations on making it back to Earth safely. And the rest of you who still have shit to do, you are almost liberated so keep your head up. Whether you are heading home for the break or not, I hope you all take the time to sleep in, be titillated, and cuddle with animate or inanimate objects. I leave the order up to you.

For me, I will always remember this semester as a particularly laborious and tiring one, much more so than it looks on paper, and for a number of reasons I may or may not explain later. But let's talk about you, girls. I know we didn't get to talk a whole lot, and with some of you, I spent the whole semester trying to come up with a time we could meet for a meal. I apologize for my elusiveness, and the headache, coughing, and fever that some of you subsequently experienced as a result of the Min Withdrawal Syndrome. But even though we may have not talked much or seen each other often, don't think for a second that I was not concerned about you. I mentioned last time that I want all of you to be confident and proud females who understand the dynamics of college relationships and make sound decisions that sit well with you. For the most part, I saw this happening but there was one area of concern.

According to Wikipedia, the first evidence of leggings dates back to 14th century Europe. Both men and women wore them at the time, and because of their "warmth and protection", they were later adopted by French fur trappers, mountain men, and even Native Americans. I tend to believe that Native Americans probably were the first to craft these delicious skin huggers, perhaps using the fur of woolly mammoths, but you get the general idea. Leggings have been around for a while. So the apparent resurgence of gossamer goody in your closets doesn't surprise me too much, although I can't help but think that leggings nowadays confer more than just warmth and protection from the frigid Boston winds. Yes, they also look extremely velvety and probably offer a sensation superior to the one I had when I slept without a shirt on for the first time. That was about two weeks ago.

But I just want to say that you should not at all feel pressured to fit into a semi-translucent tube if you don't gain pleasure from the soft, warm fabric. Everyone wants to look good in public, but some of you put extra undue burden on yourself to look good in front of a particular male appendage. While this may achieve short-term gains (see: club floor), it really obfuscates your search for a genuine and loving partner, if you care about such a thing. All you are doing is selecting for a partner who loves your body and the way it fits into those leggings. Yes, the penis power only grows stronger as a result.

If you are still interested in putting together a provocative appearance, though, I humbly put forth the recommendation of hoop earrings. Let me first dispel a common myth: hoop earrings are not the exclusive cultural property of dwellers of Central and South America. It has merely been well observed that absolute sexiness is achieved when they don these aural treasures. Any patent that may have existed has now expired, and you are free to add hoop earrings to your apparel as well. The beauty of hoop earrings is that they single-handedly proffer a nuanced presentation of your character, projecting both elegance and sordidness, radiance of innocence and shadows of desire. When done right, they manage to convey a dignified, unassuming beauty while hinting at darker corridors that open to your soul. Kind of like yin and yang, really.

So why should you try hoop earrings? There is profuse evidence to suggest that organisms are hard-wired with sexual preferences for certain morphological traits. Female platyfishes, for example, are inherently more attracted to male platyfishes with long sword tails whether these tails are natural or not. Although lack of funding opportunities has prevented me from exploring the appeal of symmetric circular jewelry in humans, aside from consulting my own opinions, I strongly believe it is universal. More importantly, all of you have access to this advantageous trait. But because it can be difficult to navigate the tremendous variety of colors, sizes, and styles of hoop earrings, I have included videos that may help.

Rest up over this winter break, and I wish all of you a merry and safe holiday season. Until January, farewell my lovely boos.

Sincerely,

Min

Dear College Girls

Dear College Girls,

It's been a long three months since I've seen you. I hope you all had wonderful summers. Why, mine was fabulous, thank you for asking. As much as I dread returning to a world where I have to think critically and produce coherent thoughts, I do look forward to our reunion. And yes, that includes you tall sassy things who reach for those Annenberg ranger cookies above my shoulder when I'm standing in front of you in line. I foresee another memorable and fun-filled year ahead of us, whether or not you decide to invite me into your lives. Because my idea of memorable and fun is often at odds with the mainstream college culture. And that's ok. This isn't about me. This is about you.

You see, I am no meteorologist but I do possess an acumen about a very similar topic - the tempest of emotions. And I am forecasting a very active dating season coming up. For those of you lucky enough to be committed in long-term relationships already (who considers the situation lucky is anyone's guess), chances are that you haven't had the chance to see him regularly over the summer. And if you have, most of your girlfriends didn't see you guys making out so what's the fun in that? For you, the number one priority upon arriving on campus is to evaluate the status of your current relationship. Is he still worth your time when other guys have added ten more pounds of muscle and new swag? If yes, does he think you are still worth his time? And all the single ladies out there, you are just about dying to get your hands up to some dirty Weezy shit. Maybe some of you got a quick summer fix from hitting the clubs and your homeboy's house parties a couple times but you know you can do better in fall 2010. In the offseason, you made some key acquisitions like new mascara and flatter stomach. You are ready to wake up from the estivation of passion and make a splash in the dating scene in a big, big way.

Ok, I am exaggerating. Not all of you are starved for lovin'. Some of you will be just fine with those ranger cookies. But we really are due for a flurry of activity. And what saddens me is that chivalry will have little to do with it. Dave Chapelle is right. Chivalry is dead. I don't know how long college dating has been this way, or who killed it, but the fact of the matter is, hooking up is currently the customary way to meet desirable partners however long they fulfill that role. To be honest, girls, I don't know how I feel about it. On one hand, it seems incredibly shallow and inane. I could never bring myself to share moments of intimacy with people I hardly know. The idea of drinking until one loses control and awareness, in full anticipation of a higher susceptibility to this behavior, seems particularly pathetic. On the other hand, it is a very effective system in theory. You meet a lot of people, fast. There is no established friendship to salvage, no difficult emotions to confront. And there is very little misunderstanding to be had. Everyone's pretty much on the same page. Like molecules, you collide frequently enough and you'll get some chemistry going.

I like chivalry, but I'm not about to tell you girls whether or not to be shallow. That's deep personal shit you have to ponder for yourself. But I do want to give a piece of grandfatherly advice. Do yourself a favor and remember that you are all special and beautiful people with wonderful things to contribute to the world and your future lover. Don't let anyone take that away from you. As human beings, we are naturally prone to feeling self-conscious, unloved, and just not good enough. I am here to tell you that there are at least two people in the world who think you are good enough. That's Jesus and me. I think that just about sums up the people whose opinions matter. So the next time a guy makes you feel insecure, please don't go around offering your vagina to whoever wants it. And please don't retaliate against the male race by becoming mean, conniving, and irrational lovers. It's natural to act out when you don't feel loved, but it's not worth your dignity. Talk it out with your girlfriends and get some fried chicken. As long as you are relatively nice and sane, you will meet that special person.

This will most likely be my last post until January and I hope the next time I write, you will write back telling me how happy and confident you are, committed or single. Here's to a fun and generous dating season.

Sincerely,

Min

Trip to the Dominican Republic

Making a positive impact on the lives of others is like making a good sandwich in two major ways: 1) some women are great at it 2) it's really hard to do. In fact, it's difficult enough not to fuck up another person's life while we inhabit this planet. I'm not just referring to flagrant moral offenses like killing a man while driving drunk, cheating on your loved one, and breaking the hearts of your hometown fans in a one-hour ESPN special. As human beings, we constantly make poor decisions, hurt people's feelings, and fail at altruism. When flying cupids bring me before God for the final judgment, I'm sure he will have an accounting notebook with all this shit written down.

Because it's so hard to do good in this world, even on a microcosmic scale, I have become intrigued by international development and global health. People working in these fields aim to benefit entire families, communities, populations, and countries. If successful, projects can alleviate the burden of disease, poverty, and conflict on a whole lot of people. But as Beyonce will tell you, things in life can be sweet dreams or beautiful nightmares. Working with the best of intentions is never enough to guarantee that theories and plans for helping people will unfold as they should, if not horribly backfire. Still, this hasn't stopped much of the world from voicing the belief that development can, and should be, done well. I've been curious to learn how.

This is why the opportunity to travel to the Dominican Republic to work with Children of the Border this summer really appealed to me. Children of the Border is a locally run NGO directed by Harvard Ph.D candidate and resident tutor Sebastian Velez that provides a wide range of services to rural underserved communities in the border region between Dominican Republic and Haiti. It runs a clinic for pregnant women who cannot be admitted into hospitals, works with a local doctor to monitor children's nutrition and distribute supplements, and provides contraception programs. Last winter, it teamed with a group of Harvard undergraduates with experience in water chlorination to address the community's dire need for clean water. Children of the Border hires both Dominican and Haitian employees and serves both populations with its projects, part of an effort to tackle the ethnic tensions that trace their roots to colonial times.

After spending quite a bit of time this past school year doing necessary research and making detailed preparations, our team of 10 undergraduates and Sebastian set off on a two-week trip to the community of Las Mercedes hoping to accomplish two main objectives: 1) install a manual well pump to provide a stable water source to the community 2) design and implement a census of the community that identifies its needs and yields useful indicators of individuals' state of health. The importance of both is clear. Ever since the solar panels powering the electrical submersible pump in the community's lone well were stolen, villagers have been hard pressed to obtain enough water for daily living. They collect rainwater in polluted containers or walk two to three hours to a canal with water containing E. coli. A manual well pump, combined with continuation of the chlorination program, would provide easier access to cleaner water. The census would be first of its kind and crucial for understanding the people we are serving as well as communicating to them about the work of Children of the Border. There are no records of exactly how many people live in Las Mercedes, or what defines Las Mercedes. The more isolated communities deeper in the mountains are even less known.

To sum up how I feel the trip went, it was successful, rewarding, and loads of fun. I am a bit disappointed in myself because I was really scatterbrained at times and allowed the heat, mosquitoes, and sickness to hinder my full engagement with the project. But I had a fabulous time - the main highlights are outlined below:

Well Pump




This may be hard to believe, but actual installation of the manual Simplepump we had purchased in the U.S. turned out to be one of the simpler tasks of the project. Before we even had a shot at putting 300 feet of PVC pipe into the well, we had several hurdles to climb, such as designing a well cap that could accommodate both the existing submersible pump in the well and our new manual one. Like a lot of things, it could not have happened without the help of the community's extremely capable welder, Jortkey. Another challenge was using an electric probe to determine the water level of the well and see whether there are any obstacles inside the casing to prevent entry of our pump. The electric probe is essentially 500 feet of wire attached to a sounder that beeps when one end of the wire hits water. I can't count how many hours we spent tangling and untangling that thing.

To make a long story short, we installed the pump and got it working. I was actually MIA with sickness when the first water spouted from the pump head, which is a shame, but the team that stuck around until 11 p.m. to finish troubleshooting the pump had extra fun for me at the village afterparty where members of the community celebrated with killing of a pig. One of the coolest things I did see, though, was farmers from the fields coming to the well site during installation and singing for us as we worked.



You know that inexplicable tenderness that sweeps over you when you look into the eyes of a newborn baby? Well, me neither. But I imagine it's something akin to what I felt when I saw families trickling in to fill their water containers at the well after the pump had been installed. Kids in particular really enjoyed themselves.

Census



I was not directly involved with the survey team, but I did have a chance to follow them around for a day as they sought out residents living in the higher mountain regions. In these deeper rural areas, houses are spread far apart and families even more distant from proper medical care and dependable water sources. It was really awesome to see the survey team communicate with them fluently in Spanish and Creole and to see the villagers receptive to their questions. The team ended up surveying over 80 households, a ridiculous number considering the distance they had to walk throughout the day. They also dealt with harrowing challenges including giant tarantulas and infants eager to urinate.

Community Meetings



We held a series of community meetings at a kind of gazebo hall in Las Mercedes, informing villagers about developments in installation of the pump and discussing with them plans for maintenance and upkeep after we leave. Our goal has always been to get them involved and invested at multiple steps in our project so that they have control over its direction and make it sustainable; we are only there to facilitate and provide resources. In the second meeting, the villagers voted in a four-person well committee to look after the pump and the rest of the community water system. Our only conditions were that it would be split evenly in ethnicity and gender (two Dominicans, two Haitians, and two men, two women). Because my Spanish is absolutely horrible, I was generally clueless about what transpired at the meetings until the Spanish speakers in our team debriefed me later. Many times, for instance, I thought the villagers who spoke at the meetings were angry with us but it turns out they were showing us a lot of lovin'.

People



Interacting with members of local communities was definitely one of the major highlights of my trip. I was constantly surrounded by incredibly nice and welcoming people who had the patience to put up with my shitty Spanish. Even people I didn't know very well would offer me handshakes and hugs. What also struck me about people of Las Mercedes was their level of excitement and engagement with our projects. There were always people watching our work at the well site and offering their assistance. In one instance, a man named Manuel took his entire afternoon off to help a team member and me investigate the community's system of water pipes and tanks. We hadn't brought a fluent Spanish speaker with us so the poor guy had to repeat everything he said about five times.

Food

Lilila, the mother of one of Children of the Border's field staff, did most of the cooking for us, and it was fabulous. Rice and beans with chicken, fried plantain chips, guacamole, and eggplant were some of my favorites. Fried chicken has to taste good when the chicken was alive just 30 minutes ago. All natural fruit juices helped us beat the heat, especially the lemonade. My favorite, though, was the papaya or a cocktail of fruits including the papaya, which managed to taste like beef jerky.

Tanning

The Dominican sun pretty much charbroiled my pale Korean skin. Toward the end of the trip, my face, neck, and forearms were darker than those of some Dominicans. It was really cool because when I looked into the mirror, the whites of my eyes and my teeth shone out a bit, which was kind of sexy. Unfortunately, only two days since my arrival in Boston, my tan has already faded.

Creatures



The insects in Dominican Republic are fucking gangsters. If there were an insect prison, they would make inmates from everywhere else their bitches. Web-weaving spiders over there turn telephone poles and entire trees into giant saran wraps of death. The cockroaches are not only huge and have extra long antennaes but can also fly. That's like giving Sarah Palin supporters two votes in an election. Also, the lizards, aside from avoiding the shade because they think shade is for pussies, do push-ups in their spare time. Absolutely ridiculous. Other creatures I saw include tarantulas, land crabs, fire ants, and giant, giant moths.

Karate



What happens when a community really really loves Jet Li, Bruce Lee, and Jackie Chan movies and rarely encounters Asian people in real life? They think all Asians are karate masters. Nearly every kid I met in Dominican Republic asked if I knew karate. For God sakes, even the community's equivalent of a mayor believed it. After fruitlessly fighting the stereotype for a week and a half, I finally gave in. When kids in the community invaded our van and became a nuisance, I offered to teach them karate and we all stormed out for an impromptu lesson from Master Lee. Among the moves I imparted to the kids was the Muy Thai knees to the head. Here's hoping the kids don't practice on each other.

Beach



Admittedly, I haven't seen a lot of top-tier beaches in my lifetime but the beach I visited in the Dominican Republic was pretty damn amazing. Clear turquoise waters and white sand, just like the ones in Corona commercials, and it was virtually unoccupied too. I usually dread swimming and water volumes exceeding 500 ml in general, but the water was too inviting for me to contemplate life meanings from the shore.

My second beach outing, in which I was with a group of three girls, took an unexpected turn when two of them decided to uh, celebrate the freedom of their bodies in a bold fashion even in my presence. After allowing the gentle breeze to caress their torsos with no hindrances during their tanning episode, they thought it would be suitable to wade out and allow the cool waters uninhibited access to their legs and all adjacent areas as well. Once this escapade had finished, they entrusted me with the all-important role of retrieving the items which would signal their return to civilization. Until this last bit, I didn't bother opening my eyes as I lay stretched out on the sands even though I knew what was happening. I'm so old the prospect of seeing areolas doesn't even excite me anymore.

Spooning

One of the major advantages and delights of traveling with a group of peers to do work like this is that members come from different walks of life with different sets of skills and knowledge to contribute to the group. A significant way in which my team members enriched my experience on the trip was their knowledge of spooning. I had never heard of the term before. I generally fail when it comes to understanding gestures of human intimacy and even more so if asked to perform them so I appreciated my peers' patience on this matter. Together we delved into the unique advantages offered by this alignment of bodies and even participated in a tutorial intended just for me. I definitely like being the big spoon. It's almost as if I am shielding my lover from the dangers of life. I'm not sure if I will get a chance to try it out within the next three years of college but here's hoping I do, and do it sober.

Sharing a Bedroom with a 40-Year-Old Korean Man

News flash: Sharing a one-bedroom apartment with a 40-year-old Korean man is not the most desirable living arrangement. Of course, it could be a lot worse. I could be sharing a bedroom with a cute, intelligent female who irresponsibly invites her cute, intelligent girlfriends over for dinner and subsequent festivities that run well past my bedtime. Then in their compromised states, they would force me to join them for a night of role-playing for which I would assume the identity of the Most Interesting Man in the World. Sends chills down my spine, really.

But in any case, I have only myself to blame for all this. Because even though my mom was the one who discovered the sublet listing - and presented a compelling vision of the ways this random encounter could blossom into a meaningful friendship whereby I become wiser in the ways of life - I could have very well continued looking for the bachelor pad of my dreams. And from Day 1 of the summer housing search, that was my plan all along. I wanted a simple, sparse abode that would thrive under the direction of my vigorously single lifestyle. I'm not talking about the stuff of sour milk and pizza boxes littering the kitchen or heinously large flat-screen TV lying amid a sea of stained carpet. Strangely enough, I had become enamored of the idea of painting a blank slate of a home with the vibrant colors of my personality, of spraying my creative juices all over it, so to speak. I wanted to create and design a space that could not only satisfy my complex utilitarian needs (I've always wanted to have a cup of noodle on a massage chair), but also reflect my artistic sensibilities and core values. And I wanted it for myself. It would be like my very own Wilson volleyball, except rather than talking to it, I would be living in it. But my voice of reason eventually deflated these grandiose ambitions. There was no point undertaking such a project for a two-month residence. My glow-in-the-dark galaxy kit from Hasbro had to wait.

So the alternative? Live with a 40-year-old Korean man. A pretty drastic alternative, I know. There was really one cogent reason I even considered this option at all. His apartment is practically right next to the lab where I do research. Less time spent commuting would mean more sleep time. I had to decide how this benefit weighed against reasons not to allow my life to intersect with his. And there were many. For one thing, safety was a question mark. If you have no reservations about going to live with a 40-year-old man you have never met before, you probably believe swallowing sodium metal once in a while can spice up your life. I mean, it was somewhat comforting to know he was married. But then again, the fact that his wife was leaving for Korea in the summer, and that I uh, would be replacing her, was not so comforting. The arrangement just didn't score that high on the heter-o-meter.

Then there was the realization that I would have to speak to him in Korean because he is not fluent in English. I hate to quote Richard Rodriguez on this but Korean really is my "language of intimacy." I speak Korean only to my parents if I can help it because the language has somewhat become a reminder of our lives prior to moving to the U.S. Perhaps my biggest concern, though, was that I, already an ancient being, would age even faster in mental capacity and outlook on life as a result of exposure to this man twice my age. Science has clearly proven this. When placed next to a ripening apple, a young apple ripens faster.

After several phone calls and e-mails with my prospective roommate (roommate is a word that, by convention, evokes youth, spirit, and vitality, but none of these should be associated with the man), I set out to test my concerns by asking for a tour of his apartment. He struck me as a quiet, good-natured guy with no sign of chronic crankiness - a huge relief. Grown-ups bitching about the misfortunes of their day is generally annoying, but even more so if the bitching is done in Korean. There is a tendency for older Korean folks to express their frustration in a series of protracted whines and sulky murmurs, rather than terse, punctuated curses of the American way. As the listener, I find the latter much more refreshing. There were also no probing questions about my personal life, career aspirations, or immigrant experience. He simply led me around as I had asked, shuffling along with small steps, his head slightly lowered like a diffident schoolboy. The best part was that he absolutely embraced the outpouring of silence from me. We were going to get along great.

And as for the apartment? Not too fancy but not too shabby either. A spacious living room with a desk, sofa, and cable TV. An equally spacious bedroom with large windows that look into the apartment pool where babes burn their melanocytes to a crisp. A balcony 11 floors up with panoramic view of Longwood. A bathroom and kitchen. One tiny and insignificant arrangement I needed to make before moving in was purchasing a bed. Because when he showed me the bedroom, there was one bed. Two pillows, but on one bed. So that meant two people currently shared that elevated space defined as the bed and barring a magical appearance of a new bed, this trend would continue. I believe I have heard of a practice in which two people who take a strong liking to each other decide to co-occupy a confined space like that, even if their bodies may touch. I needed to purchase a bed.

So far, our existence on common premises has gone largely as expected. We limit our verbal communication to the bare minimum, eking out polite greetings and platitudes about the crummy Boston weather. I never ask about his day or his past, and he never asks about mine. We eat our meals separately and at different intervals. He prepares his own meals from grocery shopping and I go to a hole-in-the-wall pizza place near the apartment. When home, he spends most of his time in the living room while I chill out in the bedroom. This is as solitary as one can be in the presence of another human being.

But despite our minimal interaction, my impression of him has considerably changed during these two months from the moment I met him. The stoic eyes and grimly set lips that dominate his face expressions belie what I must admit is a pretty intriguing character with surprising idiosyncrasies. For one, he has a decent sense of humor. He has cultivated the technique of presenting the audience with simple, acceptable premises and then going for the ambush with a quick punch line. This works very effectively for him because he is a quiet man with stoic eyes and grimly set lips. When he delivers the punch line, he always catches me off guard. For instance, he came into the room one day with a box of bottled water after returning from grocery shopping and said (roughly in English): "Getting water from the faucet and boiling it to make tea is really the best way to drink water around here. Buying bottled water is expensive and stupid. *Pause* I am too lazy so I bought bottled water." Ok, it's not that funny when I say it. But it's funny when you add those stoic eyes and grimly set lips. I can see now why a woman might think about sharing the same sleeping quarters with him.

Speaking of sleeping quarters, there are two interesting rituals he performs before going to bed, and I will share them with no moral compunction because they are too hilarious. First, he takes off his pants and drapes them over the bedside table. You see, during my long twenty years of existence on this planet, I have learned a very important truth about human relationships, specifically why they fail. They fail because two people can look at the same things, experience the same things, and yet reach entirely different conclusions about what they have seen and experienced. Reflecting on the times and hardships we have shared with our friends, we think to ourselves they must treasure the friendships as much as we do. Reflecting on the magic of a moment shared with people who made us feel magic like never before, we think to ourselves they must feel it too. But we are inevitably disappointed. And my roommate taking off his pants and draping them perilously close to my cell phone and wallet? When he is wearing panties? I could have never guessed that he felt comfortable enough about "us" to do it with such reckless abandon. But he has been comfortable enough from Day 1. Does he think we are locker room buddies?

His second ritual is even more bizarre, in my opinion. There are two teddy bears that always accompany him to sleep. One of them is significantly larger and more rotund than the other and wears a pink beanie. She has "Love" embroidered on her left paw. The smaller one is wearing a shirt that reads "Pfizer," the name of the famous pharmaceutical company of course. Interestingly enough, he always adjusts their position before going to bed so that Mama PawLove is perched on the unoccupied pillow next to him and Baby Pfizer sits on the middle ground between the two pillows. This, obviously, invites a lot of questions. Why does my pantless roommate insist on sleeping with Mama Pawlove and Baby Pfizer? Where is Papa Pawzer? Is my pantless roommate Papa Pawzer? Does he view his real wife as a cuddly baby-making machine? I will never know.

But I can safely guess that when he does this careful arrangement every night, he is thinking of his wife. Why? She must have something to do with their presence in the home. And because I have seen how much he loves and misses her. When the house phone rings, there is an extra bounce to his steps. His saturnine frown turns upward, and the hardness in his voice melts away. He readies for the punch line. And I can't help but absolutely envy the man.

Thank You, Mr. Bryant

It was back in 1999 when I was young and still kind of cute and the Spurs - still one of the most formidable championship rosters in recent memory - downed the Lakers in the Western Conference Finals that I first noticed the kid wearing No. 8. At the time, I really had no business watching basketball. I had just moved from Korea and was supposed to be learning English. But I saw my brother turn the channel to NBC, heard that wonderful adrenaline-pumping melody, realized from the opening highlights that men in the United States can dunk the basketball, and immediately I was hooked. My brother was a Laker fan, which meant I was a Laker fan.

Initially I didn't have a clue what the announcers were saying and I didn't care. I began learning the numbers and names on the back of the jerseys, though. I'll admit, I was intrigued by No. 34. But it was never a serious, long-term relationship. My curiosity was merely aroused by this behemoth of a man that insisted on using only one of his God-given hands to shoot the basketball. But No. 8, he was different from the moment I lay my eyes on him. For one thing, I really liked his afro. People in Korea don't have afros.

I also noticed he did some things on the basketball court that no one else did. He took some of the craziest shots I had ever seen. He would storm into the paint and finding himself surrounded by a pack of defenders, throw up a rainbow teardrop anyway. Or he would be isolated on the wing and with the defender draped all over him, post up and shoot a contested fadeaway. Back then, these weren't even turnaround jumpers. He would simply dribble to his favorite spots with his back toward the defender and rise up to shoot. I didn't need to understand English to know these were terrible shots. But some of them would go in. And when they didn't, he kept shooting. Some things don't change, do they?

You know that inexplicable tenderness that sweeps over you when you look into the eyes of a newborn baby? Well, me neither. But I imagine it's something akin to my feelings for Kobe at the early stages of his career. You see, I knew Kobe was destined for greatness. Well, maybe I can't say I knew, but I wanted to believe it badly, and nowadays that seems to fetch just as many brownie points. I believed in Kobe because for all that he lacked on the basketball court, he made up for it in his desire to win. And that's what Kobe Bryant is, and always has been. He's 6 feet 6 inches, 200 pounds of pure will. That’s all I needed to know to become a fan of Kobe Bryant. So when he caught Reggie Miller backpedaling with that yo-yo dribble and drained a double-pump jumper in the overtime of Game 4 of the 2000 Finals, I adopted him as my proverbial son. I would be there with him at every step of his career. And no matter how tough times got, I would not give up on him.

If raising a baby is as rewarding as watching Kobe develop as a basketball player, I am willing to apply for fatherhood at the DMV (that’s how you get babies, right?) I couldn't tell you the exact point in his career when he acquired that destructive jab step and marvelous combination of head fake and pivot in the post, or when he became crafty enough to use that trademark swing-through of the arms to draw fouls 30 feet from the basket. What I can tell you is that until about two years ago, Kobe had been getting better every season. Regardless of the season's outcome, he returned from each summer a more complete player, having added new moves and shots to his repertoire while maintaining the superb conditioning that has allowed him to register more than 1000 games in his 14-year career.

In the heydays of his first championship runs with Shaq, there was no one quicker and more dangerous in transition. He picked apart defenses simply because a single defender could not keep him from the paint, and opponents could not afford to double-team anyone not named Shaquille O'Neal for too long. Then Kobe began hitting the gym to bulk up, got some cool tattoos for his new guns, and soon he was dropping bombs from all over the court. He used his upper body strength to finish those three-point plays after contact and to square up against big bad small forwards on the other end. Sometime around 2005, Kobe became one of the most dangerous offensive players to ever play the game. He could score wherever, whenever, however he wanted. No one could defend him from the perimeter because he simply elevated over anyone who guarded him. And because no one could afford to give him any space in the perimeter, he began to use his Paul Bunyan first step to get to the rim. Absolutely unstoppable. About two years ago, Kobe's explosiveness began to tail off. And with injuries, he’s been hard-pressed to get the separation on the shots he needs, and he can no longer finish plays near the basket at the rate he used to. So he now makes a living in the post, using guile and footwork to ward off Shane Battiers and Tony Allens. It turns out he is also pretty decent in moments that matter the most.

As incredibly good Kobe has been throughout his decorated career, however, our relationship has not been without its rocky times. My biggest regret for Kobe as a basketball player is that he never achieved his full potential as a defender. When he wanted and cared, Kobe was an absolute lockdown defender. He fought through screens, used his quick hands to poke away at the dribble, and contested shots without fouling. He had such impeccable timing on his blocks that Andrei Kirilenko once passed up on a 1 on 1 fastbreak with Kobe the lone man back. But despite his selections to the NBA All Defensive Team, Kobe did not consistently commit himself at the defensive end. My guess is that he wanted to save his energy for the offensive workload. Thank you basketball god, for sending us Rajon Rondo.

To be honest, though, nothing has made me more conflicted about Kobe than his off-court baggage. We all hold romanticized visions of our favorite athletes as upright human beings, caring family members, and humble contributors to society. Then along comes a discomforting, if not shocking, revelation to mar everything. We can never look at the person the same. When Kobe went to trial facing accusations of rape, I was more than stunned. I was deeply ashamed. If he were found guilty, I could not cheer for him ever again. In fact, I would be sorry I ever cheered him on. Somehow it seems low of me to weigh the relative moral injuries inflicted by adultery and rape, and on the basis of this comparison, condone Kobe for committing the former, lesser offense. After all, Kobe may have committed rape. But that's exactly what I did. I waited for definitive evidence to surface in the trial, did not get any, so I forgave him. It’s part of parenthood.

There have been other minor unsavory details about Kobe’s character. It is well documented that he is not the most pleasant teammate to have around. He would blow his defensive assignment and then scream at someone else for not rotating quickly enough. He would dominate the ball for long stretches and take unnecessarily tough shots instead of creating easier opportunities for his teammates. The truth is that after Shaq left, Kobe simply didn’t trust his team. And when you surround someone who considers himself the best player in the league with Chris Mihm, Chucky Atkins, and Brian Grant, you are asking for trouble. He had enough and pretty much called out his teammates as losers by demanding a trade. It was arrogant and selfish of him. There, I said it.

But do understand something. Kobe Bryant the basketball player is one of the best to ever play the game. And he got there because he cares about the game of basketball. He cares about the rich history of champions who preceded him, and most of all, he cares about etching his name next to theirs. It all sounds simple and obvious - until you encounter players like LeBron James, Vince Carter, and Gilbert Arenas. Tremendously gifted athletes, to be sure, but why couldn't they care a little more about what they do for a living? Kobe is one of the very few players in our generation who gets it. He knows greatness is not measured by fantasy sports statistics, popularity among fans, or the amount of money earned from free agency contracts and endorsement deals. To him, basketball, and winning in basketball, is not a means to an end. It’s everything he’s got, and he is pretty good at it. So call him unfaithful, condescending, self-centered, hypocritical. But don't ever underestimate what he brought to the game. We are witnesses.

Strangers

Reading through some of the things I've written here, I've realized this blog is missing an important disclaimer, so here it is, 50 entries late. I am terribly clueless about how life, the world, and human interactions work. My opinions should be taken seriously only when they concern the game of basketball. Lakers are the world champions by the way. Secondly, everything I've written here is truthful and genuinely felt - up to the moment I pressed "Publish." I realize this is as meaningful as Bill Clinton telling Monica Lewinsky that he indeed loved her more than he loved Hillary that fateful night. To my credit, I have never been drunk or high when writing. Yes, my absurdity is all natural. And one last thing: I am not a womanizer.

A couple days ago, I took a late night subway ride from Harvard Square to my apartment in Longwood. I am usually a fan of subway rides. The stations are always brimming with that gently acrid air and furnished with old cobweb-covered fans that are supposed to make it more bearable and really don't. But the fans, like the rusty trashcans and the suspect benches, are props essential to the subway stage, and I will never tire of it because it's somehow never the same. The ebb and flow of the subway, too, however numbing, tickles the back of my mind. Here is a glimpse of the great Homo Sapiens living on planet Earth in year 2010 as stars far away revolve with stark disinterest. In a world so quiet and utterly unoccupied, the little bubble that encloses a single train is full of so much fucking noise.

Anyhow, I would not have taken the subway that night if the shuttle that goes directly from Harvard to Longwood hadn't stopped running. It was a little past 11 p.m., and the numerous anecdotes of bizarre late-night subway passengers I had gathered from friends were now very relevant. But as happens so often in life, a small pleasant surprise lay waiting for me at that precise intersection of time and space.

I think the reason I enjoy reading John Steinbeck so much is his veneration for mysteries of life. Like many good authors, his sensibilities are wonderfully attuned to the ticking of human beings but he also seems to understand that they cannot be always fully explicated. So rather than formulating a story that communicates definable insights into the human condition and interlacing its telling with commentary or contextual cues that point to these insights, he prefers to let veritable characters and experiences speak for themselves without accounting for their existence. The result is that readers can viscerally grasp the nature of mysteries at hand, but they eventually reach a layer of narrative that is impenetrable, at least with the tools provided within the story. I liken it to the impossibility of explaining why gravity exists. Except for the fact, of course, that absolute principles and predictable phenomena such as gravity are largely absent in the realm of human thoughts and behavior. Anyway, I've come to the conclusion that if Steinbeck does not fully understand humans, I have no chance. And since I am one of those humans, I have come to grudgingly accept the fact that I can't always explain why I feel and act the way I do.

One example that has been particularly bemusing is my apparent rapport with complete strangers. One night this past freshman year, I was walking back from the library at around 10 p.m. and saw a random girl struggling to carry heavy banners in front of my dorm's entrance. I offered to help carry them, even though I knew her destination was a good 15 minutes away by walking distance. I don't remember what I felt at the time, but I do remember being surprised by my eagerness to help. Somehow, my mouth had spoken without my volition. Another time, I ran into a group of students from Wellesley who were lost at an intersection looking for an upperclassman Harvard dorm. I ran into them because I was walking to Staples to buy a new ink cartridge for my printer. I asked them to wait on the sidewalk, went to Staples to buy the ink, came back, called my roommate to receive directions to the dorm, and led them myself. Unfortunately, I misunderstood the directions and got lost alongside those who needed my help, but after a few detours, helped them reach their destination.

Some of you may be suspicious by now. "Random girl" and "students from Wellesley" should rightfully set off alarms, given my history of uh, accosting Latina waitresses at sushi restaurants. Frankly, I was suspicious of my intentions, too. But as I said earlier, if there is anything I am sure about myself, I am not a womanizer. For one thing, I am not good enough to be even an amateur womanizer (why has ESPN not ordained womanizing as a sport yet, when NASCAR and poker are?) Secondly, I have spent too much time on Earth to be titillated by initial titillations. If I do notice a girl's physical beauty, it's with the cold objective eye of a museum curator. I say that in the least demeaning way possible. But here's one more case to dispel any remaining doubts: during Thanksgiving weekend, I took a Greyhound bus to New York to spend time with my cousins. I chatted it up with the guy sitting next to me, a student at the Berklee College of Music who actually grew up in Los Angeles. He was a fan of the Lakers, Dodgers, and legit Mexican food, which means we got right along. We got along so well, in fact, that we exchanged numbers before heading our separate ways. A few weeks ago, I attended a Dodger game that ended with a Matt Kemp walk-off home run in the 10th inning. When the game went into extra innings, I sent him a text. He texted back saying he was jealous.

My behavior has been bewildering in part because it seems out of character to me. I am not exactly shy but not gregarious or extroverted either. I seldom get excited about meeting new people, and I absolutely dread gatherings and receptions where that mysterious activity known as networking is encouraged. Yet there seem to be moments when a certain sensibility in me is switched on. Without being conscious of this inner stimulus, I let it take over. What is this sensibility, exactly? Do I want to prove to myself that I am capable of acting more spontaneously and confidently than I usually do? Do I harbor such deep respect for mankind that I treat strangers the way I treat my friends? Do I secretly believe in fate? Am I so weary of the routine in my life that I go out of my way to seek vicissitude? The best answer I could attempt is, a little bit of everything. And as life continues to unveil itself, the possibilities just keep growing.

It was my first time taking the subway to Longwood. Getting from Harvard Square to Longwood via subway requires a changeover from Red Line to Green Line at Park Street. The red line subway train is what you think of when you picture a subway train. It's a long slithery thing made of segments. The green line train is more like two trolley buses joined at the hip. Unfortunately, just as many people seem to use the Green Line as the Red Line. The trolley buses fill up quickly. When I got off at Park Street and got on one of these, there were still a few seats open and I took one. But a few stops later, the train was a fishing net full of sardines. It was tightly packed, Japanese style. Whether it was this or another reason, the train moved agonizingly slowly between the stops. The rhythmic pulse of the wheels riding the tracks was gone and replaced by murmurs of quiet conversations sprouting among familiar passengers. My line of vision, usually extending to the opposite windows where the comforting blackness darts through the tunnel, was now blocked by backs and legs of strangers.

I was weary, much wearier than usual. It was not the claustrophobia or the stuffiness in the train. My mind had set about centrifuging the pieces of my life, and the dregs were weighing down heavily on me. It wasn't anything in particular, really. We survive many of these moments throughout our lifetimes, though some, by consequence, are more dangerously potent. These shapeless thoughts shuffled nervously behind the curtains as I concentrated on the train speakers. Finally, Longwood was called. I rubbed my hands, shifted in my seat, wiggled my toes, and then began discerning the appropriate time to get up. Unfortunately, I had underestimated the difficulty of navigating a fishing net full of sardines. The immediate line of passengers in front of me had blocked from my view a very dense mass of bodies at the center of the train - almost like that unassailable vortex of the most eager grinders at dance parties. When the doors swung open, I had just begun to squeeze my way through the crowd. Strangely enough, I was the only one in the train getting off at Longwood. I was about six bodies away from reaching the door when a man's voice surprised me from the side.

"Are you getting off here?"

"Yeah."

"There's a guy getting off!" he shouted in the direction of the conductor.

Then just as I finally reached the threshold, the doors closed. They banged against my arms harmlessly and then slid open again. I had dismounted one foot off the train when a louder voice belonging to a different man called out from behind.

"Watch it, you are going to break the train!"

I froze, startled, and turned around to see a middle-aged man with a Red Sox cap grinning. The passengers around us laughed a good hearty laugh. I laughed, too, and then did something that, in retrospect, must have been incredibly strange to everyone watching.

I said, "Thanks, guys," and waved them a goodbye. It felt good like the ending of a good sad movie. The big bright trolley full of cheerful and sad human beings then closed its doors.

There is one last twist to the story, and it's that I got off at the wrong stop. It turns out there are two stations named Longwood, on two different tracks, and I had taken the wrong one. Unfamiliar with my surroundings, I had to grab a taxi somehow. Somebody must have known because there was a single surreal taxi cab waiting for me in an otherwise deserted side street.

Tribute to Hip Hop

One of the assignments in my senior year English class was to define a great work of fiction, and I remember writing it should have something compelling to say about the human condition but should also be an interesting story. The reason is that no matter how profound and original a theme may be (and some themes are better than others), it cannot hit the reader in the heart unless the plot, characterization, and stylistic techniques make it accessible - and worth caring about at all. I think defining great hip hop music is more or less the same. There is the lyrical content (theme), and then the different elements that comprise its presentation (words, flow, delivery, production). The analogy loses some traction here because our ear is naturally better at picking up the way things sound rather than what the sounds mean. How do I know this? When Lil Wayne's "Every Girl" starts playing at the club, get a head count of the girls who leave the dance floor in disgust. None, you say? Not even at the chorus? It happens at Harvard, too. I will always remember the mob of girls at Kid Cudi's performance shouting proudly in unison, "Poke her face!" Our great leaders of the feminist movement are turning in their graves.

Anyway, I have taken some time to look through my favorite hip hop tracks, seeing whether they fit my definition of great hip hop. Some don't, and the ones that do could be better. My reason for liking and disliking a particular track isn't always sufficiently good, either. But who am I to act like a connoisseur of fine hip hop when I have never rapped (more on that later). With no further ado, I present my 20 favorite hip hop tracks of all time, my tribute to a music that has accompanied me in the best and worst of times and a life mentor that has taught me to be brutally honest, appreciative of change and diversity, and proud of who I am. Thank you, hip hop, for helping shape the Min Lee state of mind.

20. Asheru and Blue Black- Theme Music



The two MC's compare themselves to Don Juan and Don Genaro, the two Indian shamans made famous by author Carlos Castaneda. Castaneda alleges to have met these figures who mentored him in an unconventional lifestyle obtaining higher truths using uh, interesting external aid. Anyway, song has a nice Gabriel Marquez vibe. Third verse is horrible.

19. Snoop Dogg- The Next Episode



Have you ever had a sudden urge to buy a bazooka and shoot zombies? What about a sudden urge to hop out of your car and refer to strangers by that word that should never be uttered by non African Americans? Too much swagger in this song for one man and his right hand. Should be considered an adjunct therapy for treating depression.

18. Chali 2NA- Righteous Way



Heartfelt, personal song about parenthood. Makes me try harder to respect my parents.

17. K-OS feat. Fashawn- Sunday Morning



Liquor and shallow relationships can't buy lasting happiness. Song somehow captures the loss of control we feel when we rely on these to compensate.

16. Ice Cube- Today Was a Good Day



Not the most upbeat instrumental considering the title but it's appropriate for the song as a whole. Make sure to give a good day the credit it deserves. Great video with a Kobe cameo.

15. K'naan- Take a Minute



Still not a big fan of K'naan but I dig his humble attitude and optimism here.

14. J-Live- School's In



A tribute to my first black friend who introduced me to underground hip hop. I still remember walking into the Amoeba Store in Hollywood and listening to his scholarly analyses of underground artists down each aisle. That day he picked up an album by J-Live and let me listen to it. Ridiculous flow in this song.

13. Lupe Fiasco- Sunshine



There are surprisingly many hip hop songs about falling in love with strangers. "Sagaba" by Blue Scholars and "Woman With the Tattooed Hands" by Atmosphere, for instance. I think love at first sight is really just projecting our ideal visions of the significant other onto an attractive person and falling in love with those visions but I guess you have to start somewhere. Also, finding love at a club is probably easier if your name is Lupe Fiasco.

12. Murs- 18 w/a Bullet Remix



"You gotta learn your sound and love your voice, go with what you feel, don't regret your choice."

11. Nas- The World is Yours



You can make the argument that Nas's lyrical content is not as deep as Common's or Kweli's but it is a terrible mistake to compare Nas to today's mainstream artists with crappy lyrical content. Because even though themes of sex, drugs, violence, and personal success abound in Nas's music, he sounds a lot cooler than anyone else who talks about them. Kid Cudi says he is on the pursuit of happiness; he doesn't care, his hand on the wheel, driving drunk, doing his thang. Instead, Nas sips the Dom P, watching Gandhi till he's charged, and then writes in his book of rhymes, throbbing like that understandable smooth shit that murderers move with. Drake says he's swimming in money and the listener should come and find him like Nemo. Meanwhile, Nas is profiling wild, stash through the flock wools, burning dollars to light his stove, walking the blocks with a bop, checking Danes plus the games people play, busting the problems of the world today. See the difference?

10. Black Star- Thieves in the Night



Black Star at its best, calling out all that is fake and delusional. Mos Def's verse is probably one of the best standalone verses of all time.

9. Brother Ali- Babygirl



Ali changed things up a bit with his new album, going with a less aggressive and more preachy feel, and the reception has been mixed. I personally like it, and this song shows his storytelling ability remains intact.

8. Common- Love Is



Common broke up with Serena Williams something like two weeks ago. I'm not too worried.

7. Cunninlynguists- The Park



A phrase often used to talk about works of literature describing regional lifestyles and cultures or written in regional dialect is local colour. This song about a peaceful day at the park has a lot of that.

6. Nujabes- Aruarian Dance



My favorite producer ever. He has done collaborations with rappers like Shing02, Cise Starr, and even Pete Rock, but no words are needed when instrumentals are this good. Aruarian Dance is just one of his many tracks to help the restless and tired soul get through the day. R.I.P Nujabes.

5. Kid Headphones feat. Lax Tha Rippa- Live, Learn, and Grow



All the credits go to my resident adviser at summer COSMOS program for introducing this song to me. I have not heard another song featuring either artist but this is a classic. We live, learn, and grow.

4. Metermaids- Think About It



This track has indie written all over it. I think I like it because the idea of living in a one bedroom apartment with a significant other and having a job that I enjoy really appeals to me. What else could you want?!

3. Talib Kweli feat. Hi-Tek - Memories Live



Life is hard but once we get through the tough times and allow ourselves to reminisce, their sharp edges have worn off. And then there are those positive memories that gleam brighter than they should. Taking the time to remember is good.

2. Common- I Used to Love H.E.R.



I changed some of the lyrics around and "rapped" the first verse in front of my AP US History class to ask a girl to junior prom. The title of my blog comes from the chorus. Yeah, I like this song a lot. I know it's about hip hop but there is just something about the phrase, "I used to love her." When you've loved a girl, you know you loved her and no one can take away that truth from you.

1. Cunninlynguists- Hourglass



A lyrical masterpiece.