Friday, January 21, 2011
Jigsaw Puzzle Pieces
I am like an optometrist. I produce a film or a video is like creating a pair of eye glasses. I provide the lenses and let my audience sit back, try them on and see the world the way I see it. Details of who I am, what I do, and how I live are carefully embedded into each tiny layer of the lenses. Individually, film or video I have worked on may stand on its own, but together they create a jigsaw puzzle of a bigger picture, one that can only be interpreted as one idea, one concept, one thing, one person—me. It is known that a picture may have a thousand words; however, with motion picture, an infinite deeper meaning is a possibility that cannot be overlooked.
My Title and My Pages
There are always cases of situations that are “easier said than done”. As a high school student, it is my most commonly met situation. Someone always seems to have a vision or dream: “I want to…”, “This would be cool if…”, “I will…” Many promises and reassurances are made, and often times broken, that a natural reaction toward these redundancies is, “I’ll believe it when I see it.” On the other hand, high school definitely produces a great deal of competition to pursue one’s future career.
Rarely will you ever see me sitting to take a break and “just relax” for more than a minute. Perhaps I would spend some free-time with my friends here and there, but, in my work environment, “nothing to do” was not in my vocabulary. I was almost always up and about asking my peers about what they filmed, assigning them a project, confirming information, checking out cameras, organizing special events, or, for a majority of the time, gluing my butt to a comfortable chair in front of an LCD screen, editing a video segment or the front page design of the school newspaper. When I have a prophetic moment in my mind, I fully project it onto a paper or screen for all to see. I could stay stationary hour after hour, despite my lower body feeling numb and stiff, to make sure every little aesthetic detail was precise and perfect. Although there are times when my own battery does die, I am not ready to give any breathing room for doubt. I want to serve as a role model—editor-in-chief, executive producer, and/or club president—like my respected seniors before me. To one day have someone respond back to me, “I’ll believe it when I see it,” would be a sin. A fire grew in my eyes and a crescent moon in my smile as I urge myself to succeed and pull people into my shoes and behind my glasses.
Film production has become a “projector of my life”, incorporating all the aspects of art, visual or performing, that I enjoyed. Surprisingly, I never heard one whisper of objection from my parents. I remember from elementary school, I told myself “when I grow up, I want to be a doctor.” Yet by my sophomore year of high school, I was exposed to a number of activities—marching band, martial arts, journalism, graphics design, film, theatre, visual arts, and more—that cleared my mind to want a great deal more. “I want to be the first female Vietnamese American to be awarded an Oscar for Best Director.” My parents and I knew that I was bound down by an equivocated, yet potential, path for a life better than the daily economic struggle we dwell in today. They pushed me along to keep up with my grades and to stay on top of deadlines. As the years passed by, they gradually expressed an increase support and appreciation for my creative talent. I am truly grateful to feel an aura of warmth around me and to have my parents behind me. Else, it would have been an impossibility for me to be standing here today.
But obviously I don’t have a clean and perfect slate. There was a period of time when my superego ambition overpowered me to strive to be “king of the hill”—all for the titles, less on the substance. Doing anything to embellish one’s college application was brainwashed into many students through the intense high school competition. Unfortunately, I became one of the many who became sucked into the peer pressure. Editor-in-chief, executive producer, president. Those three words ran through my mind continuously. It wasn’t until my film and journalism advisor, Mr. Ziebarth, reminded me of the journey yet again—“I don’t care what you want to be called, as long as what you do applies to your title.” It was the most common sense one could agree to. Yet it hit me on the back of my head, as if an inspirational quote, and got me keeping on my feet. I was now able to take a step back and view the bigger picture.
With all the years of experience and knowledge I have, I not only want to learn and apply it to life around me, but to teach and to help improve others as well. I want others to be able to stand up for them and climb up their own mountain to success as well. And it makes me have an uplifting feeling on the inside whenever I do teach people and they understand. With that I have confirmed with myself that one day, I want to become a significant leader of the world, promoting Asian cultural awareness in the United States mainstream, feminism, and visual and performing arts, and entertaining the world as the first Vietnamese-American, or female Vietnamese-American to be awarded an Oscar for “Best Director”. And I want to be judged by my book as a whole.
Self-Expression is Power
With the touch of my pen to the paper, I have the power of a sword. With the touch of my finger to this keyboard, I have the power of a hammer. With the press of the "publish" button, I have the power of a gargantuan microphone, projecting over the millions of digital bytes spread across the World Wide Web. My life is an open book and I made it an open book. But when I finally make this possible, there is always someone or something waiting with a blowtorch to burn it to ashes.
When I was in eighth grade while at the peak of my uncontrollable mood swings and hormones, I kept a journal. Never did I show this journal to anyone, including my best friends. As everything became less carefree, I slowly hid myself in my corner. I was not adjusted to expressing my problems. As much as I wished to express my feelings, the most it would sprout out would convey as vague and confusing status messages on my old MySpace profile page that only I would be able to decipher.
Yet, the journal was like my second beating heart, a separate superego entity. I always kept it among my possession at all times and became addicted to writing my thoughts into it. Every single day, every single minute, every single passage that I wrote in my obsessive mood drove me to my insanity. It was my Tom Riddle’s diary.
Why are you doing this? Why doesn't he like me back? Why are you thinking about this? Why am I thinking too much? What’s wrong with you? Did I do something wrong? Oh, you’re just over-reacting. I hate my life. You’re such an idiot I don’t deserve to live. I’m so fat. Slowly, my head began to fill up continuously with one thought and emotion after another. I felt like I was going to explode.
It was not until my best friend, Vivian, finally opened me up and she became someone to express my every single complaint, every single rant, every sob-story, and even a few happy ones. But I was not talking to a wall this time. She spoke. She guided me. And I felt sane again. Since the longest time, I had a smile across my face. I felt happy.
To rid of the journal that used to be my source of life, my source of relief, I engraved the phrase “cursed journal” with a permanent marker page after page until it was down to its last layer of skin. I then handed the bloody taboo off to Vivian for burning or disposal, and I never saw it again.
Since, I have avoided capping the bottle and began to express my thoughts through words again through my online blog with my journalism peers. The only difference between my blog and simple fancy-covered spiral notebook was that it was thrown out there for all my peers to read freely, and advise and comfort me in times of good or bad. And I felt a connection when I discover others have fallen into the same hole I was in. I burned down my dark corner and felt I could run to the top of a hill and burst out my voice to the sun.
But he just had to bring the rain on my world.
His name was David. He was not a close friend in any way, but he decided to start up a casual conversation over FaceBook chat one day during sophomore year. However, a conversation about our school system and about how “gay” he thought our AP European History class quickly rampaged into a catapulting game of insults and critical judgment. It was as if he had a microscope to my brain as he began to probe my mind, judging me with my emotions and statuses.
Pathetic. Immature. Insecure. No new friends or clubs or activities. Always marching band. What accomplishments and benefits will newspaper give or has given you? You act young…I act young? Exactly. You act young all the time.
Each piece of evidence he pulled up to support his statements was as if he was keeping tab on me from time to time, like a stalker. I could sense that he could see my face flushing red with anger. Though I kept my silence and I could hear him laughing clearly through the other side of the screen from his computer.
You want attention. You demand attention. You show insecurity with my friends. You never ask people out.
He might have brought the rain on my party, but I had lightning and thunder to strike him down. I was not going to let another devil’s advocate similar to a familiar superego of mine to return and beat me to the ground. I had a will to fight back against myself, against him, a free will to express myself however I want, when I want.
I felt strong. There is more people than just you in this world for me to deal with. I felt confident. Do I care that I’m broadcasting myself out to the world? Let the whole world know. Why should you make an impact or matter at all to me?
Cursed journal. Cursed journal. Cursed journal. Cursed journal. Cursed journal.
And there was silence, as I closed my eyes, spread my arms around as I looked up to the sky and smiled. “Sweet silence” was the only thing I heard as those words slipped across my lips.
At times, as I express my every thought and feeling, my life story, onto a sheet of paper, a digital document, as my previous respected editor-in-chief Victoria once said to me, “though it may seem that your voice is being silenced, there is always the written word.
And that may be the loudest of all.”
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