Nina M. Chung – The Stanford Daily https://stanforddaily.com Breaking news from the Farm since 1892 Thu, 07 Jun 2012 04:40:50 +0000 en-US hourly 1 https://wordpress.org/?v=6.4.3 https://stanforddaily.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/03/cropped-DailyIcon-CardinalRed.png?w=32 Nina M. Chung – The Stanford Daily https://stanforddaily.com 32 32 204779320 The Young Adult Section: Peace be with you https://stanforddaily.com/2012/06/07/the-young-adult-section-peace-be-with-you/ https://stanforddaily.com/2012/06/07/the-young-adult-section-peace-be-with-you/#comments Thu, 07 Jun 2012 07:28:19 +0000 https://stanforddaily.com/?p=1068079 There's a map in my head of everything I've ever learned, and everything on it leads right back to a common human nature.

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The Young Adult Section: Peace be with youThe most epic thing I have ever learned is how similar people are. Across time and space, we’re the same. We haven’t changed after centuries of civilizational development, revolutions and scientific movements; we don’t change according to birthplace or method of upbringing. I’m convinced that our biggest problems are the eternal ones, like happiness, loneliness, power and all of the other one-word bombs our society can’t seem to diffuse. Everything springs from those. Our toys may get shinier, but the human condition does not.

The reason I majored in international relations is that I see this play out on the global stage. Every foreign affair can be stripped down to something remarkably human. There are big players in the European Union that break the rules they enforce on others; this starts on the school playground. North and South Korea vie for a status with financial benefits; this happens in our families. Our cultures and languages, too, are just clothes for the same concerns. A “pie in the sky” in English is the “picture of a rice cake” in Korean. (Isn’t that awesome? I learned that last week.) Parallels abound. There’s a map in my head of everything I’ve ever learned, and everything on it leads right back to a common human nature.

In a way, the Stanford institution supports this, because our unity is emphasized through our great diversity. Behind each community center, ethnic theme house and extracurricular is a purported celebration of difference, also printed in every promotional booklet admitted students receive. Many of us hear more a cappella, eat more South American grains and are exposed to more kinds of sexual self-identification here on this campus than we ever did before we came. As a result, though, the loudest proclamation we make to the world is that our student body has, at least superficially, digested the divides of ethnicity, socioeconomic status, ideology, religion and appearance. Hence, our sensitivity to political correctness; we expect ourselves to embody a universal embrace, as if the idea were attached to our Stanford degree.

And here my doubt lingers. For as we tout big victories of acceptance and toleration, what do we do every day, privately? We speculate about friends behind their backs. We laugh at each others’ expense. Rant angrily about others’ achievements. Give people cold attitudes. Avoid our ex. Want revenge. We think things like “How could she say that!?” or “What a jerk!” or “I could never be like that.” These statements don’t start world wars or mass murders, and they aren’t published in our journals or academic papers. But they are undoubtedly our cruelties of choice, misleadingly casual for how bitter they can become. They are irrelevant to the humanitarianism we herald…right?

In my Italian film class last week, we watched a biographical drama about a highly controversial political figure. Millicent Marcus, an Italian film theorist, described the film character as possessing the “attitude of detachment which licenses the most virulent actions at the level of history.” This is exactly the detachment, however, that us supposedly good people show through actions against our own peers. Our own gossipy statements and jabs of superiority suggest irrevocable difference. They are predictions that we could never, in our entire lives, empathize with the subject of our criticism. Yet this emotional distance, at its very root, is the same as every -ism we decry in the world.

The best example I can give is my own. I used to very outspokenly judge all Christian people as judgmental hypocrites. (Paradox.) Then, when I came to faith during sophomore year, I suddenly understood that the fact was obvious. I am hypocritical now, as I was hypocritical then. Being human, I’m actually implicated in every crime I denounce in everyone else. I condemn inconsiderate mercilessness in history and political science, and get caught up in it right after class.

With this in mind, I wish to rescind a column I wrote last October called “The Value of Division.” I wrote it to justify my disregard for someone based on differences, and also my condescension. I now recognize this attitude as the same one driving most worldwide conflicts. For someone who believes in the power of small gestures and little things, surely I should be recognizing that my attitude toward people in my own life may be yoked with the rest of the world’s.

To accept that someone else has a heart is to accept that they want the same basic things and struggle with the same questions as you do. It’s to accept that they were, in fact, created as equally as beautifully as you. It’s an ideal we announce quite loudly on banners and broadcasts, but means something real only if we pursue it in our social lives now.

Idealism, buzz words and institutions for world peace aside, let’s be real. I believe in hope for us — an eternal kind. But I believe it’s a personal thing, above all.

 

Hey readers, Nina thanks you. And if you haven’t yet, you can find her at ninamc “at” stanford “dot” edu for a little while longer.

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The Young Adult Section: Situational https://stanforddaily.com/2012/05/21/the-young-adult-section-situational/ https://stanforddaily.com/2012/05/21/the-young-adult-section-situational/#comments Mon, 21 May 2012 07:28:32 +0000 https://stanforddaily.com/?p=1067008 We don't always realize, though, that we've gotten close with a situation and not a person, or that we have only context in common.

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The Young Adult Section: SituationalNot all schools are like Stanford, especially when it comes to people. Outside Stanford, fame comes from standout names, but on the inside, Stanford tries hard to get everyone on the same page. On the first day of NSO at Roble, for example, each RA already knew the name of each student that passed in the hall. This is how it is at every dorm.

It isn’t inherently good or bad. Some students freak out when they first arrive and are called out loudly before saying a single thing. Other students feel warmly welcomed, exactly because they don’t have to say a single thing before being called out so loudly. Most dorms even feature a world map with all of the residents’ faces on it; in one glance, everyone is held together nicely in one frame. Stanford also places dining halls strategically close to living areas, so that not much transportation is required between sleeping and eating. So, for most Stanford freshmen, meals-with-friends equals meals-with-dormmates.

Thus, the freshman dorm is often the central life headquarters, and opportunities for bonding are prepared in advance. Compare this to Carnegie Mellon, where “you’re on your own” (as my little brother said).

The year after, though, there’s this thing called the “sophomore slump.” This phenomenon is shared by enough college students that it gets a title. It’s probably a complicated psychological phase that involves academic disillusionment and identity reanalysis, among other things. But, also, students just have to move their residence. In sophomore year, familiar faces that used to head down to 5:15 p.m. dinner together are dispersed. This small fact can make the second year at the same school feel like a different world. Many friends just don’t seem as close anymore — by location. They might even be “all the way across campus.” A lot of students seem to think this is the main reason they stop meeting. Beginning sophomore year, students even start saying it’s hard to meet new friends in classes. Either that or a friendship formed within 10 weeks ostensibly disintegrates by the next quarter.

A friend’s sister at Harvard considers all of Stanford’s community campaigning very contrived: students dropped conveniently into community-looking structures and encouraged to make what look like friends. She sees it as misleadingly free of individual action. That reminds me of a girl at the Hume Writing Center (presumably a graduate student) I overheard, arguing that Stanford holds its students’ hands for everything.

“OH, I never see you anymore!” we exclaim. It reflects a shift in friendship that apparently mystifies us. It’s not just from freshman to sophomore year that we feel our friendships take chilling turns. It happens every year we move residences, if in doing so we are separated from a particular hallmate. It happens every quarter when we change classes, and a classmate we used to see at least twice a week (plus to study) seems to drop off the face of the earth. What happened?

But it isn’t that campus geography or the quarter system tarnishes relationships. Rather, these are just the things that slot us next to someone by default, fooling us into thinking we’re engaged in something real. We don’t always realize, though, that we’ve gotten close with a situation and not a person, or that we have only context in common. This is why, when settings change, the ground falls out from beneath so many supposed friendships.

Relationships are maintained by outright effort. We prove our fondness for someone when we find ourselves pursuing them, especially when we didn’t have to before. This takes intention, re-prioritizing and proactivity. Most of the time, we don’t even register we’re doing this. We simply register a thought, which turns naturally into action, which represents a legitimate decision — which, ultimately, is the foundation for something real.

Time tells, but so does place. I was thinking about this while my little brother was visiting me this past weekend. I realized how much I’ve always loved our friendship, across all of the distances we’ve been apart. I’ve also been thinking about this in the context of graduation, as greater distances between friends become the standard situation. Past that ceremony lies an immense space for us to decide which relationships are set in Stanford stone and which come with us wherever we go.

 

For now, though, Nina’s set at Stanford — so email her at ninamc “at” stanford “dot” edu.

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The Young Adult Section: Micro, macro https://stanforddaily.com/2012/05/14/the-young-adult-section-micro-macro/ https://stanforddaily.com/2012/05/14/the-young-adult-section-micro-macro/#respond Mon, 14 May 2012 07:28:12 +0000 https://stanforddaily.com/?p=1066251 But that's a broader ideal, one that we keep pushing to the side for more instant gratification.

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The Young Adult Section: Micro, macroMy planner is packed, and it’s one of my biggest crutches. I would argue that everything inside is technically important because I can’t miss that meeting and I can’t forget that event. But when I stop and breathe, I slowly realize something, and only now in my last quarter at Stanford. I’ve been squeezing productivity like pulp from every hour and dropping much larger concerns. For four frenzied years, I’ve been researching corruption in Italian government, the nuclear situation in Northeast Asia and religious neo-colonialism in Africa. But only recently did I realize that it’s the middle of May, and I haven’t yet responded to my grandfather’s email — the brief, but really loving one he sent me, in January. This is not my idea of good time management; I’m afraid of the girl letting this happen.

This may be college, but we have peers saying, “I don’t know who I’m becoming anymore.” This is the pilot for the mid-life crisis threatening us 20 years from now. Melodramatic, but I’m serious. Already, in this supposedly non-“real world” world, lists and lists of things to do threaten to blur our bigger picture, at which point we ask, “Wait, what the hell am I doing this for?” It’s an issue of accidental worship, in which we idolize things we never meant to, and lose track of what we most meant to pursue. Micro versus macro; we don’t need to graduate to see the tension.

Relationships can epitomize this. We’re on a campus that parties, so flippant hook-ups play their reruns every weekend. Most of these episodes aren’t award-winning life-changers. But as we get caught in a mindless routine, sometimes they take the face of it. Living in our short-term time frames, sometimes we can’t help but go with the flow. Last week, this week, next week…after a while, late-night calls melt into theoretical commitments — the kind that “just happen” because no one accepts it, but no one rejects it.

Most of us will admit, though, that we’re looking for someone who goes all-in for us on purpose. Most of us want to be with someone who consciously decides the same. But that’s a broader ideal, one that we keep pushing to the side for more instant gratification. We have a definite knack for keeping busy with cheap charms, while holding off on matters of the heart. It’s romantic procrastination, but it stings because it’s also self-compromising. We forget what we actually wanted. We get distracted.

Interestingly, the same goes for our relationship with our money. The seed for this column was actually planted when some friends and I started discussing what our finances would look like post-graduation. Someone mentioned ominously that the way we use our money five years from now has probably already been set by our habits right now. I was slightly frightened. In the future, I want to channel most of my money to people other than me, and I don’t want to be reckless with spare change. That’s how I live now, though, at a school that already provides most of my needs. I’m selfish with my money.

Another person close to me tried to reassure me by saying I couldn’t possibly be so idealistic this far out anyway, since I wasn’t earning income or facing real obstacles yet, which is true. Currently, I don’t feel any real financial heat. But from here, a safe distance from my future self, I wouldn’t trust myself to keep exception from becoming precedent. As I grow up, I’ll go on trips; I’ll have a wedding; I’ll have kids; I’ll retire. And I could shelve my biggest priorities every time.

It sounds like I’m projecting, but I’m not so sure. I wasn’t prepared for college graduation in a month, either. Perhaps stronger than the force of time is the beguiling nature of habit that makes us forget time passes at all. “IT’S WEEK WHAT?!” we say. At a school with a cornucopia of resources, opportunities and amazing events, our ultimate temptation is to drown in a life of breathless details.

Personally, the most obvious manifestation of tabled priorities is the curiosity about the existence of a god. So many people are curious, letting themselves consider that there’s more than just this. So, if it’s possible to push an issue of that scale aside, all manner of other values can be forgotten — ideal love, good finances, the person we aspire to be, everything. Tomorrow never comes, which makes postponing our greatest intentions a dangerous game to play.

I want to live in the moment, to be sure. I just didn’t foresee getting lost in it.

 

These days, Nina is trying to tone down her incessant email-checking. But if you email her, she won’t leave you hanging. So go for it! At ninamc “at” stanford “dot” edu.

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The Young Adult Section: Eating disorders at Stanford https://stanforddaily.com/2012/05/07/the-young-adult-section-eating-disorders-at-stanford/ https://stanforddaily.com/2012/05/07/the-young-adult-section-eating-disorders-at-stanford/#comments Mon, 07 May 2012 07:28:15 +0000 https://stanforddaily.com/?p=1065684 The difficulty in calling out an eating disorder is that it is defined by a way of thinking, and the actions that follow are only potential indicators.

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Two months ago, I wrote a column about my eating disorder. I had hoped to explain why eating disorders themselves were less a root problem and more a symptom of a universal issue: the desire for control

Over the past couple years, though, I’ve also begun noticing the particularity of eating disorders at Stanford. The disorder persists because it’s an internal psychology, which is an invisible topic. “It happens, but no one talks about it” because it is so well-camouflaged. It weaves itself into Stanford lives in so many ways.

Even if we on the outside see the most blatant behavioral changes in someone, our fear of sounding judgmental prevents us from saying anything. It’s an unexpected side effect of our emphasis on total toleration. I always wondered why not one person legitimately commented on my new, committed habits that entire year. Yet just a bit later, even I felt that hesitancy when I recognized my former seemingly innocuous habits replayed by a dormmate. I was passive and never addressed it — even after learning personally the damage of the disorder. Later, I discovered that she had indeed been suffering and was in recovery. I’m now quite afraid of my own ability to ignore.

The irony proceeds. Our campaigns for fitness, athleticism, eating healthily and avoiding sugar set a high standard for the country. They react and respond to a broader epidemic of obesity, low food quality and sustainability issues. Equally destructive, though, is the volatile swing to the other extreme, where a one-size-fits-all “health” formula becomes a life purpose, which doesn’t make sense either. Health does not equate to two people sitting at a table, eating identical proportions of vegetables and non-vegetables. Yet still I hear “Oh, you eat so healthily!” as a well-intended compliment that once gave me a burst of psychological energy to continue depriving myself of calories.

Stanford recognizes this, for which I’m exceedingly appreciative. I don’t think there are many other schools that so loudly and creatively proclaim the holistic nature of wellness. It gets complicated, though: in the process of promoting its importance, we too easily short-circuit ourselves to focus simply on its external face. It’s an extremely difficult line to gauge. In any art or film class I’ve ever taken, a major discussion has always been about authenticity versus image, for as something authentic grows in value, so does the value of the image. The mechanics of an eating disorder exemplify this: relative to pursuing true spiritual peace, the visible interpretation is much more convenient. And we fall for that, over and over again, trusting our ability to follow good strategy.

Which leads me also to a third observation: certain personality traits are both stellar for academics and useful for eating disorders. Think of how much strength and destruction is contained in “perfectionism,” “high need for structure,” and thoughts like “I will only eat ‘good’ things” (disorder symptoms listed by Vaden). Several of my friends confirm that their ambitious work ethic and goal-oriented nature — even a penchant for numbers (counting calories) — were essential to sustaining an eating disorder.

The difficulty in calling out an eating disorder is that it is defined by a way of thinking, and the actions that follow are only potential indicators. Everyone eats differently, grows up with different cultural standards and needs completely variable things. But eating disorders boil down to a question of motives, which include but are not limited to: an ever-decreasing scale number, an appearance that will never come and a distraction from more emotional issues.

We are, however, at a place where being unbelievably busy is 100 percent socially acceptable. Thus, not everyone is taking time to address their truest intentions, let alone those of others around us. This is a significant part of why an eating disorder can tyrannize a Stanford student for so long. The insanity of its purpose takes reflection, introspection and a community of people who will reaffirm that appearance doesn’t suffice as a life goal.

This column isn’t meant for the student with the disorder. For those engulfed in a radical eating regime, it’s likely to sound totally irrelevant. This column, ultimately, is for the student nearby, or the dormmate or classmate or friend noticing something. You might not know what to say or do, but there are people at Stanford (Stanford Healthy Body Image Program or Vaden) who are prepared. Many of them went through this, and are trying to spare others.

 

Nina is always open to responses, at ninamc “at” stanford “dot” edu.

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The Young Adult Section: Reasons we relate https://stanforddaily.com/2012/04/30/the-young-adult-section-reasons-we-relate/ https://stanforddaily.com/2012/04/30/the-young-adult-section-reasons-we-relate/#respond Mon, 30 Apr 2012 07:28:58 +0000 https://stanforddaily.com/?p=1064993 Ultimately, many of us are looking for very different things in the people around us, and these are just three I've noticed.

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My interest in relationships colors everything I do. I majored in IR because I love the idea of countries in contact: the EU as a fractious clique or North Korea trying to prove stronger than the South. I chose to study languages that would help me communicate with distant relatives (and a long-lost babysitter). My dad once dubbed me “Little Ms. Chatterbox” and still all I want to do is have conversations with people about what they care about. In fact, over years of talking with close friends who think similarly to me, I almost got to thinking that this was everyone’s way of navigating social waters here at Stanford.

But that’s a hefty assumption. Despite our common age range, the motivations behind our relationship choices are radically diverse. The differences are audible in the content of our chatter, visible in our social choices and embedded in our daily schedules. Ultimately, many of us are looking for very different things in the people around us, and these are just three I’ve noticed.

 

Casual company: Because in a sea of strangers and unknowns, even small talk is a lifeboat. I remember freshman year, when many of us were roaming around campus in constant mobs, or swarming campus parties in well-dressed gangs. Within 10 weeks, BFF statuses were fixed, sexiling was in full swing and long-term plans with recent acquaintances were ambitiously scheduled.

For me, most of these rapidly-settled associations unraveled by the next year. The initial ease had a lot of spirit, but little depth to show for itself. In retrospect, “No one actually knew me” is a common agreement. That sense of anonymity isn’t exclusive to freshman year, but it’s certainly a time we see how much we value simple sociability as quick-fix relief from a deeper displacement.

 

Physical intimacy: Because we know that personal intimacy can manifest itself physically, and it’s easier to attempt the physical part first. This modern perception is well exemplified in the fact that “Sex & Love” or “Sex & Relationships” is the name of that section in the most popular women’s magazines. I’m not sure if the overall assumption is that physicality leads to ideal relationships or vice versa, but I’m pretty sure it’s one of them.

Otherwise, hooking up is a preferred way to “scratch that itch,” as a friend recently described it. Interestingly, this kind of connection has everything to do with an internal need, and nothing to do with the other person. Then again, repeated hooking up can actually slip into something committed, if “boyfriend and girlfriend” titling seems like the logical next step. It’s a trendy view that physical and emotional interactions are mostly equivalent, so this process probably seems pretty natural. In general, college is a common place where many of us decide how successful or realistic these approaches are for us. It’s not political and it’s not economic, but the definition of an ideal romantic relationship is probably one of the starkest and most rarely debated cultural divides on campus.

 

A place to give: Because some Stanford students concern themselves primarily with their time and energy and giving it away as much as they can. This, for me, has been the most unique perspective on friendship and love I’ve ever encountered. It has also redefined loaded phrases like “public service” and “social justice,” which I once assumed were meant for expensive organizations or students’ future careers. I judged too soon. Some students now have been supervising overnight shifts at Night Outreach’s homeless shelter (which closed Sunday) despite bad sleep and class the next morning. There have been past Operation Hot Cocoas, where students served warm things to late-night studiers during finals weeknights. There are students in the houses and dorms who just seem eternally ready to help you, not to be something themselves, but to think first of you.

The motivations here are actually really odd, as they ignore the ideal of perfect equality. Yet some students are seeking it, convinced that giving what they’ve got is the best “good” they’ll ever find.

At Admit Weekend four years ago, a Stanford authority said that this University’s greatest resource was its people. Four years later, I’m still convinced that this is true. For zero credits, it’s here I’ve learned that relationships can be driven by extremely different objectives. We have choices. And if relationships are as powerful as we say they are, recognizing which choice we’re making could be crucial.

 

Email Nina at ninamc “at” stanford “dot” edu.

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The Young Adult Section: Change https://stanforddaily.com/2012/04/23/the-young-adult-section-change/ https://stanforddaily.com/2012/04/23/the-young-adult-section-change/#respond Mon, 23 Apr 2012 07:28:08 +0000 https://stanforddaily.com/?p=1064313 So, in this alleged age of self-discovery, have we been fooled into thinking that we are the constants?

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Can people change? The question arises in every relationship we have, though our answer is hardly ever the same. We aim the word “change” at the culprits of our breakups and divorces; it’s like evidence of unfair play. Other times, we place inexplicable amounts of hope in it to justify ties that hurt us, but simply must have a future. (That hope, too, can find a very bitter end.) In some ways, we are convinced that people do change, to our dismay or demand. Yet, in all of these cases, we seem more ready to relegate that possibility to the realm of others. So, in this alleged age of self-discovery, have we been fooled into thinking that we are the constants?

High school was about when I embarked on the epic mission to “be myself.” Much of American youth culture claims to promote this mission. I employed all personality (slash perfume-style) quizzes in women’s magazines and looked up to role models (i.e., Natalie Portman) to try and set something of myself in stone. In light of how mysteriously designed we all are, figuring a thing or two out often feels like relief: “Yeah, I definitely [am this or do that]!”

Statements like these are like exclusive property titles to our life and personality. They represent an ability to look at our past and find precedents and patterns. Maybe it’s around puberty and social entrances that this desire for finalization starts sinking in — a desire to be the master of ourselves. An interviewer reiterated that to me recently, as he walked me out the door: “It really seems like you know yourself,” he said. “Thanks!” I said, without getting into how “knowing myself” was becoming a particularly self-centered source of pride I was trying to tone down. His comment reminded me that self-awareness, as articulated in every cover letter and interview we do, is generally Step One to getting ahead in life.

But there’s a very thin line between self-awareness and self-fulfilling prophecy. Self-awareness is about knowing our strengths, temptations and failures, and accepting what we cannot change. The line is that we don’t always know what cannot change. The prophecy is when self-awareness becomes future-oriented, prescribing unnecessary guidelines with which we hem ourselves later.

I’ve been considering this thin line a lot recently, as I’m a senior graduating in eight weeks. I feel myself toeing it each time a conversation with either of my parents reaches hostile pitches, mostly regarding my future. These people are among those who care for my well-being as much as I do, and maybe more. Their intentions are in the clear, and I know it. So why such violent opposition to the offered advice? Why do I get so sensitive? It’s because, honestly, their different ideas make me wonder if the decisions I’ve made about myself are wrong. And it’s an uncomfortable mental place. For how much I say I’m all for growth and learning and constructive criticism, it’s my tight grip on knowing myself that restricts me from truly opening my heart to friends and family. So, when the debates are over, I realize again that they were never about bouncing around ideas; they were usually about impressing someone about how I already knew my own idea.

Open-mindedness, a well-reputed quality, is often tested by our ability to try a new food, accept that others think differently or listen to others’ opinions in toleration. In actuality, I think that we’re all open-minded about anything that doesn’t matter much to us. The real test comes when we face something that shakes mankind’s most prized possession — our knowledge of self. All we want is to depend on it forever. We even go so far as to tout our own “bad” qualities, hurtful or harsh habits we inflict on others, as distinctive and inevitable parts of us. And in doing so, we end up giving ourselves a free pass to do them perpetually.

A certain degree of self-awareness is essential — everything this column is speaks to how much I think so. Sans a bit of introspection, we’d never learn from mistakes; we’d be constantly vulnerable to foolish situations and we’d face an identity crisis every time we had to pick an ice-cream flavor. But there’s a place where knowledge stops being knowledge and instead becomes our main obstacle. Or, perhaps, the main obstacle is acknowledging that we’ve reached that point of self-restriction at all.

People can be changed, though, in enormous ways. I’ve experienced it myself and seen it in others, and now have faith that it’s possible.

 

If there’s a line stopping you from contacting Nina, just cross it. Here! Her email is ninamc “at” stanford “dot” edu. She loves hearing back from you.

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The Young Adult Section: Real is ethereal https://stanforddaily.com/2012/04/16/the-young-adult-section-real-is-ethereal/ https://stanforddaily.com/2012/04/16/the-young-adult-section-real-is-ethereal/#respond Mon, 16 Apr 2012 07:28:07 +0000 https://stanforddaily.com/?p=1063518 Our culture equates personal validity with good communication, making anything inexplicable look highly suspicious.

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These days, our gut gets a pretty bad rap. Our culture equates personal validity with good communication, making anything inexplicable look highly suspicious. That “vibe” we get sometimes is born in a moment that flees before our minds can capture it, so we employ our best tools to retrieve it: are you being too sensitive? Are you being overemotional? Why? Where does that come from? And ultimately, how might you be wrong?

There must be a “legitimate” source of our split-second sensations, right? And if we can’t consider all of the options with a great, intellectual discussion, clearly it doesn’t mean anything. And so we wave a feeling away, on to the next topic of the day.

Perhaps I’ve become overly deft at this emotional sleight of hand; a couple of recent, fleeting experiences in the past month have shown me how much so. I’ll describe it to you, but it will have to sound vague: I was standing before someone, outside, on a beautifully sunny day…and felt unusually trapped. I remember being reassured there were bystanders around…just in case. There wasn’t much breeze and some students were dancing together around the corner. But during the encounter, I felt an acutely strong discomfort. It was pretty unfamiliar, and I was definitely entertaining all of the potential, visible causes behind it, before deciding I was imagining everything. And as soon as I started walking away, I forgot about it entirely. Problem solved! Unexplained ambiguity effectively avoided.

But when I stepped into the situation again a few weeks later, the threatening feeling I had received before came back. And there are other ways that this personal connection is growing unexpectedly intrusive. Finally, in this seemingly absurd contest between raw instinct and rationale, I realized that my head hadn’t been leading me correctly. Now, I get it: I get that I’m not going to get it. And now I can respond appropriately.

Much of the problem is my habit of clinging to that aforementioned big head that analyzes visible data and makes convenient conclusions. This is the head that got me into this school, that forms the words I speak and write, that makes me resistant to others’ advice and spiteful of others’ criticism and believes in a religion of coherency. And for all of that, it’s way more problematic and self-deceptive than I usually admit. I’ve noticed that the bad logic I employ on myself tends to supports wisdom that unravels in retrospect. This must be why that recent episode hit me so hard: it was jarring to see my head so obviously opposing something I so palpably felt. It’s rare to see that happening in real time.

On a daily basis, we may think we live in a sensible world of facts we can figure. But, really, none of that means anything without the emotions with which we color it. Often, these things are inexpressible, and we’re fooled into thinking they’re less real. But the reason why poetry, music and landscapes are beautiful to us is because they court the ethereal. They address the existence of something bigger that we know, instinctively, exists. Remember the sunset, which happens every single night and constantly debuts in sappy movies and ballad music. And yet, it’s one of the most indescribably personal things any of us might ever experience, making it one of the most universal things in the world.

These things, like love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness are the fuel of cynics and skeptics exactly because they are most powerful. I’ve found that rejecting these intensely internal sources of information can be dangerous, when our head is perhaps the least trustworthy source. Truth springs elsewhere, and we should run after it.

 

Feel strongly about this column? Email Nina! She has ears to hear (and eyes to read) at ninamc “at” stanford “dot” edu.

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The Young Adult Section: What is love? https://stanforddaily.com/2012/04/09/the-young-adult-section-what-is-love/ https://stanforddaily.com/2012/04/09/the-young-adult-section-what-is-love/#respond Mon, 09 Apr 2012 07:28:56 +0000 https://stanforddaily.com/?p=1062683 No, seriously. Searching after this question's answer has dominated much of my time here in college. Once upon a time, I thought I knew the answer: love was a thing to be discovered, waiting within special people I encountered.

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What is love? (“Baby, don’t hurt me.”)

No, seriously. Searching after this question’s answer has dominated much of my time here in college. Once upon a time, I thought I knew the answer: love was a thing to be discovered, waiting within special people I encountered.

As a result, I’ve spent my life loving people I already know I like. Maybe this is normal. But all this time, I’ve been practicing how to love my friends and family first; how to reciprocate love to those who are nice to me; how to publicly love the less-fortunate in big ways. That’s all acceptable. But, honestly, it only reflects the assumption that love is limited. Thus, the best of me was reserved only for those relationships that garnered me the most in returns. Even if I never realized it, I was discriminate about who most deserved me. And still, left to my own broken ideas of what’s best, I revert to this strategic kind of life.

Actually, I’m sure this is normal.

Even my college-level economics and international relations courses try to teach me similar things. They are often based on perceptions of people as purely profit-minded, designating their scarcest resources in places that minimize loss. Naturally, believing myself to be a good person, I would never say that I was like that. Yet a scarce resource is exactly how I regarded my ability to be compassionate: I showered it on a select few who returned the favor. How efficient, how rewarding. Haddaway’s song, ultimately, is more than just the soundtrack to a funny skit. It’s the summary of this world’s “fair” aversion to loving people who have hurt us in response.

But here’s where I draw a line. Because I’m convinced that deep down, we all know this kind of humanity isn’t inevitable — that there must exist something better, eternal, omniscient. And there’s a community of remarkably unsuspicious-looking people, here, on this campus, who believe in that. They act on a commitment to see beyond achievements, faces and flaws to accept who someone really is. And geez is it a struggle.

Why? Well, think of the classmate who shamelessly dropped the ball on your group project, or the dormmate who trades your smile on the stairwell for an vacant nonresponse, or the boy who suggested hopeful things to you and promptly forgot them all. Personally, I’m used to responding to these people with harsh words behind their backs. I’ve laughed countless times with other friends about a perpetrator’s wrongs against me to support my own self-righteousness. I’ve cut so many people off from my life so that I could ignore that my treatment of them was still an integral part of who I am. Because, just as easily as I shower loved ones with understanding and empathy, I regress to hurting those who hurt me.

Let’s be real. The norm is every man for himself. And I always reasoned that no relationship was gracious enough that I should give more than I get back, or get more than I give. The highest ideal I could think of was equal give-and-take.

The love that challenges me now is different. I have to will it, because it’s completely against my nature, making it the most difficult thing I will ever opt into. It’s the challenge of remembering that those people who keep witnessing the worst of me, with whom I feel incompatible, are truly filled with the same inherent value and beauty that I see effortlessly in my closest friends. The challenge is running into them on the street and drawing up a smile or a nod for them and, in my heart of hearts, honoring them with respect. To remember that there’s a beating heart, and sad and deep and important stories, hidden within the person who hurts me — that’s the hardest to do.

This perfect love is really not humanly possible. But there are people putting all their bets in life on that single love, and more than anything in the world I want to seek what they seek, too.

Ultimately, this isn’t a challenge I can absolutely accomplish. I know it takes more than the lifetime I’ve got. But there’s no way could I settle for the love I once thought was good enough, now that I’ve met the greatest kind there is.

 

Email Nina if you’re curious, if you wonder, if you don’t understand and totally disagree, or if you agree and know how happy she’ll be that you told her!!! Find her at ninamc “at” stanford “dot” edu.

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The Young Adult Section: The invisible why https://stanforddaily.com/2012/04/02/the-young-adult-section-the-invisible-why/ https://stanforddaily.com/2012/04/02/the-young-adult-section-the-invisible-why/#respond Mon, 02 Apr 2012 07:28:05 +0000 https://stanforddaily.com/?p=1061960 But today, the beginning of my last quarter here begins, commencement beckons and much of what I used to want from college and beyond seems like someone else's dream. Somehow, my existence at this school and my picture of the future seems...different. For a while, though, I couldn't figure out why.

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The Young Adult Section: The invisible whyBy the end of 12th grade,  I had achieved “the good life” — a preview version of what I thought I wanted for the rest of my life. My name and face was broadcast to the student body twice weekly; I had an impressive resume; I had a solid group of hilarious friends, and options in the romance arena; I was seen as super nice because I distributed baked goods, mix CDs and carpool rides; I was labeled a good person because I led so much community service. I was enjoying the perfect balance of high achievement alongside magnanimous reputation; I was comfortable, ambitious and really happy. I was decent, while hoping to change the world in my name. Thankfully, that kind of life aspiration was and is completely socially condoned. Pride in self may not be, but as long as I never consciously addressed my own selfishness, and others around me believed I was “good,” I was safe. So when my Stanford career began, everything I said and did was driven by my heart’s ultimate intention: the ideal life I tasted that senior year.

 

But today, the beginning of my last quarter here begins, commencement beckons and much of what I used to want from college and beyond seems like someone else’s dream. Somehow, my existence at this school and my picture of the future seems…different. For a while, though, I couldn’t figure out why. After all, the “Work” bookmark group in my browser is filled with listings I would have tagged four years ago, too; I find myself looking into the same general post-college plans I would have picked out during freshman year. Plus, I look the same, my hobbies haven’t changed much and casual, four-year-old acquaintances say I’m still recognizably me. The trajectory of my time here seems to have run along with general logic and predictability. What changed, then? Why does that girl four years ago feel like a stranger I’d probably be interested to meet?

 

This question has been the backdrop for the numerous job-related chats I’ve been having recently with friends and various other income-earning human beings in the world. I initially started contacting these people to learn what their work was like and if I would like it: publishing, freelance writing, consulting, graduate study, urban nonprofits. But what I found myself learning most was how little their job title told me relative to their purposes behind it. “Why are you doing what you do?” is the question that has uncovered the most.

 

I honestly didn’t expect a graduate course professor to ask me if what I wanted from grad school was an entrance to a fascinating subject, or just an escape from the job search. I didn’t expect my music major friend to tell me she had loved performing ever since seeing the joy it gave her grandparents during their most painful days. I didn’t expect my own father to explain how he was leaving consulting to start a new investment firm in order to have deeper relationships with the people with whom he was working. Why didn’t I expect these answers? It’s because I forget that there’s a heart inside every story — the part of the story I actually love the most. Behind every word, action and interaction there is intention, and I think that intention is born ultimately in our hearts.

 

Of course, not everyone is thinking about their heart and what it seeks most, or about whether it’s necessary to understand how their heart plays into their version of the “good life.” Our deepest life objective is an invisible thing, with little territory in daily conversations. It is quiet and completely unannounced, even if it guides everything any of us will ever do…which I believe it does.

 

Sometime in the first century, a guy named Matthew wrote a revolutionary statement: where our treasures are, our hearts are also. And I agree. He suggested that what people desire most from life goes beyond rationale or intellect and right to the core of who we are. He suggested that what we treasure is the giveaway of our heart, which defines us. Well, no wonder my life is different. Somewhere between four years ago and now, what I want from life — and what I want to want — completely changed. And it wasn’t a mere head decision.

 

In the end, this is just a school column written by a random 21-year old girl. Yet I hope it means something, if it comes straight from my heart.

 

Curious? Questions? Complaints? Email Nina at ninamc “at” stanford “dot” edu. Happy April, Stanford!

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The Young Adult Section: Three of my favorite movies https://stanforddaily.com/2012/03/05/the-young-adult-section-three-of-my-favorite-movies/ https://stanforddaily.com/2012/03/05/the-young-adult-section-three-of-my-favorite-movies/#respond Mon, 05 Mar 2012 08:28:30 +0000 https://stanforddaily.com/?p=1060507 With that, ladies and gentlemen, I now transform this little newspaper section into a strategic soapbox about the following three movies, among those I keep watching over and over again. (And in so doing, possibly subject myself to the familiar criticism: “You like that movie?”) My unabashed objective here, of course, is to persuade you to see them all. Here goes...

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The Young Adult Section: Three of my favorite moviesOnce upon a time, fresh from high school, I arrived at Stanford with plans to double major in film and communication. Before college, most of my money used to vanish, albeit with my consent, at the box office at least once every two weeks. Movie nights with friends had been Friday staples. So, freshman year sans car, the inaccessibility of the theater was one of the first grave things I felt. Over time, my tap on the movie scene diminished; the balance of movies I’ve seen against movies I want to see tipped more precariously toward the latter.

 

Most of us realize there was a thing we didn’t pack with us in the move to Stanford. Yet I haven’t quit saying that I love watching movies — sitting still in one place and getting lost in a visual story. I love how favorite movies become campaigns we make to convert our friends into fans. I love how we can debate whether a movie was realistic or not. I love how we can sit right next to each other watching the same movie and notice entirely different details on the screen before us.

 

With that, ladies and gentlemen, I now transform this little newspaper section into a strategic soapbox about the following three movies, among those I keep watching over and over again. (And in so doing, possibly subject myself to the familiar criticism: “You like that movie?”) My unabashed objective here, of course, is to persuade you to see them all. Here goes…

 

“Ocean’s Twelve”: Because it’s enchanting to watch people with chemistry. My little brother and I watched this movie maybe a dozen times one summer, repeatedly enjoying what felt like a two-hour long inside joke. I hadn’t noticed at first, but “Twelve” constantly references “Eleven” (and I loved “Eleven”); Rusty (Brad Pitt) is talking with a full mouth in almost every one of his scenes and snarky double entendre dominates the script. There’s a scene in which Rusty and Isabel (Catherine Zeta-Jones) first meet in Italy — it’s a second of eye contact as she sits alone at a cafe and he grins at her while sprinting away from the local policemen chasing him. Later:

 

“I think I saw you yesterday,” she says.

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah, you were being chased by the police.”

“Chasing me? No. I don’t think so,” he says.

“I’m quite sure it was you.”

“Doesn’t say much for the police.”

 

That’s how the love-affair-of-the-movie starts. It’s a microcosm of the entire movie: hints of an idea, mysterious nods to a past event, characters that totally click and forget that technically they’re in complete disagreement. Don’t we love when that happens in real life?

 

“The Royal Tenenbaums”: Because in the process of doing what we think is best, we often foil others trying to do the same exact thing. Royal (Gene Hackman) is an estranged husband and father who attempts to reconnect his splintered family by pretending he’s dying of cancer after getting kicked out of the hotel he was living in for years. Now-grown children, grandchildren, an adopted child, unique coping mechanisms and hidden love interests all end up under the same roof like in the olden days, except less willingly. In their re-acquaintances, they surprise each other as they learn how much they had all attempted to escape each other.

 

“Looks like you and Dad are back together again, huh?” Chas (Ben Stiller) says.

“He’s your dad, too, Chas,” Richie (Luke Wilson) says.

“No, he’s not.”

“Yes, he is.”

“You really hate me, don’t you?”

“No, I don’t. I love you.”

 

“The Science of Sleep”: Because we know how great our minds are at making complicated situations out of tiny facts. Stephane (Gael Garcia Bernal) falls in love with his neighbor Stephanie (Charlotte Gainsbourg). But our protagonist is not simply an artist by occupation — he is an overactive dreamer whose imagination starts confusing him as to which events have happened and which he has only dreamt. He seems childish to us at times; really, though, he puts pictures to the ideas that can haunt anyone with an unshakable crush. The way he sees it:

 

“It’s not fair. She changed exactly the second I started to like her. It’s like a big bang. You know, the first instant, it’s very small and then the next nanosecond, huge — infinite. I wish I could travel back to the time when I didn’t find her attractive.”

 

So there you have it — my first list-style column! And, yes — I’ll admit that this column was spurred on by my viewing, finally, of “Hugo” this past weekend.

 

Convinced?? Not quite? That’s okay! — we can talk about this. Email Nina at ninamc “at” stanford “dot” edu.

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The Young Adult Section: Freedom https://stanforddaily.com/2012/02/27/the-young-adult-section-freedom/ https://stanforddaily.com/2012/02/27/the-young-adult-section-freedom/#comments Mon, 27 Feb 2012 08:28:52 +0000 https://stanforddaily.com/?p=1059553 The rules under which I lived during most of sophomore year are called, in social and clinical terms, an “eating disorder.” It's a jarring convergence of terms. Even stranger is the fact that the girl writing those rules was me.

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The Young Adult Section: FreedomThe rules under which I lived during most of sophomore year are called, in social and clinical terms, an “eating disorder.” It’s a jarring convergence of terms. Even stranger is the fact that the girl writing those rules was me. Me — normal, a student at Stanford — not a psycho nutcase with a sensational/irrelevant story. That situation belonged to cliché reality TV show stars, who were crazy and self-obsessed. This is our human penchant for being in denial: we see clearly the absurdities of others and rarely in ourselves. Because, yes, it was undoubtedly me, less than two years ago, forcing myself into a highly self-destructive mental structure. Yet all that time, I proudly thought I was in control, and that was a big part of the problem.

 

In most students’ post-freshman year dorm life, social regularity becomes more self-directed. We have more autonomy in who we see every day and who knows our daily business (which itself can be a major adjustment at the beginning of sophomore year). Fewer people are around to see how we eat. Now, that’s a side note, of course, except that it creates the space for someone trying to escape being observed as eating differently than before. And I began eating very purposefully different. I ate exactly every three hours, which dictated when I woke up each morning.

 

When my eating scheduled was forced to change, I ignored a traditional lunch or dinner. I could only eat apples or pears between meals. I ate only raw vegetables at dinner, especially those with supposed “negative” calories. I could not drink water at meals, for it diluted digestive acids. I went to the gym with a precisely-timed formula for offsetting food intake. At almost all moments, my mind was concerned with what I was eating, and what I was not eating. These were absolutes.

 

It sounds insane to me now, but at that time, recalling every ingested ingredient each day and awaiting the scale’s report each week made sense. I was aware of growing more particular, but it was sunny outside, my classes were awesome, I still smiled and life still felt sunny. I didn’t register that my entire day was mentally spent on food or the sustained issues cropping up in my body. Indeed, I had mastered the arts of health and self-discipline. “Disorder” would be the last word I’d use to describe my orderly life. So only now do I see how ironic that word is.

 

The specificity of an “eating disorder” for many is sourced from a much more general psychological condition: the desire to have control. It’s an innate human trait. We want that sensation, and we often use tangible materials to attain it. Depending on our different personalities and contexts, though, our objects of choice vary widely. My own fixation settled on food and appearance, but for others it’s a grade, a relationship, reputation or tomorrow’s schedule. I think people have a tendency to create security where we can, in reaction to all of the places where we cannot. We intend the best for ourselves, really, but it’s easy to start sacrificing things we didn’t mean to.

 

In logic and rationale, we will admit we can’t take anything in this material world for granted. But in the most irrational depth of our hearts — the part that truly drives how we live  — we’re desperate to prove ourselves wrong. That dissonance is exactly where we trap ourselves in crisis. We still strive for self-dependence and certainty when those things keep breaking down despite us.

 

My relationship with God is my reality check. To some, this is called “using religion as the preferred coping mechanism” (at least, that’s what I used to say). But the more I learn about what Christ said, and the more I see of humanity in action, my faith in the supposedly impossible simply grows stronger. I’ve noticed how human standards for right and wrong and okay are just so, so messy — they keep foiling us. I wreak havoc on myself and others the more I try to take over, and it’s horrible. There’s a more popular religion, based on self-worship and perfection, that doesn’t make sense to me anymore. We want the last word, control of the day, thinking that that is freedom. But is it, really? I didn’t find freedom there. I believe freedom is somewhere else — a much different, less tangible place.

 

Many of us seek order in well-disguised disorders, some more extreme than others. A lot of us are dealing with uncertainty in very internalized, painful ways. So, I thought I’d write this column in light of all that. (I was kind of nervous; this column has been cooking mentally for weeks.) Hopefully, my experience can mean something more out here, maybe to you.

 

Who’da thunk it? Nina talks in other, non-column ways, too. If you don’t see her around in person, email her at ninamc “at” stanford “dot” edu. Until we meet again next Monday.

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The Young Adult Section: Me, my day and I https://stanforddaily.com/2012/02/13/the-young-adult-section-me-my-day-and-i/ https://stanforddaily.com/2012/02/13/the-young-adult-section-me-my-day-and-i/#respond Mon, 13 Feb 2012 08:27:11 +0000 https://stanforddaily.com/?p=1058045 Very early in life, we started learning phrases like “Be positive” or “Look on the bright side.” But these isolated statements, in their Copperplate Gothic font underneath classroom pictures of foggy mountains, fast became trite. They are short and sweet, and they come out of emotional context, which makes them unpersuasive.

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The Young Adult Section: Me, my day and II am at the center of most of my problems, I’ve recently realized. I’m trying not to be.

 

Very early in life, we started learning phrases like “Be positive” or “Look on the bright side.” But these isolated statements, in their Copperplate Gothic font underneath classroom pictures of foggy mountains, fast became trite. They are short and sweet, and they come out of emotional context, which makes them unpersuasive. They simply aren’t enough to sway the tall psychological structures in our heads that determine the way we perceive our lives.

 

Yet we gravitate toward them, convinced they’re the best possible coping mechanisms. We tend to play exhausting games of forced optimism and say bright, empty things to other people to qualify the difficulties we’re facing. And, after all of the drama is over, we wave it away with “I guess it was all in my head.” This is how we can reminisce on high school and mock our silly “dramas,” and then move right into lamenting our current ones. And on we go.

 

There’s a subtle bit of ex post facto pointlessness here. I don’t know if we truly expect our convenient, all-inclusive philosophies like “choose happiness” and “just be happy” to resolve any short- or long-term dilemmas. But I’ve noticed that in this entire process of learning how to be satisfied with everything in life, the emphasis is always on one single person and their mind. We’re constantly learning how to have our own great days by our own supposed mental powers. Just me. Just you. So simple. Really?

 

When I was 11, my parents got divorced, and for a while I forgot how to live normally. Most of us have gone through something similar: an event happens, and everything else goes out of focus. I was told by various people to not be so sad, to look on the bright side, to smile, to remember [insert buzz-word-of-choice-associated-with-“optimistic” here]. But these expressions still directed everything back to me and my inner mental mess (which solves few important things on its own).

 

As I began earning more of my family’s trust and personal histories, though, I began to see how many other people were implicated in an event I had assumed was exclusively mine. It was preposterous to assume that all of my troubles were, well, all of the troubles there were. There was more, and I was humbled. Recovery wasn’t about being “positive” about myself. It was about escaping emotional self-indulgence and considering that there were other complications for people beyond me to which I was unhelpfully contributing. Years have passed, and I’m still trying to tone down my volatility.

 

Fast forward to last Friday. My woes: little homework accomplished, less cash in my wallet than anticipated, annoyance that I was tired before a ball that night, a denser weekend than I wanted…These aren’t necessarily little concerns, of course; altogether, they create the burden sustained by many of us students. What concerned me most, though, was that these thoughts, which were centered completely on me, were soaking up the attentions of the people around me. They gave me the spotlight and I gave them my attitude. It wasn’t that I needed to be more positive and less negative. It was that either way, I was all about me.

 

I often see my day as a pie chart, and I feel uncomfortable knowing that self-satisfying matters usually color the majority of it. Yet by now, I am quite aware of the irony — that the more I withdraw, turn inward and analyze my highly individual issues, the more I start self-destructing. “Self-improvement” campaigns are my weakness: a personal obsession with “healthy eating” that caused my worst health issues, or a period of time raging selfishly through unfair family dynamics that actually had little to do with me. The world always seems like it’s ending when I forget my world is not the world. I forget that there are more people than me — an exceedingly better place to send my concerns.

 

I used to be comforted by the fact that my life was all mine. It was all about control and superior mental states and feeling great and pretending to be constantly upbeat. But I would hope that there is more that I can offer to this world than just that. I’m sure that there’s more to the day than just feeling good about my own day.

 

But to be honest, it really would make Nina’s day to hear from you. Don’t be shy! Email Nina at ninamc “at” stanford “dot” edu.

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The Young Adult Section: Skepticism and simple stories https://stanforddaily.com/2012/02/06/the-young-adult-section-skepticism-and-simple-stories/ https://stanforddaily.com/2012/02/06/the-young-adult-section-skepticism-and-simple-stories/#respond Mon, 06 Feb 2012 08:28:47 +0000 https://stanforddaily.com/?p=1057104 All I could think was how while I sometimes convince myself that life is excruciatingly dramatic, I forget how it can be so timelessly simple.

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The Young Adult Section: Skepticism and simple storiesYou know that one elderly couple sitting together on the bench by the waterfront in that one chick flick that you swear you’re never going to see?

 

“I would rather have gone to the quad, I think,” he said.

 

“Yes, we’ll have to do that next time,” she responded. “Oh, I got those cherry muffins we wanted, but they’re a bit dry…”

 

I was sitting on the light brown bench at Lake Lag with that couple yesterday. My friend beside me was reading a book with a protagonist named “Hiro Protagonist.” Two separate students I knew strolled by, each holding the hand of a significant other I had no idea they had.

 

The elderly couple continued on about someone’s kids, after leaving once and returning to the bench. The woman turned to me then, with a very happy face:

 

“Excuse me — do you know when the Super Bowl is playing today?”

 

And the playlist of that one fraternity house went from “Hakuna Matata” to “Don’t Stop Believin.’”

 

I got thirsty, so we ventured into the ceramics building behind us for a water fountain. We ran into a mutual friend who was spending the afternoon sketching with two other girls at a table on the porch.

 

“Does it help? Drawing something so simple?” one of them asked, as her friend shaded in a three-dimensional shape.

 

“Yeah, I don’t have to draw complicated arms for once.”

 

I thought it was funny that I was hearing this dialogue in the midst of thinking about why this day seemed so effortless, so I interrupted — no better word for it — their conversation to ask for permission to reprint their words, as I’ve done just now.

 

Then my friend and I headed back to our original bench, passing that elderly couple as they left the lake. The woman smiled broadly at me.

 

The interesting thing about writing is its ability to condense life into digestible stories. And we often resent it. Did this pleasant story seem real to you? Or did it seem removed and thus unreal? Because in some stories, couples do stay married until they’re old. Characters run into each other in unexpected, out-of-context situations. Strangers meet strangers that voice the thoughts they were literally just thinking. In the movies, these things happen, and oh, do we scoff. Life is complicated. Don’t be naïve.

 

But my mom is right, as she usually is, though I don’t know how much so until later: “Those things do happen in real life!!!” (My mom has recently taken to great repetition of this statement.) The fact, though, that the statement exists at all, often with incredulity and an exclamation point, says something: namely, we don’t believe it. Indeed, history courses have taught me that a good dose of skepticism is healthy. But more and more I’m realizing how easily I can overdose.

 

“Love is cliché” and “I hate clichés” were the catch phrases I used to stamp all over my notebooks and binders in high school. And, until recently, “I hate romantic comedies.” (But, seriously — “When Harry Met Sally”?! How could I think I wouldn’t like “When Harry Met Sally”?!) At least in part, this self-branding campaign was an effort to prove I was more complex than any easy movie montage or oft-stated song line. I thought I was sufficiently old and jaded enough to conquer simplicity, pish-tosh. Skepticism was sophisticated, sophisticated was cool and, in this world, being “cool” is really important — even if the word’s exact definition is in constant flux. But, oh, the irony of thinking I could hate a “cliché” like love, when I soon learned how much of a gift it actually is.

 

My default setting to general skepticism caused and causes problems. It’s a tiresome position that has forced me to play devil’s advocate and say things simply because another person didn’t. It’s useless controversy in casual conversation, poison for so many of my family relationships. Skepticism is what keeps me from a particular relationship, a future I might reject, my trust in someone. And the fact is, for all of the ways we say we’re not hopeless romantics, we are. Every time we ask a new acquaintance if they by chance know another friend of ours, or take a chance on someone we keep thinking about — that is us permitting, finally, belief in something pure and simple, without letting reason or logic interfere.

 

In a skeptical world, slow afternoons are cliché, the elderly couple is picturesque, the soundtrack is completely coincidental in this column. In a skeptical world, my day was all of those things. But, if my day was going to stay my day, I would have to choose otherwise. So I would choose to believe in something simpler.

 

This is Nina’s first column of a new Daily volume. She’s hopeful for it, but wants to hear from you first. She’s waiting — literally! — for a thought or two, which you can send straight to ninamc “at” stanford “dot” edu.

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The Young Adult Section: Lost in articulation https://stanforddaily.com/2012/01/31/the-young-adult-section-lost-in-articulation/ https://stanforddaily.com/2012/01/31/the-young-adult-section-lost-in-articulation/#respond Tue, 31 Jan 2012 08:28:45 +0000 https://stanforddaily.com/?p=1056282 Fumbling over words is, generally, not enjoyable. At a place like Stanford, where rhetoric skills are acknowledged as necessary and thus require two quarters of training, most of us take for granted that smooth speech equates with intelligence. We are aware that being able to explain something well often means knowing it well, too.

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The Young Adult Section: Lost in articulationBut, what, specifically, do you want to do?” the high-ranking executive of Fox Searchlight Pictures asked me over the phone.

 

Ah, well, yeah, that’s a really good question…As I mentioned, I have that broad, abstract idea of what I’d like to be doing, but I suppose, I guess, the issue is what that looks like realistically in, well, an actual job title,” I totally sputtered.

 

…Nina. You need to do your homework – get on Google, and do your homework. No one’s giving you a job if you don’t even know what job you want.”

 

And that is a concise summary of a 15-minute conversation I had on a planter in the quad with a woman who got straight to the point about the fact that I wasn’t getting the point. It was a reality-check treatment I hadn’t yet had the honor of experiencing from anyone else I had spoken to about post-grad work. By the end of that call, my only remaining thought was to thank her for her time (she had to “be at a meeting now”) and for being so direct (I decided against “cutthroat”) with advice. But then, after we hung up, my lasting realization was how difficult it had been to articulate myself, even when I thought I knew how. I hadn’t realized how lost I was.

 

Fumbling over words is, generally, not enjoyable. At a place like Stanford, where rhetoric skills are acknowledged as necessary and thus require two quarters of training, most of us take for granted that smooth speech equates with intelligence. We are aware that being able to explain something well often means knowing it well, too.

 

Now, if we take the above and stick it in a discussion section – even here at Stanford – what do you get? You get professors who say the following:

 

I don’t get these kids. I know they can talk – they start babbling as soon as class is over. But in class, they’re completely silent. They must be smart, but this is ridiculous.”

 

That’s a comment I overheard last year in the Department of History, where discussion sections are common. And we are those kids. Obviously no single section can fully characterize a student, since we all attend classes that we personally find utterly fascinating or downright dozy. But I know that in many, there are students who have something to say but are furiously editing it in their heads lest it accidentally exit in run-on form and make them feel “stupid.” We hold a pervasive fear of that feeling – especially on the stage we often make section out to be. So ideas don’t get to interact, and nothing gets figured out.

 

Other times, we are the willing center of attention and take charge in a conversation or a heated debate. Unexpectedly, I’ve found that this is the birthplace of so many little lies – at the moment we realize we’re on a charismatic roll, and “I’m not sure” or “I don’t know” would interrupt it. There seems to exist a tiny juncture in most energetic talks, perhaps most often with acquaintances, where we decide whether to hesitate honestly over our opinion, or move right along with something easy and plain ol’ untrue. And we may feel a twinge of inward embarrassment afterward – but it fades, right? Ultimately, this habit emphasizes how much we value the image of coherency, even at the expense of truth.

 

But through a volume’s worth of writing this column and talking about confusing questions with confused people (including me, you and maybe someone else), I’m consistently reminded of why conversations are great. (There are many reasons: 1. You can have one over coffee. 2. You can have one over tea. 3. The other person is awesome.) One of the reasons is that it forces us to construct something legitimate out of a mental mess. Communication is ambitious – it demands to be understood.

 

Instantaneously, right as our words roll off of our tongues, we feel if they fumble. When we confuse ourselves, when we get tongue-tied, when we can’t make logical sense of our own sentiments – we know. When our thoughts go public, we see them for what they are, and sometimes they’re fine, and sometimes they fail.

 

But wait – is it “failure,” really? Is being lost for words or hesitation or thinking silence really so painful? Or are we finally giving our crazy, potentially damaging thoughts a chance to get fine-tuned, probably with the help of someone else, too? Sometimes we need to hear our inner nonsense out in the air before we ever realize it was unnecessary nonsense at all.

 

Not everything has to be shared, of course. But, sometimes, it’s in the struggle to articulate ourselves that we see ourselves in real terms. And for that, I think we first have to know how completely, hopelessly lost we are before anything can be found at all.

 

Nina likes to talk it out, and hopefully you’ve gotten the non-subtle, weekly hint that she wants to talk to you, too. She’s asking for your thoughts. So email her at ninamc “at” stanford “dot” edu.

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The Young Adult Section: Zero and one https://stanforddaily.com/2012/01/24/the-young-adult-section-zero-and-one/ https://stanforddaily.com/2012/01/24/the-young-adult-section-zero-and-one/#respond Tue, 24 Jan 2012 08:28:53 +0000 https://stanforddaily.com/?p=1055212 Last Wednesday, I attended the first week’s meeting of my history class discussion section. We started our 50 minutes with an innocent icebreaker, in which every student went up to the chalkboard, said their name and then wrote it down where their birthplace might be if the board were actually a map, albeit blank and borderless. We were supposed to reference where the students before us had placed their names and estimate where our own belonged.

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The Young Adult Section: Zero and oneLast Wednesday, I attended the first week’s meeting of my history class discussion section. We started our 50 minutes with an innocent icebreaker, in which every student went up to the chalkboard, said their name and then wrote it down where their birthplace might be if the board were actually a map, albeit blank and borderless. We were supposed to reference where the students before us had placed their names and estimate where our own belonged.

 

The point is, I was born in Maryland. And I didn’t know where that would be relative to Connecticut. Yeah. Well, now I know. But also, 15 other students I don’t know now know that I didn’t know. Of course, now you, the one reading this column, know as well. Alright…we’re all on the same page.

 

I’m sure that most everyone found it pretty shameful. (Though a laugh may have gurgled its way out of me, to a quiet classroom and a TA murmuring southwest.) As I sat down, I knew immediately that this five-second event had the potential to put me in conversational history, particularly under that ever-entertaining subject entitled, “The stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.” We all love that one. I used to tell a story about a boy in high school who tried confirming that London was in Paris. (Notice purposeful past tense, please!) My cheap reward was an astonished, briefly captivated audience and someone else’s follow-up story about yet another astonishingly dim person. “It’s crazy! These people do exist!” I’ve said hundreds of times. Me, on the other hand — I could argue the definition of “race” versus “ethnicity,” knew what “social justice” actually means and had experienced intellectual highs after two-hour class discussions. And the thing is, I’m sure you have, too. If you are a student here, I’m almost positive I could have had this conversation with you, too. Jokes about others’ stupidity seemed sufficiently distant in the academic context of this campus…though now it’s almost mortifying for me to say so.

 

Contrast last week to the first long break I returned back home from college, when I met some friends with whom I spent a lot of time in high school. There, unexpectedly, it was the “intellectual” label that seemed too closely plastered to everything I said. I felt a deep, distracting pressure to restrain myself from debate, analysis, complications, bigger questions — words that suddenly carried less positive connotations in casual conversations. I didn’t want to hail so obviously from a school that, from home, seemed lofty and pretentious. Is that what I was then?

 

In both cases, a spotlight threw a harsh light in my direction, pointing out a spectrum of qualities I hadn’t noticed in myself before. Less culturally aware? More snooty? Less smart? More insecure? All of them, simultaneously? I realized that these words have values that are contingent on context, and our context changes constantly. We don’t live in novels alongside character foils that expose what we are and are not. And we’re no longer children learning adjectives by their opposites. After all, being a fish out of water depends on the water; feeling out of place depends on the place. It’s complex. We are all every mar and mistake, to varying degrees, at different times, in different places. There’s no point in summarizing the flaws of others when the next right setting will probably reveal it in ourselves. (See: paragraph two.)

 

I guess I’m growing more and more suspect of my own binary statements. I’m not sure if any self-description of choice is a trustworthy anchor at all. They’re all constructions of human people, and human beings don’t ever make things that last forever. Perhaps we are victims of our own attempts to self-determine, often at the expense of others who we imply are totally opposite. But it doesn’t matter an ounce: sooner or later, we all find ourselves falling off our pedestals to the same humble grounds, anyway. The tricky part then just seems to be staying there. Or, at least for me it is.

 

The bottom line is, Nina still has extreme U.S. geography issues. Maybe you want to help her. Better yet, make her day and respond to this column. Until then, she’ll be waiting at ninamc “at” stanford “dot” edu.

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The Young Adult Section: Vulnerability https://stanforddaily.com/2012/01/17/the-young-adult-section-vulnerability/ https://stanforddaily.com/2012/01/17/the-young-adult-section-vulnerability/#respond Tue, 17 Jan 2012 08:28:59 +0000 https://stanforddaily.com/?p=1054460 Sometimes, all we want in the world from another person is a nod -- reassurance that we aren’t alone. Sometimes, we just want our thoughts received, acknowledged and echoed back to us like they make sense and, yes, it’s okay. Normal. You’re fine. I understand. For as much as communication is about conveying information, it’s about confirming what we already think. This might explain our impulse to latch onto, in first encounters, “ME too!!!” or “I know, right?!” like conversational lifeboats. It’s that initial connection we constantly seek, even if we’re only at shallow shores of acquaintance.

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The Young Adult Section: VulnerabilitySometimes, all we want in the world from another person is a nod — reassurance that we aren’t alone. Sometimes, we just want our thoughts received, acknowledged and echoed back to us like they make sense and, yes, it’s okay. Normal. You’re fine. I understand. For as much as communication is about conveying information, it’s about confirming what we already think. This might explain our impulse to latch onto, in first encounters, “ME too!!!” or “I know, right?!” like conversational lifeboats. It’s that initial connection we constantly seek, even if we’re only at shallow shores of acquaintance.

 

But if we move on into darker waters, our distance from solid ground grows alongside our own vulnerability. At the point where stranger turns into significant, trust becomes crucial with all the added self-exposure. It’s no longer a class or fave movie or play-day proximity that locks in a long friendship like it might have in grade school. At 20-ish years of age, we’ve accumulated exclusive rights to our most self-identifying thoughts — rights that we don’t relinquish indiscriminately. Our biggest dreams, family secrets, shameful mistakes and lowest moments are not always the flashy headlines we broadcast in large group settings. They mean more. And for that, it’s what gives us the chance to find those others that know it all, and love us all the more. Otherwise, what?…Most of us have felt it. Otherwise, we’re surrounded by crowds of people with whom we talk, talk, talk…but have not a single clue about who we are. This is loneliness at its most ironic. It’s loneliness at its worst.

 

Many of us felt this freshman year, when we first landed in a high-energy world of smiling people who were similar in the most important way: they were students at this school. Maybe that was enough, for a while. But there were many of us who soon found ourselves pretending and trying to remember what to say to sound included for the sake of being included. We began feeling that contrast between the individuality we all “know” we support and our instinctive fear of that moment of social isolation. (Why else do we keep so quiet in discussion sections?) So we kept up the cheer and toned down the challenge, because being effortlessly honest suddenly became risky. Talking about our past and ourselves wasn’t exactly going with the flow when conversations had to be neutral territory. And the result, from a bird’s-eye view, was a tangle of people each feeling alone for the same, unspoken, unseen reasons. It’s a strange social phenomenon when you think about it. But I’m sure it’s happening, always.

 

So what happens if we’re too open, maybe indiscriminately? Now this might be the crux of the everlasting “girl/guy-friends” question. Example scenario: she meets him and opens up. So does he. They laugh, they giggle, but it’s not all laughs and giggles: they talk. She does the same with other friends. He does not. And, starting from there, an imbalance can begin where one feels something in the relationship that the other does not. This isn’t a formula, but rather a series of events I’ve seen innumerable times. It persuades me that letting someone in can, well, really bring them in. It persuades me that we respect and gravitate to genuinely open hearts, even if we’re scared of opening our own. Finally, I’m convinced that who we’re close with is more of a choice than I previously thought.

 

In the kaleidoscopic scheme of people in my life, the ones who remain with me even if they’re gone are the ones with whom I get to the heart of things. We’re honest, and maybe totally awkward and maybe embarrassingly politically incorrect. We have a relationship big enough to allow space for silence. We aren’t afraid to stumble in our attempts to articulate crazy, ambiguous mental things. And only later do I realize the ridiculous vulnerability of it all. What if they rejected or mocked my most deep-seated beliefs? I guess it depends on how much that actually mattered…

 

I tend to believe that, in the bigger picture of things, most of us are going through very, very similar things. The specific words, dates, players, situation may be different. But the vocabulary of emotion stays the same. More often than not, we share something quite substantial with the person sitting next to us, whoever they are. Of course, though, we’d have to take a chance on ourselves — and them — to find out just how much.

 

Did you read something you recognize? Did you read something you reject? Whatever it is — quick! Email Nina! You can find her at ninamc “at” stanford “dot” edu.

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The Young Adult Section: Square one https://stanforddaily.com/2012/01/10/the-young-adult-section-let%e2%80%99s-start-at-the-beginning/ https://stanforddaily.com/2012/01/10/the-young-adult-section-let%e2%80%99s-start-at-the-beginning/#respond Tue, 10 Jan 2012 08:28:07 +0000 https://stanforddaily.com/?p=1053795 This is going to be a simple column. That is what I have to tell myself as I sit down in front of the keyboard and write this column every week. I know I could spiral effortlessly into the black hole of unintelligible hyper-intellectuality, something only possible when we remove ourselves from real life. I’m tempted to be over-comprehensive and cover all theoretical corners to prevent potential criticisms against my ideas. But, more than that, I want to write something clear. I want to be understandable, in the hopes that you, my reader, happen to relate to me

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The Young Adult Section: Square oneThis is going to be a simple column. That is what I have to tell myself as I sit down in front of the keyboard and write this column every week. I know I could spiral effortlessly into the black hole of unintelligible hyper-intellectuality, something only possible when we remove ourselves from real life. I’m tempted to be over-comprehensive and cover all theoretical corners to prevent potential criticisms against my ideas. But, more than that, I want to write something clear. I want to be understandable, in the hopes that you, my reader, happen to relate to me. It’s nerve-wracking sometimes. This column is around 800 words on an interior page of the Tuesday edition of one school’s newspaper — a little thing. Yet I still get remarkably nervous on Monday night about the next morning’s paper. Despite my desire to express something honest, something fascinating, something that I hope benefits everyone, it’s almost too much to expect that I could accurately share any observation of our lives in black and white type. Our very complex lives…

 

Here’s what is not too complex: Taylor Swift’s music, which filled my car over winter break. Swift is a self-proclaimed “boy-crazy country starlet” that sings about Romeo and Juliet, being fifteen, romantic moments and enchanting first acquaintances. Her music is crush-heavy, exaggeratedly dreamy and well-fancied by a surprising number of my guy-friends who would love to be a Swift muse. Overall, though, most would only blushingly admit to liking Swift, and shallowly at that. So why did I appreciate it so much over winter break? The past several weeks, I was with a young woman whom I love and regard as my little sister, a girl who has been navigating certain pressures in life I’ll never know. Unexpectedly, that music provided random relief as we held numerous karaoke sessions on the road. The subject didn’t matter — it was easy listening. At a time when all else in her life was hitting painful extremes, this kind of simplicity — like board games, trips to farmers’ markets, Zoolander, handmade Christmas cards — meant everything. It was like interrupting one’s thoughts, often dark and self-destructive, by just breathing.

 

As we get older, we build increasingly lofty infrastructures out of our lives as we pursue what we presume will be a better one later. It’s not always intentional (unless one chooses to live apart from society). Like our evolving schoolwork, from spelling tests to theses, our personal lives become frilled with higher stakes and bigger consequences. We grow up feeling obligated to other people and their standards and expectations. We have the power to influence their lives, as they do us. We overanalyze their opinions even while we muddle through our own. We make more choices and supposedly get wiser as we do. We think a lot, especially about if and how others are thinking about us.

 

But I was thinking about it…and realized that when I’m happiest, I’m not thinking. In fact, while at peace and/or laughing hysterically in tears, I’m sort of mindless. It turns out contentment isn’t complicated. And most of us would agree in words, before we turn back to how we actually live. By now, experience has taught us that the world is a convoluted place. And so, voila! We expect complexity, so we make create it. And in a way, we feel that’s the natural, mature thing to do.

 

Complaining about busyness has become a competition in disguise for so many of us students, when in fact our greatest difficulty seems to be sitting still, alone, quietly. By letting so many other voices into our heads, it’s now hard to be accompanied by our own. But many of us have seen, in our friends and family, how uncontrollably this tendency leads to crisis. This column doesn’t aim to explain all of the ways our lives in this modern world are complicated — they undeniably are. This column just wants to re-appreciate the simplicity we seem set on abandoning as we grow older and more expectant of ourselves and others. I just wonder if, before we get onto saving the world, we should recognize when we have to be saved from ourselves, first.

 

Goodness, however our personalities and passions define it, is something we pursue with every ounce of academic and extracurricular energy we have. That’s commendable. But what is true, noble, just, pure, lovely, virtuous, praiseworthy…is also the smallest, most immaterial thing in the world. That’s all I wanted to say. It’s childlike, really — which means it’s crucial. As I recall my most desperate moments and those of the people I wish I could rescue, I realize we have to return there to remember why we choose to live for the next morning at all.

 

Think that Nina has oversimplified life? Or secretly into Swift? Nina wants to talk with you. Email her at ninamc “at” stanford “dot” edu. Happy new year, Stanford!

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The Young Adult Section: The politics of “honesty” https://stanforddaily.com/2011/11/29/the-young-adult-section-the-politics-of-%e2%80%9chonesty%e2%80%9d/ https://stanforddaily.com/2011/11/29/the-young-adult-section-the-politics-of-%e2%80%9chonesty%e2%80%9d/#respond Tue, 29 Nov 2011 08:28:21 +0000 https://stanforddaily.com/?p=1052305 I have had epic crushes. These crushes of mine, as many girls might know, were characterized by a disproportionate amount of time spent thinking about a particular boy. All of these epochal crushes resulted, sooner or later, in the boy discovering the dramatic secret. But they were never informed through the grapevine, oh no. Rather, the messenger was me, face-to-face and heart all aflutter every time.

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The Young Adult Section: The politics of “honesty”I have had epic crushes. These crushes of mine, as many girls might know, were characterized by a disproportionate amount of time spent thinking about a particular boy. All of these epochal crushes resulted, sooner or later, in the boy discovering the dramatic secret. But they were never informed through the grapevine, oh no. Rather, the messenger was me, face-to-face and heart all aflutter every time. Indeed, even after the huge heart-wrenching feelings had faded, I always resolved to express my feelings. It seemed the right thing to do, really; I was always convinced that he deserved to know the real story, considering it ultimately had everything to do with him. That habit of mine was one of the consequences of my deep belief in honesty.

 

Back in those days, honesty was crystal clear. It was unique for being simultaneously mature and simple: one told either the entire story or not the entire story. I believe in open communication and no lying, in being frank and avoiding “hints.” But honesty also comes into our expression of opinions about others, and these days the nuances of this side are creeping slowly into focus. Honesty will always be my best policy, but the fine print beckons. When is “just being honest” an excuse for self-promotion? When does it just entangle others’ lives? When is it just plain selfish?

 

These are the questions that began haunting me recently, after I ignited a bomb of a discussion with someone I care very much about by conveying a few…honest things. I told her my opinion on specific events of late. I told her about certain characteristics I saw in her that I didn’t think that she herself realized. I told her how these things were affecting me. Well, it wasn’t all frill and fancy, and both of us were significantly affected. During and immediately after that talk, reaching back to my motives for starting it, my justification was that I could somehow help her by revealing these thoughts of mine. Having more time between the event and me, though, shows me differently. I had translated many of the beliefs that had been forming in my head these past few years and had laid them on the table. I’m realizing now that she didn’t need to hear all of them, and what she heard hurt her in a way I didn’t expect. Neither of us regrets the conversation, even if we regret the execution; it’s funny how I’ve known her all of my life, and still we learned years’ worth of things about each other in that hour. But it taught me something about my need for what might be called full disclosure. When I think of my motives now, I wonder if there was more self-interest involved in getting my seemingly smart opinion out than I wanted to admit.

 

Over time, I’ve become very aware of my high regard for my own opinion relative to others’. I used to bristle frequently at recommendations, suggestions and other arbitrary things I insecurely regarded as condescension. Apparently, I much preferred to let my voice loose at the expense of anyone else’s contribution. But it’s caused so many unnecessary complications. Sometimes I think we’re too confident in our own understanding of other people, who they are and what’s best for them. Then we let these ideas spiral right out into the world and out of our control. In a sense, it’s being honest. In another sense, it’s being irresponsible. And beyond that, it’s an assumption that we’re legitimate enough to make such calls on another person’s life, even if we qualify ourselves with, “Well, I think she’s…” or “No offense, but…”

 

Once upon a time, we were kids who said all sorts of crazy things we didn’t think mattered beyond the playground. By now, we’ve accumulated a lot more stuff in our heads that tend to persuade us exactly the opposite. I’ve been realizing how much damage our words can do, especially because, despite being honest, they’re too easily misplaced, one-sided and insensitive to our listener’s ears. Most importantly, they’re too easily used for self-glorifying purposes that have little to do with our listener anyway.

 

I’m all for honesty, no less than before. But now I’m just starting to see where the need for wisdom kicks in.

 

Hopefully you don’t find this column too ironic for a columnist. If you do (or if you don’t), Nina wants to hear you! Email her at ninamc “at” stanford “dot” edu.

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The Young Adult Section: Imperfect information https://stanforddaily.com/2011/11/15/the-young-adult-section-imperfect-information/ https://stanforddaily.com/2011/11/15/the-young-adult-section-imperfect-information/#respond Tue, 15 Nov 2011 08:28:13 +0000 https://stanforddaily.com/?p=1051792 Surprises happen when assumptions are made, and these days, all I can think about is how much people surprise me. What does that mean? It means I’m making assumptions all over the place.

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The Young Adult Section: Imperfect informationSurprises happen when assumptions are made, and these days, all I can think about is how much people surprise me. What does that mean? It means I’m making assumptions all over the place.

To a certain degree, this is natural. Every day we take certain things for granted — the chair won’t break once we sit on it, the bottled water is potable, the stranger we’re shaking hands with is not a sociopath. With these instantaneous judgments settled, we can spend our time pursuing other, more complex questions. But actually, our effortless habit of presuming the conditions of other people easily becomes questionable ground for how we treat them. Maybe it’s too easy to square people off into a mental database of passions, lifestyles, or patterns of thinking. Too many times, I’ve been immeasurably wrong and shaken up by an inaccurate assumption, which I only realize I made after it came crashing down. I wonder, if I had come to the table knowing I didn’t know any of the cards being played, would I have been less critical? Less demanding? Less harsh?

One evening last week, a friend from several years ago approached me to chat. Our brief conversation turned to the topic of one of our older mutual friends. So far, normal. But within moments, I found myself shocked at what I was hearing — namely, our mutual friend’s attitude toward me now. I couldn’t believe how taken aback I was. Before that moment, I hadn’t considered that our friend could think of me that particular way. And yet, there it was — a part of the world that existed, that was beyond me, and that reversed the logic with which I had understood that person for years.

By no means is this ignorance an isolated incident. Some of our friends are going through the hardest times of their lives at this very moment, but no one would ever guess. Others are watching family members suffer, but are coping peacefully in quiet. Ultimately, these are extraordinary circumstances being contained in our seemingly normal lives. I used to think they happened only unusually, on television or in the movies. But the most bizarre and intricate dramas are unfolding in the lives around us all the time, even if we’re never let in on the secrets. Most surprising are the events we learn of in past tense. A friend of mine, for example, spent last year dealing with some issues, though I didn’t find out until this past weekend. At that point, every seemingly casual conversation we had shared before was changed in meaning immediately.

The world’s hidden unevenness of information isn’t relieved, either, by our uncanny ability to smile away “hard times.” In fact, we’ve become the ultimate traitors of our own issues with smiles and Hemingway-esque “Good, wonderful, alright!” responses. I believe laughter has the power to heal emotional wounds and bad memories. But I’m starting to see how well it aids denial, too, undermining graveness when it’s falsely done. For everyone else, this means that even when we are aware of things happening in other people’s lives, the significance might fly right over our heads.

Information is asymmetric. We will never have complete access to the back-stories of all of the people around us, whom we strive to figure out and understand in totality. Unfortunately, this goes in contrast with the modern man’s pursuit of godlike knowledge of the world and everyone around them. Indeed, sometimes we even let ourselves feel authoritative enough to disapprove of other people, speak condescendingly to them or complain about them in general. But I wonder how presumptuous this behavior is, when we seldom know what complications are coloring their life at that very moment. If we knew that we actually know very little, would we be more patient? Would we be more forgiving? More loving? Or, perhaps the bigger question: would we choose to change our behavior at all?

The students walking past us in the halls and sitting next to us in class are all going through any number of things in their life. We won’t and don’t know. The team member who shows up irritatingly late to meetings, the frustrating rambler in section, the overcompensating intellectual, the relationship strategist or whoever we allow ourselves to be offended by — they all have a story behind them, whoever they are at this point in time.And after all, who am I to assume otherwise? For any stranger and acquaintance in my life observing any number of unknown things in his or her life right now, I’m trying to remember that the only thing they should be getting from me is the benefit of the doubt. It’s a small thing — or maybe the best thing? — that everybody really deserves.

Read anything offensive? Or see anything you support? Tell Nina! Just email ninamc “at” stanford “dot” edu. She wants to hear you.

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The Young Adult Section: People and fear https://stanforddaily.com/2011/11/08/the-young-adult-section-people-and-fear/ https://stanforddaily.com/2011/11/08/the-young-adult-section-people-and-fear/#respond Tue, 08 Nov 2011 08:28:00 +0000 https://stanforddaily.com/?p=1051532 I think people are afraid of people. It sounds weird only because we don’t typically diagnose it as fear. But if we take some of our greatest ones -- bad first impressions, feeling out of place, being judged -- it all comes down to this strange, unacknowledged fear of other people. Perhaps with all the unknowns in this universe and beyond, the ones inside ourselves are the scariest.

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The Young Adult Section: People and fearI think people are afraid of people. It sounds weird only because we don’t typically diagnose it as fear. But if we take some of our greatest ones — bad first impressions, feeling out of place, being judged — it all comes down to this strange, unacknowledged fear of other people. Perhaps with all the unknowns in this universe and beyond, the ones inside ourselves are the scariest.

Starting in freshman year of high school, as I stood with chatty teammates in tennis skirts on the courts, I used to feel completely trapped in my own head. You know the feeling. It’s a unique combination of being lost for words, conscious of correct laughter cues, aware of how involved you are in the conversation and stressed that the others are creeped out that you might not be. In this situation, you don’t want to say anything wrong. So you think about everything before you say it. And, as we all know, doing that can make anything sound weird. Ultimately, I never felt effortless or comfortable amidst these girls and their conversation (or gossip and complaints, more accurately). I spent about two years of practices and matches in private fits, thinking I was toeing a thin line between “insider” and “outsider.” I then quit, joined broadcast journalism (which rocked my remaining high school career) and realized I had legitimately very little in common with most of my former teammates. I had been so self-conscious, so afraid of my social status with those girls. Why?

For most people, that situation has become so normal that it’s taken for granted. Imagine sitting at lunch with a group of people. And no matter how beautiful it is outside, how great the food is, how friendly the people are (and even more so if they’re not), we somehow become acutely sensitive to the moment. Suddenly, everything we would normally have said outright demands a second guess. Will they get this joke? Does this comment fit? When should I say it? Now? Too late? Do I laugh now? Maybe I’ll agree to everything. Is it weird I’m wearing this jacket when it’s this nice out…Oh my goodness.

For me, this kind of hesitancy in speech is a major alarm that some unnaturalness is going on. Internal head-games, my friend — they’re unbelievably exhausting. And even in some of my closest friends, I can almost literally see thoughts marinating or speeches being mentally perfected for so long that they never get said. Then, with emotions bottled up, people either blow up at someone or resort to passive-aggressiveness — two reactions that are frustratingly hard to engage with. The biggest irony is that when we lose ourselves in over-analysis of our image, we also lose the opportunity to talk for real. And at that point, what they think of us will be an artificial idea anyway.

Of all the fears that sink to the pits of our stomachs and tie knots there, our fear of other people might be the most powerful one. It pervades the simplest, most everyday moments — especially the fleeting ones that seem the least important. There’s definitely an escape route, though, in making this fear useful. After all, the fear tells us exactly who we’re defining as important and how much we’re glorifying them. If we decide that we’re paying our worry and time to someone who deserves our precious energy, fine. (For example, if we get a bloody nose in a shark-infested ocean, fear for our lives with respect to a man-eating fish is logical.) But if we realize we’re putting another person and their random opinions on a pedestal, we might also realize how ridiculous it actually is.

At this school, so many of us pursue lofty standards and achieve unimaginable accomplishments in research, government policies and public service…and it’s amazing. Yet when it comes down to our most basic relations with our peers, we still fall victim to this fear of seeming weird. Or wrong. Or offensive. Or whatever.

I choose to believe in a few things that truly deserve fear, respect and deference. However, how we’re considered by another human person is seriously not one of them. The thought strikes so much more fear into people than it has the legitimate authority to. People are people: imperfect, completely different, keepers of stories that can’t be read on faces. So why are we so afraid of seeming otherwise?

It’s okay. Just do it. Just say it. Especially when hesitation hits.

What will Nina think if you email her in response? It doesn’t matter. (For the record, she would really love to hear that you read the column at all.) Simply address it to ninamc “at” stanford “dot” edu.

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The Young Adult Section: The art of losing myself https://stanforddaily.com/2011/11/01/the-young-adult-section-the-art-of-losing-myself/ https://stanforddaily.com/2011/11/01/the-young-adult-section-the-art-of-losing-myself/#respond Tue, 01 Nov 2011 07:28:37 +0000 https://stanforddaily.com/?p=1051316 The outside expectations by which we judge ourselves are thus often self-imposed. No doubt they stress us out. Yet we tend to place values on ourselves through our success or failure in fulfilling them. We have to become a household name after graduating because that’s what our family thinks is success. We have to be environmentally sustainable because that’s what a good global citizen is. We have to be constantly conversational because otherwise we’re being “antisocial” (which has apparently become a minor crime). Or we have to be the funny/intellectual/organized/nonchalant/insightful one among our friends, even if we’ve outgrown the title and it’s starting to get tiresome.

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The Young Adult Section: The art of losing myselfI won the same yearbook award at the end of both middle school and high school: The Most Likely to Brighten Your Day Award. I don’t even remember being particularly surprised the second time. Through those years and onward, I also became accustomed to certain related qualities that kept popping up when people described me and when I described myself. That award was only part of a set of experiences that gradually convinced me I had to be the one who would brighten your day: the happy one, the cute one, the constantly excited one, the open one, the clever one. I had to be laughing and smiling all the time. I had to be jumpy, unpredictable and entertaining, ever the immaculate extrovert. And I knew this was how people saw me.

Wait, I’ll be honest — I didn’t just know it, I was constantly aware…and burning myself out as I played the identity game to a tee. It was a new kind of selfishness, one that has nothing to do with money or material or sharing. But I can’t think of any word but “selfish” to describe the self-obsession I fed as I constantly strategized how best to fulfill who I was expected to be.

I don’t mean to be presumptuous, but I don’t think I’m the only one. Expectations surround us like air — unseen, unspoken and unbelievably heavy. There is, for example, the collective freshman conception that not attending a frat party is a social code violation. But not all freshmen enjoy frat parties, and that’s a fact. Unfortunately, it takes many of us a relatively long time to realize that our entire social lives for the next four years are actually not affected by non-attendance. Great news! Still, the expectation exists, ready to trap students and steal their weekends. And secretly unwilling students will continue to go, thinking that they need to be “social,” if that’s how they choose to define it.

The outside expectations by which we judge ourselves are thus often self-imposed. No doubt they stress us out. Yet we tend to place values on ourselves through our success or failure in fulfilling them. We have to become a household name after graduating because that’s what our family thinks is success. We have to be environmentally sustainable because that’s what a good global citizen is. We have to be constantly conversational because otherwise we’re being “antisocial” (which has apparently become a minor crime). Or we have to be the funny/intellectual/organized/nonchalant/insightful one among our friends, even if we’ve outgrown the title and it’s starting to get tiresome. The truth is that none of these things are bad in and of themselves; it’s just that none of them are very good, either. No matter how much security we feel inside these convenient little shoeboxes, fitting inside them doesn’t make us any more worthwhile as people or friends or family members. I believe that they’re not inherently valuable.

Of course, though, it feels unimaginably risky to step outside those bounds. At least, that’s how I felt. I used to be afraid that someone would catch a glimpse of me that wasn’t bright and bouncy because I was afraid they’d realize I was boring. Then I would be lost to myself, too…and that scared me more than anything. I suppose it was just around two years ago that I met someone who saw that side of me…and was still completely crazy about me. Seriously, it was completely disorienting at first. I mean, how often do we not have to live up to a single thing and still get to be loved? But I learned that it was more than okay, really, not to meet others’ standards. And that was liberation, pure and simple.

I was recently talking about that exact relationship with another friend of mine, who said this about “knowing” me before I had chosen into it: “Don’t get me wrong, I totally thought you were super nice and bubbly and everything, but, like, I wondered who you actually were.” And it was amazingly refreshing to finally hear it out loud because I knew it was true of so many people I used to meet. It’s ironic, the way we distance other people the more we inch closer to what they expect of us.

It’s too much strategy and too much effort. If we can just lose all of that, it’s easier to meet the one who still finds us valuable — without us making a single move.

Curious? Cautious? Critical? Don’t think — just email Nina at ninamc “at” stanford “dot” edu.

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The Young Adult Section: The measure of time https://stanforddaily.com/2011/10/25/the-young-adult-section-the-measure-of-time/ https://stanforddaily.com/2011/10/25/the-young-adult-section-the-measure-of-time/#comments Tue, 25 Oct 2011 07:29:57 +0000 https://stanforddaily.com/?p=1051066 Whether or not we like the numbers, time is exact. It coordinates global markets, unravels histories and guides social schedules. It predicts what people halfway around the globe are doing at any given moment and might be one of the smallest binders of the most people at once. Time keeps us on track with the world, so most of us get on track early on.

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The Young Adult Section: The measure of timeWhether or not we like the numbers, time is exact. It coordinates global markets, unravels histories and guides social schedules. It predicts what people halfway around the globe are doing at any given moment and might be one of the smallest binders of the most people at once. Time keeps us on track with the world, so most of us get on track early on.

There is, however, yet another way we read time that is somehow both bigger and entirely personal. This kind of time is less quantifiable, more fleeting and highly subjective. We can feel it before we ever hear an audible alarm or chime. Actually, it has nothing to do with hours or minutes, but we feel it moving inexorably between us and the people around us. Like a form of physical distance, it can tell us precisely where we are. Perhaps more than change, the most powerful thing time can do is provide at least a moment of complete clarification.

A friend of mine emailed me in response to one of my columns last week, emergency-style: we had to talk — now! (If you know me, you know that I love when this happens.) He was recovering from a bad breakup, which had unexpectedly re-launched his religious faith and led to major re-acquainting with previously abandoned relations. To his own surprise, over the span of the week after my column, he found himself tying up numerous loose ends that for years had been drifting about via bad memories and awkward encounters. Yet just recently he had spent hours chatting with long-past friends and even an ex-girlfriend with whom he had once shared a very rocky record. What was happening? Was it simply that time heals? Was it that he and the other parties had changed and could now get along? No — it was that, after years of distance from past events, he saw himself with better eyes. He could return to people he had hurt and been hurt by because, suddenly, time was letting him see his past self with better perspective.

Our relationships with others depend first on how we relate with ourselves, but over time that latter part changes. Usually, it’s only ex post facto that we get the privilege of revisiting our past selves and all associated behavior. In the heat of the moment, we’re locked inside a melange of bias and furiously buzzing emotions. If we’re lucky, though, internal chatter subsides, and then we get the opportunity — though we don’t always take it — to see ourselves from the outside.

With our company, too, time’s penchant for clarity comes in extremely handy. It spotlights how we feel about someone in the context of how little or how much time has passed. Recall how ecstatic you felt when he/she finally called you (and you hadn’t realized how long you’d been waiting), how the hours you spent with someone seemed to fly by, how a short time away from someone seemed like forever. Emotions like these only make sense in the context of time.

When you’ve known someone for less than two years but it feels timeless, what does that say? When two people can reunite after months of separation and take it effortlessly in stride, what does that say? Our reactions to the passing of time could fill pages on how deeply and/or genuinely we regard someone. Maybe it’s more automatic for self-reflective people to register those mental notes, and maybe that’s why I’m putting it out here for the masses. After 21 years of meeting, greeting, mingling with and leaving people, it feels unimaginably wonderful to consciously recognize which relationships I can’t imagine ever fading; for now, at least, I can thank them for being so wonderful, too. (And I totally do, even though I guess that’s kind of weird or something.)

Sometimes only time can tell what things tarnish and what stays real. I believe that truth like that is immeasurably valuable.

Have an epiphany, or completely disagree? Either way, Nina would love to hear it. Take a moment to tell her, at ninamc “at” stanford “dot” edu.

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The Young Adult Section: Social geography https://stanforddaily.com/2011/10/18/the-young-adult-section-social-geography/ https://stanforddaily.com/2011/10/18/the-young-adult-section-social-geography/#comments Tue, 18 Oct 2011 07:29:07 +0000 https://stanforddaily.com/?p=1050846 People are social chameleons. We respond to people and follow suit; we tone down this and crank up that, depending. And this social camouflage is a specialty of Stanford students in particular. Most of us step through numerous worlds of responsibility -- discussion section, community service, political campaign, startup entrepreneurship, sib stuff, club sports, roommate, best friend, party girl -- and our presented identities flow between them like water. We can handle the pre-professional mixer after discussion section and the frat party after that. We can lead hours-long sections on sustainability and walk out of class whispering gossip to our girlfriends. We don’t simply wear multiple hats, oh no -- we have wardrobes to match. Naturally, after years of role-playing, we know who to be, and when.

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The Young Adult Section: Social geographyPeople are social chameleons. We respond to people and follow suit; we tone down this and crank up that, depending. And this social camouflage is a specialty of Stanford students in particular. Most of us step through numerous worlds of responsibility — discussion section, community service, political campaign, startup entrepreneurship, sib stuff, club sports, roommate, best friend, party girl — and our presented identities flow between them like water. We can handle the pre-professional mixer after discussion section and the frat party after that. We can lead hours-long sections on sustainability and walk out of class whispering gossip to our girlfriends. We don’t simply wear multiple hats, oh no — we have wardrobes to match. Naturally, after years of role-playing, we know who to be, and when.

But it’s not always intentional. There are times when our social adaptation skills kick in without our full consent. You must have noticed how effortlessly “I hate” fosters “me TOO” or how complaints are like quick-bread for bonding here among us confident, privileged young university people. We hear dialogue cues and instinctively match them, even if we don’t always agree. It’s essentially the very useful skill of social accommodation. The only problem is that I hate always saying what I hate, and I’m bothered by constant complaints. I refuse to believe that’s my natural state of conversation. Yet I’ve recently found myself falling into these exact traps with certain repeat offenders I know, people who seem to somehow operate on toxic thinking. As I found myself cooperating with my peers’ constant negativity (then trying desperately to counter it), I started asking myself: how much does social geography dictate our personality?

The situation we’re all familiar with is the roommate one. With roommates, we’re not just living with a different neatness type or sleeping schedule, we’re living with an entirely new set of assumptions about life and everyday living. It’s like going into someone else’s kitchen and trying to cook with them: they could be using utensils you never knew existed and cutting their onions in a revolutionary way, and it’s basically like dancing with a new partner. In the intimate setting of a single room, even the least bit of adjustment is necessary. With all of our individual quirks, some have to give way to others or find a new groove to fit into. In other words, we adopt the other’s quirks out of fondness, meet them halfway, or react with confrontation (or, most unfortunately, passive aggressiveness). In the space of two people, there’s actually not that much space. Influence happens. We’ve all heard the horror stories. (Which means some of us have been the horror stories.)

Obviously, it’s not all horror. When we spend a lot of time with someone we admire, we also absorb their habits, attitudes and catchphrases, but unhesitatingly. We naturally emulate those we are attracted to, and it’s okay because we like them. I remember noticing this for the first time in fifth grade: I discovered that my math teacher had a wife, who looked so similar to him! And most accustomed couples do the same — they begin recreating each other’s facial expressions, the way best friends start talking like each other. (I wish I could connect this to how dog owners almost always look like their canines, right?! But maybe I’m stretching it.)

As a result, people are sometimes walking scrapbooks of people they’ve met — a collection of souvenirs taken from admired personalities. I can source many of my own quotidian characteristics to people I’ve gravitated to over the past 21 years. Random ones include making friendship bracelets (I know, quaint), little hellos on Post-it notes, wearing socks or slippers at home, urges to drink espresso at breakfast (life in Florence)… People who were and are closest to me have highlighted colors in my character and maybe dulled others.

Remember Darwin’s finches? (It’s okay — I just Wiki-ed them, too.) They diverged into different species after centuries of settling on distinct islands. We’re the finches, society-style. The world says, “Pick your friends wisely,” but it’s easy to tut-tut; it’s easy to imagine that we have full control over how we act and react to people. But I believe that we enter the world with genes, which give us oodles of unique possibilities, and then we enter various societies, which exaggerate and value parts of us differently. And, generally, I believe we’re completely unaware while it’s happening. Where does our decision-making lie, then? It lies in who we decide to surround ourselves with, maintain relationships with, choose to withdraw from, cut off. Other people may not dictate our personality — that’s all on us — but if they can spike it, why not choose sweet over sour?

Have something to say, but don’t want to get too close? How perfect! Nina’s got email too! Try ninamc “at” stanford “dot” edu.

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The Young Adult Section: Inaccurate readings https://stanforddaily.com/2011/10/11/the-young-adult-section-inaccurate-readings/ https://stanforddaily.com/2011/10/11/the-young-adult-section-inaccurate-readings/#comments Tue, 11 Oct 2011 07:28:48 +0000 https://stanforddaily.com/?p=1050610 Unfortunately, the sudden and unilateral way that relationships shift gears is generally a more pessimistic story. Sometimes we’re the culprits: qualities we once found attractive can turn repulsive, and first-date high notes can be hijacked by hokiness. So we attempt to slyly exit scene. It’s like the book that loses its magic: the words never changed, but you find yourself wondering what you found so interesting in the first place.

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The Young Adult Section: Inaccurate readingsOnce upon a time in high school, I dreamt about a boy. Don’t let your imagination run wild yet — it was a dream about a conversation. After waking up, though, I felt differently toward him. I can’t remember if it was anger or awkwardness, but I avoided him that day at school. Whether or not he noticed my weird spell was pointless to discuss because, in reality, it had nothing to do with him and everything to do with my head. And beyond that, he was still one of my closest friends.

Unfortunately, the sudden and unilateral way that relationships shift gears is generally a more pessimistic story. Sometimes we’re the culprits: qualities we once found attractive can turn repulsive, and first-date high notes can be hijacked by hokiness. So we attempt to slyly exit scene. It’s like the book that loses its magic: the words never changed, but you find yourself wondering what you found so interesting in the first place. Other times we’re the victims: all texts, calls and communications have stopped, and we wonder how we missed the vote that kicked us off the island. Yet these lightning-speed reversals don’t come with a warning, just frustration and lingering questions: how much of our relationships are in our heads? How often do we project our own false ideas onto others, and how often do we unknowingly receive them?

I was chatting recently with a friend about this. He’s one of the most self-admittedly “nice” guys I know and truly embraces that. He tries to meet everyone halfway, on good terms, convinced that it’s possible to be friends with everyone. (Indeed, our semi-opposite philosophies about people lead to very long and colorful discussions.) He suspects that his pro-amiableness is why new relationships tend to form spontaneously before him like fire — and why, at least in his head, they end just as quickly. Essentially, his commitment to see good in the other person doesn’t always outshine the truth of personality differences and long-term issues. It’s the classic case of how we tend to see what we want to see — for as long as we possibly can. In relationships, it’s mostly a problem of timing: a promise has usually already been made before we realize it was with someone we partially conjured up for ourselves. That notorious line, “It’s not you, it’s me,” might have some real bearing here…

If only that were more comforting, though. Perhaps unsurprisingly, I have many more friends on the other side, suffering from their crushes’ seemingly inexplicable changes of heart. One of my best girlfriends, who is smart and isn’t wasting time on the subject, is simply annoyed by her slight curiosity. After all, with any new encounter, there is the chance that we inadvertently hit their relationship deal-breaker and unwittingly call the whole thing off; then comes the inevitable quest to deduce what horrific thing it was that we said or did. But the end of a thing, fling, or promise ring can also come from arbitrary personal realizations in the other person’s mind. Ironically, this could be the most comforting thing in the world: we can’t take credit for everything that happens to us (though we try very hard to, often subconsciously.)

The de facto definition of “relationship” is everything that exists and occurs between two people. In this complicated world, though, everyone brings his or her baggage on board. It’s never solely about how two people behave or feel when they’re with each other. It’s also about everything those two people are, respectively, when they are alone. Dynamics change and patterns seem inconsistent because, ultimately, we don’t all know each other enough to know what their “consistent” really is. And assuming so can lead to too many hurt feelings down the road.

But this story doesn’t end like that. Despite the infuriating nature of ambiguity, we must admit it makes the good relationship that much greater. Despite the black holes of our highly unknowable heads, we do meet people who see something true in us and — what’s more — still want to be with us. Two independent people, with their mysteries in tow, can collide at the right place at the right time…and voila! Friends, boyfriends, girlfriends — this is how it happens. And it feels like magic when it does.

This column is like a hello from Nina to you. Won’t you respond? All you have to do is email ninamc “at” stanford “dot” edu to tell her what you think. Happy Tuesday!

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The Young Adult Section: The value of division https://stanforddaily.com/2011/10/04/the-young-adult-section-the-value-of-division/ https://stanforddaily.com/2011/10/04/the-young-adult-section-the-value-of-division/#respond Tue, 04 Oct 2011 07:28:09 +0000 https://stanforddaily.com/?p=1050352 Our beliefs aren’t so innocuous anymore. They’re now bigger; they have bigger words and they have bigger scope. We carry them with us but follow them to their consequences. They’re one of the few personal characteristics that divide us with our consent. Even those who don’t regularly self-reflect will face the result of conflicting ideas -- a supposedly inexplicable break-up, maybe, or the frustrating distancing of a friend. After the “hello” and “what’s up,” what we choose to believe for ourselves is what determines the potential of our relationships.

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The Young Adult Section: The value of divisionI used to assume that beliefs were not optional. In other words, I thought that we fell into our beliefs the way we were born into our families or our bodies — it wasn’t up to us. I remember being asked as a child, “If you’ve never been to China, how do you know it’s there?” Obviously, the answer was, “[Shrug] I dunno.” It didn’t matter, really. The other, less obvious answer was, “Because everyone knows China exists, it’s not possible not to.” Unfortunately, China’s current status makes this harmless example completely ludicrous. But it’s the best illustration I have of how, back in the day, what we believed seemed more a matter of course than a life-altering choice.

Our beliefs aren’t so innocuous anymore. They’re now bigger; they have bigger words and they have bigger scope. We carry them with us but follow them to their consequences. They’re one of the few personal characteristics that divide us with our consent. Even those who don’t regularly self-reflect will face the result of conflicting ideas — a supposedly inexplicable break-up, maybe, or the frustrating distancing of a friend. After the “hello” and “what’s up,” what we choose to believe for ourselves is what determines the potential of our relationships.

I went to lunch with an old friend last week — the terms “old” and “friend” used uncertainly because it’s only been three years in college, and because a past confrontation significantly crippled our friendship. But it was definitely lunch, last week. Actually, I had been thinking about him a lot the past several months, which was itself alarming and exciting. I wondered incessantly if he was still as I remembered, or if I would remember correctly. More prominent, though, were the questions I asked myself: after accepting God as a Christian believer, how did I consider returning to a point in our relationship that we had left off from, in light of his own particular way of life?

I got into his car and was laughing hysterically almost as soon as I did. It was like a homecoming or childhood scent — we were comfortable immediately. In fact, we felt exactly the way we used to. Like with our closest friends, “catching up,” even two years’ worth, wasn’t an obstacle but a natural step in conversation, which rambled on like the most natural thing in the world. I came close to mentally regretting that I had class to return to later.

But along with the bill arrived the real conclusion. We were talking about major realizations, priorities and goals, and our stark differences came into sharp relief. Our words became somber because they were more blatantly significant. In summary, we had each grown a lot, but unimaginably differently. We had chosen almost perfectly opposite views of the world that were completely incompatible with each other. It was such a clear moment, like in the movies. It was really difficult to register exactly where our relationship stood, why it was there and by what it was constricted. Yet I knew it was inevitable, because my faith is…not actually compromising in the least. I knew it was coming even before, but denial is persistent.

People call it “having things in common” or “wanting the same things in life,” easy phrases carved from a truth: we share more of ourselves with those who share our deepest beliefs. There’s a vacuum when we don’t, and both the most successful relationships and divorces around us say so equally. Then again, this applies only for those who choose to stand by their values, and that’s not necessarily everyone. After all, it’s easy to avoid tension when you’re flirting over a cup of coffee. It’s easy to sleep in denial to sustain a one-night stand.

Of course, people connect in these most casual of encounters, and our lives are filled with acquaintances that teach us and laugh with us and flit in and out of our call logs. But past a certain point in every relationship, our beliefs — about who we are, about what we’re here for — steal the spotlight. They are the ultimate bonding material, and thus the most divisive, for any connection worth keeping. And if that is the case, we should make sure that when we hit a wall in a relationship, we are doing so in the name of something that we choose, that is good, that is right. Otherwise, the sacrifice would be completely meaningless.

One connection that would not be meaningless would be an email to Nina at ninamc(at)stanford.edu. It won’t be a leap of faith, she promises!

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The Young Adult Section: Typecast https://stanforddaily.com/2011/09/27/the-young-adult-section-typecast/ https://stanforddaily.com/2011/09/27/the-young-adult-section-typecast/#respond Tue, 27 Sep 2011 07:27:29 +0000 https://stanforddaily.com/?p=1050134 When we were little, everything was up in the air. We were taking dance, tennis, swimming, piano, soccer and skating lessons because chances were good we’d excel in at least one of them. Potential was in endless supply. Our best qualities were groomed, our worst ones subject to intervention, and only few taken for granted. Mostly, our nebulous futures were targets for grown-up criticism, even if we didn’t get it, or maybe because we didn’t get it.

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The Young Adult Section: TypecastWhen we were little, everything was up in the air. We were taking dance, tennis, swimming, piano, soccer and skating lessons because chances were good we’d excel in at least one of them. Potential was in endless supply. Our best qualities were groomed, our worst ones subject to intervention, and only few taken for granted. Mostly, our nebulous futures were targets for grown-up criticism, even if we didn’t get it, or maybe because we didn’t get it.

“Honey, don’t dress like that,” some relative might have said.

“Huh? What? What??” we might have questioned.

“Like a hippie/bum/snob,” would suffice; and we absorbed it.

Later, as young teens, the advice grew more concrete: “You’re definitely a this kind of person, so go for that.” And whether we accepted or rebelled, we heard it.

However casual they seemed, comments like these were powerful catalysts for lifelong opinions. A simple remark could ricochet for years before becoming an assumption about our world at large. We just never knew which ones would. Childhood was like a constant audition: we were choosing the person we wanted to be.

Now, in our late teens and early 20s, we’re not the societal empty canvases we once were. After two decades’ worth of feedback, grade-school labels and looks on other people’s faces, we can describe ourselves by ourselves, thank you very much. Maturity, after all, is the stabilization of role-playing.

Or so I thought, before my “role-playing” recently started looking less “stable.” I got to wondering: if the tryouts have really ended, have we learned to typecast ourselves for life?

The question plagued me this summer, as I found myself acting with a very new cast of characters. I was working with co-worker interns who shared my ethnic background, which was a first. In fact, sharing that much space with similar-heritage people was a first. Nevertheless, I entered the scene self-assured and armed with the things I knew would distinguish me. I was confident. I was cocky. Whatever I was, I was ready to present Nina Chung. I knew this girl, and I knew how to play this game.

Yet as the weeks went by, it became clear that my new friends perceived me a bit differently than I was used to. Their picture of me featured adjectives I was unaccustomed to, not necessarily bad or good, but sometimes downright unexpected. Several times, I came home thinking, “Well, they don’t actually know me.” It was clear they didn’t see the Nina I was…or was that someone I had purposefully prepared for the situation? Sure enough, denial eventually popped into awareness the way it usually does, and my thought became, “Wow, they really know that part of me.” And I had wasted precious time trying to convince everyone I was another particular person I thought was still me.

Perhaps we do this more than we think. We promote our identities like products, and post-epiphany, I became conscious of others also blaring personal infomercials as well. It’s not always intentional, of course. But it’s inevitable even when we introduce ourselves to new people. By now, we’ve made some conclusion about who and what we are that guides our style, our “type” or what we want to be associated with or known for. It feels so permanent and thus secure. But belying that is the risk that we’re wrong — or that we never let ourselves be wrong.

Back in the day, we effortlessly doubted the roles we played in our families, relationships, parties and group projects. Can we still? Is it too dangerous now? Indeed, it might be more dangerous not to. I know for sure that our skepticism lives, even if we forget to apply it to ourselves. So we should keep checking to see if, in reality, we’re following a new script, lest we trap ourselves in a costume that no longer fits. A very famous man once said, “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players.”

And when the time comes, we should let ourselves play differently, too.

Care to critique or send a review? Nina wants to hear it all, and all it takes is an email to ninamc@stanford.edu. Good luck on your first week of classes!

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