Back from Dark Waters (and about to dive back again)

It has been a while since my last post (or, more accurately, finishing my last post that was there 2 months ago). School has held me up, with a second round of midterms and scarcely 3 weeks or so later, finals. All of which pretty much pushed me past what I perceived as my limit. 

As impossibly difficult as I make it sound, I did not get the worst end, although I definitely did not get the easiest either. At least it is over. For now. 


After I put my pencil down for the last final, I should feel intense relief, intense relaxation of my too tight muscles, intense inclination to scream to the Heavens, "HALLELUJAH~~!!!" But I didn't. I just felt intensely hungry. After I left the exam room, all I could think was what and where I would eat. My gluttony... one day I just know it'll get the better of me and drive me fat. 
And I felt tired. Exhausted. I just wanted to sleep and catch up on all my lost sleep. So I slept, from 3  to 5. I felt miserable for whatever reason when I woke, perhaps because the room looked so desolately dark and I happen to strongly dislike the color blue, which was just what my room was filled with. A deep, dark, sickly color blue. If I hadn't gone for sushi that night with family, I would've continued being miserable. The bright colors in the sushi parlor, the abundance of good food and the lovely warmness of being with family saved my life. 


But to know that I have to go through that AGAIN and AGAIN for the next 4 years? Or more? And to know that even if I try hard, I might not get what I want, that is, the Dietetics program, is a horrible feeling. I feel sick in the stomach, 5 days left until I am sent back to school... I feel like I'm counting the days to an execution... (that's very exaggerated I can imagine, since I can't even imagine the horrible feeling of counting down the days that you have to live). 

The Peanut Goes Global (final)

2 years passed. 2 years of living in a UN refugee camp eating the plainest of foods and living in waiting for the day when they will hear news that they will be sent to Canada. The day when the immigration office will take only his mother, Michel and his little sister and no more. His sisters, that day, will be left behind with 6 children, 4 to one of Michel's sisters and 2 to the other. The day when Michel will begin his wait for his sister's, niece and nephews, whom, to date, has not yet escaped the Congo. 
During this time, his cousin described to him what he should be expecting in North America. 
"In North America," his cousin began. "You can wear white socks, walk from one end of the street and back, and they'd still be just as white!" 
That sounded absurd to Michel, but not as ridiculous as...
"In North America," his cousin continued. "There's this guy called Michael Jordan, and they pay him 30, 000 to shoot a ball into a basket! 
Michel was dumbfounded. Immediately, he grabbed the nearest ball and shot it straight into a nearby basket. 
"No one," he cried. "No one in there RIGHT MIND would pay me 30 000 dollars for doing that!"
He then spent the rest of his time in the UN refugee camp anticipating his arrival to an insane country. 


The plane landed. Outside the window, Michel saw something he had never seen before. Something white...sparkly white. It looked like caramel. 
"Ladies and Gentlemen," a voice announced. "Welcome to Toronto International Airport. The temperature outside is -42 degrees Celsius." Now, Michel had never felt anything close to minus before, nor could he imagine anything like it. So, he immediately decided that "minus" is something Canadians added before they told the temperature. What it really was was 42 degrees Celsius! Well what was he doing in a jacket a scarf and what not? Hurriedly, he began to take it off. The people who could see him stared at him, thinking him insane. Michel thought of them equally so. 
When he went outside, he froze. Literally. His fingers turned purple, his nosee felt as if it might fall off. He had never felt such cold. So maybe that jacket and scarf did have its uses. Oops. 
Yet, dumbfounded as he was about the cold, he could not help but notice that it was quiet. Too quiet. He stared into the wide skies. There were no bullets wizzing past, there were no tell-tale flames and smoke smell, nor any thunderous sounds of bombs going off in the distance. Nothing. It was quiet. It was the greatest peace Michel had known. It felt wonderful.
But then...
"Mom," he said,"Can we go back to the Congo? And when it's not so cold here, then we come back?" 


It wasn't long before Michel was sent to High School. Between the day he landed in Canada and starting High School, he had time to get to know this strange land called Canada. He couldn't wait to try to walk from one end of the street to the other and find his socks still starch white. He had tried the stuff that looked like Caramel, although always a fan of walking on the mischievous side, Michel decided that instead of trying the ones that were cotton candy white, he might as well try the rarer blackish ones on the side of the road. His analogy? If it looked like Caramel, it had to taste like Caramel. When he tried the "caramel" he decided maybe his analogy is a little flawed. But the best thing. He fell in love with this country. 
Where he was used to, Michel always used the word "stylish" to refer to ladies who looked pretty and "smart" to men he thought looked not half-bad. On the first day of High School, here was this STYLISH lady!
"Hey, you're really stylish!" He said, shamelessly walking up to her. She looked him up and down.
"You," she said. "Are really creepy." 
From that day on, he was known as the "Creepy African Kid". Not a bad start. 


More and more, Michel learned the way of High School. It was brilliant! Free education for the win! He made friends, feeling himself settling in. All was wonderful.
Except for that one thing that nagged him, a little hand pulling him opposite of paradise. 
It was discontent. 
Not him. Here in Canada, all was well. No bullets, no war, no fear of death save for from the cold. Yup, Canada is excellent. The discontent came from the people themselves, the people themselves were discontent. 
Take that other day. 
A girl in his school had complained she hated her parents.
"I hate my parents, they bought me the wrong color!" She had shamelessly announced. Now what exactly it was, I had not caught, but whatever it was, it was something that Michel had thought to himself, if she didn't want it, please give it to him. 
All around, he heard ridiculous complaints. Complaints for absurd little things that we here in the developed world hear often enough that I don't need to repeat. When we complain, of course we mean what we say. When it is said, it makes absolute sense. But to Michel, it made no sense. How could there be complaint in a world like this? No bullets, no bombing, no need to worry... what was it? ... Hakuna Matata. It frustrated him to no end that he nevertheless still heard discontent. 
His frustration continued to build, enough that he decided it was time to take action. He wrote an essay.


The essay introduced a story many have heard little to none. A story of a traumatizing childhood, of a living Hell of bullets and endless fear that the next day may be the last. A story that Michel decided to write because he couldn't understand why with all the money and freedom the people here are blessed with, why they would not choose to help but instead, spend every weekend shopping or ranting about the last thing that had not gone perfect. 
Days later, his friends approached him. How can we help, they asked. What can we do? 
Michel then understood and smiled, satisfied. These people were not uncaring, cold, selfish animals. They are simply blessed ignorant. 
Since then, he traveled about, telling these unknowing souls his story, telling them what they must know. Telling people like me, so that one day, we can be the change that we can be. Just because we can. And just because they need us now. 

The Peanut Goes Global (continued)

What happened in between the time that Michele Chikwanine heard the gunshot and immediately lay down to when he found his way home, has either escaped my memory or had never been mentioned.
He remembered the store well. It was the store that his father would take him for ice-cream or bread and treats. He rushed into the store, the first thing he saw was the storekeeper, putting the ice-cream and bread on the shelves. The storekeeper turned to see the little boy staring at him.
"Where have you been for the last two weeks?" he asked. "Your mother and father have been looking for you."  


This is the part of the story where we remembered we were sitting comfortably in the Magda Lounge. We shuffled again, thinking that this was the happy ending. This is the part of the story where he goes home to his father and mother happily reunited and all is well.
It wasn't.  


Although home and relatively well, the shadow of those two weeks in Hell did not lose its grip easy. The two weeks had changed his outlook on life completely, and for a period of time, it seems as though he had lost grip of his original self and, in a sense, reality. 
A gun enforces order. During the time that he held the feared gun, he was order. When he pointed the gun, people listened. Not used to being ordered again, his parents and teacher found him far more disobedient than before. On top of that, he had even become authoritative to his elders. 
And he couldn't explain it.
He couldn't explain why he wouldn't listen to his parents, or when his teacher told him to do his homework, he had flared, telling his teacher to do it instead. 
He couldn't understand. All he knew was that he was changed. Although one day, his attitudes will return to the original state, the time during which he was a child soldier, the day he had killed Kevin, killed a pregnant woman, killed people he had not wanted to and been mentally battered by rebel soldiers, is a permanent crease in his soul.


Years later, he was 10 years old. The Great War of Africa had begun, the sound of gunshots in the daytime, bomb explosions at night is a commonplace occurrence. 
His father was in danger. 
Being a human rights activist and having supposedly found evidence that the Great War of Africa is in fact not an ethical war, but a war catalyzed by companies outside the continent in order to mine the valuable minerals in Africa virtually for free, Michel's father was in extreme danger of being killed by the rebel soldiers. 
Michel was at home, his father away in Uganda, hiding from danger, his mother and sisters at home, all watching out for danger. All was well.
A bomb rumbled the village to life. 
In the time period that the bomb was set, to the time that Michel's mother screamed for him, time froze and rewound. The sounds were reminiscent of the sounds of when he was in Hell. Michel saw the pregnant woman, Kevin, the people who have died under his gun... 
"Why," they asked him. "Why did you kill us?" He couldn't answer.
His mother screamed in the backdrop, calling for him. Then the rebel soldiers barged into the house. They knew that this was the family of the man they were dogging for, the man that was not here. Something must be done.
The rebel soldiers caught the terrified ten year old, pinning him to the ground, forcing him to watch in complete helplessness as the rebel soldiers raped his mother and sisters. 


This could not go on.
His mother, knowing that the rebel soldiers will come back for sure, knew that they must leave the Congo. 
Seeking help from United Nations, the family was placed into a United Nations Refuge Camps, awaiting the time when they will be sent to Canada. 


To be continued.

The Peanut Blogger's Personality Revealed...

You Are An INFJ

The Protector You live your life with integrity, originality, vision, and creativity. Independent and stubborn, you rarely stray from your vision - no matter what it is. You are an excellent listener with almost infinite patience. You have complex feelings, and you take great care to express them. In love, you see relationships as an opportunity to connect and grow. You enjoy relationships when they are improving and changing. You can't stand stagnation. At work, you stay motivated and happy... as long as you are working toward a dream you support. You would make a great photographer, alternative medicine guru, or teacher. How you see yourself: Hardworking, ethical, and helpful When other people don't get you, they see you as: Manipulative, weak, and unstable

What's Your Personality Type?

Blogthings: Learn Something Surprising About Yourself

The Peanut Goes Global

Last night, a story that I heard was so epic, and so monumental in its message, that I decided that it more than deserves a place in my blog. 1. As a way of recording it. 2. As a way to get the message out. The world needs to know. 

Approximately 30 of us sat around in a circle, cramming into whatever seat was left. Where I sat, I admit that it was rather uncomfortable. But the promise of a story far worth my discomfort was at hand, and I could not stand to forfeit the opportunity. 

So, some squirming, others comfortably lodged into the seats of the magda lounge, we nevertheless stayed willingly put as Michele Chikwanine, a former child solidier of the African Congo, told his story. 

He was five when it happened. 

The African Congo was a war zone during the early 1990's. Yet, the soccer field still found children on it's face. Among them, Michele Chikwanine, who accepted the danger alongside of embracing his love for soccer, playing with a few friends, one of which his best friend Kevin. Contrary to his father's wishes, the day was past 6. Yet, that it was nothing new, he was mischievous by nature: in school, he always sat int the back of the room for more targets for his spitballs, he tried to do opposite of what his father told him, which explains the fact that he is still out at 6 pm. 
Army trucks, carrying upon it rebel soldiers, rolled silently by. The children noticed it, but did nothing. Army trucks were a common sight. There was no need to fear them. That is, until the army trucks stopped and began unloading the rebel soldiers. Slightly anxious now, the children still continued to play soccer, determined to continue with their game. 
A gun sounded.
A gun firing is a most frightening sound, even if it was commonly heard in those days. Michel, more than a little taken by surprise, flattened himself onto the bare ground. It was often taught to the children, he recalled, to lie motionless onto the ground when a gun fires. For once, he obeyed, and so did, he noticed, his friends. Neither did he know, at such a young delicate age, that two of them will never get up again. 
A rebel soldier, so tall, tall as the sky was tall, strode up to where he lay. 
At this point, Michele knew that this was a joke. Yes, someone was playing a harmless joke on him. So, a small wee five year old child jumped up, stood up tall and yelled up to the tall rebel soldier in the hope that he would hear: "MY NAME IS MICHELE CHIKWANINE, I AM FIVE YEARS OLD. MY DAD IS 7 FT. 250 LBS AND HE'S GOING TO PUNISH YOU!". 
And the soldier laughed.
Laughed. And his laugh grew with Michele's passing realization that this was no joke after all. Hey, these guys were serious! It was then that he grew worried. 
One by one, like plain cargo, the children were loaded into the army trucks. By now frightened, Michele sat in tears. Images of the earlier day flashed by, of his father, telling him to be home by 6. Or else. 
He begged them to let him go. They didn't understand! His father was 7 ft. tall, 250 lbs and he would kill them (and very possibly him) if they didn't let him go. His efforts were awarded with laughter. 
The children were unloaded into the base. All of them frightened, not knowing what to expect. And there was Michele, trying not to think of his giant father, with a giant hand, grasping his small face and demanding to know why he was not home before 6. Bohze moi.
The rebel soldiers went round to the children that shrunk from them. One of them stood before Michele. Forcefully, without warning, the rebel soldier grasped his tiny wrist in his ruthless hands. Then he cut the wrist. 
The forcefulness of the pain took Michele's breath away. All around him, he could hear it. Children screaming as their wrists were knifed apart, the blood drooling from the fresh wound. The rebel soldier then took a bit of powder that Michele would only later find out was gunpowder mixed with cocaine and smothered the wound with it. It was then bandaged without care as he was blindfolded. 
Blinded, he felt something being shoved into his weak hands. Something heavy. He dropped it. Again, it found it's way into his hands with a small wedge that somehow fit his index finger well. The rebel ordered him to pull it. 
Maybe he would not have pulled. Maybe he would have had second thoughts. But the cocaine was already settling in. His senses were completely clouded. Sweating, crying, senseless and completely without his control, he pulled it. 
A gunshot fired, the back force sending him reeling onto his heels. It was a force like nothing he had felt. 
The blindfold was removed. Shaking the dark away, he stared in disbelief at what lay before him.
It was Kevin. 
Blood came from under him, forming first a river, than a pool, than a lake, than an ocean. Confused and unable to yet fully grasp what he was seeing, Michele ran in tears up to his friend and shook him, begging him to wake up. Neither did he know, at such a young delicate age, that Kevin never will wake up.  
"You've killed your best friend," the rebel soldier said, simply. "Your family will never accept you anymore. We're the only family you have left." 


Ravaged with guilt and believing that his family will refute him if he dares return, Michele became a child soldier. He was given a gun to kill people whose faces he will never forget, one of which, a pregnant woman, others people whom he had grown close to, all aimed to turn his 5 year old self into a senseless, guilt ravaged, killing machine for nothing but the purpose of war. 
But Michele was lucky.
Two weeks after he was first abducted, the rebel soldiers announced a mission, to rush into a village and kill. The children responded with screams of delight and guns firing into the sky. They rushed into the village, senseless killers, shooting whatever moved. 
But not Michele. 
At the first possible opportunity, he leapt into the nearby woods and ran. 
Ran. That was all that he did. For three days and three nights, without food nor drink, the five year old boy ran. He never looked back, fearing that if he did, a rebel soldier will meet his sights; never stopped running, the image of his father, 7 ft. tall, 250 lbs, demanding why he was not home before 6, driving him. He must be home. And he must be home on time (Sorry I just had to add this, but does anyone see a Lassie Come-home in here?) 
On the third day, the land opened into a clearing. Wading into the clearing, he heard a gun fire. Distressed, for fear the rebel soldiers were here, he flattened himself onto the grasses, unmoving, staying in that position for an hour. 


To be continued


  

The Nutcracker

Just wanted to give sincere gratitude to Elithyia, the commenter of my last post. Thank You so much for your comment! My blog is starting to serve a purpose already so I deem you the Nutcracker. 

I'm very happy tonight because I just found out that one of my answers on Yahoo answers was voted as best answer! It was a most alarming story...

My brother, who is just turning 20 years old, very VERY rarely eats any form of healthy food. Especially vegetables or fruit. He drinks orange juice.. That's the closest it gets. His staple foods are ham, cheese & mustard toasties as well as pizza. All starchy foods. He just found out he has kidney stones too. He smokes (both cannabis & tobacco) and drinks too. He isn't overweight (yet). He has also had blood in his urine (he had a biopsy today to see if there's anything untoward going on down there). I don't remember the last time he had an actual good healthy meal - I'm talking maybe before he was 10 years old. I'm worried and he wont listen to me or anyone else obviously. People told me his body would start showing problems by the time he was 30, but he's not quite 20 yet and already has kidney stones. 

Quite frankly he makes me SO mad and I am not sure what to do about it. Dad isn't around, and mum just says she can't do anything about it. The more I beg him to eat something healthy, the more he tells me to get lost. 

Please someone help! How do I get him to eat HEALTHY or at least get someone to tell him what it will do to his body?

What could drive a perfectly healthy boy to do something like this to himself? 

My theory is this:

I'm no expert, but this sounds concerning.
You are a very good sister, and the fact that you are mad is because you love your brother so much. That is very admirable.
I think the fact that he doesn't eat healthy foods has something to do with psyche. Is your brother very stressed about something? Did something happen to trigger him to become very depressed or stressed? Usually, people will become very pained by not having the right foods. Kidney stones alone are extremely painful. That alone will usually be enough to make anyone turn around. But I notice he smokes, and since drugs have painkilling effects, the fact that he is not aware of his pain may be due to drug effects. The fact that he isn't overweight yet might very likely be due to tobacco too. On top of that, smoking will kill the taste buds, therefore, fruits and vegetables will taste bland to him.
He doesn't sound like anyone who will listen easily. But I think one day, he will come to realize that you love him very much.
Before then, you might want to find out what is driving him to do this to himself.
I hope he gets better. He has everything to live for with such a loving sister!

Here is a prayer to him that he will get better soon. As a "partial" vegetarian (because I far prefer fruits and vegetables to meat), I can't imagine eating meat as my staple food. Of course as a Chinese, I had grown up with one staple food. Can anyone guess what it is?

Does anyone else have a theory to offer? What are your thoughts on this interesting but rather concerning story?

Let us all, in the meantime, hope he gets better. Or pray... depending on if you believe in the Great Pumpkin or not. 

Just Plain Nutty

The Question

See, I know I'm stressed out. But I can't help but ask myself at times: for what? 

Compared to my parents and my sister, I have no right to be stressed out. My parents are working like slaves for my sister and I, especially dad. My sister was through far worse in her first year: not only were her courses harder, she could not live in residence and her only choice was to commute 3 hours a day. 

In comparison, I cannot help but feel that I have no right to feel stressed. I am lucky. 

And yet, I cannot seem to give back to my parents what they had given me. Although neither of them blamed me for a bad mark on my midterm, for they knew I had tried hard, even a little too hard, I blamed myself. Why can't I give back what I had been given? 

Being the over thinker that I am, I immediately took apart the problem with questions: Am I weak? Am I just overreacting? Is it because of my somewhat sheltered personality? 

I chose the last as my theory.

Urban Dictionary definition of "sheltered": A person who leads this kind of life is one who doesn't get out enough, is still pathetically mind-controlled by their parents and is scared shitless of them. Anything fun is presumed to be evil. Common condition in children of very religious families.

I hope that's not me...? On top of that, it doesn't relate at all to the reason I'm reacting to University with stress. A "sheltered" person, in my point of view, is stressed in their environment because they had not been in contact with anything harsher. There are many things far harsher than University life, but I have (some, thankfully) yet to meet them. 

"Sheltered" people can be spaced in one of two categories: Closed or Open. Closed is more of the Urban Dictionary version, but due to an increasingly open-minded society, I would think they are becoming rare. Being a close-minded shelter would run the risk of insanity nowadays. Therefore, I think I would prefer open, which also makes me very curious of what others have to say about their lives. 

So I decided to post this question on to Yahoo Answers: "What was the saddest/hardest thing that ever happened to you and how did you deal with it?" 

I received some interesting posts, including a grandmother worried for her grandsons due to the influence of a drug addicted mother, a (hopefully) sarcastic user who stepped on a skittle and never forgot the incident after 20 years, and a man who had to give up the "love of his life" - twice. 

The stories out there are endless. I want to know at least a fraction of them. 

I want to know why the homeless ended homeless on the downtown Eastside. 

I want to know how the murderer came to be.

I want to know why the man in the black suit and tie had stopped believing. 

And I want to know why the squirrels at school husk at the peanuts that I am calling peanuts when they are actually acorns. 

What a world out there. So many stories. So many people. 

So much to believe in. 

How exactly did I get from University stress to "sheltered" to the world of diversity that we should appreciate?

Meh. 

Along Came a Peanut..

Because I couldn't think of a better title.

I noticed you've joined my blog Brandon Wong. Welcome *smiley face*. So hey, let me share with you and all the rest of the world (who won't notice this lone peanut) this disturbing fact: I can't concentrate on my work anymore.
The Nutty Freshman
Just 2 weeks ago, I would've been working, like my English Prof says, "like a little bunny". I keep being distracted. It isn't just the fact that Facebook is here and it's so easy to access bunches of online material far more interesting than Gram-negative cell walls, but it's my mindset. It can look at the shiny Biology 112 pages no longer than 15 seconds before all the words I read become nothing but "blah blah blah blah blah". It may have been due to my terrible midterm mark that completely discouraged my previously overly motivated self. Yes, the midterm that I walked into sleepy and half-starving because I had spent every lasting moment reading and cramming as much into that limited cranium as possible.
Then I got a bad mark.
Now, I have completely lost motivation to even peek at the books. On top of that, I'm behind in most of my classes, although not by much, and become increasingly stressed because of it. Although I know most of my fellow classmates are probably going through the same thing, UBC is just being cruel to us. And it's only mid-October.
I really should read the Chemistry 121 new chapter, do my math homework (on time), read the Economics chapter I have no interest in (a.k.a. supply and demand), study Biology terms and REALLY CATCH UP to English 112. But somehow, like many other freshman's in UBC or any other University for that matter, I THINK I COULD USE SOME BREATHING ROOM.
Oh well, this is the University life, for the first year anyway. And like my math teacher said, "Wait until the REAL world." 

The Peanut Uncracked

So now I have a blog...
   And neither do I know what purpose this blog will serve. Perhaps it will be nothing but an entertaining past time, perhaps something of a diary. Or, hopefully, one day I will find a purpose for this "peanut uncracked".
Why a "peanut uncracked"? The truth is I have something of an obsession with peanuts (until I gained significant weight from it a.k.a 5 lbs) and I love them so much I named my blog after it.
   But because I don't like to leave things shallow, I would be better off believing that the peanut is a symbol. For all you expert Nutcrackers out there, Peanuts are the most entertaining nut for snacking. Each single peanut is a surprise on it's own. They all look generally the same: a plain tanned, rough surfaced, mosaic of darker spots among the net of the shell... until they are popped apart. Then the story begins. No one peanut is the exact same in the inside. From the *PLOK* that means a satisfying snack is on the way to the poof of dust that smokes out of the crack to finally finding out what color the peanuts are to popping it into your eager awaiting tongue, a peanut is all unique on it's own once the shell is peeled.
   Just like this blog.
   I have no idea what this blog will contain: it could contain...
1. The smoked black spot: those peanuts that taste like coal and have obviously been WAY overcooked.      Unfortunately, you are better off throwing them away and cursing whoever had cooked it.
2. The satisfactory pimple: Small... but... meh, tasty.
3. We're getting there Nut: That's what we're talking about. This is the peanut we want and the ones we enjoy eating while our feet are on the table and the TV before our eyes. But there's more...
4. The purple Jackpot: This, my blogging friend, is the KING of all peanuts. The juicy, tasty, genuine goodness is unmatched! It is a feast for the taste buds, and so tasty... well I've run out of words for it.
  It could be any of those for you. And until I blog more and the days grow (and hopefully I won't be too busy for this), the peanut will reveal itself in all it's nutty glory. Until then, this blog remains a "peanut uncracked".

Far longer than I would like a first blog to be...