The Art of Chessboxing

Chipping the Rock

2011-12-25T18:27:00.000-08:00

I've recently become a member of myyogaonline, a website that streams yoga videos to practice at home. I earned a free month membership for being part of one of their live tapings during one of my classes. I wasn't actually in the video, but hey, I'm not about to pass up something free.

So they offer these programs: Energy Boost, De-stress Your Life, How to Eliminate Anxiety From Work, etc. They're basically a compilation of articles, videos and user insights on coping with the daily stresses that edge their way into our lives. Initially I thought this was the key. This is it. How to solve the problems of everyday life. But in going through all these "programs", I realized that they more or less said the same thing; in fact they were recycling a lot of the same articles and videos in different programs. "Eat well, exercise, and don't take shit so seriously". I kept thinking to myself, "I already know that!!! How do I actually do it???"

Then it dawned on me. I was just looking for something I hadn't heard before. I'm looking for a formula to excuse all the reasons why the past attempts failed. But the truth is the old formulas work. Make a plan and stick to it. Possibly modify it along the way. That's pretty much it. There's nothing external that can really instill discipline. It just has to come from a sincere dedication for change.

Admittedly I'm a bit of a "self-help" junkie. There's something about the way the stuff is written that appeals to troubled souls, something that instills the courage for people to believe outside of what people have told them who they are for their entire lives; probably what they've told themselves their entire lives. It makes people believe in something better. Growth. Change. Whatever will get us away from that shitty feeling of feeling inadequate.

Each New Year is filled with resolutions. We constantly tell ourselves, or perhaps, declare to our Facebook audience, "2012 is going to be MY year!", "Out with the old, in with the new" or some semblance of letting the past go and looking ahead with hope for the future. But somehow those sentiments putter out like our resolutions. Somewhere comfort and compromise creep in. I think the key is not to view these steps towards change as these grandiose monumental reformations of ourselves that happen over the course of a few days, but as small incremental promises we keep daily, maybe even hourly, like chipping away at a large boulder. So here's to gradual change, here's to staying uncomfortable, and to chipping that rock.

Change

2011-12-14T23:01:00.000-08:00

I love the introductions to self-help books. They're always so positive, always so promising of a "new" self that will emerge at the end of its reading. I think what's most attractive is that we all have an image of who we want to be in 5 years, a year, a month, maybe even tomorrow. Smarter, thinner, richer, the list is endless, but the only commonality between them is that they are different from who we were when we first picked up the book.

Most of the time, we never reach that ideal reformation that we visualized. Somewhere along the line we give up. Echoes of "loving yourself as you are" begin to grow louder, and soon enough it turns from an affirmation to a justification. That's pretty much how the self-help business stays in business.

"Eh, I don't need to be (fill in the blank)er, I should just be happy with how I am."

If it's a sincere sentiment, I admire the stance of those more confident than I am. But it's important to distinguish whether it's truth, or an excuse. You can usually tell by how you feel 5 days after you've given up.

Change is hard. Change is painful. Sometimes we underestimate the struggle, and overestimate our ambition. And sometimes the fantasy is better than the reality. At the very least, it's easier.

Jumping off a bridge

2011-11-22T02:28:00.000-08:00

Jumping off a bridge

Sometimes I daydream
during times that I shouldn’t
about all the people that have wronged me
or took pleasure in wronging others
even in the slightest way.
Times where they probably didn’t notice
but I did.
And made it a whole deal.
I think about them
and create drawn out scenarios
where I ask them,
rhetorically,
what they’ve ever contributed to the world.
I ask them,
to think about all the pain they’ve caused
physically or emotionally,
directly or indirectly,
pause, and tell them
the world needs less people like you.
I fixate
on that look on their face
at that moment they accept responsibility
for all that hurt
and realize
that the world would be better off
without them.
It makes me happy
to think about things like that.
Petty, I know
and probably untrue.
But it still makes me happy.

The Pigeons of Mike Tyson: A Lesson on Loyalty

2011-08-28T08:01:00.000-07:00

There is a famed story about Mike Tyson waking up one day to find that his favorite pigeon, Julius, had died. He planned to use the crate as a stickball bat to honor the memory of his lost friend, but when he came back to retrieve it from the corner, the garbage man had already put it into the crusher. Tyson proceeded to knock the poor fellow senseless, describing the image of the man as "convulsing on the floor like an infantile retard." I always thought in another life that Mike Tyson was a poet.

I was telling my friend this story about Mike Tyson and how his favorite animal is the pigeon.

"Because they're scrappy?" she asked.

"No." I replied. "Because they're loyal.

No matter where pigeons go, no matter how far they venture, they always return to their coop. They always return to the one that cares for them. Sure, they come back because they know there is food, but the more important thing is that they return because it is a familiar place and there is always someone there to rely on.

We have a saying in boxing. I saw it once on a small sign when I was visiting the gyms of Costa Rica. It read: "Cuando yo gano, tengo mucho amigos. Cuando yo pierdo, estoy solo. Que lastima. (When I win, I have many friends. When I lose, I am alone. What a shame.) It is quite indicative of life. During the good times, everyone wants to be your friend. It is during those times when you're down that few stand by you. But those few that do, those are your true friends.

Mike Tyson won the WBC Heavyweight championship at 20 years old, making him the youngest heavyweight champion in the history of boxing. At this time, he not only held the infamous reputation of being "the baddest man on the planet", but he had hundreds of millions of dollars to accompany that moniker. Money, power, women, all these came served on a platter for Tyson, and at 20 years old, you don't really know what's going on. You bask in the pleasantries of life as if there are no consequences. Only later do you find what happens when you overindulge.

The story of Mike Tyson is a sad one. His rise to the top was quick, his downfall even quicker. As he slowly began to lose his focus, his timing, his speed, his desire all began to erode with each fight. After a 3yr stint in prison and a dwindled passion to fight, Mike Tyson became a shell of the fighter he once was. Many say he had the shortest prime of any heavyweight champion, but goddamn, what a prime it was.

It is said that in his entire career, he made well over 200 million dollars and now he is reduced to being featured in moderate paying infomercials and cameos in Hollywood flicks. The culprit was clearly a poor management of money, but perhaps the even guiltier party were the many leeches surrounding him during his glory days, those that whispered false words of support and empty promises to his adolescent ears.

The media never left him alone. Even after tragedy struck and he lost his baby girl in a freak treadmill accident, one tabloid reporter would not stop hounding his family while shoving cameras in their faces. Tyson ended up punching the guy because they simply grew tired of the constant media exposure. People just need to be left alone sometimes.

But after all these years, I think Mike Tyson has finally found peace. If there is anyone in the world who understands the multifaceted behavior of humans, it is him. And after all that he's been through, he always returns to his pigeons. He says it is because they are loyal, they always return to the coop, they return to their friend. They cannot choose this behavior. It is in their nature.

Humans, on the other hand, have a choice in how to behave. We are the only organisms on the planet with free will and the option to choose. We are influenced by society, by the things we are told to desire, and somehow these empty objects of superficiality become more valuable than things like friendship, things like loyalty.

Today, Tyson says he has few friends. From what he has learned, the human being is a species hard to trust. He prefers staying in the coop, attending to his pigeons. I can't say that I blame him.

How I Make Decisions

2011-05-12T08:34:00.000-07:00

According to popular psychology, our goal as human beings is to seek pleasure and avoid pain, an adequate summation to how my mind makes choices on everyday autopilot, a very pragmatic cost/benefit approach to life. How much time and effort is this going to take and what would I really get out of it? What goal does choice A work towards and do I really care in the end? But sometimes this makes you stagnant in deciding. Sometimes you spend so much time looking both ways that you never cross the street. And sometimes it can make life downright dull.

There is an old Arab proverb that says: “Throw your heart out in front of you and run ahead to catch it,” a dare to journey into the unknown and be lead only by the indefinable force called “passion”. For the last decade of my life, I lived according to the belief that you don’t really live unless you live passionately. After all, Hegel once said, “Nothing great in the world has been accomplished without passion,” and aren’t accomplishments how one’s life is measured? But then again Ben Franklin also once said, “If passion drives you, let reason hold the reigns.” Wait. Now I’m confused.

I feel like the choices in my life have been driven by an amalgamation of inspirational quotes that I’ve found in sparse places of popular media. You absorb yourself in Hollywood movies, some cheesy, some not, all of them about fate, about how small choices can dictate how diametrically different our lives could have turned out if we had went left instead of right.

Choices. I wonder if the concept of choice is an illusion or if it actually exists. There are many theories out there concerning the existential debate between choice and fate. Do we have a say in the outcomes of our lives or are we all destined to head down a predetermined path? Me? I like to take the middle ground of indecisiveness. I say that fate presents us the doors of opportunity, but ultimately it is our choice on whether or not we walk through them.

But then there’s the whole issue of the varying amount of choice available to different people in different situations. My friend Scott put it best when he said, “You don’t choose which crib you’re born into,” when describing the unpredictable amount of opportunity a youngster may or may not have depending on how life turned out for the generation before them. So how is that fair? How can we possibly believe that the circumstance of the individual is based on personal merit if we aren’t starting from a level playing field? But I digress. I guess the most pressing concern to a person is how one chooses relative to his or her own reality.

If there’s anything I’ve decided in life, it’s that passion is something worth having. Passion is something worth fighting for. Now the hard part is finding out what you’re passionate about. I mean truly passionate. How does one discern when you are pursuing something from a place of passion rather than a place of ego?

For the longest time I’ve wanted to do everything in the world. I wanted to be a lawyer, a writer, a professor, a musician, a small business entrepreneur, but most of those goals stemmed from either a place of insecurity or a need for validation; it came from either an inability to trust others in handling certain matters or a desire to be looked upon as a modern day renaissance man. Soon the more practical list became composed of things that I would be willing to give up rather than things I wanted to accomplish. But then again, understanding your life purpose is just as much of knowing what you don’t want, as it is knowing what you do.

The only things I’ve determined in my life are the ones that have inexplicably appeared throughout it, like the arbitrary Jazz vendor on the beachside of Peru insisting I go to the boxing gyms of Brazil, or the random woman in front of me at the North Seattle Community College bookstore slapping a continuing education brochure into my hands and me stumbling onto the page about writing courses. I figure anything willing to force itself so loud and clear into your life is worth looking into. But even with these signs, there is still a level of uncertainty, a degree of fear in making the wrong choice. I think the worst feeling to have is to feel that you should have lived your life a different way.

But I look it at like this. There are two kinds of fear: “fears that keep you from dying and fears that keep you from living.” My life has been an ongoing lesson on how to discern the two between each other. Anytime I felt I wanted to do something and the only reason I held myself back is because a fear of failure or a fear of embarrassment, I’ve done my best to push through because rarely do we regret those actions in retrospect, so I’d like to think I’m trying to wake from the autopilot like syndrome of just trying to get away with living. My friend tells me that when we’re older we’ll thank ourselves for taking chances when we young regardless of how much initial pain it caused. And isn’t the etymological root of passion, “to suffer”?

I suppose confusion is all part of the process, and stumbling is bound to happen. I try hanging onto the words of those that appear wiser than me; maybe they can offer tidbits of advice of how to avoid the pitfalls of regret. I ask them how I can live a life without mistakes to which they simply laugh and say, “Mistakes are inevitable. They are our best teachers. Mistakes give us the chance to be foolish, and the ability to be foolish is what makes life worthwhile.”

Three Minutes

2010-12-23T02:38:00.000-08:00

(This piece was also published here. Minor changes in this version)

The time it takes to listen to a good tune, the number of minutes to cook a microwavable snack, one eighth of your favorite television sitcom, is three minutes. One hundred and eighty seconds. For some, it is an instance, a fraction of time that can pass by unnoticed. But time has a strange way of working. It morphs with the surroundings encasing it, and inside the squared circle, three minutes can last a lifetime.

In amateur bouts, open fighters compete for 3 rounds, fresh pugs in the pros go at it for 4, and those at the pinnacle of the sport battle 12 three-minute rounds for the right to call himself “Champion”. But the actual number of rounds is irrelevant. Some fights are cut short due to a devastating knockout, accidental clash of heads, or one corner simply throwing in the towel to defend a fighter from hurting himself further. But legacies can be defined in one round, careers solidified or shattered within the duration between bells. All you really need in order to know a fighter is one single round, just three minutes.

Even in the gritty chambers of the boxing gym, one three minute round of sparring can tell you everything about a fighter’s mood, a reflection of their day, maybe even their life. How he moves, whether he adopts a slick southpaw stance or the posture of face first brawler, what he is willing to give and what he is willing to take, will tell you who that person is as a fighter.

Some boxers enter the gym after 16 long hours of menial labor; others come because it’s the only thing that will keep them out of trouble. I’ve heard countless anecdotes of how the Sweet Science saved troubled lives and strangely enough, sometimes a controlled environment of violence is what prevents fighters from committing violence outside of it. You might get a sprinkle of college grads or urban professionals looking to refine their skills in unarmed combat, but most of the serious ones are in it because they want a better position in life, and there’s no other option to go about it but to raise your fists and fight for it.

Boxing is the sport of the dispossessed; the gym a sanctuary for those outcasted from society. “I’ve had ex-convicts, rape victims and drug addicts walk through that door,” my coach tells me. “Anyone that needs it can train.” And sure enough, posted outside the gym door is a staunch reminder of this ethos: “This is a safe zone, all are welcome here.” You don’t need an academic scholarship to train here or even a shred of athletic talent; just show up with the right attitude and you’re good to go.

Most people who scurry in fresh off witnessing the latest Pay-Per-View extravaganza are gone within days. Where were the blazing fast fists? The back and forth action? Where was all the drama? Contrary to the exciting glitz of a bloody brawl, a boxer’s training regime is incredibly boring. You might spend 2 weeks throwing only one punch, endless hours studying footwork, and there’s a guarantee of at least 3 rounds of skipping rope in the exact same spot each time you walk in. But the ones that stick around gain something. They find a discipline, a few sacred moments of silent focus, and for some, maybe even a momentary sense of peace.

The first sparring session is a frightening one. In those three minutes you are tested of your will, your durability, and if you’re lucky, your resolve at the prospects of defeat. You learn what you are afraid of; you learn what you can do, and more importantly, what you can’t. But in any good boxing gym, sparring is never about beating up one another. It is a cultivation of skills, a bonding of camaraderie, and an exploration of into the self.

The feelings are heightened when a fighter starts competing. Now you are not only fighting for yourself, but you’re representing your gym. In a professional fight the stakes are raised even higher as most fighters compete to quite literally feed their families, and given the dim employment prospects for boxers, there is little recourse elsewhere. The Greats fight for an entire nation, sometimes even a universal cause beyond them. Muhammad Ali’s legendary bout against George Foreman legitimized his stand against Vietnam. Tito Trinidad fought in protest of the US bombings in Vieques, and crime on the streets of Manila comes to a virtual halt anytime Manny Pacquiao laces up the leather.

Of course boxing suffers its share of causalities. Benny Paret died ten days after taking 18 unanswered punches at the hands of Emilie Griffth, the death of Duk Koo-Kim changed title fights from fifteen rounds to twelve, and each year the sport continues to add victims to its mortality rate. But contrary to the tragedies that bestow the sport, the intention behind these combatants is seldom to actually hurt one another. It is merely a contest, a payday for all the hours toiled inside the gym and for the monastic abstinence from worldly temptation outside of it.

So if you think boxing is nothing more than an exhibition of brute savagery, go into a gym, talk with the fighters. Ask them where they’ve been, where boxing has taken them and where they would be without it. Just spend three minutes with them, in person or through the television screen. Three real minutes, and it might change your view on the whole thing.

A Perspective on Self-Sabotage

2010-12-12T15:10:00.000-08:00

When Hernán Cortés first set foot onto what is known today as Mexico, one of the first things he did was drill holes into his own ships with the intentional purpose of sinking them. The Chinese did the same thing in their own foreign conquests. To most people, this appears as a foolish measure of self-sabotage; even Cortés' own men were on the brink of mutiny upon learning that their unfortunate predicament lay in the hands of their own leader. But this is simply a strategy of war. To successfully extract the precious metals they originally sought, an undeniable obstacle remained in defeating the powerful Aztec Empire, and in order to do that, Cortés needed his troops' full attention. Their complete focus.

Being soldiers on conquest in a foreign land, naturally their minds wandered astray in thoughts of their wives, their children, their lives back at home. Having those ships afloat represented the possibility to flee, to run back to what is familiar and comfortable. Cortés sunk that possibility and left them with only two options: Fight together or die together.

Sometimes I feel we can apply the same concept in our own lives. We might have an initial interest in pursuing something that is, at the same time, frightfully dangerous and magnificently glorious, but we approach it with caution. We always maintain a safety net in case we fall. While I do think it is important, at times crucial, to have an exit strategy, it's also important to investigate how much reliance we invest in that exit strategy. Do they begin harboring our excuses to retreat when we had more left to give? Do they provide enough reason to surrender the good fight in exchange for a comfortable death?

If our defense mechanisms against self-sabotage act as crutches instead of an instrument to aid us in the battle for our lives, that, ironically enough, is more of a self-sabotage than "drilling holes into your own ships" could ever be.

Don't Get It Twisted

2010-12-11T15:06:00.000-08:00

Women threw down just as much as the men did back in the day:

"Although boxing matches were frequently advertised as 'trials of manhood', women as well as men could often be found fighting at the booths and bear-garden. In August 1723, The London Journal noted that 'scarce a week passes but we have a Boxing-Match at the Bear-Garden between women'. It would not have been unusual, while browsing the newspaper, to come upon a challenge and reply such as this:

CHALLENGE
I, Elizabeth Wilkinson of Clerkenwell, having had some words with Hannah Hyfield, and requiring satisfaction, do invite her to meet me upon the stage, and box me for three guineas, each woman holding half a crown in each hand, and the first woman that drops the money to lose the battle.

ANSWER
I, Hannah Hyfield, of Newgate-market, hearing of the resoluteness of Elizabeth Wilkinson, will not fail, God willing, to give her more blows than words - desiring home blows, and from her no favour; she may expect a good thumping!"

From Boxing - A Cultural History by Kasia Boddy

The Downsides of Travel

2010-12-03T15:05:00.000-08:00

When people hear about all the places I've been, a common response is usually, "Oh, I wish I would have gotten that chance. You're so lucky!" While I do appreciate all the opportunities I've been blessed with throughout my life, sometimes I wish people would stop treating my circumstances as some dumb strokes of luck that landed into my lap. The result of my life has been a culmination of choices where I consciously took the most difficult route on the sole basis to challenge myself.

An ongoing existential debate is whether our current realities are dictated by choice or fate. Do we have a stake on the outcomes of our lives or are we all predetermined to an unforeseen destination? Like any wavering 26 yr old, I choose to take the middle ground. I am of the strong belief that fate presents us with the doors of opportunity, but only you and you alone can make yourself walk through them.

The earliest genesis of my travel experience dates back to when I made the voluntary choice to enroll in the Honors Program of the Sociology Department, simply driven by the principle that it would make my academic studies more difficult. From that, my name appeared in a database of eligible Sociology students to be employed on a nationally funded research project. I spent 2.5 years filing through thousands of census records in pursuit of determining whether or not social characteristics affected the likelihood of blacks being lynched in the late 1800s. This work allowed an opportunity to earn a Mary Gates Research Scholarship, which eventually funded my first trip abroad to Spain. During those three months, I caught the travel bug to motivate me towards any other outlets of travel, and because of my Honors status with the University, I was eligible for the Bonderman Travel Fellowship - a grant that permitted 1.5 years of globetrotting and the basis of my Fulbright proposal in Brazil, leaving me where I am today.

But as transformative as traveling can be, I think people have a misconception that somehow transformation is easy, romanticizing the end product without considering the massive amount of shit you have to go through to get there. It comes with a lot of disappointments and failures, a lot of sacrifices and heartbreak. Many good relationships have been broken from my traveling. I created distance with old companions due to my shifting perspectives, missed the wedding of one my closest friends when I was in Guatemala, and because I chose to leave and explore the world, I lost an amazing woman that I still think about everyday. I'd say that 90% of those 18 months traveling in Latin America I spent depressed, constantly questioning my adequacy in the world, and always feeling this overwhelming sense of fear each time I departed for a new destination.

Now to some people, this may sound like some real bitching over some spilled milk. (For Godssakes, you were traveling!) But to be fair, nobody else was on that journey with me. I didn't spend the majority of my time in party hostels or sightseeing the major attractions of each country. In fact, I felt incredibly guilty whenever I took a moment to enjoy myself. Instead I spent nearly every moment in the boxing gyms, in uncomfortable situations that beat me physically and emotionally. I went home every night angry at the state of the world, unable to accept the incomprehension I had witnessed that day and worried about the day that was to follow. But for some reason, I just kept going back. I don't necessarily know why I did, I just felt something innately discomforting with the way most people travel. There was something worthwhile in exploring the emotional places that few people venture, something more valuable than what any guidebook or tourist attraction could give me.

Most people have called me a "negative person", a real pessimist because I choose to acknowledge the afflictions in the world. While I do believe it is harmful to allow suffering consume you into a bitter person, I also believe it is incredibly selfish to completely ignore these things just because they make you uncomfortable. Quite frankly, I think I've reached a point in my life where I know myself well enough to vocalize my beliefs and those who disagree can either discuss, ignore, or go fuck themselves.

However, my point isn't trash the beliefs of others or to stroke the ego of my accomplishments, but just to say that it always pays off to take a challenge. It is worth going into those dark places of despair and uncertainty to battle all that is unsettled in your heart. I've recently adopted the belief that you cannot spread peace in the world until you have found peace within yourself, and ironically, finding inner peace is a long grueling process of going to war with yourself.

But eventually you learn to appreciate the pain, you learn to love the struggle. It's just much harder than most people would like to believe.

Something I wish I would have said

2010-11-27T16:45:00.000-08:00

The first two friends I made in the boxing gym were these guys from Somalia, Omar and Mohammad. Omar, a strong and stocky inside fighter who always opted to slug it out rather than box, and Mohammad, with his lanky, long-limbed frame fit best for an outside fighting style turned boxing into a choreographed dance. Despite their physical differences, they were the best of friends, probably because the one physical commonality they shared was that permanent smile plastered on their faces. They were the epitome of friendship, real ball-busters around the gym, but at their core, kind young men.

To this day I still don't think either of them know my real name. They just called me "Nasty", the ring moniker given to me by my coach. But despite being on a nickname basis, these two knew me better than most of my own friends. Omar initiated me into my first sparring session, forcing me onto one knee by way of lefthook body shot, my first experience of "getting the wind knocked out of me." I picked myself up to survive through the third and final round, and immediately after the bell rang he came and hugged me, exclaiming in my ear, "You did good Nasty! You did good!" as if celebrating my final rite of passage to joining the team.

Now you know what it feels like to be beaten up. Now you're one of us.

And despite being pummeled and dropped, Omar somehow managed to pummel and drop me without making me feel embarrassed. There was no shame. No dishonor amongst a band of brothers who had all been there before.

For the next few months Omar became my regular sparring partner, inadvertently teaching me the valuable lesson that chewing gum relieves the soreness a fighter feels after getting their jaw bashed in. Soon it became ritual to buy a box of Wrigley's after a week of sparring with Omar. I still remember when he clipped me with a right uppercut that jammed my teeth down right over my bottom lip, creating a small black scar that I still carry with me today.

But Omar didn't go far in boxing. Mohammad told me he enjoyed soccer too much to make the necessary sacrifices of the pugilistic mantra, and spent more time juggling the round ball on his feet than throwing combinations on the heavy bag. After taking a few fights in weight classes too high, he eventually disappeared from the gym. But I hear that he now has a wife and two kids, works with a friend of mine in a production factory. Overall, I hear he's happy. In many ways, he's made it.

I shared a very different relationship with Mohammad. We weren't sparring partners due to our drastic weight disparity: me, a welterweight, him, a featherweight, but we always went to the fights together. I still remember during one of our first visits to the fights, we watched boxers battle it out at the Niles Country Club in Mountlake Terrace where I sat in disgust at the sight of high brow men of power placing bets on my teammates as they smoked cigars and groped the bikini-clad women serving them drinks. When I turned to Mohammad for his opinion, I found his eyes tranced on the faux tiki torches planted on the golf course. "Man, this reminds me of Africa," he managed through somber tears. "I miss home."

That year, Mohammad was the only other fighter to accompany me in our first cross country road trip to the Ringside World Amateur Championships in Kansas City, Missouri. My first tournament and actually, my first fight. Over 33 hours of driving, we slowly became more acquainted, found solidarity in being the only two colored kids whenever we made a pit-stop in places like Idaho, Montana, and Nebraska.

I learned that Mohammad had just been admitted into the University of Washington, but had reservations about accepting his enrollment. His goal was to be the first Somalian boxing superstar and didn't want university courses to interfere. I thought about how both were possible; hell, I was a living example, even though I wasn't nearly as good as he was. But people still did it. Former Undisputed Lightweight Champion Juan Diaz reached the pinnacle of his division while studying Political Science at Houston University. Education and boxing could coexist, but for some reason I never mentioned it to him.

I ended up losing my first match in a hard fought battle against Alonzo Juarez from New York, but many spectators came up to me afterward to pat my back and say, "Hey man, you won that fight." Being that Juarez had 7 fights to my none, I didn't feel all that bad. Mohammad, on the other hand, was irate, up in arms crying foul play at the nod going to the other corner. "I'm going to win this tournament for you Nasty," he proclaimed.

Unfortunately, Mohammad's road to glory also fell short, getting robbed himself in the second fight of the tournament (and I mean REALLY robbed), but he didn't let a silly tournament get him down. He went on to compile a string of victories upon his return, knocking out tough prospects and generating a small following in the community, me being one of his biggest fans.

After a couple more of my own fights back in Seattle, I left for Spain to study abroad for a quarter. In those three months I discovered part of myself through reckless partying and stuffing my face stupid with bocadillos and churros con chocolate, effectively destroying any physical fitness I had gained from boxing. When I returned, I was so out of shape that I couldn't go back to the gym with dignity. I had to at least look somewhat decent before showing my face.

I didn't step foot in the gym for nearly a year, but when I did, Coach welcomed me back with open arms, spoke to me so nonchalantly as if I had showed up to train the day before. We quickly caught up on each others' gossip. I told him about Spain, he told me about his recent tournament ventures through the West Coast. I instinctively asked if Mohammad had snatched up any titles, but Coach's expression instantly turned bitter, reporting that Mohammad started drinking and hanging out with the wrong crowd. "The streets got him," Coach put it angrily.

But I knew it wasn't just anger; it was disappointment, not only at the prospect of losing a great fighter, but because he just cared about the kid.

I saw Mohammad a few months later and the rumors were true. The first thing I noticed as he waddled in was the uncharacteristic pot-belly he bore and a general look of dishevelment on his face. But he came back to train and straighten his life out. Even though he was noticeably slower, frequently short of breath, and the time he dedicated to training was about half as long as he once spent, he was back. Mohammad was back.

After about two days I never saw Mohammad again. I ran into his cousin a few weeks ago and was told he now spends most of his day in the streets with a beer can married to one hand and a cigarette in the other. I was heartbroken. How did this happen? How did such a young, bright kid with that mean left jab get reduced to this?

My narcissism left me responsible. I should have never left for Spain. I should have stayed and helped him through the tough times. I should have told him about Juan Diaz. Why didn't I tell him about Juan Diaz?

But Spain had changed my life and I really thought Mohammad didn't need any living examples to push him forward toward his goals. I simply had a different path and boxing wasn't on it.

I was never really that good at boxing, just good enough to survive. Quite frankly, I just never put enough effort into it. But I didn't make that choice because the sport didn't interest me. I did it because I was scared. I lacked the courage to put all my eggs into one basket, especially in a trade where the success ratio follows a decimal point and is never based on ring talents alone. Of all I know about the politics of boxing and all I've witnessed in the lives of fighters, it was a good decision for me. I always say, if you have any other options in life besides boxing, take them. I just wish I would have said that to Mohammad.

A Conversation

2010-11-22T19:31:00.000-08:00

* One of my more recent writing assignments was to recall a past conversation that told led to the moral of a story. This is what came out. Any feedback is appreciated.

“What are you doing here in Colombia?” he asked meekly, fishing for the right answer.

“I’m doing a photo documentary on the lives of boxers. What boxing means to people. How it can change lives,” I stated proudly.

“They call me ‘The Bear’,” he offered, raising his hands and posing in an orthodox stance, urging me to evaluate his form. “I’m a featherweight fighter…maybe you could help me find a fight in the United States”

I paused for a moment. The desperate hope in his dish saucer eyes made me a bit uncomfortable. I didn’t know what to say, I wasn’t here to scout fighters, nor could I really do anything if I found a promising prospect. So I did what anyone does put in an uncomfortable situation. I stalled.

“Well, I’m not really a promoter and…”

“Are you an agent?”

“No, I’m a fighter, but…”

“Well maybe you could get me in contact with your promoter.”

“Actually, I don’t fight professionally and well…”

“Are there professional fighters in your gym?”

“Yes, but…”

“Well maybe you could ask their promoters.”

“Ok, see, I don’t…”

“Because I can fight anywhere. I’d be willing to travel. You don’t have to pay me much. I don’t even have to win.”

At this point I’m exhausted, simultaneously empathetic and annoyed. Like any independent traveler, I wanted to be validated for my character, not for the color of my passport. I was, afterall, like him wasn’t I? I was a fighter. I knew what it was like to be punched in the face. Hardship? Yeah I’ve been through some of that myself. I wasn’t privileged. I mean this trip wasn’t all flowers and honey you know. It was tough traveling on your own. You get lonely, you get tired, sometimes you get hungry. I was roughing it. Spending my nights in cramped hostels, intermittent couches and whatever barren floor that could accommodate my sprawled body and cover me from the forces of nature. On top of that, I wasn’t even sightseeing or doing your “typical” backpacker’s journey of drug tourism and partying. I was writing a book, doing something meaningful. Yeah, that’s it. I was doing something to change the world.

But at that moment, the thing I wished to be most was a traveling boxing promoter.

“Ok look. I’m more of a writer than a boxer. I don’t have any connections to promoters. I’m just trying to do a documentary.”

“Are you a journalist then?”

“Well, no, not really, but…”

“Because maybe you could publish something about me in the papers and…”

“Okay, really this is something I’m just trying. I don’t really know what I’m doing or where this is going to go so I have no connections. I can’t help you get a fight.”

“Then why are you writing about us?”

“(Sigh) because I want the world to know about your struggle. I want to write about the lives of boxers and what boxing means to them. I want to write about how boxing can change…”

At that moment I pause at the realization that those were the exact same words I had squeezed out thirty seconds ago. It was my rehearsed response in case anyone questioned the integrity of my journey, against anyone exposing my ignorance of my intentions, but “The Bear’s” inquiry pierced through it all. What was I doing? Did any of this really change anything?

“Look,” I finally said, “I’m not here to find fighters. I just can’t get you a fight.”

“Oh…ok.”

As he sullenly carried himself back to the heavy bag, I was left with a feeling of anger. It wasn’t that he asked these questions forcefully, in fact they were about as passive as a child asking someone for a candy bar, but I think that was the problem. I felt strange at the fact that a grown adult spoke to me as if I had such authority, as if I had earned this presence of power that he regarded, as if my privilege was something more than merely the unexplained twist of fate of being born in a particular part of the world.

There was such an eagerness in his voice that if I had been an actual promoter, I could have probably made him concede to any ridiculous stipulations I set forth and I became enraged at the realization that this is in fact how boxing works: The stepping-stones of the sport’s superstars are plucked from third-world gyms and paid pennies to risk their lives. I guess I just hated the desperation in his words, hated how the world created and allowed such desperation to exist, that it forced people to sacrifice their dignity for their livelihood.

I was angry at his questions, angry at how it forced me to face the truth. I was a nobody. Absolutely powerless.

So I did the only thing that was in my power. I printed the photos and handed them out to every person I photographed in the gym. Two for each fighter, a tab that still amounted to well over $150.00 USD. In retrospect, a cheap price to wash away the guilt of global inequality, but it was the only thing I felt I could do.

The next day as “The Bear” approached me to claim his photos, I readied myself for the conversation I envisioned:

“No I can’t send pictures to promoters.”
“No I can’t get you into the newspaper.”
“No I can’t help you feed your family.”

“Hey, did you take these photos?” he asked.

“Yes I did,” I said resentfully, waiting for yet another plea for a fight.

And in perhaps the most humble and grateful manner, he kindly said to me, “I just want to say thank you, because nobody in Colombia would do this for people like us. So Thank You.”

As he started to walk away, I immediately chased him down and took down his information, told him to repeat to me his weight class, his wins, his losses, telling him I’d see what I could do, see if I could maybe pass on his stats to someone I knew or someone I’d meet. The truth is, there’s really nothing I can do. But I figure that maybe it was better to at least let him think that I was trying, that maybe there existed some hope for him to land that big fight, even if it really was a lie. To this day, I still wonder if I made the right choice.

Frustrations with the Trash

2010-11-18T16:28:00.000-08:00

There is this garbage can that sits in the common area on the bottom floor of my apartment. Each week this garbage can gradually becomes stuffed with newspaper ads bombarded into the residents' mailboxes. If there is one constant in the world, it's that my unopened mailbox is brimming full of coupons from QFC and Walgreens. As the pseudo on-site manager, the emptying of this garbage can is technically my responsibility, "technically" meaning that it's a hassle to lug that thing to the dumpster 20 feet away and that I'm just fucking lazy.

But today I finally decide to fulfill my duties since it was starting to reflect poorly on the property, and as I'm dragging this cylindrical trash receptor up the road, the winter winds begin snatching the various ads for next week's Black Friday Sales and scattering the streets with 2 for 1 deals on USB Flash Drives and the best price per pound on turkeys. I begin to become frustrated, not only at the prospect of retrieving these renegade leaflets of newsprint, but at the incredible waste of paper I'm responsible for disposing of week after week after week after week. My neurotically over-analytical mind begins imagining the corporate boardrooms that make the executive decision to plow advertisements into random apartment buildings because regardless if 90% of these ads become destined to wander the earth as litter, 10% will bring in new customers, and what that 10% spends usually outweighs the financial cost of printing these things.

I began to become frustrated at the fact that business decisions are made at the expense of the annoyance to the people and to the environment. I'm annoyed at the fact that these mass produced advertisements are just prompting us to buy other mass produced products that in the grand scheme of things, is shit we probably don't need. I'm upset that our overindulgence in consumerism is a direct cause to the suffering in other parts of the world and we are completely justified in ignoring it. I'm angry that people aren't honest enough to admit that the holiday season is really focused on instantly gratifying our desires and painted over with the veil of holiday cheer.

This is my thought process within the 45 seconds it requires to take out the trash. This is how ridiculous my mind has become.

I make my way around the corner and haul the horrid reminders of global inequality into the dumpster. I run into the streets and retrieve each and every fugitive paper and shoved them to the bottom of the now empty trash can. Out of sight, out of mind, out of worry.

But for some reason, I was still angry. Angry that we are allowed to be irresponsible with our lifestyle at the expense of the world. Angry that we care about things only when they affect our immediate reality. Angry at the fact that what angered me the most during this whole ordeal was having to carry out a heavyass can of trash in the cold.

My Opinion on Writing and Grammar

2010-11-12T01:04:00.000-08:00

As a writer, you have a commitment to your audience. Your duty is to guide your readers through the text with ease and clarity to your intended message. Whether or not the message is worthwhile is completely a matter of personal opinion, but the necessity of grammar is undeniable. They are tools to your craft and writing a piece with inadequate grammar is like attempting to build a car with only a hammer and a screwdriver.

I’ve never been a grammar Nazi or even considered myself “good” at grammar, but I’m not foolish enough to think we don’t need it. You must have some command of the English language in order to effectively guide your readers because it is simply a fact that linguistic communication of our society, or any society for that matter, is based in some organized structure.

Don’t get me wrong, I always appreciate, at times even admire, the awkward styles of writers that take a non-conventional approach to writing, so it’s not to say you can’t manipulate the organized structure of "traditional" literature. But you have to know what "paint" and a "paintbrush" are before you can create your masterpiece. You can’t think outside the box if you don’t know what the box is made out of.

Do Not Fly Too High with Wax Wings

2010-11-03T23:43:00.000-07:00

The rise is exhilarating. The flight is heavenly. You are surrounded by praise and adoration. You are loved. It gives you a false sense of confidence, an empty facade of invincibility, a foolish belief that you can fly higher than you are capable, because in that hastily obsession with flight, you never took the time to learn the virtue of humility.

You fly towards the sun, it's glorious warmth only matched by being completely engulfed in its presence. However, wax wings were not built for such magnificence. They were never intended for greatness.

As the wings slowly melt, as you begin to descend, the light begins to fade, the chill begins to crawl across your skin. You don't fall instantly; it feels like it last for years. Each second is a regret of the shortcuts you took, of never paying your dues. Each forceful gust of violent wind is a reminder of what you once had and the cruel reality of it being stripped away. Maybe even realizing that you never had them to begin with.

When the torturous fall finally ends, you hit the ground, and wake up in complete darkness, terrified at the discovery that this is where the real torture begins. You are accompanied only by your lost moments of glory. They are your only companions. Your demons.

You huddle naked, crouched in a cold corner, the open wounds sting as the damp mist drips down your back. It is here you realize that wings should never be made from wax. They should be made from materials of fortitude - the broken shards of failures and disappointments, from the scattered remnants of heartbreak. They are made from lessons of defeat and sewn together in a jigsaw pattern of unmatched colors by the hands of hope and despair. The wings are horrendously ugly, but they are yours.

This is where you should have started your ascent. Not in the clear blue skies of manufactured bliss, but in the dark pits of Hell, where you're forced to create your own light, because then, you'll never need the sun.

Artist Statement

2010-10-26T23:13:00.000-07:00

I’ve always been taught that a writer must use words to appeal to every sense of the reader in order to allow them the space to create a reality in their own minds. While I respect the imaginative freedom of personal interpretation to a writer’s words, my approach to art utilizes multilayered mediums to not only provide more pieces to constructing an experience, but to also prevent the mind from creating a story that simply is not there. This is not to say that my approach is meant to be limiting, but rather that my work is deeply committed to presenting the rawest account of my experience and challenge the reader to determine their own truth without ignoring the possible discomforts they might not want to confront. In other words, I don’t want the reader to ignore the starving baby in the corner if there was in fact a starving baby in the corner.

But my intention is not to shove my beliefs down the throats of others, but rather it is a humble plea for people to simply consider these uncomfortable truths I’ve encountered. When someone has read or seen my work and questioned their beliefs as a result, I feel I have accomplished this goal. And likewise, the thoughts and comments of others have forced me to second-guess my own interpretations. None of us are exempt from the possibility of being wrong, the artist included. I believe that is the beauty of art: it inspires us to explore the genesis of our beliefs and question the current state of our lives. It gives us the courage to create against our conditioning.

The Road Less Traveled

2010-10-14T23:38:00.001-07:00

People will be angry when you don't conform. They will be angry because your non-conformity reminds them of their fear. It reminds them of that one memory that continually haunts them; that pivotal point where they traded their individuality for the safety of the crowd. And since that day they have felt a subtle restraint. A consented imprisonment. Your brash and unwavering freedom will drive them mad with rage. It will remind them how they once were and how they are now too afraid to be. The more you grow indifferent to the opinions of the world, the more they will want to destroy you. Indifference does not belong in a comfortable world. But keep steadfast to the beat of your own drum. Structured dances do not match with awkward rhythms and taking the road less traveled always pays off in the end.

The Definition of Success

2010-09-27T12:44:00.000-07:00

I had a friend recently ask me, "What is your definition of success?" I had to contemplate that question for a while and think about the things that validated my life as worthwhile.

Originally, I gave a cop-out explanation that it was dependent on the individual and what that individual defined as important in their individual life. I saw it as a cop-out because under that logic, well, success could be anything the person wanted it to be. While that technically is true, I think our definitions of "wants" and "desires" always need to be investigated beyond what we're conditioned to believe. Why do we want the things we want? Why do things like money, recognition, titles, accomplishments or whatever, define who we are? Why do we give value to these things?

I guess the point I was trying to make was that I felt we needed to understand if it came from a place of living in accordance to our own expectations or the expectations of others. Do we want that car and that house because our neighbor has that car and that house? Do we want that accomplishment just so people will acknowledge our accomplishment? Even our "noble" intentions: Would we still be motivated to act on the behalf of others if nobody applauded our efforts?

It's not to say that these things shouldn't be part of our lives. Every underpaid teacher deserves a reminder that they're changing someone's life. A humble display of gratitude to an overworked social worker probably aids their service to others. But it shouldn't be the core motivation behind our choices. External validation should be a supplement to our driving principles, not at the core, and I just think finding that core is a much more complicated and painful process than what we have probably invested. More often than not, we're still operating from an expectation of others (at least I know I am) and I think that is how success eludes us.

In the end I answered that my definition for success was the ability to pay back your dues. I don't know if I believe any longer that we should strive towards the things we enjoy. In some ways it's incredibly selfish to think only of our personal fulfillment. I'm beginning to see that many of these things I'm able to realize are due to opportunities I've been given in life, so I think a large part of my definition is related to the ability to pay back what I owe. That is the driving motivation behind most of my choices. Which choice will put me in the best position to repay that which I owe? And even that needs to be questioned of its true intentions. I'd like to think that it comes from a place of personal belief, but I clearly haven't reached a full level of sincerity if I still find the need to post it on a blog.

Who knows, in two years time, my answer will probably change. But I'm starting to accept the fact that each epiphany I too hastily label as a universal truth has a smaller lesson packaged inside of it. And I think this time the hard lesson is that sometimes you don't do things because you like them; you do them because you have to.

Challenge

2010-09-21T20:28:00.000-07:00

I make a lot of analogies with boxing and life because for me, I see life inside the squared circle. But I usually try to find the stories of gentle kindness to exhibit the humanistic side of the Sweet Science because I think boxing gets a bad rap as a barbaric, brutal bloodsport and I just feel it deserves a fairer shake. And it does. Paradoxically, most times boxing allows the compassion in a person to flourish.

But to be honest, there is also a very dark side to boxing. After all, it is combat packaged into a sport. This is evident in the feeling of you have when inside the ring, that one moment when you're staring your opponent in the eyes, right before the opening bell rings. You two are pegged in battle: one will come out the loser, and the other the victor. That other person is literally trying to take something from you. They are going for your heart, they are going for your soul, and when faced with the hypothetical of "me or them?", the core question of every match is:

"What will you do? Will you fight for it, or will you give it up?"

That is why boxing reveals the true nature of a person. How you react is a precursor to how you live your life. What is it? Fight or flight?

In Defense of SELF

2010-09-05T01:30:00.000-07:00

I've had close friends in my life say to me with venomous ardor that I am a condescending "elitist" and that I think I'm better than other people. Because of that, I’ve gone a good portion of my life thinking that people generally don’t like me. It's a strange feeling to have before you approach every new person in life, a feeling that you just don't fit in anywhere (and no, this isn't one of those "I don't fit in anywhere because I want to look cool," type feelings), but rather a true sense of loneliness, like you are unloved in this world. It's a pretty crappy feeling to carry around really. Truth be told, it just kinda hurts.

But instead of actually confronting these questions, I always ran to the scapegoat explanation that, “I don’t need other people. I don’t want to be reliant on external validation,” which is true, but only when it comes from a place of sincerity and not a desire to quickly cover my unanswered inadequacies with something profound I heard but didn't yet understand. You have to distinguish the differences before you can move on.

I’ve had this belief for most my life in Seattle. I don’t know where it started exactly but this is the reason why I keep wanting to leave the country. Spain was the first place where I realized that people could actually like me for who I am. It was the first place that allowed me to reinvent myself, but by then it was already too late. My identity had become defined by being critical, on separating myself from others because they were the ignorant ones, not me. It wasn't until Costa Rica that I realized all the "ignorant" people around me were enjoying their lives, while I sat in a disgruntled rut, angry with every possible thing in the world. Maybe I was the ignorant one all along.

Akey told me that this realization was a catalyst to a long journey of self-hatred and loathing before I finally learned to love myself again. For the longest time I kept wondering what it meant to love yourself and if I could finally say that I did. I just wanted that painful journey to end.

I started making myself agreeable to people. I wanted to be liked. I'd bite my critical tongue around those I didn't know, and would even nod in agreement with things I was fundamentally against. I felt sick to my stomach with disgust when the curtains closed, but hell, I was no longer being "elitist" anymore right? All I had to do was be liked by others and then I could learn to love myself, right?

No. That's what you call being a fucking tool.

Loving yourself is loving your ideals, your passions and having the conviction to stand for your beliefs despite the disapproving gaze of others. Loving yourself is a willingness to put yourself through the pain and uncertainty to explore those dark places of your inner being because you love yourself enough to make sure you are being led by the SELF, not by the ego. It is learning how to maintain a respectful dignity in your stance because you've realized that the intention behind your beliefs isn't about being right, but about the principle behind them.

If you've TRULY dived into yourself and came out with the conclusion that you're not an elitist, then you're probably not. At the end of the day, that's really the only person you need to prove it to.

The Ultimate Rejection

2010-09-01T00:06:00.000-07:00

They say a good salesperson is hard to come by, probably because honestly, how many people want to be in their field? How many people want to deal with rejection on a daily basis? How many people want careers where you are evaluated based on how other people feel about you? No, we'd rather have the same comfy job where we don't have that kind of pressure. We want our value to come from something less, or at least conceivably less, superficial than "what other people think of us". But is it because we truly believe it is shallow or because we are afraid to be rejected by other people?

Think about that. If success was a guarantee, how many of us would choose to be models or entertainers or involved in any field where our success was dependent on the judgment of others? How much of our decision to pursue our path is rested on the mere assurance that we won't fail?

That is how I used to play Warcraft and Starcraft. I only played the games I knew I would win, and I played those levels over and over and over again. Those games are actually extremely intricate. Experts gamers calculate hit points, hit damage, the strengths and weaknesses of each character and how to exploit those weaknesses with their own strengths. Basically, the game is way more than building units and ransacking the enemy, like how I played it. It's really a complex game of strategy and I realize that I did not know ANY of the strategy for those games. That just proves my laziness and fear. I was always afraid of competing with someone who could potentially beat me.

That's when I realized that I am afraid of competition. It is not the job, but the competition. Don't get me wrong, there are definitely jobs that just don't click with people, but it's because of the nature of the job itself that turns them away, not the passion for the job. If you love the work but hate the competition, the rejection, or whatever part that is a reflection of an insecurity, then do it. I say that anytime the sole reason you're not pursuing a career is because a personal insecurity scares you, then that's probably the job you should do. It means that nothing about the job itself has stopped you, and instead your mind had to create a reason to stop yourself from not having what you want. Those justifications aren't real. They're made up in our heads. How much power we give those justifications is an indication of how bad we want it. And that's the ultimate rejection:

"I don't want it bad enough."

Reckless Abandonment

2010-08-20T00:43:00.000-07:00

The reason we are scared to chase our dreams is because once we pursue them, they are no longer dreams. They are pulled into the realm of reality, which means they are subject to the possibility of failure and if they fail, they can no longer be that place of comfort we run to when shit in our "real life" doesn't go our way.

Simply said, we want a cushion. We want a fallback. We want a place where we can run to in our minds and say, "This is where I'm really happy. One day I'll be here." But the truth is, we don't want that day to come. We don't ever want to be "there". We are afraid of disenchantment. We are afraid of being left naked with no recourse, because if we ever do get "there", where will we run for refuge? Where else can we keep lying to ourselves that who we are, is not who we are?

I say fuck it. A life never realizing your dreams is not a life worth living. Welding together the two realms of consciousness is true enlightenment. It is worth the risk.

Looking for Light

2010-07-27T23:17:00.000-07:00

For as long as I can recall, I've been in this constant battle in defining the concept of "happiness". I would say I'm "happy" maybe 10% of my life, depending on what standard of evaluation one uses. The other 90% is an oscillation between depression and confusion, an unsure stance on whether to adhere to a majority perception of the emotion or to live by an independent standard.

I suppose the definition of "happiness" I employ refers to the heart lifting sensation of the chest, the increased bloodflow through the body's circulation that sometimes gets misinterpreted for a bout of inspiration. Truth be told, a lot of "happiness" is a mere change in the bio-chemical balances in our bodies, not necessarily an abstract concept we struggle to subjectively define.

Instead what I think matters is the source in which we generate the hybrid sensation of physical and metaphysical state-of-being. I'm starting to realize that the majority of "happiness" has been dependent on the external. Career goals, relationships, material possessions, whatever.

I've been trying hard to cultivate happiness within. That isn't to say there isn't use of the external objects that make our lives easier, but the problem lies in the dependence of these things. I always wonder how I would be if all these things were stripped away from me. Would my integrity still be there? Would I still be the person I claim I am? That's the real test. Who a person is at their core.

Finding that core is half the battle, sometimes, it's the entire battle. It's almost like standing right in front of your darkness and not turning away. Thinking this time that you have enough strength, maybe not to fight, but at least enough not to flee. You start thinking that all your previous defeats were merely stepping stones in the lesson plan and suddenly, you have no more regrets. It's like a shower to wash the grime. Everything was meant to happen. Everything had its purpose.

Once you go under the demon's wing, you better be prepared. You better have that resistive instinct salivating at its teeth, ready to fight and rebel against the beckoning call of night. Because whoever comes out of that battle will be a different person. It'll be that who defines you. And afterward you won't even know the whole thing happened.

The crowd is fickle

2010-07-27T22:50:00.001-07:00

...I'm interrupting her ...I'm interrupting her ...I'm interrupting her. I'll never see her again.

“Roll with the Punches”

2010-07-03T07:20:00.000-07:00

* I gave the following piece as my closing reading at VONA 2010.

“Roll with the punches” is probably the most overused boxing proverb to get us through tough times, but I’ve spent far too many hours in stuffy gyms around the world to settle on a cliché one-liner.

In many ways the Sweet Science is like writing. It’s a lonely affair. You may have your coaches and gym mates beside you, but come fight night, you’re the only one in that squared circle. Stepping through the ropes for the first time is much like publishing your first piece. You’re naked out there. You’re vulnerable. That’s what makes the experience both frightful and exciting. That is the reason we live.

Fighting pushes you to the extreme limits of being human. It is in those moments of pain and despair, of confusion and desolation that you truly know what you’re made of, and your training makes or breaks your survival. Ali once said “The fight is won or lost far away from the witnesses, behind the lines, in the gym, and out there on the road; long before I dance under those lights.” And that’s true. Preparation is everything and the difference between talent and skill is self-discipline.

Most readers will never see those countless hours toiled while the rest of the world slumbers. They will never understand how cutting out a paragraph can be just as agonizing as self-amputation. And they will never appreciate how after the critics tear us to pieces on the public sphere, we slowly learn to love ourselves again.

But writers, like boxers, learn to grow tough skin. We might fall, but we get up and come back stronger. It becomes instinct to “roll with the punches” and soon enough, we learn that it was never really about winning or losing in the first place, but all that ever mattered was that we showed up and fought well.

El Mamba

2010-06-13T17:17:00.000-07:00

*I haven't posted much lately because I've been focusing my writing on recounting the tales of my journey. I meant to write this story when I first met this boxer, but I did briefly reference his neighborhood previously in the blog here. The following is a rough draft excerpt of a book I plan to write. Any feedback is appreciated.

(Outside the home of Henry “El Mamba” Aurad - Cartagena, Colombia.)

When visitors enter my apartment for the first time, they usually ask about this picture that hangs on the wall. They wonder about the story behind the image, who the fighter is, where he comes from and where he is now. Most people guess "Africa", probably due to the rural village-like background, the fighter’s skin complexion, and the fact that most people don’t know that there are black people in Latin America. The photo was taken in Cartagena, Colombia - traditionally the city of Colombia most populated by tourists.

Cartagena is a fisherman’s port, frequented by foreign maritime merchants for centuries, but with its location primed next to the tropical beaches of the Caribbean, it seemed only natural that gaggles of tourists would come and make it another playground for the world’s economically privileged. But when you mention “Colombia” as a travel destination, the notorious cocaine kingpin Pablo Escobar, or the infamous kidnappings by the terrorist FARC militia, are the first things that come to mind. Bottom line is: you don’t visit Colombia.

In recent years the rest of Colombia has become relatively safe to travel, but tourists have always stopped regularly to visit Cartagena, so much that Presdient Alvaro Uribe, and the presidents before him, made security in the city a high priority. One can see that from the noticeably increased visibility of military presence, and the fact that one of the President’s palaces resides in the city center. But the Cartagena's misconceived affluence overshadows the immense poverty that plagues the majority of its residents. In truth, it is one of the most impoverished cities of Colombia and sure enough, the city is rigidly divided between the haves and the have nots, or as locals would constantly describe to me as “Cartagena tiene dos caras” (Cartagena has two faces).

Perhaps the most troubling part of these very distinct barriers of class and race was that the socially marginalized neighborhoods juxtaposed themselves next to the luxurious city centers and guarded tourist communities. During my two months in Cartagena, my daily commute from the backpackers’ hostel to the boxing gym constantly reminded me of this rigid divide, as the hostel resided in the city's most affluent area, and the gym resided in a considerably poorer district; its fighters often living in even more impoverished conditions. As a legal caution, but more so as a form a courtesy, I had every boxer sign a consent form that included a disclosure of their home address. I remember when some Colombian friends stumbled upon these forms they'd ask me quizzically, “Why do all these forms have the names of dangerous neighborhoods?”

The particular neighborhood pictured above is “Barrio Olaya”, and the side in which this fighter resided was not even ventured by fellow boxers. Apparently he lived in the most dangerous part of the most dangerous neighborhood. His name was Henry Aurad, but everyone called him “El Mamba” - a ring name embroidered in green letters on the back of a white training tee that he wore each day. When people in the gym heard I was looking for boxers to interview, he approached me with a handshake and a hopeful smile. In all honesty, having already done a good round of interviews earlier, I wanted to be through for the day, but with his respectful patience and the realization that these interviews were just as much, maybe even more, of a time sacrifice to the boxers as they were for me, I couldn't possibly turn him away.

Henry spoke with such fluency and comfort that it was clear to me he had done interviews before. I learned later that he was one of Cartagena’s top prospects, despite his pro-debut loss. I was really looking more for the low-ranking common boxer that never had their story heard, but the thoughtful and intriguing answers Henry gave showed a level of class and intelligence I had not encountered before. It was apparent that Henry had struggled for his achievements, but it was the clarity of his explanation and the awareness of his surroundings that made it so interesting. For instance, I always ask the question, “What do you eat before a fight?” in hopes of showcasing the Spartan-like discipline a fighter must have to make weight for a bout and to highlight the gastronomic sacrifices made during training. Most times I would get a very typical nutritional catalog: rice, plantains, chicken, fruits and vegetables. But not this time.

Henry was the first to tell me that he sometimes did not have enough money to feed himself. He told me that despite being considered one of Colombia’s top prospects, athletes like him could very rarely afford a nutritiously-rich meal or "a Gatorade to restore the electrolytes lost during a training session". But it wasn’t as if Henry’s inability to afford a stable diet came from a lack of personal drive or motivation, (how could it when he participated in the most difficult sport in the world?), but rather because he had other mouths to feed, and sometimes, theirs came before his. In fact, Henry still is one of the hardest working persons I’ve met during all my travels.

A typical day for “El Mamba” begins with roadwork at 4:30 AM, the only hour where the oppressive Colombian humidity allows someone to run. By 7:00AM he arrives at his job as a carpenter and works until his 11:00 AM break. Traditionally, Colombians are given two hours for lunch, but Henry is given three. With his employers being quite supportive of his career in the ring, the extra hour allows adequate time for Henry to make the forty-five minute roundtrip commute to the gym and squeeze in two hours of training. After a quick shower and hurried scramble to the buses, Henry is left with a little less than 10 minutes to actually eat when he returns to work. At 8:00PM he finally returns home to his wife and child in a neighborhood commonly confused to be a rural African village. This was Henry’s daily routine. This was his life.

(“El Mamba” demonstrating his work. From Monday to Friday, Henry works 9 hours daily, earning a monthly wage of 500,000 Colombian pesos, or about $250.00 USD at the time this photo was taken.)
On top of his meager income, Henry is Afro-Colombian and like in most parts of the world, dark skin carries with it a social stigma. In addition to being economically poor, he is also snuffed by Colombia’s upperclasses for being black. For Henry, boxing is his way out. It represents the opportunity to provide some medium of change in his life, whether it is eventually reaching a level of superstardom, or merely being allowed to travel outside the country for a fight.

I asked Henry what he thought about Olaya, if he ever planned on moving to another neighborhood. Surprisingly to me, it took a moment for Henry to hesitatingly answer, “yes,” almost like a politician carefully choosing the words to publicly address his thoughts on abortion. Henry quickly followed his admittance of relocating with a declaration that he would never forget the “barrio”. There is always some level of pride in where someone comes from. People never forget the influence of neighbors, or the uplifting support of a community in the times of adversity. It is what made him.

Boxers are celebrities in their community. Regardless of their ranking in the broader context in the world of boxing, they are still regarded as superheroes. While walking with Henry through the streets of Olaya, bombardments of salutes, handshakes and friendly inquiries of upcoming matches appeared as normal routine. At one point we were followed by a group of school kids screaming, “El Mamba! El Mamba!” for nearly ten minutes. Henry had respect in his community. As a matter of fact, knowing him was probably one of the only reasons I was able to freely walk around carrying around a $1200 digital camera in my hands. But Henry wanted to move out of the neighborhood not necessarily for himself, but for his son. After the immediate validation for his beloved “Olaya” barrio, he gently explained to me that he wanted to give his son a better future than he his own, or as he put it, “I box so my son doesn’t have to.”

(Henry standing with his one-year-old son)
When these photos were taken, Henry was twenty-four years old, and my own twenty-fourth birthday had passed earlier that year. It made me wonder how two vastly distinct lives can coexist simultaneously in the world. Henry quite literally fights for his survival and I am attempting to document that struggle with a piece of equipment that equaled six months worth of his salary. But I think what I admired most about Henry was that these glaring inequalities never seemed to bother him. He never dwelled on the question “why”, but rather on figuring out the “how.” I remember asking him how he felt waking up to his backyard (which literally looked like a bomb had exploded earlier that day) and located just twenty minutes away is an area akin to the commercial suburbs of the United States. “That’s just the way it is,” he would tell me. “I’m not focused on why they are this way. I’m focused on how I’m getting out of it.”

This is the beauty of boxing. You could never pity a fighter. Despite the horribly impoverished backgrounds fighters often hail from, boxers hardly present an image of weakness. One could see from their intense training regimen that their circumstance is never a consequence of an unwilling laziness to help themselves. Instead, boxing eliminates all possible explanation that inequality is a result of personal agency, but rather that opportunities towards upwards mobility simply aren’t distributed equally. You couldn’t place mercy or feel pity to the poor, suffering (insert third-world developing nationality here) that too often occurs when aid workers try and “fix” the inequalities of the world. They wouldn’t take your pity even if it was offered on a silver platter served with a million-dollar fight contract on the side. There always remained a value in pride, and that prideful integrity brought all the piercing realities of the world straight to your face. That is what I love about the sport.

Compassionate Independence

2010-04-03T10:47:00.001-07:00

I remember in Spain when many of my American classmates would gawk in ridicule about how their host siblings were commonly over the age of 20, sometimes 30, and still live at home with their mother. "Haven't they learned how to get a job?" was always the mocking question they'd ask amongst themselves.

But to me living with your parents wasn't strange at all. At least in Asian families children stay with the family well beyond their 20s. I remember when one of my best friends from high school was well into his 20's, he chose to move with his mother from their cramped 2-bedroom apartment to a larger 2400-sq ft home, but he didn't do it because he needed a place to stay, he did it to help pay the mortgage. The idea is that your parents cared for you as you grew older, and in return, you care for them as they do the same.

But that's not to say there isn't value in independence. An inability to separate from another person - your parents included - can be as much of a debility to personal growth just as much as an immunity to your loved ones. But I think independence, particularly in the United States, is propagated irresponsibly. We're told to be alone, but never taught how to be alone. This is seen in the distinction between "loneliness" and "aloneness".

The physical state of isolation is present in both conditions, but in "loneliness", we're still seeking companionship. We do this in our need to always go out with friends, to throw parties every weekend, even the need to be married or be in a relationship so quickly. The acceptance of other people somehow translates to a validation to our existence.

"Aloneness", on the other hand, is finding satisfaction in solitude. It is the comfort of being by yourself and appreciating the time for time itself. It is taking every single beautiful thing this world has to offer and appreciating it's simple existence, just as the world appreciates yours. That's what it really boils down to: having the confidence and security in knowing that you mean something in this world, regardless whether or not someone tells you so.

The problem particularly in this country is that we're filled with a false sense of confidence and we view conceding to the will of the collective as a weakness. It's viewed as an attack on independence. We're constantly bombarded with the message that we need to be leaders, we need to be independent, we need to be ourselves, yet we're never really made aware to the fact that leaders are defined by their masses, independence only exists in comparison to some level of conformity, and distinguishing ourselves from a crowd can only happen if that crowd is there to begin with.

The point isn't that these supposedly revered traits of greatness are only attained by few, but rather that we need to understand both to become a complete person. It is relentlessly beating this sense of independence into our hearts and minds that ironically causes the need that same ideology is working against. You see this in the supposedly "successful" people of the world. The celebrity has the need for attention, the multimillionaire has the need for money, the politician has the need for power. Most of it is merely for the approval of others, just through different means.

My mother told me that true contentment in solitude comes at the realization of happiness from helping others. I mean truly helping others. In addition to the false sense of independence in this country, we also promote a false sense of altruism as well. I find it strange that nearly every socially conscious person I've met wants to start a non-profit organization, but never wants to be part of one working towards the same goal. It's like an independent approach towards solving a shared issue.

Rather true contentment and true altruism and in some cases, true philanthropy, begins at reducing our own ego, our pride, and our yearning to own and do things independently. It comes at a very sincere realization of lessening the desires in our own lives and reducing the consumption that results from that selfishness. Sometimes even just learning how to be less focused on yourself and more on others, is enough, at times more, than any amount of time or money you could donate.

It seems that only the side of individuality is adored and sought after, yet this disconnection with ourselves and our communities explains many of the chronic problems we suffer from and also cause in the world. Most opinion polls report the United States to be the world's unhappiness nation despite all the gadgetry we're made to believe bring us joy. People still feel alone and unloved despite all the "romance" flourishing in popular media. Sadly, we've created an empty existence and passed it off as a superficial state of happiness. The problem is that we've never been told to examine ourselves internally. We've never properly learned how to be alone.

*Thanks to my mother and Jamil for inspiring this post.

Enlightenment through deprivation

2010-03-26T05:37:00.000-07:00

I've always been intrigued by the ways in which enlightened beings lived. I've been told that samurais would sleep only a few hours a day, monks could go long periods without food, something in their spirit carried them beyond the luxuries in which we deem physical necessities nowadays.

I haven't eaten for 10 days now, meaning I haven't physically chewed a piece of food in more than a week. I've been on a 7-day master cleanse, the diet popularized by Beyoncé for her quick weight-loss to fulfill her role in the movie "Dream Girls". But the Master Cleanse isn't meant for weight-loss, for me it's not even that much about physical cleansing of the body (though that seems to be a byproduct of taking such an insane regiment). But rather, the master cleanse is a cleanse of our triangular relationship to life: the physical, emotional, and spiritual parts of our being.

Not once have I been physically hungry throughout this fast and I've learned the difference between "hunger" and "cravings". Instead what I've found is that gastronomic indulgences are really just distractions to disconnect us from our understanding of self, and in their absence you're forced to confront a number of internal emotions that brew to the surface; without things like "food" to latch onto, they really have nowhere else to go.

During this fast, I decided to learn about the food industry to essentially rebuild my diet after I had "reset" the digestive system, yet despite all the troubling and horrifying facts I've learned about the profit-driven trade, the only thing I could think about was eating the food being described. But what I missed most was participating in the festivities that involved food. The sharing, the laughing, the comradery in the breaking of bread amongst friends and family. Yet at the same time, I couldn't ignore the troubling disturbances that I had read about. Sadly, it made me feel that I could never successfully reintegrate myself back into the lifestyle I once enjoyed.

Ironically enough, the day in which I can finally eat (at least liquefied foods) is actually the first day I don't feel like eating. Something changed along the way. Somewhere I started feeling more and more detached from society and despite all the isolation from others, I was onto something. Maybe that's why the cleanse is commonly promoted for 10 days rather than 7.

Perhaps most troubling was I became more and more comfortable with being alone. Books, writing and work satisfied my needs of companionship. But I think the other component to finding inner peace is learning how to be peaceful with others. Inevitably we learn that as humans, we need each other. You have to learn to accept others for being human just as they have to learn to accept you.

The Power of Pain

2010-03-05T08:07:00.000-08:00

We, as humans, are taught two types of thinking: Boast your accomplishments, be proud of who you are. The world is out there for the taking, so make it happen. On the other side of the spectrum we are taught to be humble, to belittle our ego. The world is a place we must share and sometimes we must concede to the ideas of others to make it work. The problem is not that these two views exist simultaneously in the world; the problem is the false belief that the two cannot coexist.

As human beings we are conditioned to avoid pain, both physical and emotional. But there is something magical about pain. It is the loudest and clearest voice we have. It tells our bodies and minds when we are progressively growing, or conversely, when we are overexerting ourselves. In the end, to fully realize both there is really only one requirement: You must know pain. You must go out fearlessly to confront it, and eventually, befriend it.

The reason there is such a polarization between the arrogant and the timid is a direct result to this avoidance of pain. We adhere to the type of thinking that already validates our way of life because that is what is comfortable. If we are arrogant, we will justify our actions with one belief. If we are timid, we will justify our actions with the other. In reality, those two need to be reversed. We need to actively seek out the uncomfortable and the painful, because they are what make us grow. They are what make us balanced.

All the answers lie within our own minds and bodies. Sometimes it’s not a matter of searching, but rather, a matter of listening.

Shameful

2010-03-03T21:44:00.001-08:00

Children should not talk back to their parents. Neither should adults for that matter.

Timing

2010-03-01T05:37:00.000-08:00

There's a saying in boxing, or well, not really a saying, but more of a cardinal ranking that says "speed" beats "power", but "timing" beats "speed". In physics the equation of kinetic energy is "1/2 mass times velocity squared". I remember my physics teacher pointing out how speed was always more important than mass in the development of energy; a bit counter intuitive for a Western perspective I think. Here "big" and "massive" are heralded over "small" and "mobile", like how Bruce Lee compares the philosophies to a stationary tree trunk to the swaying branches of bamboo. For him, bamboo always won out, because in the winds of a storm, bamboo would sway with the forces, rather than stubbornly pushing against it. After learning that perspective, I began respecting adaptability and flexibility over strength and power.

But in boxing, people commonly look at two things: speed and power. A fighter either hit really hard or punched really fast, and like ranking says, the faster fighter usually had the advantage. But the overlooked aspect which apparently outranks them all is the element of timing. WHEN you land the punch dictates everything. The biggest reason is because landing that a punch disrupts the momentum of the other fighter. Most boxers function on a rhythm, a cadence, and when that pattern is disrupted by a perfectly timed shot, they're forced to start over. Very few fighters can overcome a good timing with sheer force, and the few that do, don't last long as prizefighters.

But timing makes me think about life. How things come into your path and how sometimes good ideas aren't necessarily meant to be adopted when they initially dawn upon you. Sometimes they're meant to be held for later. The same principle applies in business: A good idea can go to shit if the moment isn't right.

Sunday strolls through Seattle

2010-02-14T22:03:00.000-08:00

It's amazing how a visitor can open your eyes to a city that you've lived in half your life. If you let the inexplicable forces of nature and destiny guide you, you'll never be disappointed. We waited 30 mins for some doughnuts holes in a place I never knew existed. Had a variety of teas from a Chinese guy that operates a tea shop in downtown Seattle, but lives three blocks away from my parents in Bellevue. Explored a new world of literature and connected with what I would call, a "book expert." It put my book reading skills to shame, but only forced me to work harder. Discovered that you can carry 4lbs of king crab and oysters onto the plane as long as you use dry ice. Topped it all off with a hum bao and "The Story of Stuff". Goddamn it was a good day in Seattle. Good day to be alive.

Conversations with my Father

2010-01-07T06:56:00.000-08:00

Over the past few weeks, my father and I have been meeting for random lunches, and during these meetings we would chat mostly about the logistics of business; the specific things I have to learn in the property management world. Like most discussions, what arbitrarily develops are side conversations, things that are related, but not directly. I discovered a lot about my father within these small conversational tangents. There's something about youth that makes us stupid enough to think our parents were never once like us, or that we are somehow existing apart from their own story. I think at some point, we are eventually able to place our own lives in the context of theirs, which in turn, make us more appreciative of all they've sacrificed for us.

My father came to this country when he was 24 with nothing more than $50 and a Ford Pinto. Comparatively, that is much more than other immigrants, but to most US Americans, it's nothing. From that he built what we have today. A tax firm, multiple properties and a damn nice house. Given the humble beginnings of his own family, it's quite a feat. I never knew this but my father came from a once wealthy family until the government came in and seized all the family's possessions. They were completely bankrupt. He would tell me how in the following years the question of their next meal would be a daily concern. He was five at the time.

That story is the driving fuel of my father's ambition. He never wanted to go back. He never wanted any us to go through that. Growing up, I've never questioned our standard of living. I just thought that was how it was. We actually grew up quite poor; my parents just never let me know. After working with my father and witnessing his day-to-day life, I realize how damn hard he works, and well, in reality, the relative luxury that I enjoy is nothing guaranteed. My father wasn't born into wealth, and apparently, neither was I. Instead, our livelihood is constantly upheld by years and years of toil. Never once has my father gotten lazy. In fact he still wakes up at 6am every morning.

The one thing I respect about my father compared to other Chinese/Taiwanese entrepreneurs is that he doesn't keep it within the culture. Don't get me wrong, he is still VERY Taiwanese, but in a business sense, he works with everyone, treats everyone equally and I've yet to hear him say something racially prejudice about any of his clients, business partners or tenants. My friend Mike said he really liked my father. He said my father never talked down to him for his dark complexion like other Asian parents have and that he always felt welcomed in my parents' home. For years I've studied ethnic studies and all the little nuances of race, yet somehow these small instances of change still go overlooked when they occur in my own household. I guess youth and aimless rebellion makes us ignorant our own lives.

These conversations with my father have garnered a higher respect for the code of life that he lives by. I've always been awed at the accomplishments of my father, like a kid would be to his favorite comic-book hero, but at the same time, hearing about his own struggles have made him more human in my eyes. He tells me of his failures, his foolish decisions and, to my discomfort, his fears. I've always viewed my father as an invincible and indestructible force. But I suppose everyone has their own fears, even super-heroes.

I guess you could say I've grown up in these conversations with my father. I can say I understand, just a bit better, of what my family has done to be here, and finally appreciate all the blessing I have in my life. Sometimes it's a bit saddening that I can't hold the same innocent and juvenile awe that I once had, but at the same time, who said humans can't be heroes too?

A lesson in destruction

2009-12-21T08:39:00.001-08:00

Before I walked out the door of the final day of my accounting course, I went to go shake hands with my professor. To be completely honest, he wasn't the best instructor. Sure he knew the material, he just wasn't motivated. But throughout the course, he'd drop subtle hints about his ailing wife who had just been diagnosed with brain cancer, or some other terminal disease that had numbered her days. At times he would merely ask rhetorical questions to the class as to why God let things like this happen. We really had no answer, so instead we just awkwardly glanced at each other.

I couldn't help but feel for the guy, so each time we left class, I went up to him and wished him a good weekend, a better tomorrow, something to show that at least I was listening. I never really knew what to say to someone who I didn't really know, yet at the same time was pouring his heart out to us. I simply smiled frequently and took all the condensation from his pent up frustration with life. I still remember the one time he scolded me in front of the class for paradoxically following the exact guidelines he had given us, but instead of getting defensive, I simply smiled and said, "Ok. I'll try harder next time."

Before I walked through those doors for the final time, he said to me, "Thanks for the positive attitude." I was taken aback by this remark. I have never considered myself to be "positive". For those of you who know me, either in person or loosely through this mess of a blog, I think "positive" is one of the last words to describe me.

For the longest time I've found any reason to be unhappy. I used to blame it on people, on living amidst the lack of cultural competence in this country, and my one saving grace was to leave again - yet when I did, I only found another reason to be unsatisfied. I was running from something.

I think for the first time I've stopped running and I'm just now actively confronting everything that has frightened me; everything that has forced me to impose this unrelenting self-destruction. And for the first time I'm not cowering to their demands. I'm fighting back. The irony is that in destroying a part of myself, I am also creating. Creating an acceptance of where I am, what I am doing, and most importantly, who I am supposed to be.

Yes. I will be back.

2009-11-15T23:34:00.001-08:00

I'm sure the two readers of this blog, (one being me), are wondering why I haven't posted much anymore. Partly a loss of passion, majorly a traumatizing fear for return. But this blog will be revived soon. I am just taking a much needed break to administer some self-healing surgery on some self-inflicted wounds. See you soon, my friend.

A Waste of a Day

2009-11-08T21:31:00.003-08:00

Doing nothing, was about all I could do today. Hopefully, I'll have at least learned the feeling of how I never want to feel again, and get back to being productive, or at least tricking myself into thinking I am.

I think I might finally understand the point of my last trip.

2009-10-01T22:19:00.001-07:00

To instill the fear in me. I ain't never going back.

The Sacrifices of Change

2009-09-19T12:45:00.001-07:00

I'm beginning to realize that change comes with its consequences. There were and still are so many things I want to change about myself, and I am so obsessively focused on self-improvement that I've overlooked how in that course of transformation, we lose qualities we once adored and respected.

But as a good friend once told me, we lose some things we liked about ourselves in the process of growth - that is simply the cost of maturing into the full potential we all have within ourselves. But hopefully after every new chapter in our lives, we can look back and remember how we used to be, and work towards salvaging those traits and qualities we once loved. That, I believe, is the process of finding balance.

Civil War

2009-09-11T09:05:00.000-07:00

In talking to my good friend and personal life guru, I've realized that I don't hate myself. It's parts of me that I hate. And I think that's okay. I think all of us have imperfections we look to remedy and goals we seek to accomplish. It is the parts that hold me back from realizing my full potential that I despise. It is the lethargy to change, the selfishness, the fear that I want to viciously kill. I see a part of me that finds joy in seeing me fail. Call it whatever you want. Lack of self-esteem, depression, doubt, laziness. I think at one point of our lives, all of us go through an internal conflict where we need to seek out, identify and pull out those elements of our character, then maliciously stomp every single ounce of slithering life residing in them.

And forgiving yourself? That's partly true.

I don't think you should forgive the parts of yourself that you hate, but rather the part of you that was complacent in allowing those self-defeating beliefs to rule your life. It's okay to fall down. It's okay to make mistakes. It's okay to give up. Just as long as it doesn't always stay that way.

Reflections from the last trip

2009-09-01T06:31:00.001-07:00

I have made many mistakes in my life. I have misinterpreted the signs and beckoned to the alluring call of defeat. But the world does not stop to hear your sorrow. God does not hate you and the world is not against you. Your biggest enemy is yourself.

I want too much. I expect way more than I can accomplish because I am selfish. Greed does not only come in the monetary or material measures. Overindulgence is a poison. Desire can be a sin. Want less, need less. Live more. Selflessness is key.

You can dwell on the past all you want. You can relive those moments in your mind, fantasizing how they could have been different, how you could be now, but the present doesn't change. Your time is better spent on productivity, not reminiscence.

Sometimes I found myself acting like someone I wasn't or wanting something because it is what people expect me to want. I've never really questioned who I am. I felt lost. I felt without identity. But sometimes you need to go outside yourself to see who you really are and what you need to improve. I think I'm coming back to center.

I've never been one to quit. Sometimes I have the foolish pride of a beaten fighter. Sometimes I step through those ropes when common sense tells me to unlace the gloves and call it a day. But this is one time where I can't throw in the towel.

Fuck the rest. It's time to go.

Quick Update

2009-08-30T21:51:00.000-07:00

I know I've been gone for a while. Haven't found much to write about, though I could if I really tried. I guess I've been "stuck" again. But sleeping won't make your problems go away and your life won't suddenly change after you get out of a hot shower. Time to go. Tomorrow is Sept 1st but I'm treating it like a New Years. The first day of starting over.

I've learned that...

2009-08-11T06:55:00.000-07:00

We are complex beings. We are complicated organisms designed with forces simultaneously pushing and pulling against each other. If I had to sum up what I learned about life during this last trip, I would say that the point was to order all those energies into one direction, and plow through without fear or regard.

The decisions will not end. The unanswerable questions of "what if" or "what could have been" will not cease at any particular time, but rather life is about having confidence in your decisions and living with the choices we make. I suppose the hardest part is truly realizing what you want or where you "should" be. Yes, there are always the signs, but in the end, we create our own fate. WE are the ones that decide which path to take. Those seemingly random occurrences only guide us there. Ultimately, it is our decision to listen or not.

So this trip has really been about two things: Choices and sacrifices. With each choice comes a consequences and going through life is simply an intricate balance of knowing what you want and measuring what choices will get you there and which ones won't. The heartbreaking revelation is that you can't do it all. Sooner or later life splits your passions and aspiration into separate paths. You have to give one up for the other. But I guess that's the beautiful ugliness of it all. You benefit from the sacrifices of yourself and from that, I think, is how parts of you literally help yourself grow.

I can't say I've felt productive these past 5 months. In fact, most of the time was spent agonizing over which decisions to make, where I was going or where I could have gone. Contemplation over lost time is truly the biggest mistake of my life. But they say misery is a fire that destroys and purifies. Somewhere at the end of all this there is a lesson to be learned. And I have to consider myself lucky. I've had the opportunity to realize this and still have enough youth and energy to do this thing right.

There is always time to do this thing right.

Dancing til the sun comes up

2009-08-09T20:16:00.001-07:00

Sometimes you don't have to have style, you don't have to move to the rhythm, you don't have to have perfect technique. Sometimes you can dance around like a fucking idiot and things will be okay.

I don't think I'll ever learn.

2009-08-04T17:27:00.000-07:00

I can't ever seem to leave Pandora's box alone. Curiosity really does kill.

Let It Burn

2009-07-30T08:47:00.000-07:00

Two days before I left on this trip, a good friend of mine called me in a frantic panic, warning that between the dates of April 28th and May 7th, I would meet someone that would either make this the best or the worst experience of my life. Now I’m not one for superstition, but for those 9 days, I restrained myself to redundant routine in deliberate avoidance of meeting anyone new.

“Safe”, I thought to myself as the miniature black border outlined the 8th of May on my electronic calendar. What I didn’t foresee was for her to get the dates wrong. I also didn’t expect that it would be someone I vaguely knew from my past. But most of all, I didn’t anticipate that the determination of my experience would be in my own hands. I guess what they say is true. You do create your own destiny.

It ended up sparking an intense reflection of my entire life, from my past and present career choices to the many buffoonish fumblings with the opposite sex. It became an agonizing circular comparison of what my life could have been and what it is. At times the regret paralyzed me in a state of stagnant contemplation. At times it was downright painful.

I helplessly clung onto the few memories of ecstatic happiness I had retained; yet I still found a way to reduce them to times of just getting caught up in the moment, paltry instances of misinterpretation, or an oversimplification of happiness. I somehow manage to ruin everything for myself, even the times that have already passed.

But I still contest that what I felt during those times were real. That smile, that revival of hope that the world is still a decent place, were in fact sincere. What I’ve come to realize is that genuine passion expels so feverishly that it burns. For me, it's has just been so infrequent that instead of learning from it, I let it engulf me. Hence the product of my life: unstable occurrences of the extreme ups and downs. I still haven’t learned to control or bring them out from within. I am still reliant on external factors. I am petty, just like everyone I said I wasn’t like.

I’ve foolishly extended this trip multiple times, despite the fact that I’ve been longing to go home since almost the beginning. One part of me says the pain will always make you stronger, but realistically, the other, much more trivial part of me, is just waiting in vain hope that maybe some stroke of burning passion will present itself again and this time, I won’t be foolish enough to let it pass me by.

Sometimes I think too much. Sometimes I dwell too long in those dark corners of regret and remorse and I fretfully scurry over what parts of my potential I can still salvage. But fuck it. I’ve decided that should that moment present itself again, should I be lucky enough to recognize it, and most importantly, should I be brave enough to embrace it, I’m putting on my shoes and dancing my way right into that fire, even if it burns me up in the process.

Somewhere in the middle

2009-07-24T08:22:00.001-07:00

Sometimes when you wander too much, you lose sight of who you are. Sometimes you need to be grounded in order to figure out where you need to be. I never thought things could get this bad when traveling. Dazed and confused. It's time to come home now.

one and a half hrs of sleep was all i got

2009-07-21T08:49:00.000-07:00

Have you ever looked back at your life and analyzed every single trivial detail, then just wish you could go back and rearrange it all? You wish you would have went that way instead of this way, chosen A instead of B, courageously pushed through instead of cowered back into the safety net of comfort?

You know, I used to think I was different. I kept thinking it was society, not me that was dysfunctional. Blame it on structural oppression, blame it on media brainwashing, blame it on how people are, whatever justifies your fear from grasping what's out there. But for every pointed finger, there's three pointing back at you.

I know fantasizing about building a time machine and reliving those lost moments can be just as much of a time drain as any other flashy media gimmick created in the modern day. I know it's best to leave the past behind you; thinking about it too much just takes up time that should be spent on the present, and then you go back and regret that lost time as well. But you know, it's a lot easier said than done.

Moving On

2009-07-16T22:42:00.000-07:00

I once etched into a table in Puerto Viejo, Costa Rica, "Regret kills. Live with none." I somehow have still not learned to live by that phrase I engraved over a year ago. I'm beginning to wonder how regret is created. Is it the actual events that happen to us or the endless string of "what if's" you create in your own mind afterward? Sometimes I'd like to believe that we create our own misery, because by that logic we should therefore be able, at our own will, to halt the repressive anguish we put ourselves through. But truth is, it is a hybrid of it all. The opportunities that seemingly fall into our laps, the decisions we voluntarily make, and the interpretations we conclude at the end of it all.

Fifty-one hours on an uncomfortable bus strangely become more physically bearable when your mind is trapped in a never ending contemplation about regret. I spent my bus ride from Lima, Peru to Valparaiso, Chile, tormenting myself over missing out on yet another opportunity, which caused an intense analysis of all the events of my life. My biggest concern is feeling that I've been given all the chances and abilities to be someone great, only I let fear get the best of me. Someone who had more courage to realize their potential would achieve unimaginable feats, yet I can't seem to. I guess it just makes me jealous of this imaginary figure I fabricated in my own head and that envy soon transforms to bitterness.

There are so many other ways I wish my life turned out. I should have kept playing piano. I should have joined the wrestling team when the coach asked me to. I should have went to the bathroom before I walked her home. But dwelling in all those missed opportunities will kill you. It only prevents you from moving on. Sooner or later you have to let go. Sometimes you have to look at the brighter side of things and realize that maybe things could have been a lot worse. Sometimes you have to understand that perhaps had you went that way instead of this way, you wouldn't have the few things that do make you satisfied with yourself. Sometimes you must believe that things turned out the way they did for a reason, even if it means lying to yourself, just for that trivial purpose to be content with who and where you are.

A Love/Hate Thing

2009-07-12T10:51:00.000-07:00

I used to say that in order to love something, you'd have to have hated it at one point as well. How can you feel love without hate? Joy without pain? You can't truly appreciate either extreme unless you're acquainted with its counterpart. I wonder if the same holds true for the contrary. I've spent more time in Lima than in any other single place in all my travels and I can say that I've had some of the most miserable times of my life here. I can sincerely say that I hate living in Lima.

But it has nothing to do with the place itself. I have some real good friends here, enjoy the local cuisine, and know the bus routes better than Seattle's. But rather my resentment for Lima is that I've had my dreams and aspirations crushed in front of me and in the face of pressure I have folded; cowering into the familiar safety of comfort and turning into a pathetic, loathing, unproductive sloth who detests his inability to reach his full potential. So it's not Lima I hate. It's me.

I look at some of the comments people leave on the various medium of cyberspace networking and I can't see that person they all seem to know. HE wouldn't be as timid. HE wouldn't be indecisive. HE would be living that dashing fairytale adventure journey that everyone expects. I wish I could be that person. But I can't.

I spent the last two weeks agonizing whether I should go here or there, North or South, and in some ways it was representative of my past or my future. What ends up happening is that the internal deliberation distracts you from the only moment that matters. So after wasting a considerable amount of time and money, I ended up fruitlessly chasing the unattainable ghosts of my past and fumbling upon the prospects of new opportunities. In some ways you could say I put those matters to rest, in others you could say I did better than I had ever expected and maybe should be content with that. But in the end, it is what it is. It is useless to contemplate on the moments that never happened.

So what can I say about my time in Lima? A friend told me it's like New York. You hate it and love it at the same time. You want to leave everyday, but you'll miss it once you finally do. I made my last walk around the neighborhood and felt...quite indifferent. I don't know what to make of this time I've spent here. I can't tell if I loved or hated it. Maybe at the very least I can say that it has been a learning experience; a realization of my character and the countless opportunities I let pass by. But you take your punches in stride and learn to avoid them next time. And you can always change yourself and who you are. It's just about having the courage to snap your fingers and say, "now".

The Ten Count

2009-07-01T14:10:00.000-07:00

No, couldn't be, I silently thought this morning when a thread on the boxing forum that I frequent caught my eye. "Arguello found dead :(" it read.

Alexis Arguello, aka El Flaco Explosiva, was found dead this morning in his hometown of Managua, Nicaragua. The first thing that popped in my head was how I actually got to meet the former champ last year at his birthday party (we coincidentally have the same birthday). I remember being delightfully surprised at how welcoming this guy was, how approachable and sincere he carried himself and how despite being a damn near superstar in Nicaragua, he was one of the most humble, down-to-earth people I've ever met.

Like most fighters, Arguello lifted his country during a time of civil unrest and social instability. Boxers are individual embodiments of a nation's spirit. Fighters like the Filipino sensation Manny Pacquiao or even the first Peruvian world titlist Kina Malpartida dissolve all the present concerns surrounding the nation when they compete. For that moment, all that matters is their triumph. And even though it may not offer any sort of tangible long-term solution, amidst difficult times, it brings a country an instance of hope, no matter how tiny or short-lived it lasts.

Last year Arguello was elected mayor of Nicaragua. People would call him the "gentleman of the ring", labeled by both national and international observers as one of the classiest fighters to grace the canvas. Today I opened my inbox to a message that said "URGENTE NIKOOOO!!!!". A friend in Nicaragua wrote me about the devastating news, informing me that thousands are filling the streets of Managua, giving their ultimo adios to the champ.

Most news releases about his passing can be found somewhere in the back, mixed in with the miscellaneous press releases as Arguello is virtually an unknown to the international non-boxing observer. But those that have heard of him, mostly know him for his valiant losses to the American fighter Aaron Pryor, but I mainly remember him for what he said to his opponent Ray "Boom Boom" Mancini in his 14th round KO victory. I think his words sum up what kind of person he was.

Rest in peace, Champion.

(From 4:25 on captures Alexis Arguello's essence. RIP.)

Lessons in the Ring

2009-06-28T11:03:00.000-07:00

Don't wait. Be first.
My coach used to always bark that phrase at me when I was inside the ring. I've adopted more of a counter-puncher style, a fighter who reacts based on his opponents moves. But I think that's symbolic of how you go through life. Whether you are creative of your own actions or if you are reactionary of others. Be first. Create your own destiny.

Keep your hands up.
I used to always have this tendency to drop my hands. Blame it on tiredness or watching too many damn Floyd Mayweather Jr. fights. Those habits cost me. Those habits hurt. Literally. In life, one should be trusting but never get too comfortable. Never forget that at any moment the fight can change, and you better have your guard up. Therefore, above all, protect yourself at all times.

Get off the ropes.
I began adopting the game plan of moving once I felt my back touch the ropes. Before it used to be sort of a resting area, a place where I'd practice my Philly-shell defense, but more often than not, it just became target practice for my sparring partner. I was an immobile subject, waiting to get picked off. You should always be moving, not idle on the ropes.

Control the center.
In order to stay off the ropes, you have to have some type of authority within the center. You have to stand your ground and not let yourself be pushed around. If your opponent is stronger than you, box him. If he's a better boxer, bully him. If he's better in both, exploit his anger. Make him sloppy. Find something. Use your opponents flaws against him to control the center. You control the center, you control the fight.

Make him miss. Make him pay.
I began getting better at making my opponents miss but I could always hear my coach's voice yelling, "make him pay when you make him miss!" To me it was like acting on your accomplishments. Don't just sit there and be happy that you avoided a bad stroke of luck, but take advantage of your position. Act.

Don't admire your work.
Boxing commentators used to always echo this phrase; essentially the equivalent of not dwelling on your past accomplishments. In boxing when a fighter would "admire his work" and in thinking too long about how great of a combination he just threw, he'd get caught, punched, and pounded while his mind was elsewhere. Don't think of the past, focus on the present.

Punch with him.
Part of the reason sparring has gotten easier for me is because I am punching with Maicelo and you know, sometimes I land when he's coming in, which means it interrupts his whole rhythm, which means his potential 5 punch combination was reduced to 1. Despite the fact that I know he'll beat me, I still punch back. It's like facing an adversity you know is too overwhelming, but at least you're still throwing.

Yesterday's News

2009-06-26T05:46:00.000-07:00

Someone told me I was in yesterday's edition of the Peruvian sports newspaper "Depor". I spent a good hour at 6:30 in the morning running around like a madman searching for a copy. This is what I find:

Great.

My problem. Endless waiting.

2009-06-22T20:39:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow is when I will finally clean up my room. Tomorrow is when I'll mail that letter, write that article, organize my photos. Tomorrow inspiration will come, my problems will be solved and the mental congestion will melt away. Tomorrow is when I'll finally get my act together. I just have to wait, til tomorrow.

The Big Fight

2009-06-21T02:19:00.000-07:00

Tonight the Peruvian champ, Kina Malpartida, successfully defended her WBA Super Featherweight title by TKO victory in the 7th round over her opponent Halana Dos Santos. On the undercard, my buddy and sparring partner Jonathan Maicelo won a unanimous decision over Javier Gallegos, beating him from pillar to post nearly every round.

I'm a bit bummed out because despite having earned press credentials to the fight, I couldn't get any good pictures. Ironically enough, the photographer pass forced me to stay in the "photographers area" on the second floor. I managed to sneak down to the first floor and for about 15 minutes, into ringside, but eventually got kicked out and then marked by security. But I try to look at it like this. I got the press pass for free and managed to sit in S.340.00 ($112.00) seats for some damn good fights. I really shouldn't be complaining.

The last round

2009-06-17T19:40:00.000-07:00

I suited up in my black Under Armor shirt, my green Marmot rain jacket, a.k.a my makeshift sweat suit, packed my yellow Winning brand sparring gloves and headed out the door. The final day of training. Weigh-ins on Friday, light warm-up on Thursday, which makes today my last day of sparring. The last day they "needed" me. I wanted to make it something important. I wanted to say fue un placer a hacer los guantes contigo, Maicelo. I kept envisioning this grand finale to celebrate all the hard work I put in. But it never came.

After 15mins of warm up, I sheepishly asked Maicelo if he needed sparring. Creo que no. Turns out, Faustino arrived late, and by the time he showed up, Maicelo's workout was already winding down. But we ended up training together anyways, running sprints side by side. He was still beating me relentlessly, only it hurt a whole lot less. By the 4th or 5th sprint, I told him that this was my last week. I was leaving next Wednesday. ¿¡Oye, porque!? ¡No podemos celebrar! I didn't really know how to respond, just touched that maybe he considered me a friend.

I try to think whether or not I'll miss the gym. To be completely honest, much of it reminds me of the self-inflicted mental anguish from my voluntary isolation, but the few social interactions I do have during the day occur while I'm there. I can say that I know most of the fighters, trainers and casual observers at the gym. Some even ask me if I'm fighting on the big Kina Malpartida* card this Saturday. In some ways, I think I will miss that. Being part of something that is.

I winded down my own workout with 5 lackluster rounds on the heavybag, some sit ups and half my stretching routine. I guess I was actually disappointed I didn't get beat up today. Go figure.

Before I left, I went around and shook the hands of my coaches. They asked what time I'd be in to train tomorrow. I explained that from now on it was only photos. I'd just be around to take photos. They hesitated and gave me a bit of an awkward glance, but eventually shrugged it off and went on. To be honest, I'm a bit sad that my last workout went out with more of a whimper rather than a bang, but I think sometimes that's how it's supposed to be. You exit just as you entered. A nobody.

As I stepped through the revolving gates, I heard a familiar voice call my name. I saw Maicelo sitting on the curb, waiting around for yet another reporter. I decided to chat with him for a bit, asked the typical filler questions. How are you feeling, how's your weight, that sort of stuff. But when I asked him of his plans after the Kina fight, he told me he planned on moving to the US for the abundance of pugilistic opportunities. I suggested we keep in contact. He agreed. I told him that if he needed anything, he just needed to..."No. Not for that," he interrupted, "we'll stay in contact just to stay in contact. I don't like asking for things." I respected that. Hell, I admire that.

I want to make it clear that he never asked me to stay and spar. I did that on my own accord because I thought it might help him. I don't know if it actually did or not, but I always received a "Gracias Nick" afterward. I think at least he appreciated my dumbassedness. I tried explaining to him how his words about pity really affected me, how it really made me think about writing and portraying people, but it came out a garbled incomprehensible mess. I hope one day he'll understand what I was trying to say.

As the reporter finally showed up, we said our mutual farewells, but before we parted he wanted to be sure we saw each other before I left. I told him tomorrow I would be at the gym and of course at the fight. No, DESPUES de la pelea. I suggested I could go to Callao again, have some cerviche. Then in almost a break of seriousness, he stopped, slowly stepped aside the reporter and stared me straight in the eyes. La comida. ¿Te gustó?

"I loved it," I replied.

Chevere, he smiled, chevere.

*Kina Malpartida is currently the Women's WBA Super featherweight Champion. She won the title by 10th round TKO over Maureen Shea in Madison Square Garden New York. This Saturday, in her hometown Lima, is her first title defense.

**Chevere is Spanish slang for "cool".

The final lap

2009-06-14T21:24:00.000-07:00

We stop for a moment to exchange looks across the gym. We nod in silent agreement to acknowledge our mutual feelings of exhaustion, touch gloves to cement our solidarity, and through our spit laden mouthpieces, smile a wide grin. Five rounds of sparring. Five rounds on the heavy bag. Now onto floorwork. We're in the same world.

For the first time I'm doing what I've always claimed to do. For the first time I actually feel like one of the fighters...well, at least to an extent. I try to match their efforts in whatever they do. Sprints, roadwork, sparring. And outside the gym, restraining from sex, drugs and bad food: the trinity of poisons for a prizefighter. Normally on this journey, the sparring sessions were infrequent, maybe two or three times in total, and held more of a Ok let the tourist have his "sparring session", take his pictures, and write about it on his blog type of feel rather than a serious test of skills.

But I've long ago lost count of how many times I've hopped into the ring here in Peru. I am now waited upon by trainers, greeted by handshakes and sighs of relief when I step through the gym doors. Ah, the sparring partner showed up. Let's get to work. I'm beginning to be introduced around the gym as El chino que hace el sparring con Maicelo, which almost garners the same wide-eyed admiration as the champ himself.

Before I felt taken advantage of. I remember the first time I was denied a proper warm up; thrown into the ring like meat to a lion. There were times when the gym couldn't provide headgear as I'd be left in there trading blows naked from the neck up. "What the hell," I thought, "he's the one beating my ass. Why's he have the headgear?"

Maicelo's coach, Faustino, used to look away and have side conversations when the three-four punch combinations left me stumbling on bambi legs, which in retrospect, was something perhaps I deserved. Who was this two-bit tourist coming in snooping around and thinking he can hang with the best anyways? He wants to fight? We'll give him one.

But now Faustino stops the action the moment two consecutive blows connect. Estop. Parate. Maicelo, mas suave. Even I think it's premature at times. Last Thursday he spent 20mins showing me how to improve my punches and enhance my footwork to stay out of the corner. Hell, he might even care about my well-being. I guess my willingness to take a beating warmed him up to me.

And even though I come home everyday exhausted and beaten, even though I still haven't figured out all the feelings of my self-loathing, I feel like this experience is going somewhere. I'm discovering something in these sparring sessions even if I can't express them in words. I sit here now with a swollen right cheek, a blacken left eye and a scarred bloodstained lip from taking too many uppercuts to the chin, and tomorrow, it's the first day of the last week before the big fight. The training will probably intensify, the sparring will be harder, and the injuries more severe.

But you know, I don't think I'd want it any other way.

A Prayer

2009-06-13T14:23:00.000-07:00

(IMO the best scene from Charlie Kaufmann's Synecdoche, New York)
Everything is more complicated than you think. You only see a tenth of what is true for there are a million little strings attached to every choice you make. You can destroy your life every time you choose. But maybe you won't know for twenty years. And you may never ever trace it to its source. And you only get one chance to play it out. Just try and figure out your own divorce.

And they say there is no fate, but there is: it's what you create. And even though the world goes on for eons and eons, you are only here for a fraction of a fraction of a second. Most of your time is spent being dead or not yet born. But while alive, you wait in vain, wasting years, for a phone call or a letter or a look from someone or something to make it all right. And it never comes or it seems to but doesn't really. So you spend your time in vague regret or vaguer hope that something good will come along. Something to make you feel connected, something to make you feel whole, something to make you feel loved.

And the truth is...I feel so angry. And the truth is I feel so fucking sad. And the truth is I felt so fucking hurt for so fucking long and for just as long have been pretending I'm ok, just to get along, just for...I don't know why. Maybe because no one wants to hear about my misery, because they have their own.

Well, fuck everybody.

Amen.

Pretty much the book about my life.

2009-06-12T12:15:00.000-07:00

"The acomodador or giving-up point: there is always an event in our lives that is responsible for us failing to progress: a trauma, a particularly bitter defeat, a disappointment in love, even a victory that we did not quite understand, can make cowards of us and prevent us from moving on. As part of the process of increasing his hidden powers, the shaman must first free himself from that giving-up point and, to do so, he must review his whole life and find out where it occurred."

- The Zahir - Paulo Coelho

I need a change

2009-06-05T06:41:00.001-07:00

"You know what your problem is? It's that you have this really shitty way of looking at things you know. I don't have that problem, I just look at the dopeness. But you, it's like you just look at the wackness, you know?"

Yeah, I know.

What I've been doing

2009-05-29T23:55:00.001-07:00

(Bombera de Mauro Mina, Estadio Nacional - Lima, Peru. Moments before my first sparring session with Jonathan "El Depredador" Maicelo)
It's been a while since I posted about what I've actually been doing, but it's hard to write anything when I've been doing, well, nothing really. I leave my hotel room everyday for two things. 1) to eat lunch and 2) to train at the boxing gym. This voluntary isolation probably explains the evident increase of self-criticisms, but I think it's good. It's giving me time to reflect on my past experiences and truly understand what made them. I've now realized that I no longer know what the hell I am doing in this world, but I will say this. I am in better shape.

(In the dressing room for Maicelo's fight against Jesus Camacho. "El Depredador" won by 2nd round KO)
The only conscious reason I am still here is to help my sparring partner, Maicelo (you remember, the one that kicked my ass a few blog posts ago), get ready for his upcoming fights. It turns out Maicelo is the #1 lightweight prospect in Peru, so I don't feel that bad about the ass thrashing that I received when I first got here. Apparently I've been the only sparring partner he's had as I'm told nobody else is willing to trade punches with him. Can't say I blame em. Many people tell me it's because he's medio loco, but maybe only inside the ring. Outside the ring I've found him to be a completely humble and intelligent person.

(A self-portrait representing him in the culture of boxing. He says the colors represent the races of the world because for him, boxing is the only time all people can come together at the same time and place without fighting.)
One time we walked by a woman and her small child asking for money on the street, and he nonchalantly dropped in some change, like it was what you were supposed to do when you saw something like that. He didn't hesitate, didn't make sure I was watching, just did it. I once asked him where he bought a particular shirt he was wearing. He pulled out a spare one and gave it to me. One day he asked me if I believed in God and I answered that I did. The next day, he brought me a rosary; said it was meant to protect me on my journeys. This is the kind of guy he is.

(Giving tips in between rounds to a young fan and aspiring boxer)
After learning I hadn't tried to typical Peruvian "Cerviche", he invited me to a plate (which he paid for) in his neighborhood, "El Callao", known around here as una zona brava, and bien peligroso if you didn't know anyone that lived there. Sure enough, his barrio resembled much of what I had saw in Motupe or San Juan de Lurigancho. Unpaved, gritty dirt roads, sprouted with dilapidated brick buildings covered in torn campaign ads and beer posters.

(Littered beach by his home. Pictured in the background is where he tells me the "drug addicts and thieves" hang out.)
We'd hang out, sometimes. He'd call me a friend, sort of. He doesn't trust anyone, let alone reporters. He told me he hated how other writers would portray him as "weak" or "suffering", despised it when people tried to investigate his fatherless childhood. "I don't have a father," he'd answer, "Punto". He didn't want people to pity him. "You've been to my house," he would say to me, "I'm living well."

(Everything pictured has been earned through competing in combat sports.)
It made me think about writing, about portraying characters and how we develop our stories. I certainly didn't pity him, but like all the boxers I've met, he was still fighting to better his life with the odds stacked against him. It's just the unfairness of it all that frustrates me. I try to help out to alleviate the guilt of my privilege. Some way. Any way. Of all the gyms I've traveled to, most fighters ask me for something, usually a connection, some money, whatever. Maicelo hasn't asked for anything of the sort. The only thing he's asked me for is rounds in the ring. Can you believe that? Me. Boxing. Needed.

I'm actually touched, not necessarily because I think I could be an adequate sparring partner, but because it is something that isn't reflective of the privilege created from structural inequalities. Boxing is like that. In that squared circle, everything else in the world gets thrown out. You're pitted against your fears, your insecurities and all you have to overcome them is your own will. I've come to find the few moments I am in the ring are the only times during the day I feel productive. I originally thought staying would help others, but I'm starting to realize that I need those daily sparring sessions as much as they do.

And truthfully, Maicelo has rekindled my belief in the sincerity of people. I think that's worth something, and in some ways, I feel that's part of what I'm really fighting for. I hope that at some point he can call me a friend. I hope that I can maybe teach him to trust, just as he has taught me to maintain faith in humanity. I hope that by the end of all this, I can look back, and say it was all worthwhile.

Boost

2009-05-22T15:13:00.000-07:00

"There is no satisfaction and on that your life is one of the saddest fictions ever written. So take that not-so-satisfactory life back to the sadness factory to be reworked, and to be rewritten, and to be reconfigured to live right. Open your brain, let your heart go, the real you has been locked within your ribcage for too long and stop trying to hold onto then cuz that's why it all started. And about that same time he forgot fun, she lost hope and now we, can't find anything."

- "Flashy Words" - Shihan the Poet

Deaf

2009-05-21T16:20:00.000-07:00

I'm having trouble recalling the last time I was happy. I mean really happy. Happy like not a damn thing could ruin your day, like even going to the bathroom was like a benediction from God happy. Happy like you're standing on top of the world without having to balance yourself from falling off, when you're still so disillusioned and naive to think everything is within your grasp. You only have to reach out and grab it.

As if things were that simple.

I try to relive the few times where a genuine smile crossed my face, where really nothing mattered, where dreams still felt possible, where I felt free. But I can't. The faces are fading, names start disappearing, memories begin to dimmer. I try to call upon my angel from paradise to tell me how I used to be, but I can't hear her. I can't hear anything really. I end up trapped in an isolated world by myself, trying to make peace with all I despise in the mirror, contemplating if I can overcome, for once, on my own.

Focus

2009-05-18T18:51:00.000-07:00

(Remember your sacrifice of today will be your triumph tomorrow)

Clarification

2009-05-16T22:19:00.000-07:00

I appreciate all the comments and messages I am receiving from new and anonymous friends that have been, for whatever reason unbeknown to me, following my blog. However, I think many believe my cries of confusions are a result of encountering global poverty, when in fact, most of my befuddling reaction stems rather from the ease in sweeping away these issues through simplified justification made by fellow travelers in positions of privilege.

But then again that probably is my pride speaking. I don't want to be seen as someone sheltered from the real world, cradled in a crib of comfort and opportunity and to be thought of seeing for the first time in my life, during my young adult years, the other side of life. On the contrary, I think throughout the majority of my life I've focused so hard on the experiences I didn't endure myself that I have never taken notice of those around me. I have been completely ignorant to the fact that it was possible someone could be offended at another's suffering.

Of course, poverty and suffering have always been there, in all likelihood will continue to be there, but the little intricacies in what keeps it perpetually going is perhaps where these emotions are coming from.

First Hint of Aggressive Insanity

2009-05-12T19:48:00.000-07:00

Nearly everyday I encounter someone climbing a bus, begin with a speech about how they left a life of robbing people and proceed to ask for money. It almost irritated me at first, the expectation to be rewarded for following societal norms we all abide by. But then I try to put myself in their shoes and imagine how much dignity has to be sacrificed to mount a bus and sing to the sound of two colliding sea shells. They couldn't do it unless they really needed to.

I wanted to be different from all those other tourists that would mockingly imitate beggars after brushing their noses in disgust. A sol here, a candy bar purchase there (realistically less than I probably lose in a couch back at home), but soon enough, I didn't have enough bus fare to get me home. So instead I politely say "no" or just ignore it. It's become almost normal to see these things.

But it angers me that this has become normal. Things like this shouldn't be "normal". At the end of the day I passed by a woman sitting against the concrete wall of a church, sorting through a bag of candy, counting the day's earnings. I imagined my only recourse to survival coming out of a bag of jolly ranchers. I think about being forced to approach random strangers to try and convince them to buy an artificial sweet they don't need and most likely don't want. I imagine it to be incredibly uncomfortable. I would rather work almost any other job. It has to be more than just, "Get a job you fucking bum!" to explain these type of situations, doesn't it?

But those are the thoughts of a naive idealist. I've learned long ago that idealists never make it. We need to abandon our ideals and live in the real world. Fuck ideals. FUCK ideals. FUCK IDEALS.

Day One

2009-05-05T08:06:00.000-07:00

You have quelled your petty curiosities. Now it is time to get back to work. It is in your hands. Go.

Experiment #1

2009-05-05T00:08:00.001-07:00

I'm all about social experiments. What happens when you take a self-loathing, critical of the world, semi-depressed kid and isolate him in a hotel room full of weirdass reading material and the plan of getting punched in the face on a daily basis for a month? And, and...internet access. We'll see how strange things become.

Lesson of the Dunes

2009-05-04T17:21:00.000-07:00

On the many hikes I've taken through Peru, I've learned to never look at the final destination. Instead one should focus solely on the next step in front of them. Rest when you need to, move on when you feel ready, but above all, don't look up. Because one can become disheartened at the sight of such a daunting feat to tackle. Even if it appears the journey is nearing its end, one should not look too far ahead because in doing so, we create expectations, and should those expectations fail, we are disheartened all the same. Therefore, in finding our path, we should look only to the next step. It matters not if you ever make it. It is irrelevant if you were walking perpetually in the sand the entire time. What does matter, however, is that you keep moving.

Hesitant Acceptance

2009-04-29T17:38:00.001-07:00

I finally decided to wave that white flag and accept who I am. "Yes I am just another tourist. Yes I am looking for a tour. No I don't want to buy any sourvenirs. No I don't have any spare change for you."

It actually felt good, or at least, easier. But I guess that's what bothers me; how we can see someone like a handicapped mother ask for something to eat, and most likely mean it, then turn out heads, walk past, and pretend the whole episode never happened. I always wonder how other tourists interpret interactions like that. I wonder if those things creep into their mind well after they return home or if they just pack it as slight inconvenience in what overall was "another lovely trip".

So where does tourism stand? This past week I kept trying to be tolerant of it, to just accept it. "Most people are on vacation," I kept thinking. "Most people deserve a vacation, and people come to experience and learn of a culture they didn't know much of before. Isn't that already enough?" Maybe changing what we see isn't our responsibility.

But somewhere between one tourist complaining about how Machu Picchu "fucking sucked" and "wasn't impressive" (as if the world was built to impress him), and the fashion show of traditional Inca garments to ABBA's "Dancing Queen" on the train from Aguas Calientes, did I feel my critical juices bubbling again.

Something just didn't feel right about the whole thing, having two Peruvians parade down the isle of a train to an 80's hit and the passengers viciously snapping away photos. I could see the distaste in the "models'" faces. Hell, I dread doing Quiz Night at the hostel due to the verbal harassment and physical projectiles, I can't even imagine what it's like to dance around for people's entertainment.

But perhaps it should be viewed as an opportunity for cultural exchange, only the problem is that it isn't reciprocated. If Peruvians were allowed to travel to places like the US, in the same volumes as the amount of foreign tourists that come to their country, have us dance around in our traditional garments, and let them ignore our poor and hungry, then perhaps it would be okay. Maybe they too would make the same insensitive comments and assumptions we do. In fact, if we believe in the equality of the human design, they would. The thing is, that opportunity to be ignorant isn't there, and that's the problem.

Contrary to what others have told me, there is some value in being critical. You can't always be agreeable. Because if we are, we all march to the same cadence that the crowd dictates and not our own. Soon enough, traveling through the same motions becomes monotonous. Soon enough, snapping photo after photo becomes redundant. Soon enough, you start telling yourself that there's gotta be something more than this.

A Blind Push Forward

2009-04-25T16:33:00.000-07:00

I am confused on how to live, upon which path to take. I've been bombarded with so many different mantras as to how find fulfillment in my life that I end up static, staring into the distance, while fruitlessly trying to see the destination. I try to adopt multiple ways of life, but I soon realize that the demands of each lifestyle conflict and cannot coexist. At some point, you have to make a choice.

I suppose my biggest fear is to choose one path and later look behind me only to regret all that I sacrificed to be there, thinking about the other ways my life could have been and ultimately wishing my life had turned out differently than it has. I end up aimlessly contemplating over the lost time that I will never reclaim and questioning if I had made the right choice in the first place.

But I'm starting to understand that you have to go sometime, otherwise you become stagnant idling in the same place, and that perhaps the conclusion will only reveal itself to you when you're standing at the end of your own journey. Hopefully by then, the initial choice and preoccupations will be irrelevant.

Balance

2009-04-21T18:19:00.000-07:00

"It is useful to know something of the manners of different nations, that we may be enabled to form a more correct judgment regarding our own, and be prevented from thinking that everything contrary to our customs is ridiculous and irrational - a conclusion usually come to by those whose experience has been limited to their own country.

On the other hand, when too much time is occupied in travelling, we become strangers to our native country; and the over curious in the customs of the past are generally ignorant of those of the present."

- René Descartes (1637)

Machu Picchu

2009-04-20T13:14:00.000-07:00

Say all you want about how it just wouldn't work. Convince yourself over and over that she's not the one. Ask yourself why you've done, all you've done, until the question becomes rhetorical if you'd like. At the end of the day, watching her sleep, is still the most beautiful thing you've ever seen.

Square One

2009-04-16T23:19:00.000-07:00

Sometimes you reconnect with something for a moment and it feels real again. It feels genuine. But usually these moments come at times of intense ecstasy, of drunkenness or being under the influence of some other fabricated interaction that once that artificial stimulant wears off, you're right back to where you started.

They say dancing is the embodiment of the human spirit. If I could have one thing for my birthday, it would be a infinite dancefloor and endless rhythms to subdue my demons until the dawn resurrects them.

That and a phone call, would be nice.

Story about a Boy

2009-04-16T08:49:00.000-07:00

For so long he believes he is immune to life’s emotional squabbles. For so long he thinks he cares not for trivialities like status, judgment and approval. But he’s realized the entire time he’s confused “indifference” with “denial”.

He wants to live a story worth telling. He wants to script a tragic tale of romance so he fabricates an infatuation and mistakes it for love. In the end, only he is hurt by his stubborn hopes.

He thinks the search for truth is a worthwhile campaign. He wants to believe in honesty and ideals. He wants to maintain faith in the goodness of humanity despite all that proves the contrary, but with time, “integrity” soon turns into “naivety”.

He wants to be a hero so he shoulders the badge of saviorism. He wants to change things, but never really understands why. He journeys so deep that it becomes an identity, a scapegoat to blame his failures in life.

He thinks he has learned more than he knows. More than once, he thinks he has life’s never-ending complexity figured out. He thinks he has an accurate conception of world and its intricacies. But what he has still failed to learn is “acceptance”.

Sometimes, he gets lost in his own thoughts. Sometimes, he wishes that he too could forget. Sometimes, he too indulges in life’s pleasures. Sometimes, he too is selfish.

Message to an Old Friend

2009-03-31T23:40:00.000-07:00

Do not be afraid of your solitude. Do not be ashamed of your differences. To be surrounded by laughter, yet still feel something deeply problematic, is a perception so few of us hold. So few of us have the courage and desire to break the confines of normalcy and strive for something more.

You are young and the young are allowed, or more rightfully, are obligated to make mistakes. For it is in the mistakes we learn. It is in the mistakes that cast us into the depths of doubt and despair, which create the opportunities to pull ourselves out. It is the mistakes that teach us how to appreciate.

Because happiness is not about consistency. It is not about sustained contentment or continual bliss, but it is contrast, that makes finding peace, that much more meaningful.

I Wish I Could Be Timeless

2009-03-28T14:38:00.001-07:00

I want to be so many things. Learn so many skills. Accomplish so many goals. But everything I start ends up being a discovery of the absurd amount of time and effort put into each trade. It ends up being the harsh reminder of how and why people dedicate an entire career to one thing. A reminder that perhaps some things, are in fact, out of your reach. There just isn't enough hours in a day, months in a year, time in a lifetime, to do it all.

Ignorance is Bliss?

2009-03-28T00:39:00.001-07:00

Mike Tyson's childhood hero was the Panamanian boxer Roberto "Manos de Piedra" Duran, but he said he never wanted to meet Duran. He said he didn't want to find out anything bad about the man to ruin the image he had of him. I guess you could say I feel the same way about certain things. Sometimes it's better to leave them as the comforting pockets you create in your mind rather than finding out the truth. Right?

Just Another Crazy Night

2009-03-25T11:28:00.000-07:00

(Motupe, Peru)
I used to joke about it when I lived in Honduras with the Yueng family. When their friends from Canada would visit and ask in awing wonder, "How much does it cost to live in the hills and who lives there?" Monica, the mother, would chuckle in reminiscence of how in places like Canada or the United States, the rich would pay fortunes for the scenic view, but in Tegucigalpa, like it is here in Lima, it is the opposite. It is the marginalized poor that live on elevated land, in places where one would call, shantytowns, slums, or just places asking for more inhabitable conditions.

He approached me one day while I was sitting in the boxing gym. Ricardo Espinoza, a social worker whose dream was to see the betterment of his neighborhood. He invited me and a Cuban boxing coach to see where he planned to establish a boxing program to dissuade youth from the growing influence of drugs and alcohol. It was about an hour and a half bus ride from the familiarity of the national stadium. Dust clouded into the air as the paved road disappeared into a bumpy dirt path. The closer we approached, the more it appeared that the area was currently under construction, only that "currently" didn't really apply. It was just the way it was. And sure enough, we were going upwards.

Ricardo brought us to what appeared to be his home and I immediately noticed about a dozen children obediently sitting in chairs, all wearing a football (soccer) uniform stamped with the phrase "Acad. de Futbol de Menores Si. De Drogas No" (Academy of Football of Minors Yes. Of Drugs No) written on it. Each child came up, introduced their name and age, then shook our hands. One boy then came up and handed me a plate. Chicken and potatoes covered in a savory sauce. As the rest of the boys began receiving their plates, I noticed that theirs only included potatoes. They ate like they hadn't eaten all day, but earlier Ricardo had asked them how many had eaten breakfast, and judging by the absence of raised hands, it probably was their first meal.

Afterward the coach began giving a speech about boxing, intermixing mood raising questions of who wanted to learn how to defend themselves, who wanted to be a future champion and interestingly enough, noting the importance of knowing your family background. But the core of the speech laid in one topic: about what it takes to succeed in the sport. Of course he discussed the characteristics of determination, sacrifice, perseverance, and so on, but the main reason was to advocate the abandonment and avoidance of drugs and alcohol. He kept saying how one needed to stay away from them to find success, how in becoming consumed by them, you would disappoint your family and yourself.

We later walked around to possible sites to where a boxing gym could be built. In my honest opinion, the scarce bareness of the land didn't offer much hope. But the kids didn't seem concerned. They seemed more interested in my ability to speak English and Chinese, began asking me to translate words in both languages, asking me what the United States was like, if there were neighborhoods like this one. I wanted to say yes, because there is poverty in the US, but to these levels? I don't really know anymore.

I hate to say that this story is beginning to sound like a broken record, that I've already been to so many places suffering from the same ills of poverty that I can no longer, nor have ever been able to, discern whose story deserves more attention. But what I have never been able to get my head around is the state of inequality this world suffers from; how in one moment I am in a place where drugs and alcohol will drag a life into the cold depths of destitution, and in the next, I am working in a place where drugs and alcohol appear to be a common daily occurrence, yet these users' lives are not affected by the same adverse consequences. Nobody seemed to be disappointed in them. Their privilege manages to allow their habits and experiences to be packed away as "just another crazy night".

Feelin' Fucked Up

2009-03-12T21:50:00.000-07:00

I walked into the Lima boxing gym expecting to spar with Mauricio, the pro fighter with an upcoming bout next Saturday. Normally I wouldn't opt to just hop in with a fighter of his caliber, but I scoped him out the day before and noticed his lackluster one-punch-at-a-time combinations, his apathetic effort in finishing his workout, and just his overall skill. I figured I could survive three rounds with him.

But when I stepped through those doors meandering around the gym, searching for his familiar face, I was later stopped and asked if I would spar with another fighter to prepare him for an upcoming bout next Friday. A smaller fighter named "Maicelo". I watched him shadowbox for a couple rounds. He was definitely faster than me, in better shape, and fought with a will and determination that I have so unsuccessfully tried to recapture, but "What the hell," I thought, "You only live once."

After the first three punches crashed into my face and the headgear flew off my head, I knew I was in trouble. For the next 10 mins of my life, I knew what it felt like to be a punching bag. And he didn't punch as if it was sparring match, but as if I had stolen his childhood pet or offended a close relative. Even my Polish friend Anita told me she at one point she could see a pure and absolute anger in him pummeling me.

I managed to get through the three rounds I promised, battered and beaten, feeling like I had all the meager accolades stripped from the little boxing rank I had. I felt like I wasn't in a place I was supposed to be in, like I failed at what I was set out to do. On top of that, last night I messed up the bar count at my new job at the hostel. I usually fare well with numbers. I don't know how it was so off. Maybe I'm just losing a step, or more probably, overestimating my abilities.

But for some reason, I also feel like something got beat into me, almost like a new energy to go on. The coaches said I did well, most likely to make me feel better, but the one place I can give myself credit is that I never quit. I never gave up. I suppose you can always look at the glass two ways. Either the beginnings of self-doubt and abuse, or the opportunity to start over and try again.

What a lovely gift.

El Cantante

2009-02-28T09:48:00.000-08:00

Me paran siempre en la calle
mucha gente que comenta
¡Oye Hector ah! tu estas hecho
simpre con hembras y en fiestas.

Y nadie pregunta
si sufro si lloro
si tengo una pena
que hiere muy hondo.

(They always stop me in the street
many people comment
Hey Hector! You're made
always with women and in parties

And nobody asks
if I suffer, if I cry
if I have a sorrow
that wounds very deeply)

- Hector Lavoe

A Few Extra Flakes

2009-02-27T00:44:00.001-08:00

I noticed my two year old clown loach didn't come out for the scheduled feeding that I have every other day. Instead it huddled in the hiding place that has suddenly become populated by the Ghost Knife and Indonesian shrimp. From the blank look in its eyes, I thought it was dead, but to my delight, it eventually squiggled its way around. Maybe it was just having a bad day. But when it finally came out, it swam abnormally, took rapid laps throughout the tank, and the entire time on its side, like it was confused; a tell tale sign that it is sick.

My clown loach will probably die in the coming days. I decided to throw in some more food to try and comfort it in its last moments, but it never could control itself enough to eat. It's a strange sight, to foresee the untimely death of a living thing while it's still moving, but you can't just lay down quietly to accept the inevitable. Instead cherish those final moments, try your best to recreate those old times, even if a few extra flakes, isn't going to bring them back.

A Pointless Post

2009-02-22T22:15:00.001-08:00

I've unsuccessfully tried to understand to the concept of 'expectations'; whether or not to live by plans because plans all too commonly fail. But it isn't so much the idea of a plan that is problematic, but rather putting too much of your hope into them. Kind of like an insurance policy, so that when plans don't pan out as expected, your hopes don't go crashing down with them.

But life is not worth living without hope. Where's the motivation to go on if there isn't at least the illusion of a better place? And most times, hope guides us to places we never expected to be, places that we can look back and say made us better people. So the goal of getting to the initial destination is irrelevant, but rather the steps taken to get, well, wherever.

So where do we place 'hope'? I'd like to think we can place it in the overall assurance that things will work out, regardless if we recognize it or not. Or maybe finding an intricate balance between 'hope' and 'expectations' so that they can exist harmoniously for our own individual peace of mind. But things like hope shouldn't be over analyzed anyways. It's complexity wasn't meant for such petty things like 'logic' in the first place.

I Couldn't Stay Here Any Longer

2009-02-22T02:25:00.000-08:00

When the Bonderman panel asked me how I would deal with homesickness, I silently thought, "I won't have to," and looking back on all my journeys, I haven't really had to. I've always had this problem of feeling there was concept of "home".

The first time I went through a difficult 6 month depression where all I wanted to do was sleep. The second time was a little better, but only at the assurance that I was to leave within three months. This time I had that same promise, only I didn't view as an assurance, I thought I was happy being where I was. I came back with hope for myself. I finally was able to find happiness within myself and like Ana told me, thought I could create happiness out of thin air. This time I thought I had it figured out. I thought I had a lot of things figured out. But you put things into a simple equation and you realize with time that nothing is ever that simple.

Something happened since I've been back, like a weight has suddenly crept up on me. It's a strange feeling that is, having peace slowly taken away from you. It's like the genuine life behind your smile get desecrated, but the smile is still there. It's just empty.

I look at my photos from my trip and I don't know, I could just feel the happiness seeping out of my image. I don't know who that person is anymore. I try so hard to grasp onto those moments, to recreate those times that lifted my spirit, but I can't. It's like trying to recreate mouthwatering dish that you foolishly stumbled upon but never really knew the recipe in the first place.

What happened to my peace? Where did my patience go? Since when did traffic jams become annoying? When did watching my fish swim suddenly become too time consuming? When did I start criticizing those around me? When did I start hating myself, again.

Sometimes the mirror is a scary place, when you suddenly see yourself at the other end of the finger pointing out the blame. Sometimes we're too blind in our clarity. I used to feel that everything that came my way made sense, and anything that didn't, well, I would learn with time. But that wasn't the truth. Sure you learn to see things more clearly, but you also find out shit you don't want to find out.

But I'm lucky. I have a place in my mind that has peace. Sometimes I see it in my dreams and I wake up, happy. But the sad thing is I'm scared to make it a reality. I almost want to keep it as a thought, something I can rely on, a safe place. I guess I just don't want reality to hurt anymore.

But if I've learned anything since I've been back it's that you suffer for your happiness, that pain is for love, because "Even the beauty of birth leaves it's own scars". And if all the experts of self-discovery are right, "we will find home right where we are".

"Pain for Love"

2009-02-14T22:22:00.001-08:00

So as fate would have it, my 9-hour "Importing as a Small Business" class happened to fall on Valentine's Day. Talking about free market shares, independent sales reps and net profit margins wasn't exactly what I expected to be doing, but since I kind of messed up Valentine's Day for myself, I can't say I wasn't asking for it.

But when going over the list of what one needs to start their own business, one student mentioned "passion". Most people associate "passion" with what one loves. Today I found out that at it's root, "passion" means to suffer.

I thought I had my re-entries into this country figured out. I thought I finally learned to be happy this time, but I've been on edge with frustration lately. Something about this place took my peace away from me. I can't really figure it out.

But if the business course is right, you suffer for the things you love. Pain and joy, are not mutually exclusive. Now I just need to find out what exactly I'm suffering for.

Let It Tell Em

2009-01-28T10:34:00.000-08:00

"Open your chest and let whatever fall out, let it fall on the page. Let the page be your doctor, let the page be your therapist, let the page be your lover, let the page be your enemy; punch em in the face. Let the page be the best friend that ever stabbed you in the back, let the page be your prozac. Let the page be your hip-hop, let the page be your rock-n-roll. Let the page be that fancy ride you're always talking about, let the page be that bling-bling on your wrist, let the page be that underground beat that you're about to rip. Let your page be your autobiography.

Tell em who you are. Tell em, they're wrong for labeling you. Tell em, 'fuck you' for giving up on you. Tell em, your life may not be worth shit now, but tomorrow gives you hope, so you won't take your life today, or the next day. Tell em, you will be here forever. Tell em you are loved no matter what anyone says. Tell em you are the ones that create beautiful art from stark reality, and scare the shit out of them. Tell em you are loved no matter what anyone says. Tell em you are loved."

- "In the Front of the Class" - Bonafide Rojas

Wings

2009-01-16T15:05:00.000-08:00

The first time I had my heart broken, someone lied to me.

The second time I had my heart broken, I lied to someone.

The third time I had my heart broken, someone was honest with me.

I think I’m finally set free.

My Friend Luis

2009-01-08T22:50:00.001-08:00

I came home after a hard day of getting pummeled at the gym and I decided to choose a fight from my DVD collection to maybe try and learn something. Cotto vs Judah. Nah, a one-sided beatdown. Mayweather vs Hatton. Good, but already seen it too many times. As I turned the next page, I saw one that caught my eye, not necessarily because I already knew it was a good fight, in fact I had never watched it, but it was for another reason. Montiel vs Melendez.

Luis Melendez, a fighter that I used to train with back in Cartagena. I remember in an attempt to get to know him better, I discovered on Boxrec that he had fought the flyweight champion Fernando Montiel. I was impressed. Montiel was a solid champion.

I loaded the disc in with hesitation, like a movie you already knew was depressing, but you put it in anyways out of curiosity. When a friend called, I told him what I was doing and I said it was weird to see him again, even weirder because it was before I actually knew him. I felt like I was watching the fight live. I felt anger when Montiel mocked him after a 6th round knockdown, almost yelped in joy when Luis returned the favor in the 7th. I found myself rooting for him even though I already knew the outcome. Maybe if I cheered hard enough, history could change itself on my television screen.

Luis was put down again in the 12th by a body shot, soon followed by the referee appropriately stopping the fight. The look in Luis' face was more than disappointment. Almost like a prideful acceptance that he had to return to that stable of forgotten fighters. A deep and pure sadness. A look I am now all too familiar with.

I remember the last time I saw Luis, we were waiting for a bus and I casually asked him of his next match. It was going to be in Atlantic City. "De veras? Solo los peleas más grande estan alla." (Really? Only the biggest fights are there.) "Con quién vas a pelear?" (With whom are you going to fight?)

"Mar...Mares. Abner Mares. Un Mexicano"

I knew Abner Mares. I remember watching him beat Damian David Marchiano from pillar to post, thinking, "Wow. This kid's got the goods." Luis took the fight on 2 weeks notice and hadn't even seen a tape of him. The gym just didn't have the resources.

Then it hit me. Mares is an up and coming prospect. At this stage of his career, they put him against fighters who had impressive records, fought notable opposition, but were still beatable. Luis fit the profile. He was going to lose.

I asked Luis how much he was getting paid. "Cinco mil dolares," ($5000 USD) he told me. It reminded me of how a teammate of mine in Seattle got paid $3000 USD for his first professional 4 round bout, yet Luis was getting less than double in a fight three times as long and against someone who could really hurt him. Hell, even Marchiano was paid $25,000 USD for a fight the same distance a year ago. I guess it's a microcosm of global exploitation.

But I suppose $5000 USD in Colombia is a lot of money. Luis would finally be able to buy the home he was renting for so long. "Yo solo quiero tener algo. No quiero pagar por cosas todo mi vida. Quiero tener algo propio" (I just want to have something. I don't want to pay for things my whole life. I want to own something.) I guess it wasn't even about winning. The bigger picture was that this was an opportunity for more money he would ever see in one night's work.

But it wasn't just one night's work.

"Cúal es la cosa más dificil de boxeo para Ud?" (What is the most difficult thing about boxing for you?) "El entrenimento. La pelea es como una descansa." (The training. The fight is like a break.) This was a reflection of months and months of sweat and blood. The risk of giving up a day job and banking on this one night for the livelihood of his family. It was a sacrifice.

The fight ended up being canceled 5 days before its scheduled date. Apparently Mares suffered a cut during sparring and decided to postpone the bout with a different opponent. Luis was paid nothing.

For a week I didn't see him, but in the end he came back, though a bit different. A little less pop in his punches, a little less bounce in his step; perhaps the disappointment just ate as his spirit. But eventually he was able to return to his old self. Crack jokes around the gym like he used to and train just as I had remembered, always fighting for another opportunity.

Please Tell Me You're Joking

2009-01-06T15:43:00.000-08:00

8 years? 8 fucking years?

Maybe this place is doomed.

Would You Call This Dark Humor?

2008-12-31T00:33:00.001-08:00

Sometimes when you think you have it bad, you never really know. Last week, I was complaining about a racist cop, about being oppressed in a free society. Today, I get an email about how one of my best friends had just heard that eight of his friends have been arrested, and are being beaten and starved for having gay pornography in their homes. Living in a country that won't tolerate homosexual behavior was their crime.

Oppression? I haven't even seen the tip of the iceberg.

As he described what had happened, the authorities bursting into their homes off a "suspicious activity" tip from their neighbors, it reminded me of what the Nazis did to the Jews, a scene directly out of "V for Vendetta"; only this wasn't history, this wasn't a movie, this was only days ago. Here. Now.

I kept visualizing the only images mainstream Hollywood has given me and in picturing the same things happening to a friend that I consider a brother, I couldn't hold it in any longer. I cried as he told me, cried as I asked for help from a human rights lawyer, as I explained the story to others, as I type this now.

At the end of the day, we debriefed on the progress we had tried to make and in talking about this he just kept saying, "I can't believe this is happening. This is a nightmare. There is no God."

I tried to lighten the mood by talking about some irrelevant, superficial topic. Maybe something we used to laugh about. We once had a 30 minute conversation where we would only read to each other the most obnoxious porn titles we had ever heard. I don't think I ever laughed so hard.

Now he had begun deleting his collection. "A life's work," he said. "Deleting each movie was like being forced to wear a mask, to hide who you really are." I found it strange how erasing pornography could be so symbolic of oppression, yet at the same time it made complete sense. It was almost inappropriately humorous.

I told him he should have one more go at it before he deleted the last ones. Maybe I would too and we could "masturbate in solidarity". After a quick laugh, he said that he just couldn't. He was too shook up. Maybe in a couple of days. "Only if you feel it's safe," I told him. I never thought I would be saying that about jerking off, but damn, I really meant it.

It was, as I kept repeating to him, pathetically comical. But I hope he got to laugh, if only for a moment, to forget how lost this world has become. And maybe, just maybe, squeeze out a smile from these obnoxious jokes we were being forced to make.

Faith

2008-12-29T15:35:00.000-08:00

I sat at my window smoking a cigarette, listening to Nina Simone's "You'll Never Walk Alone", a song I used to listen to in Honduras when I got lonely, never knowing the title of the song until I got back to Seattle. I was reflecting on the day's events, on how I need to reevaluate what has happened to me this past week and hating myself for yelling at my family. It's just not right. But the human organism can only take so much at a time. At least until it learns to handle more.

I've been back for a little over a week and the world looks differently to me. I see, feel, experience every moment. I can finally say that, well, I am happy. I realized that if you're just nice to people, you receive niceness back. People here in the US are just bred to grow up mistrusting the world and just being, mean. I figure, everyone deep down is a good person. You just need to bring it out of them somehow. Like my high school principal said in our graduation speech, "It's nice to be nice."

But sometimes you get disillusioned. You get carried away and you need a reality check. Mine came in the form of spinning out and running into a tree in my sister's boyfriend's Ford Explorer. A good friend of mine flew in from Denver to see her daughter for Christmas and being that her family didn't own any four-wheeled drive vehicles, she asked if I would be willing to pick her up.

I had the choice between my two wheel drive sedan (not happening), my mother's Mercedes that was buried in our garage, or my sister's boyfriend Eric's car that was already sitting in the street, free of snow since we had just dropped him off the night before at the airport. He had given permission to drive the car, so I thought that to be the safest, most logical choice.

I picked up Paia, and like most good friendships, they pick up right where they left off. We had gotten breakfast, shopped for Christmas gifts for her daughter and my mother, sorted out my problems at the bank, and finally headed towards her home.

I figured the street between the 7-11 and Chevron was safe to drive on. It was a flat plane and cars were passing through back and forth. Still, I cautiously drove about 12 miles an hour down the street that was normally regulated at 35. I guess we must of hit a ice spot because I soon lost control, the car spun out of control and eventually ran into a tree.

We called a tow company but being they were backed up due to the numerous crashes, abandonments, and stalls, they wouldn't get to me until tomorrow, if I was lucky. Being that I just ran uncontrollably into a tree at 12 miles an hour, and a local neighbor had his parked car rammed by a driver in a similar situation, I know I didn't want to leave it on the street. We decided to call the police. The public servants. The ones that serve and protect.

As we waited a Dodge Ram approached and the driver asked we would like him to help pull us out. He was Mexican, or South East Asian, I couldn't tell. I just knew he wasn't white. As he attempted to drive around the curb, I heard a glaring megaphone roar, "Sir, if you want to damage city property, I suggest you don't." I approached the officer and tried to explain to her the situation but she just told me, "Well, he can't damage city property in the process." Finally left with no further options and a line of 15 cars waiting behind us, she allowed him through.

During the tow, she then proceeded to ask me the typical questions. Driver's license, registration, insurance card. She asked details about the accident, how fast I was going, where I was going. I told the cop I was going about 10-15 miles an hr. Under her breath she mumbled, "There's no way this was under 15 miles an hr". The white neighbor who had gotten his car hit an hour ago interrupted by saying, "Oh no, I saw about 4 accidents today and all of them were going about that speed." After witnessing more interactions between us and the police officier, he later said, "Wow, she's being really mean to you two."

She wasn't very nice, but given my new revelations, I just figured she's had a rough day since accidents like this were happening all over the city. But then I saw a smile. I saw her joking around with the other white neighbors. When I approached, the smile melted.

(Officer): "You know you're really lucky I'm backed up. If I had more time, I would write you a ticket for reckless driving in hazardous conditions."

(Me): "Ok."

(Officer): "It's a serious offense."

(Me): "Ok."

(Officer): "No seriously, it's about $550.00 and a day in court."

(Me): "Ok."

(Officer): "No. You're really lucky we're backed up. Otherwise I'd write you this ticket."

(Me): "Ok. Thank you officer."

(Officer): "Okay. You have a good day now."

My friend indirectly asked the officer if she could have a ride home by complaining that she now had to walk home in the snow. The officer replied by saying, "That's what you get for being reckless and driving in these conditions." It would have taken her two minutes to drive my friend to her house. Instead she made her walk 30 mins, in the blistering 29ºF weather. She couldn't even carry the "Heeles" she had just bought her daughter. I had to drop them off with the tow driver.

The tow driver and the mechanic were judgmental. I could sense a bit of hesitation in doing business with me. The tow driver kept making sure I had money to pay. The mechanic treated me like I was some posh rich-brat who could "wait at Starbucks" while the car was being fixed. But after just a few exchanges they warmed up to me. They all let me change their minds. The cop was racist. Maybe she had a traumatic experience with people of color. I don't know. But hate like racism, hate that runs that deep in the veins cannot be cured by just a friendly conversation.

I came home and my family was relieved I was okay, but immediately began saying how I shouldn't of picked up my friend, how I shouldn't have ran errands with a car that wasn't mine, how I shouldn't of taken it in the first place. They were right in some respect, although I don't leave a friend stranded, I stopped to pick up a present for my mother, and the owner gave me permission to use the car. Sure I fucked up, but I was hoping for some slack from my own family. I guess I kind of lost it.

I was shitted on by everyone today. By the cops, by the tow driver, by the mechanics and now even by my own family. I had to eat that shit, said it tasted like strawberries and ask for more. Sometimes you just reach a breaking point. But you have to maintain your humanity. You can't let these things kill your hope that this Godforsaken place can still be saved. It just isn't worth it.

Bad Day

2008-12-22T17:52:00.000-08:00

I had a really shitty day today. To top it off, I came home greeted by the BBC headline that reads:

"Pope Benedict XVI says saving humanity from homosexual behavior is as vital as saving the rainforest."

What kind of fucking world do we live in?

Welcome Home

2008-12-17T12:44:00.001-08:00

It was funny that the last person I talked to outside of the United States was Wes from Salt Lake City. A white, middle-aged financier who was ideologically to the right. A pro-capitalist. My virtual arch-nemesis had it been a year ago. But the one thing he disliked about his work was that he never got to see in person the change he made in people's lives. He eventually wanted to be a teacher, that and a football coach. "That would be perfect." The old me would have cut off the conversation. Before, I would have never found that out.

Because I had only carry-on bags, the baggage claim was our essential parting point. Since I could just go straight to the customs check, I decided to take down his email with the extra time. As I tried to approach the customs counter, a harsh voice barked, "Get back there!" I looked up to see a stoned-faced guard with a real "fuck-off" expression on his face pointing at me. I tried to explain that I didn't have any more bags before he interrupted by asking, "Can't you read?!" I must of hesitated because he soon viciously repeated, "Get the fuck back there!" I then saw the sign that read "Please Wait Until You're Called." I guess I was a bit thrown off. I mean I was coming from being treated like a human being in all these third-world barbaric countries, to arriving at one of the world's most civilized societies and being spoken to like an animal.

Of course he quickly directed me to be searched and I was greeted by yet another customs agent. She was nice enough. Asked me if I had gone to Antigua when I told her I started in Guatemala. But for about 20 minutes she entered something from my passport into a computer. When she finished, I simply asked if I could know what it was about. After some nervous glances, she told me, "It wasn't personal, it was just Top Secret." I couldn't know. I asked if I could at least have the name or number of the policy that allowed this. I felt as a born citizen, I had at least the right to that. Like day and night, her tone suddenly changed and asked in, as almost a threat, if I'd like to wait and see the supervisor, then added again that I couldn't know. Since it would have probably led to more trouble than it was worth, I decided to just let it be, thanked her, and went my way.

I went out and smoked a cigarette harder than I ever smoked in my life. It helped hold back the tears. Not tears because I felt discriminated (even though I was the ONLY one checked during the 30 minute search), but because all those old feelings of anger, hate, and vengeance began to surface again. I thought I had learned to leave those behind.

"Your security is our top priority." This is my country. The land of the free.

But on my way home, I sat next to a man from Leavenworth, Washington. I never got his name but it's what we talked about that was important. He worked odd jobs that forced him to frequently travel and was actually one of the first people I met that hated to leave home. He just wanted to be with his wife. Maybe he'd open a pizza parlor or a barber shop one day. He said, "People look for happiness in the wrong places. Sometimes it is right in front of them, in the simplest things." I appreciated that.

I had many emotions in me the last few hours of my journey but I think that last interaction happened for a reason. It taught me that even in the darkest places, there can still exist hope. After 17,885 cumulative hours of traveling, I finally stepped back into Seattle, and as we parted ways at the boarding gate, he shook my hand, smiled, and said, "Welcome home."

Paradox

2008-12-16T10:18:00.000-08:00

The biggest weakness of the human design is emotions, yet emotions are exactly what makes us human.

Intermission

2008-12-11T17:43:00.001-08:00

I'm going back home, well more like a short break, to recollect, to rethink, and to reflect on this past year. People say on a journey like this, you find some meaning of life. If there's anything I've learned, it's that there exists no one meaning. The only thing constant in life is change. I read and reread my blogs and I see my change. I carried a lot of hate and anger. I still do. But it is a demon that I am constantly battling and I think, I'm winning.

My friends tell me I should write a book about my travels. I tell them that if I write a book, it won't be about me. This journey, has never been about me. But about my teachers. The ones I met along the way.

It has been about the gracious hosts who proved that despite all the ugliness in this world, there is still always room for kindness. For all the boxers who generously shared their stories, opened their homes, and most importantly, entrusted me with their hopes. For every panhandler, begger, and street vendor that taught me my reflection through just being, them. For all the friends and family that gave their energy when I could no longer stand on my own. And for that special one, who showed me my capability to love unconsciously and unconditionally.

Thank you.

Extra Baggage

2008-12-10T07:58:00.000-08:00

I left my heart in Colombia but had it broken in Ecuador.

How can you break something that you left behind?

The Beauty of Contradiction

2008-12-09T08:25:00.001-08:00

A Farewell

2008-12-02T07:56:00.000-08:00

When people ask me, "Of all the countries you've been to, which was your favorite?" Without hesitation, I say Colombia. You can't help but appreciate a country as complex as this.

There remains the tragic dichotomy where places exist to drink tropical cocktails on a beach resort, while simultaneously, villages are being destroyed and terrorized by both the ideological left and right, as this country currently remains in civil war. The drug trafficking continues to run rampant, political bombings still occur and there is probably the widest disparity of wealth of all the countries I've been to. But Colombia is special.

Through all of this, it is the most geographically beautiful terrain I've ever had the pleasure of traveling. I've had the inspiration of innovative artists instilled in me, tasted a delicious variety of cuisine, heard creative melodies tantalize my eardrums, and witnessed the most profound perseverance of the human spirit. Colombia is beautiful.

In some ways it is reflective of my own personal transformation. I don't love Colombia because I enjoyed every second. On the contrary. There were times where I felt absolutely miserable, considered giving up and going home, but by sticking through those tough times, I've been able to become a better person. I place Colombia in my heart because of the very fact that it put me through every possible human emotion. Here I've experienced happiness, depression, love, hate, anger, joy, guilt, redemption, and most importantly, forgiveness.

For all the smiles and cries, how could I not love it?

My Favorite Dutchie

2008-11-28T10:29:00.001-08:00

Airports are strange places. A cauldron of emotions. Departures, arrivals, a melting pot of hopes and fears. I accompanied Soraya to catch her flight in Bogota and in noticing the farewells around us, I felt those exact same things. Before we left Medellin for Bogota, Soraya found it "strange to start missing a place while you're still there," an eerie premonition of how I predict to feel in a few days. But I've learned to enjoy the moments as they happen, to cherish the days she came back to Medellin. She had returned to visit me and another good friend, Luis.

A spiritual healer through the art of cuisine, Luis is probably the most passionate human being I've ever had the pleasure of meeting. He calls me "Samurai", not necessarily because of my Asian descent, but because he tells me I live by a code of discipline to accomplish what is needed, and oddly enough, he has been the only other person to hear of the book "Hagakure: The Book of the Samurai". Before I left he said he wasn't sad. He just said to both of us, "Go do what you're supposed to do".

Soraya and I had this thing where every time we saw each other or went our separate ways for just the day, we'd hug like it was the first or the last time we'd see each other. Our last hug at the airport lasted several seconds, with me lifting her in the air, giving a kiss on the cheek and whispering well-wishes into her ear.

It reminded me of my farewell to Gloria in Nicaragua. I wanted to grasp onto the final moments, maybe have just a few more seconds to share something between us, a casual comment, a deep aphorism. It didn't matter, just as long as it was something. Only this time I didn't want to take her essence. I only wanted her to find what "she's supposed to do" and maybe one day I'll have the foolish luck of seeing her again.

I guess you could say I've learned to cope with separation, letting go of the precious people, places and things you come to love. Sometimes it's simply a "see you later." Other times its a goodbye for good. Either way, I suppose what's important is that it is what it's meant to be.

Thanksgiving

2008-11-27T19:22:00.000-08:00

It's difficult to be aware of "Statey" holidays while being outside of the country. I didn't even realize it was Thanksgiving til I haphazardly called my parents and they immediately greeted with an enthusiastic "Happy Thanksgiving!", which was soon followed by my realization that I was sitting alone in an apartment in Bogota, eating wiener and cheese quesadillas that I made on a George Foreman grill.

Oh well. I was never much into celebrating the colonization of Native people anyways.

Just Like Any Other

2008-11-25T13:32:00.001-08:00

Travelers say there's something special about Medellín. Something that keeps you here. The people, the climate, the environment. You'll never want to leave.

While I was saying goodbye to some friends at a local beauty salon, I noticed a new barber. He had braids and a very clean cut, so I thought it'd be nice to get myself lined up. Actually, it was more like he noticed me as he immediately approached me and introduced himself. Maybe he could sense we shared a similar style, spoke a similar English dialect, but for whatever reason, I'm glad I met him.

His name was George, or "Bori" as they called him for his upbringing in Puerto Rico. Cutting hair since 13, he lived all over the US, from San Diego, California to Jamaica Queens, New York. He was deported to Medellín after serving four years in prison. He had spent nearly his whole life in the States.

It reminded me of a guy I met in Livingston, Guatemala who caught my attention for speaking English with a New York accent. Arriving without a bit of Spanish, he also was deported to Guatemala two years ago, because apparently he was an "illegal alien", despite the fact he lived all 23 years of his life in New York. "The system doesn't give a fuck about you if you're black" he says. That seems to be true in every country I've been to thusfar.

I asked "Bori" if he liked living in Colombia. "Fuck no," he told me. Apparently three of his friends were gunned down within the last week inside his neighborhood. "It ain't that different from where I'm from but I spent my whole life in the States. That's what I know," he said. It was strange for me to hear that since I'm constantly surrounded by travelers trying to find excuses to stay. I told this to George and he said, "Well shit, if you got money, this place is paradise." I guess Medellín isn't that different afterall.

(Me, Alejandro and George, a.k.a "Bori")

Making Peace

2008-11-24T10:52:00.001-08:00

Being in Medellín has allowed me to understand my time in Cartagena. It's difficult to arrive at a fair conclusion if you only have a myopic view of your surroundings, but it wasn't until I became defensive when one traveler snobbishly said to me, "Oh, you'll only need 3 days in Cartagena. It's shit", did I realize that I loved the coast. For all the trickery, anger, and sweltering heat, it still became a part of me.

In some ways I even preferred the coast to Medellín. In some ways it was just realer. People here in Medellín are friendly, but almost as if they force it onto you, like they need to prove something, so much, it no longer is about how they treat other people, but about what people think about them. Sure, the coast is known for its bluntness, but I've always preferred honesty to superficiality.

But when I went back to Cartagena, one thing that warmed me was to see the festivals. Not necessarily for the colors or the vibrancy of the well-tailored costumes, but of the people. It was nice to see everyone happy for a change. Nice to see everyone just forget about all that bullshit and party. It was a nice break, but eventually reality comes back.

After being in cities like Bogotá and Medellín, I'm beginning to understand maybe why Cartagenans are so angry. I don't think I've ever been to a place where the class divide was so drastic, so in your face, and in such close vicinity. I would probably be angry as well if I woke up everyday to flooded dirt streets and rotted wood walls, only to take a bus for half an hour and see the same luxurious high rises you'd find in Beverly Hills. Having to ask "why" without receiving an acceptable response would piss me off too.

I guess you could say I learned to make peace with Cartagena. Not with every street vendor that ripped me off, tour guide that lied to my face or even the kid that robbed me. But I think I learned to make peace within myself, because in the end, that's all we can really do.