Junior year, I tried to be the kid that every college wanted. I was already in CSF, and I joined NHS along with six clubs that I absolutely did not have time for on top of swimming and multiple AP classes. It was stupid. I was stupid. By the end of first semester I was dead tired.

Everything felt so useless. Would a college even care if I had been in CSF? If I had volunteered at the Holiday Faire? Nothing was certain.

Because I felt so burned out, I dropped most everything and focused on what I love: props and costumes. I started with a full copy of Ezio’s outfit from Assassin’s Creed II, making everything from the coat patterns all the way up to the blades. During second semester, it was my outlet for stress.

I took it to a local convention in May, where I was convinced by 10,000 convention nerds that I should take commissions for work over the summer. So, when swimming became too much to deal with, I made things for other people. It was perfect; I loved making them, but was running out of space to store them. And though I was paid, it never felt like work. Every hour I spent on a piece felt like a respite, a break from looming college application deadlines.

And when I finally submitted them, NHS didn’t make it onto my list of extracurriculars. Neither did CSF. No clubs or societies made it onto my application at all. I felt guilty about adding them, because I didn’t really believe in them. But propmaking was my biggest essay. I loved it so much, I was all too happy to tell colleges everything about it.

They accepted me. And I got an email from one of the admissions counselors as to why: he loved my essay on props. He loved that I loved what I did.

So if you find yourself thinking “what matters to colleges?” remember: Colleges don’t care about what you think matters to them. They care about what matters to you.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some armor to build.

I learn by trial and error, and it’s working pretty well so far. The process is thus: attempt action. If unpleasant reaction, abstain from action. In practice, it’s not so much “trial and error” as it is “learning by failing.”

You’ll see that common sense had absolutely no effect on my learning method, and never quite managed to insert itself into the process. At age five, I tried to eat a crayon. Why? Because the label said Macaroni & Cheese. But crayons aren’t for eating, you say.

I know. But the label said Macaroni & Cheese.

Twelve years later, common sense has stopped trying to get my attention at all. I recently found a tool in the garage that can cut through tough plastic pipe. It looked fairly sturdy, so I tested it to see if I could cut a bolt in half, and created a hole the size of a dime in the cutter. How did I ever believe that a thin plastic-cutting blade could cut a metal bolt?

I don’t really know. But it seemed important that I try.

The result of all this is that I end up doing lots of stupid things with the rather flimsy excuse of “it seemed like a good idea at the time.” Nearly putting my metal thermos in the microwave. Putting a beach ball on top of my lamp (which had been on for about two hours) and melting it to the bulb. Turning a rather interesting red valve outside my house and accidentally shutting off the water to the entire house. Closing my car door as fast as possible while it made this incredibly annoying ding-ding-ding noise to remind me that I had left the lights on.

I used to put my keys on the floor of the trunk while I took my stuff out. And then one night I locked them in.  Fortunately, I had my phone. Unfortunately, I was at Fanime (read: convention which I treat pretty much like a second Halloween in May). I had to wait for the AAA guy in assassin robes. Needless to say, I have since learned to keep my keys in my pocket.

But I remember all of my failures, and for the most part I don’t repeat them. I watched and felt insufferably smug (from a distance) at Egan when I saw people try to put aluminum foil in the microwaves, not because I inherently knew that it was a bad idea, but because I had already mastered that particular failure. It’s not that I’m smart; I was just the first to fail.

There, I said it. I’ve come out of the wardrobe and nerded all over everything.

I do not play dress up with ornate purple robes to better suit the role of my level 12 sorcerer (let’s be honest, he’s only level 7).

I do, however, have a rather tall stack of books in my closet that account for years of investment in a game I have come to love.

There is a reason those books are where no one would discover them. Nightmares of a hysterical finger-pointing peanut gallery haunted my ever careful steps.

Nothing screams “awkward turtle” quite as much as the moment your friend’s girlfriend walks in on the two of you playing Dungeons and Dragons.

She looked at me as if I had casually tossed her first born child out of a 12-story building.

It’s incidents like these that led me to a deep-seated belief that it would be devastating if “my secret” ever got out.

There are certainly a substantial number of upturned noses when it comes to DnD (that’s what the pros call it), but the worst I could have received would be the glimpse of a few social boogers and maybe a joke or two at my expense. The bigotry is there, but it’s nothing near what I once feared.

Looking back, it seems incredibly self-obsessed to think that anyone would bother caring that I’m a nerd in the first place.

For me, it is simply a matter of fun, and I can see no reason to steal that sort of joy from someone unless it affects me personally. I may think football is a barbaric sport, fit only for slavering animals, but would I judge someone else for enjoying it? No, not really.

Whether you collect stamps, Pokemon cards or Sacajawea dollars please proceed. Because frankly, my dear, I don’t give an aerial fornication.

Obviously there’s a difference between a joke and an assault, but it’s basic childhood morals to avoid emotional battery.

With this in mind, when a friend of mine asked if I had any anything that would embarrass me in my room I felt comfortable enough to tell him about those books. Now he plays DnD.

Honesty and courage, in whatever form they may take, are seldom rewarded with spite and hatred, but rather with the relief of owning up to who you are.

For those who have the heart, mind and bravery of a real nerd, congratulations.

The beast hath been slain.

The first time I heard of dubstep was about a year ago when one friend showed a song to me on her iPod. I don’t remember the details but from what I can remember, the only thing I could hear was a loud, pounding repetitive beat with some higher beats and pattern mixed into the background. It was so different from the usual pop and rock genres that I was so accustomed to listening to, so I simply dismissed the song.
Now it’s back all of a sudden. I knew it was always there, but it’s popped back up in my radar again. I think it was mostly from constantly hearing dubstep being talked about at school. But this time, after hearing a couple more songs, I’m not dismissing it like I did last time.

A while ago, I had a nearly nonexistent knowledge of dubstep and electronic dance music. The only artists I knew of were Kaskade, David Guetta, Steve Aoki, Deadmau5, Skrillex and Bassnectar. Recently I’ve gotten way more involved in the music scene.

About a month ago on a car ride home at night with my cousin, we got into a conversation about electronic dance music. He explained to me a little about the history of dubstep and house music and all the way home, my cousin kept commenting on songs that we would come across. The conversation that night sparked my interest in giving this genre of music another go.

The next day, I searched up the songs my cousin showed me and listened nonstop because they instantly boosted my mood. The songs’ addictive beats fit together perfectly.

Now I understand why people like it so much. It’s the loud, repeating sounds and patterns and other effects that allow each song to resonate and be different from others. Once you listen to a song, you’ll immediately feel a lot more energetic because it wakes you up with its heavy, repetitive bass and intricate patterns and beats. And what makes dubstep so appealing is that it’s very versatile; since it’s almost all computer generated, the ways to create a song are limitless. You can bet that the next time there’s an electronic music/dubstep concert, I’ll be there dancing and cheering.

When I taught swim lessons this summer, Eden was one of the first kids I met, and we became fast friends, bonding over Pokémon, dancing and yelling at our respectivesiblings (her sibling as well, in my case, because it was in my job description).

I remember walking her to her first race at her first swim meet. She talked happily the entire way, and I could easily hear her over the crowd. Her voice reached my ears at a very steep angle, and I tried to resist the urge to look back every two seconds to make sure no one had stepped on her.

At practice, we would always play some sort of game at the end. Eden usually got eliminated from Sharks & Minnows pretty quickly. Don’t get me wrong, she’s fast for her size, but—well, a slow kid twice her size could easily catch her.

So while the other kids played and the coaches supervised, I kept her company on the side of the pool. Because I am a mature, responsible coach.

“Dragonite is my favorite,” I insisted, desperately trying to get Eden to embrace the original 150 Pokémon.

Eden thought for a moment, her face scrunching in concentration. “I think Piplup’s the bestest,” she said with conviction, and even though I loathe the fourth generation of Pokémon, I couldn’t help but smile. Then, out of nowhere:

“I had heart surgery last year,” Eden said, smiling back.

Wait. “What?”

“Yeah, I had two holes in my heart, so they had to fix them, and then they didn’t let me ride my scooter for a whole week,” she frowned at the memory. “They said it was because if I got hurt my heart would explode and I would die,” she smiled real big again, showing the gap left by the front tooth that she lost the week before.

She looked back over to the other kids. “Are they done yet?”

I didn’t understand. I still don’t understand. She told me about a major surgery she had at age five in the same tone of voice I used to talk about the weather. Didn’t she know that she could have died? She should have been terrified. How could she not have been? I still wonder if she knew the risks.

But I know adults who are incapable of not worrying, and somehow Eden had it down before she knew “bestest” wasn’t a word.

I might have been her teacher that summer, but I think, in the end, Eden was the one who taught me.

But I doubt it’s God’s doing because here’s the thing: I don’t believe in God. I don’t believe in the man upstairs any more than I think Santa throws presents down chimneys or that Chuck Norris slams the revolving doors of the magic school bus whilst reading rainbows with John Lennon.

And then some family member, some friend, has the audacity to die. It’s times like that when I wish that I believed in some greater purpose. An uncle I hardly know kicks the bucket and I watch the next 30 years he should have lived slosh onto the rocks.

Cancer is a bitch.

I am at Chef Chu’s with my family sitting around me.

All but one.

They spin food across the table. My mom chokes down a Mai Thai and her face turns beet red as the alcohol seeps into her blood. My grandpa swigs three, but you wouldn’t know it. Everyone tries to forget why we’re all there.

My cousin’s eyes are vacant, she’s been growing older by the second since her father died. She’s pale and she’s rubbing the migraine from her head. I want to shake her. I want to scream that every moment we waste grieving is a moment of life we squander. But instead I pat her on the back and say, “I’m sorry.” I tell myself it’s the best I can do.

Silence falls on the table as if no one could see each other through the thin steam rising from the food. No one has anything left to say; I watch the second hand of the clock bounce idly between the numbers. Time goes on even when life stops.

Then the chef comes to the table with an enormous smile on his face. He recognizes my family and thanks us for coming year after year. He makes idle conversation. We smile. He hears about my grandmother’s upcoming trip to Hong Kong and recommends a Peking Duck place.

He points to my seat and says that Justin Bieber sat there next to Jayden Smith. I snort. My cousin takes her hand from her temple to rub her eyes, and her chin lifts a little. He banishes the shadow of death.

My grandfather raises his glass and after a moment’s thought says, “To family.”

Ice clinks against the sides of our cups as the arms of generations rise.

Eventually the rain changes everything.

To my chagrin, a friend wanted to discuss ideas on how to ask that special individual to Homecoming several weeks ago. I knew it seemed hypocritical to listen to her outlandish scheme, but my conscience compelled me to listen.

I expected to be caught shamelessly drooling on my keyboard when she started explaining; however, the idea had originality. She wanted to purchase golf balls and place them all over this other person’s front yard, leaving a note saying “I didn’t have enough balls to ask you in person, but will you go to Homecoming with me?”

You see, I have always felt that when it comes to Homecoming, you either have the most elaborate and innovative idea or simply just surrender your creativity and go with the generic “Will you go with me?”

I enjoyed listening to the golf ball idea, but this only made me think of the bigger issue at hand. Why do people devote such enormous amounts of time to thinking of Homecoming invitations?

I have seen a student convince the varsity water polo team, dressed only in speedos to spell out “Homecoming” for a girl, while members of the Math Club spell out the invitation on a calculator.

Recently, I have noticed that guys are frequently resorting to using food, one of our greatest loves, in creative ways for their Homecoming endeavors. One student used yellow mustard and wheat bread to write a message and another drew inspiration from “The Office” by enclosing the invitation in cherry-flavored Jell-O. I used to think these ideas were ridiculous and outlandish–this was supposed to be an invitation to a dance, not to a banquet.
After several years of being a observer, I concluded that my time was better spent with other things than coming up with an invitation; I’m not much of a social butterfly anyhow.

Yet now I understand the complexity and challenge of invitations. I have a newfound respect for the valiant strangers that I see in the Quad asking somebody to Homecoming. In that instant when a student asks the fateful question, they have placed their heart in the hand of their hopeful date–just to see if they’ll squeeze or not.

That stupid Crystal Geyser bottle was still sitting in the middle of a grove masquerading as a can. And William was still standing over it masquerading as a god.

“It’s not even good water,” I muttered to myself.

It would be so much better if I could just be in his position: flinging words like lightning to strike down the cretins encroaching on the vastness of his territory. Condemning the boys to a shameful walk back to the giggling tent.

“ZACH, under the table! What are you doing!? That’s disgusting.”
I stood there for a minute pondering my route of attack. The path through which I would ascend to the heavens the grove clearly contained. I glanced dubiously at the towering hedge to my right. May as well try it.

I pushed my way through the thriving vegetation to find a different world. I dashed through a field of grain, past dozens of cardboard nests, the homes of the homeless. The acrid stench of urine seemed to have been contained and concentrated to this side of the world. Wealth rained from the ground to be swallowed by a greedy sky, hungry for rain and gold.

“ZACH, under the … HEY PUT THAT FINGER DOWN YOU LITTLE—”

I tip-toed on back through the hedge to the grove on the other side and poked my head out to make sure William wasn’t looking. He was. I swear he looked right at me, and then looked away.

This God looked sad. He looked afraid. Utterly on edge. Frantically calling names from the one place of civilized safety left on Earth. The sky swelled above him, grinning madly at his petrified success.

I bolted from behind the tree and slid into the bottle. Boys spilled from the woodwork to congratulate me. William patted me on the back. It was gloriously empty and still the sky grinned.

“Nice job, you can be ‘it’ now if you want?” William said.

I could be God, rags to riches.

“Thanks but—I guess I’d rather not.”

The sky wept. I smiled.

It was surprisingly difficult to make new friends with so many classmates. I made my first friend in P.E. I was standing on the sidelines dribbling a ball when a girl came over to say hi. After that, we chatted every now and then, and I eventually got to know her friends too.

They were the first people I knew at school, so I just stayed with them for the next two years. We didn’t share that many common interests or activities, and for the most part, the only characteristic we shared was that we were Asian, having similar cultural values and upbringings. It was convenient for me to stay with them. It was easy. It was wrong.

I enjoyed being with them–they were genuinely kind and accepting. They grew on me, and their likes and dislikes became mine as well, not just because I wanted to fit into a group, but also because some of their interests really were intriguing. Korean dramas plagued with cancer and woes spiced up my movie collection.

However, I regret that I was too afraid to leave them and swim the uncomfortable waters of befriending absolute strangers. I was afraid that we wouldn’t have anything in common, we’d feel awkward, and we’d be distanced. Back then, the uncertainty was not worth the possibility of making friends with peers who could introduce me to what is beyond Chinese New Year or Japanese comics.

Walking through our school’s halls today, I can see some students doing exactly what I had done years ago, hanging out with people of similar ethnicities who were raised in similar environments. Maybe some of them really like each other for genuine shared interests, but maybe some of them are like me: adopting the interests of a group for convenience and fearing rejection by peers.

In the future, we should stop doing what’s easy, and look past race to determine our friends. If students can successfully look at their peers not as being of certain cultures, but rather as having certain tastes, then our school will also be able to achieve racial integration in student groups on campus. I hope that we can title ourselves not as being Asian, Caucasian, Latino or African American, but instead as American. We shouldn’t have to wait to see a lonely girl dribbling a ball to see a potential friend.

School is a place where students learn. In this habitat, they are given classwork to finish in class, homework to finish at home and tests to assess what they have learned. The student life might be harder than an adult’s work life.

While school starts at 8:15, my dad doesn’t leave until 9. With slow traffic and donut stops, it seems like adults hardly have time to work and finish their morning coffee before they begin their commute home again.

On a bike, all of that traffic is avoided, and I’m forced to arrive at school on time for some fun institutionalized learning—no food allowed.

Our food selection at school is nowhere near comparable to that at a job. Our fine dining is served by the taco truck, and the vending machine gives only short satisfaction. At my parents’ workplaces, secretaries hand out chocolate truffles and the vending machines give free sodas (all perks listed in the benefits).

Students have tests every week covering chapters of new material for at least five different subjects. At some jobs, adults are assessed maybe once a year on something they’ve had a career in for their whole lives. When students do well, we get a pat on the back, not raises or stock options.

After work, my mom cooks dinner while my dad watches “Chuck” or “House.” He complains about how work was so exhausting, having to go to meetings or replying to emails. Typing could be surprisingly tiring. Me? I just studied for seven hours, ran track for two and did homework for three. Parents also seem to go to bed before the sun sets after finishing their after-hour work. Is it because all students procrastinate until midnight, or because they have less work than us?

Students work long hours, doing both physically and mentally exhausting work. They are pressured to achieve certain grades and be accepted by certain colleges. Plus, they have to live up these expectations without an annual salary or free truffles. At least I know that after putting up with these long hours at school I, too, can live the lavish work life of going to the gym in the mornings, eating donuts on the drive to work and watching “House” before bedtime.