P.S.

I've been fond of Laura Linney ever since I saw the PBS miniseries of Armistead Maupin's Tales of the City in high school. She played the seemingly-goody-two-shoes character Mary Ann, who becomes seduced by the crazy world of San Francisco during the 1970's. That series began my fascination with San Francisco, and with gay culture. I didn't make my actual first gay friend until I was 16, a couple of years later. He's still one of my closest friends.

I'd occasionally taken interest in Laura Linney's career since then. She was passable in The Truman Show (which pretty much revolved around Jim Carrey, anyway), but I still thought of her as Mary Ann until I saw a film called You Can Count on Me. Laura beautifully rendered every thought and emotion of that character; she was so human, so vulnerable, so lost. She should have won an Oscar, but it was taken by Julia Roberts or Helen Hunt or some other blandly cheerful, opaque actress. Since viewing Laura's performance in that movie, I became a huge fan. (I also fell for Mark Ruffalo after his charismatic turn here.)

As someone who constantly seeks information regarding "smaller" or "independent" films (as they are charitably called), I had heard good things about her performance in a film called P.S. released last year, which received little media attention. So, while perusing through the selection at my trusty artsy local video rental store, I picked up the DVD to rent. Short summary: A Columbia University admissions officer named Louise (Laura Linney) meets a young student named F. Scott (Topher Grace) who bears an uncanny resemblance to an old flame, and they begin an affair. There have been a lot of movies lately with this sort of male May/female December bent, eh? That controversial movie Birth with Nicole Kidman also revolved around the possible reincarnation of a loved one, although in that case, it was a young child (ew). I can't bring myself to watch that one.

So, back to P.S. I dare say that Laura Linney is becoming typecast. While her work here is very touching and human and vulnerable, as always, I feel like I've seen this sort of character from her many times already. The lonely single woman who feels alienated and isolated from her surroundings. She has trouble reaching out and allowing herself to be loved. She has a troubled past and new secrets which threaten to take over her life. She has family issues--a critical mother, and again, issues with a brother (see also: You Can Count on Me, Love Actually). I appreciated the discussion about art, of course--because any talk of art will always move me, unless it's exceedingly pretentious or simplistic--but I wasn't particularly moved by her character, or what her character was experiencing. Compounding the problem was Topher Grace's performance. He's been praised a lot recently for his movie performances, but I found him inscrutable and wooden. His character didn't feel real to me. But then again, maybe he wasn't supposed to be very real--he served mostly as a fantasy figure for Laura Linney's character, anyway.

I think that the editing did a disservice to the film. When I saw the deleted scenes, I felt like I understood the characters much better, and their behavior made a lot more sense. Among those deleted scenes, there were some beautiful exchanges between the two main characters which I found far more affecting and emotional and electric than almost all the scenes that made the cut. I didn't "get" why the two characters were so into each other while watching the movie, but I "got" it, somewhat, after the cafe scene, and the basement scene (both deleted). The DVD includes the director Dylan Kidd's commentary for the deleted scenes, and he explains why they were deleted (mostly for story consistency purposes, since certain facts were changed from the script after shooting). But in the end, I think the film suffered from their deletion.

Some things to point out about this film: often when a main character in a movie is a praised artist, that character's art sucks. Some examples are Titanic and Big Eden. The writers and directors of this film seem to be quite knowledgable about art, and thankfully, F. Scott's paintings are genuinely beautiful. They're not particularly clever or groundbreaking...they have soft, slightly unfocused lighting actually remind me of Seurat's paintings and gorgeous charcoal sketches of opera singers and boys sitting on a riverbed, but with contemporary imagery. But they are beautiful enough to give me chills, and to awaken a deep ache, a deep hunger, to paint. I've not felt overcome by this sort of mad desire for months and months. But at that moment, I feverishly wanted to create something beautiful as well, to use color and shape to recreate life on paper, and to devote the rest of my life to this task. I had no paints, the moment passed, and so I'm typing about it instead.

Another thing that struck me about this movie was the objectification of the hot young thing, in this case male. Films, the vast majority of which are directed by men, usually objectify the young pretty female thing, showcasing her body and her charms for aesthetic effect. The tighter, sheerer, or more scant the clothing the better. Other than a bit of pale cleavage, not much was shown of Laura Linney's body. Instead, the director took her character's point of view to objectify Topher Grace's form. His body was much more thoroughly revealed and exalted, with lingering shots of his naked, well-muscled chest, back, and perhaps ass as well (that detail manages to escape my memory). Marcia Gay Harden's character at one point salivates over his "creamy skin." I think this may account for some of the woodenness of Topher Grace's acting...he's basically just a pretty boy mannequin for these older women to use for their fantasies. It's nice to see the guy objectified for a change. Let's see some more male full frontal nudity too! C'mon, Hollywood.

I am once again in the South. It's hot and sticky here, and I've already acquired a fine collection of pink, puffy mosquito bites on my arms and legs. I've moved into a lovely old house which I will share with other graduate students. It has a backyard full of bamboo shoots and warbling birds, and a front porch with columns and rocking chairs. My room has a high ceiling, large windows, and a ceiling fan which does not work. Now, how to decorate? What aesthetic suits my current incarnation of self? (That previous sentence, by the way, was so Me circa 1999).

My mother helped me move in, and as usual, doused my room with holy water, even though it was not facing the dreaded direction of north. My previous residence in this city had a doorway which faced north, and she was convinced that all kinds of terrible things happened to me because of this. Mold, fevers of unknown origin, bad grades, traumatic hospital experiences...all a result of my northward doorway, which prevented evil spirits from escaping the room. I suppose she was taking no chances with my new residence, because she tossed holy water around the room not once, but three times. She got a few splashes on me, but it didn't burn. So perhaps I'm not as evil as I thought I was.

I also picked up on a few of her curious phrases which I had either not noticed before, or forgotten. She kept saying "neighbor" instead of "neighborhood"...as in, "I like this neighbor, it's very peaceful." I was momentarily confused, because we had not met any of my neighbors. Also, when I complained about her making noise in the early morning, she said, "My noise is nothing compared to the other noises I heard all night long. Those noises were tiger, this noise is mouse." For some reason, she uses mice and tigers to describe degrees of strength.

My cousin took me out for an early birthday dinner, and one of her gifts was among the most hilarious things I've ever received. It's a stuffed hamster doll dressed as a doctor with a white coat and stethoscope. When you press its foot, it emits a blast of guitar rock and roll music, before it sings, "Whoooooooa, Doctor, doctor, gimme the news, I got a bad case of lovin' you. No pill's gonna cure my ill, I got a bad case of lovin' you." That's Robert Palmer, in case you didn't know. I don't remember the last time I laughed so hard because of something so silly.

It actually is kind of nice to be back. I don't know if I'll be singing the same tune once I return to the wards on Monday, but for now, it's nice. I still keep a wary eye out for exes, though. I admire those who are able to stay friendly and civil with exes, but I don't think I'm emotionally mature enough for that. I tend to freeze, quickly fumble for sunglasses to shield my eyes, take out my ponytail holder to shake my hair over my face, and turn my head away as I walk quickly for cover. In short, I treat exes like celebrities would treat paparazzi.

This may sound incredibly naive in this day and age, but I did not realize that I was biracial until I was about 11 years old. And how did I find out? By watching a talk show (probably Ricki Lake) about biracial children, and the struggles they faced. Someone on the show mentioned Asians as an example of a non-white race, which surprised me. I had previously thought that there were only two races, white and black, and that Asians were a subgroup of whites. I then did a bit of investigation (i.e. asked my Dad) about this, and confirmed that Asians were a different race. Thus, my biracial identity was born. Note that it did not coincide with my actual birthdate.

Most people feel a need to simplify everything around them, in order to make complex things more accessible, more understandable. They like clearly distinct labels and strict dichotomies. I often succumb to this tendency as well, although at times I try to fight it.

For whatever reason, we've decided that it's important to identify ourselves by racial category. This self-identification is reinforced every time we take a standardized test, apply for college, or fill out an application for a driver's license. In medicine, we're also taught to take the race of our patients into account, since studies have shown that different races as a whole have different risks for diseases, and different responses to treatment.

What happens when you don't cleanly fit into a single category? Others try to reduce you to one. Or they want you to talk about how you suffer from not having the luxury of belonging to a single category. Or they talk about how cool it must be to straddle several categories. They assume that it has a large part in shaping your identity.

When I interviewed for medical school, every interviewer (except the one for the school which I chose) asked about my "experience as a biracial person, and how it shaped who [I am] today." It wasn't necessarily insensitive or malicious; I could see that it was a misguided attempt to be politically correct. But being a biracial person (or at least, a Eurasian person who looks exactly like me) is not like being a person of distinct ethnicity. I was largely treated as a person without an ethnicity, since others were uncertain about what it was. Simply by looking at me, they could not easily categorize me. And I did nothing to advertise what my official category was. So, in a way, my experience was that of a person without race. I have never heard a racial epithet or a racial slur. The biggest annoyance is the "What are you?" question which people inevitably ask just seconds after learning my name. But I'm not about to spin a woe-is-me tale from that annoyance alone.

But apparently, people want to hear a dramatic story about how I never fit in with the Asian kids, and never fit in with the white kids, and suffered a tremendous internal struggle regarding my identity. I refuse to tell this story, because it's not true. Once I learned that I was not just white, but in fact biracial, there was no anguish involved. My mother was Korean, and my father was European-American, so I was half of each. Simple as that. I never felt the need to identify completely with one instead of the other. I was both and neither, and that was fine. I did not feel the need to simplify this complexity. I did have a hard time fitting in with kids, but this was because I was weird and a loner, not because I didn't fit into a single racial category. I never gave much thought to my racial makeup, and it did not affect my identity nearly as much as my sex (female).

However, I recently realized that being biracial has influenced my perspective in a way. I am more comfortable with complexity, with paradoxes, with mystery, than most other people. I'm drawn to artsy movies which are not easily resolved, with multiple meanings and open endings. For the most part, I don't need to divide people into strict, separate categories. I actually prefer for people to surprise my expectations, to show signs of breaking free of my initial impression of them. Several of my stories explore this idea. I strive towards nonjudgmentalness, and loathe stereotypes. I have a passion for freedom, particularly freedom of identity. It may also explain why I'm so fond of Percy Shelley's essay, "The Defense of Poetry." For Shelley, poetry is the yoking together of two disparate concepts or images, to synthesize something completely new and alive.

On Sunday I visited the home of family friends in Roxbury,Connecticut. After spending four years in New Haven, I didn't think much of the state of Connecticut, and certainly never saw myself living there. But after driving through Roxbury, I easily understood why so many wealthy people were flocking to the area. It's stunningly beautiful, with its large green fields and expanses of farmland, old craggy trees with branches drooping over roads, white picket fences(in the process of receiving a fresh coat of paint from teenage boys as we drove past), rolling green hills, and charming old-fashioned houses with columns and brightly colored shutters. It was the classic New England countryside, like an idealized vision from a novel or movie.

We arrived at their utterly adorable house, overlooking a hill which converged with a large grassy meadow. There was a row of trees beyond that, and wild untamed grasslands. In the distance, there was a spectacular view of the Berkshire foothills, slightly hazy in the summer heat. Around the house was a wide variety of flowers and plants, many of them species unknown to me, meticulously cultivated by the couple. They had an area devoted to various breeds of lilac, and another area devoted to ferns. It was almost like being at the North Carolina botanical garden in Chapel Hill again. My eyes were probably bugging out of my head with astonishment...both at the loveliness of the place, and how deeply I desired someplace just like it.

In the past, I prided myself on my total lack of interest in real estate. For some reason, disregard for real estate was linked to youth and freedom in my mind. Whenever my cousin talked about cute craftsy homey Martha Stewart stuff, I mocked her for getting the urge to nest. I actually told her that once I got the urge to nest myself, I'd know that I had finally become old. So I became a bit distressed when so many friends my age recently began to talk about buying apartments or settling down and looking for a house...what? We're way too young for such crazy talk! We're supposed to travel the world, have adventures, be free to move at a moment's notice, not be tied down!

Well, now I've detected a glimmer of interest in real estate. Could the desire to pop out an infant be close behind? And then dentures? I hope not!

I want a house in the country, with meadows and trees and insects and bats and chipmunks. When I have kids, I want them to have trees to climb, flowers to smell, berries to eat, and secret places to explore and hide. I certainly do not want them to suffer from Nature Deficit Disorder. I want a garden with a huge variety of plants and flowers, and to know each of them by name. I want an open sky where I can see the shapes of clouds during the day, the streaks of color at sunset, and the constellations at night. I want to have a porch where I can sit outside, sip tea, and smell my lilacs. I want beautifully crafted wood furniture, and lots of paintings covering my walls. I want a homey, bustling kitchen with pots and pans and old-fashioned dishware. Egads.

Granted, I am in no rush to have any of these things. I still feel rootless, and will continue to be rootless for at least the next couple of years. And I definitely want to be in a big city for residency. But now I have this strong vision of how I eventually want to live. Surprisingly, it's not a cosmopolitan lifestyle in some tiny apartment in the middle of the city, with lots of interesting neighbors with stories to tell, as well as a large variety of restaurants and artistic options nearby. It's out in the country. Ugh...that sounds so dorky! So not edgy. I might as well start wearing flowered Laura Ashley dresses and putting ribbons in my hair and acquiring cats.

However, I wonder what the communities are like in these sorts of towns. Probably mostly white and wealthy. I wouldn't want to be yet another example of white flight, to escape to the idyllic, removed countryside so that I don't have to confront the poverty and ugliness which plague so many other people in this country. Part of the appeal of cities is the forced confrontation with people of so many different backgrounds--not only socioeconomic or ethnic, but also political, vocational, and so on. And if I do have kids, I'd want them to get to know kids from all sorts of backgrounds, not only the mostly white and privileged ones. I'd feel guilty about soaking up the sensory pleasures of living in the country, and easily forgetting the suffering experienced by the poor and the homeless. At what point should your own happiness supersede awareness of others' misery and injustice?

While I was out dancing on Saturday, I saw this scantily clad super skinny chick jerking her hips spastically back and forth in a desperate attempt to be sexy. Instead, she appeared sinister and bizarre, like a praying mantis having a seizure. Clarification: there are plenty of super skinny people who dance with grace and sex appeal. This girl wasn't one of them.

I was once obsessed with a television show called My So-called Life. There was one episode where Angela (Claire Danes) decided she was not ready to lose her virginity to Jordan Catalano (Jared Leto), leading to their breakup. In the last scene of the episode, we see Angela riding a bike, tentatively letting go of the handlebars until she's able to pedal with her arms stretched out horizontally. Her voiceover: "People always say be yourself. Like your 'self' is this definite thing, like a toaster. Like you can know what it is, even. But every so often, I'll have like a moment, when just being myself in my life, right where I am, is like, enough." I had one of those moments yesterday. I did something which was totally, unapologetically me, even though I knew the other person would likely not get it, or appreciate it. But I'm still glad I had the courage to do it. I don't need this other Person to validate it, or validate me. And it's, like, enough.

One of my exes constantly bitched about my padded bras. To clarify, I have no desire to appear more endowed than I actually am. I only have predominantly padded bras because most bras sold today are padded. Anyway, I got tired enough of his bitching that I bought a bunch of non-padded bras. Even though he's gone, I still have all these non-padded bras, which I usually wear when I'm too lazy to wash my padded ones right away. So, yesterday, I made the unfortunate decision to wear one of those non-padded bras and a blouse made of very thin material. Which meant that my pokey nipples were prominently displayed. I know that headlights (i.e. visibly pointy Farrah Fawcett-in-the-red-swimsuit nipples) are somewhat socially acceptable...after all, Rachel on "Friends" often displayed them, and appeared to be unself-conscious. But I'm no Rachel. I tried to come up with ways to deal with the problem. I contemplated running over to a store during my lunch break, and buying a new bra, or buying a new shirt of thicker material. But I'm too stingy to do that. So I mostly resorted to crossing my arms quite frequently, or lots of fake itching so that the itching arm would cover my chest. They're only nipples, right? Just a part of the anatomy, and actually functional in my case (well, they will be, if I ever reproduce.) I'm not offended when a man's nipples are visible through his shirt. So why am I so ridiculously uncomfortable when mine announce their existence? Hmmm.

I am in love with the British import sandwich chain Pret a Manger. Their chicken avocado sandwich makes my belly very, very happy. Can they please open a branch in Durham?

The most accomplished and experienced Iraqi doctors are fleeing the country. Good lord, it's total chaos, utter lawlessness. With violent threats, mounting casualties, rampant malnutrition, intermittent electricity, outdated equipment, and lack of access to medications, I can't even imagine what the doctors there are going through. Can you imagine needing a gun to practice medicine, for fear of being ambushed, or being the target of angry extremists or relatives of a patient you couldn't save? I can't. Does Bush not see that this is indicative of a poorly-run occupation? That we haven't even come close to curbing the violence over there? How are things going to get better if he doesn't even acknowledge the gravity of the situation in Iraq?

Hmm, I've been accused of having a pathological lack of trust...maybe I need a kick of oxytocin?

Although I'm a bit ambivalent about the ethics involved in his work, I think it's adorable that Woo Suk Hwang feels it's important to talk to the incubating embryos. He said, "I could communicate to cows eye to eye...I want my laboratory to communicate with cells heart to heart...If there are no humans beside the incubators, they may feel very lonely. So I discussed with my members. We decided that someone has to be beside the incubators and talking to the cells." Talk about a work ethic...7 days a week, 365 days a year? Damn, that gene definitely did not end up in my chromosomes. That cursed polar body stole it from me.

This Salon article about the President's Emergency Plan for AIDS relief made me almost cry with tears of frustration. Abstinence-only sex education is so clearly not effective, and will do nothing to abate the AIDS crisis. When legitimately helpful programs are already underfunded, and millions are dying without access to drugs or proper education about how to protect themselves, it's criminal to pour money down the drain like this. And now he's resisting the proposed $25 billion increase of funding in support for Africa. Ugh.