Like a Good Neighbor

My ideal celebrity neighbor would probably be someone like Jackie Chan. Someone who’s innately nice, does a lot of cool stuff, and helps out everyone he can. If Jackie Chan, for some reason, left his luxurious life making martial arts movies in Hollywood and came to live in quiet suburban Illinois, it would be a pleasant surprise. He’d probably be my first choice for an ideal neighbor.

First of all, what do I define as my ideal neighbor? I think I’d like someone that’s somewhat quiet, but can still socialize with me. I don’t talk to any of my neighbors, because my family and I are pretty introverted. There’s this one Armenian family, but I’ve never seen them come out of their house, and I haven’t talked to the Indian family next door in 5 years. I think talking with him would be super fun, especially learning about his life and the details of what he does. I’ve never actually met him, but I’ve seen a lot of his movies and know that he’s a really interesting person. He’ll recount his experiences while acting in Rush Hour while I’m watering the garden, or he’ll warble as I play with my dog in my backyard. Maybe I could even learn a few martial arts moves- imagine that! Private kung fu tutoring from Jackie Chan himself!

And that’s not even the best part! This may be pure fantasy, but what if Jackie Chan was such a chill dude that we watched his entire film career together with my family, and he gave exclusive director’s comments and personal stories? I’d appreciate his movies in an entirely new way as he’d narrate the films with his behind-the-scenes action. We’d set flicks and chill for weeks on end, and our laughter would never cease as Jackie Chan would recount his experiences with Chris Tucker, while grabbing popcorn out of the air with chopsticks.

However, it wouldn’t be perfect; Jackie Chan would probably be gone for most of the time anyway, since he’s super busy doing interesting things like acting in movies or doing cool martial arts sequences. There might also be a couple paparazzi that would come to flood his home, but I think he’d keep his address a secret. I guess the only downside would be the lack of neighborly presence, although it wouldn’t be much different from my neighbor dynamics right now.

And even if he moved next to me, he’d probably have the entirety of Champaign County to entertain, and that’s not counting the million ears of corn. There’d be Jackie Chan fanatics hitting up his house everyday and countless others bombarding him on the street, asking for autographs. Why would he choose me to befriend? I think that Jackie Chan would eventually get tired of the noise and probably go rent a private island somewhere to relax. It’d be disappointing to have him so close and yet so far, but I guess the fact that Jackie Chan lived right next to be would be thrilling.

Disregarding all of those possibilities, there’s still that one question: why would we be good friends? I’d have nothing to offer to Jackie Chan- no amazing talents, riveting stories, or any cinematography to my name- why would he care about someone like me? The only thing he’d pay attention to is my dog, and after the initial endearment and the first few days of barking, he’d probably end up wanting to kill it. It’s actually kind of a bummer to dream about having a celebrity as your neighbor and then realizing how catastrophic it would eventually turn out.

I’d love for Jackie Chan to be my neighbor, but I’m not sure it’d work out well. Ideally, theoretically, hopefully -- I’d have a blast hanging out with Jackie Chan. But, even if all the stars aligned, would he have a blast hanging out with me?

 

Get Away From The Chopper

My parents identify as attack helicopters. Every day, they insist on dropping loaded questions on their unsuspecting children about school and personal life. People say to them that being helicopter parents is impossible, but my parents think it’s fine. Whenever they go on a parenting rant, they’re practically torturing me with Hellfire missiles (that’s how vicious they are). I want them to speak to me properly and respect my right to have my own privacy, but sometimes they don’t. I don’t think they understand that their privileges as a parent don’t extend to constantly helicoptering their children. I wish they were more understanding.

Okay, maybe that’s an exaggeration.

The truth is that sometimes my parents do get on my nerves. Whether it’s a constant bombardment of “Did you study (for such and such test)?” or “Anything new today at school?”, they always find a way to aggravate me. I’ve talked to them and stated that I appreciate their “care” and “concern”, and that it’s sometimes heavy handed, but they probably don’t think it matters all that much, because they keep going.

But does it matter a lot?

I remember a time when my parents would incessantly nag, like usual, and then I was forced to reveal the fact that I got a B in math class. The resulting tempest of yelling was something I’ll remember forever. They were super angry and disappointed, and afterwards, I was bawling, I was wailing, and I absolutely hated my parents’ guts. At the time, I really despised how pushy my parents were and how angry they got, but now I realize that this method of parenting isn’t as terrible as I viewed it.

I mean, it’s frustrating to have to report your every activity to your parents like a criminal in jail reports to his warden, but the metaphor only goes so far. I see that through the hailstorm of questions lies their thickly veiled care. I hear that when they yell at me, they’re disappointed but still affectionate, and I know that they, deep down, do love me.

Could my parents be more effective in their practices? Probably. Toning it down might go a long way in terms of a healthier relationship between me and them. But no one can be perfect, and if I consider the other possibilities, like having parents who don’t care at all, then helicopter parenting seems feasible enough.

I guess the question of whether or not it’s reasonable for parents to helicopter depends on their kids. I know that without my parents badgering me, I would have no motivation to work hard or push myself. I wouldn’t be pressured to make my parents proud, and I wouldn’t strive to achieve that perfect score on the ACT or get into that Ivy League college. Other kids, however, might suffer a lot from their parents’ pressure, and might instead want some space to freely express themselves.

For me, there are times when my helicopter parents irritate me, almost to the point of breaking, but there’s also times when I recognize why my parents want to keep an eye on me constantly. I guess I’m pretty thankful for my parents, because after all, helicopters deteriorate eventually, and why wouldn’t you want to make use of one while you still can?

Going Back in Time

What would it mean to be able to return to a moment in your past? Do you have the ability to travel through time capriciously and to return whenever you feel like it, or are you limited to a certain amount of voyages? Are you even allowed to come back to the present time, or do you have to live through your past again? Furthermore, what happens when you do something different and you change the past? I don’t think I’d be able to address every single interpretation of time travel, but my choices would probably differ depending on the rules of the time travel.

If I could return to the past- I’d definitely change things. Maybe a bunch of small moments, like a few times when I acted embarrassingly in public, or even just a different line of conversation. I remember a time when a kid insulted me in elementary school - he really got me good - and a few hours later, while standing in the shower, I came up with a really, really good comeback. I don’t remember the conversation or any of the insults, but I certainly do remember how much I wished I could go back to that one moment and absolutely destroy this kid’s face. Sure, it’s not incredibly significant in the big scheme of things, but it was still important to 8-year old me that I demolish a random child with my words.

But then you’re faced with the possibility that, maybe, this power of time travel could be used in a better, less selfish way. Depending on how this power worked, you could potentially travel to anytime in your life. This begs the question, do I keep the knowledge I’ve gained when I go back? I was born about 4 months before 9/11, but even if I was an infant, I could, possibly, still find a way to prevent it. It’d definitely be amazing to go back and be able to influence past events, but what about the impact of my actions? What would happen when I returned to the present time?

If you don’t consider the possibility of preventing terrorist attacks, even changing a personal event could end up being catastrophic. There’s a possibility that ruining a kid’s life with a perfectly-planned comeback would set me up for a life of disaster. Maybe the kid was traumatized and lost all respect for mankind, leading to another terrorist. There’s an infinite list of bad possibilities that might result from a small change in my past, and at this point, I ask: Is it really worth it?

Maybe, just maybe, this returning to the past ability is only limited to things like reliving a moment in your past again or experiencing a certain event another time. Maybe you can only do it once, and then you have to immediately return to the present without changing anything. My personal problem is that if I could return to my past, I wouldn’t have anything significant to return to. There isn’t a single moment I remember that stands out as heavenly bliss or existential revelation. I can’t even think of a particular memory I would go back and relive. What would I gain from having the ability to return to my past?

Even if time travel was vague and loosely defined in this scenario, I think that, despite the possible good outcomes, I would not choose to use this ability. I don’t have any moments I would return to, happy or life-changing. Maybe I could change myself to be a better person by changing my past. Maybe I could even save a few lives while at it, but the amount of possibilities is infinite, and there’s no way of knowing what would happen. The one thing I do know, however, is that I’m okay with who I am, and there’s no need to revisit the past.

Blunder Years

Oftentimes, when I lay on my bed, thinking about life, I reflect on my memories. Sometimes, I can peacefully reminisce on how I wanted to be an astronaut. Other times, I’m able to sift through my memories and feel nostalgic about my childhood. Then, there’s those times when I ride my train of thought in the wrong direction and end up going through my blunder years. Embarrassing, cringe parts of my childhood that make me shrivel up inside from sheer humiliation. I’ve had a lot of embarrassing moments in my past, and my only solace is the fact that everyone has them too.

One of the earliest things I remember I liked was winning. Every child’s competitive, whether they’re competing in simple tag, or trying to finish something quickly. I don’t think there’s a single person in the world who wouldn’t appreciate winning. I, however, placed way too much importance on winning, and being the first to do something. It’s not my enjoyment of winning that I find embarrassing; it’s the fact that I care way too much about it. For example, when my brother and I would play various games, I’d play very calmly, but once I lost, I flew into a rampage, often knocking boards over and eventually chasing my brother into his room, where he locked himself to avoid my crying, seething self. I think my family even catered to me, often letting me win things so that they wouldn’t have to deal with me, but of course I didn’t know that; I was more concerned with the pleasure of winning.

This also manifested in school. I’d always be the one trying to finish first, or to raise my hand first to answer a question. I guess that behavior isn’t terrible, but I’d often make a big show out of it, like swaggering up to the teacher and handing them my work, or simply telling people that I, yes, I finished first. I can only imagine what my classmates thought when they saw me handing my work in ostentatiously - “Do you think you’re cool”?

I guess I liked broadcasting my achievements to everybody because it made me feel better about myself. Maybe I worried too much about my insecurities. I mean, what fourth grader would watch childish cartoons meant for toddlers? Not a winner, of course.

At least that’s what I thought.

As I grew up (not really), I never really seemed to outgrow my attitude. The worst part is that my tendency to like embarrassing things caught on as well. I watched Kung Fu Panda so many times as a child I memorized the entire script. I used to have hair short as a monk (“hey, being bald seems fun”), and hair puffier than a mushroom (”this makes me look like a fun-guy”). Probably one of the most embarrassing things I’ve done was in sixth grade, when I called myself fat.

It wasn’t self-deprecating or anything. It was a joke that implied I was fat, and I wasn’t even super skinny, so the joke wasn’t sarcastic. I just called myself fat. My friends would play along too, making jokes like: “How many Twinkies did you eat today?” It was the most bizarre thing, and I have no clue why I kept up this fat character for most of the sixth grade. It wasn’t very embarrassing then, with my friends joking about it, but now as I reflect on sixth grade, I can’t imagine how ridiculous I must’ve looked.

It’s interesting how I basically never learned from my past experiences. It seems that my main reason for most of the things I liked to do was attention. I wanted to win and brag, probably because I wanted attention. I called myself fat, likely for attention. I’ll probably never completely understand my childhood self, and even in 20 years, I might look back to present day and wonder: “Where did I go wrong?”

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