Me and ADHD

For as long as I can remember, I've always felt different from everyone. I was shy as a kid, but even when I grew out of my shyness, I still felt restrained and not able to interact with others or even do things like I wanted to.

I first began to suspect I had ADHD when I was a freshman at Berkeley after months of feeling academically inadequate—not so much my intellectual capacity, but rather my study and work habits as well as organizational skills. In my second semester, I did a quick search to see how to get an ADD diagnosis, but I quickly dismissed the idea for two reasons:

1. All my freshman peers purported to have ADD/ADHD because they too were having problems getting stuff done. It was so commonly thrown out that I thought I was simply overreacting like they were.
2. If diagnosed with ADHD, I would have been labeled as a disabled student, and at the time I was not strong enough to avoid succumbing to stigma.

So I didn't go through with it. The semesters passed, and despite all my internal efforts, I could not for the life of me participate in discussions in a consistently active manner, and I was never able to focus or be organized: I very rarely read any of my assigned texts; even when I tried to start early, I routinely left writing my papers or studying for finals or midterms to the last minute; my room and my backpack were—excuse me—have always been huge messes; I could not keep a routine, and whenever I—randomly—took the initiative to create lists or schedules to follow, my efforts were ultimately futile because I never seemed to be able to follow them, a pattern I've had since at least the 6th grade.

Despite all that, nevertheless, I rarely failed to produce an A- or B+ in my papers and classes—and I can thank my natural ability to critically think for that. However, what happened in my last semester at Berkeley, my busiest ever, was the final straw.

That semester I founded U.S.E.U. at my campus (and participated in a week-long delegation to El Salvador), had a full courseload, and I had to write my required History thesis. Yes, in ONE SEMESTER, you have to propose, refine and narrow a topic, write, revise, revise, revise, and produce a final 30-50 page version - in ONE semester. Granted, the department erred in designing the thesis seminar to be one semester in length, in not offering more research methods courses, and in not strongly cautioning majors to take it BEFORE their last semester; I still should have been able to do execute a fine thesis. I know I had the potential even as busy as I was, but I just couldn’t.

My seminar advisor approached me after the History department commencement ceremony in May 2009, and with a very concerned and caring expression on her face, and asked me, “Brian, what happened?” before going onto praising me (if I remember correctly, she said I was her favorite student). Looking back, I excelled in my assignments (They were all very short), and I did set up blocks of time to focus only on my writing (but I never got around to sit down at those scheduled times). But I failed to deliver, frankly, every step of the way; in fact, every step of the way ever since I can remember.

I received the lowest grade I had ever gotten at Berkeley: a C-, meaning I probably flunked my thesis--my SENIOR THESIS that was supposed to be the hallmark of my undergraduate career. But I actually felt very calm, soothed, and relieved because, deep inside, it corroborated something I’d always known on a subconscious level: something was wrong.

I moved back home to L.A. a few weeks after graduation. The immediate post-graduation months were filled with depression, self-doubt and lethargy, particularly because I graduated in the country's worst economic situation since the Great Depression. But I did do a lot to help myself move forward spiritually, emotionally and mentally. One of the most important things I learned in that time was that we ourselves are oftentimes our worst enemy, and so I strived to overcome my excuse-making that hindered me a lot. But soon I discovered that that wasn't sufficient, I still felt restrained.

Fast forward to August 2010: Browsing through Craigslist job ads, I found an opportunity to participate in a clinical study for new ADHD medication. I applied and shortly after I received a call from a research assistant, who was screening me to determine whether I was worthy enough for an in-person interview. I made the cut.

I thought to myself "This is it." At first I had no intention of going through with the study. But then I suddenly became curious to participate when I realized that all my life I avoided doing things that seemed daunting, and settled instead for the easy route, the sidelines, if you will.

I got to the office in Beverly Hills, and was called in for a pre-interview, where they asked me questions about my physical, emotional, and mental health history. Then I was called to be interviewed by the doctor, who said to me "Brian, because of what you've been through [I survived a quadruple homicide], you're a set up for mood and anxiety disorders, so it might be a little difficult to see whether you have ADHD symptoms." I thought to myself, “Oh, wow, uh thanks?"

After being at the office for a little over 4 hours, I finished my interview with the psychologist, and I got a chance to ask the research assistant "So does the doctor think I have it?" She said to me "The doctor thinks you have ADHD." Oh, joy, oh, joy, oh joy! I felt an immediate sensation of relief and self-understanding come through me.

After some thinking, I decided to not participate in the study before my next appointment. Of course that meant not getting to have cognitive tests run on me to see how bad it was, that would’ve been extremely helpful and convenient because they're probably exhorbitantly expensive, but I can live with my decision.

It was definitely a huge load off of my back to hear those words, and to finally feel like I can understand that all my quirks and oddities, and all those times I wanted to do more in my endeavors, but couldn't, could finally have an explanation. I still need a second opinion, but I'm very confident that this unofficial diagnosis is the real thing.

At that moment and now, I felt and feel like Dorothy from the Golden Girls did when she found out she had Chronic Fatigue Syndrome : in control and ready to move forward in my life. Very optimistic, let's see if you can handle me, world :)

Problematic Framing and Coded Language in "Echo Park evolves into hipster destination"

If you weren't aware about the gentrification (or, the reversal of white [capital] flight into cities) going on specifically in L.A., read this article about what's going in Echo Park.

Below is a content analysis of the article, done by my one of my friend and Sociology PhD candidate Daniel Olmos' colleagues (emphasis mine):

I love all of the code words being deployed here: FORMERLY >> 'needed to be cleaned up,' 'a no-man's land,' 'lawless,' 'Latino character,' 'narcotics, prostitution, and shootings,' and get this (!), 'people who like to lurk in dark corners....' NOW >> 'upscale destinations,' 'young revelers,' 'gourmet food trucks,' 'hip party people,' 'playground,' 'cool groups of young investors,' and 'pedestrian friendly.' What do we learn by reading this? Well, until COOL CAPITALISM comes to town, working-class areas of color like Echo Park are 'non-spaces' of illegitimacy that do not exist culturally for readers of the LA Times and elsewhere...that is, until they are 'civilized' by hipsters who transform them into cosmopolitan spaces of consumption.

11 Years Later: Still Grieving, But Feeling Hopeful.

It has now been 11 years that my brother Andy, father Oscar, uncles Jaime and Victor were brutally murdered at my family's home in Rosemead, CA. Last year, I wrote a note discussing what happened in much greater detail than I have ever given in most conversations about what happened to my family on Monday, August 9, 1999.

At the time I was 11 going on 12, my sister was 5, my cousin Natalie was 9 and my cousin Angel was 2. All of us were present and most of them witnessed significantly more gruesomeness than I did because I ran away to call 9-1-1.

The grieving process for me has been very long and arduous. In fact, most of these 11 years I’ve spent in denial, and suppressing my fear, anger, and love for my deceased family members.

Soon after August 9, I remember thinking I had this progressive view on what constitutes a family, saying to myself and to others that in general one doesn’t need a fathers or older brother to thrive and to have a real family, and so for this reason, I thought I was fine. But I wasn’t. And even though I still think that the concept of the “traditional family” as the only real family is bullshit, losing a father and brother when you had them – especially in the traumatic manner in which I did lose them—made it a very different case.

As part of California’s Victims of Crime program, all of the survivors—including my mother and cousin Wilbert who had been shot and critically injured, and my tía who had been kidnapped and raped—were placed in therapy. Admittedly, most of the three years I spent in therapy was a waste of time. But it wasn’t my therapist’s fault, it just wasn’t my time to talk because I was incapable of sharing my feelings with her or anyone else, including my family.

Over the years in middle school and high school, I used my joking and jovial nature as a coping mechanism. Granted it’s in my nature to be a jokester, but in my situation, it actually became my opiate and my way to feel accepted amongst the many and diverse groups in school. My friendships and many, many acquaintances were for the most part superficial; but I must emphasize that they were not fake, because I do cherish those memories and I loved them as people, I was simply incapable of sustaining something more deep and meaningful.

I realized while I was in Berkeley that my primary motivating reason to attend that school was to run away. Although I told everyone and myself that I chose Berkeley because I wanted to experience living in a different metro area (which is true and I’m glad I did) so I could , in actuality what really drove me was my desire to become a different person and leave my pain behind in L.A.

The plan didn’t work. My pain, anger, bitterness and frustration followed me wherever I went, whether it was at Harvard, France, Argentina, El Salvador, Miami…and then, of course, at Berkeley. And it was at Berkeley, only a few weeks into my first year, where I started to cry again. I hadn’t shared tears over my father and brother’s deaths since their funeral 6 years earlier.

I ended my denial stage about two years ago during my senior year at Berkeley, when I decided to see a therapist my final semester and to move back home to Los Angeles with my family after graduation. I spent the following months going through the motions, in an emotional rollercoaster of highs and lows more volatile than ever. But I made it through. I’ve met great people back in L.A., I’ve gotten a fellowship at an organization where I love the work that I do, and I’ve learned to appreciate my time at Berkeley and the people I met there.

I recently attended Comfort Zone Camp, a camp for kids and teens (7-17) and young adults (18-23) who’ve lost a parent, sibling, or primary caregiver, and it was an experience that I definitely needed. My fellow campers and our mentors made me feel normal, and those who shared their stories validated my experiences as normal. After camp, I felt ready to take on life, to take on the highs and lows, and to ready to honor my deceased loved ones by carrying their spirit and memories with me.

In conclusion, it has been emotionally draining finally having to deal with what I spent almost 10 YEARS denying and suppressing. I spent those years living in sadness without realizing it. But I am now beginning to learn how to enjoy life and to learn to love my family and friends in the city where I grew up. Grievin' ain't easy :)

Feel free to ask me any questions about anything, and let me know if you'd like the newspaper articles that covered my family's journey to justice.

10 Years after my Family Tragedy

On August 9, 1999, a man entered my family's home in Rosemead, CA and killed my 37-year-old father Oscar Pacheco, my 14-year-old brother Andy Pacheco, my 48-year-old uncle Jaime Pacheco, and my aunt's 42-year-old husband Victor Flores. The man was the jealous and enraged ex-husband of my uncle Jaime's then girlfriend. He had been stalking my uncle and that day, when my uncle and his girlfriend were visiting, he had a gun and shot and killed those mentioned, and wounded my mother and my 17-year-old cousin. He then kidnapped my aunt, raped her and left her in a field.

His cousin then drove him to Tijuana, where he escaped to his ranch in a remote area in the state of Zacatecas. Detectives knew his whereabouts but the Mexican government did not want to extradite for two important reasons: one, because of California policy, he surely would have faced the death penalty; and two, because none of the victims were Mexican nationals. In 2002, Mexican law enforcement captured the murderer, tried him only for two murders as part of an agreement with U.S. officials in order to try him for the other two murders in case he ever returned to the U.S.

I wrote the story below for an assignment in my Spanish composition class in Berkeley in Fall 2006. It's in Spanish, but it recounts what happened through my personal experience. Because I escaped, I didn't witness the gruesomeness that the rest of the survivors did. Many of you know this story to some extent, but many if not most of you don't.

This Sunday, my family will be at the Forest Lawn Hollywood Hills cemetery where my dad and brother are buried . I'll keep you all posted about what time we will be there if you would like to join us. 
---

Aproximadamente a las 8:00 de la noche el 9 de Agosto del 1999, apagué la computadora y me levanté de mi asiento en cuanto decidí acompañar a mis padres a la lavandería. Pasando por la puerta abierta de la casa, me quedé platicando un rato con mi hermano mayor Andy y mi primo Wilbert en la sala. Fue la última vez que hablé con mi hermano. 

Entré a la habitación de mis padres bien emocionado de decirles que les iba a acompañar, lo cual era raro por haberme nacido súbitamente, pues hacía tan sólo una hora que les había dicho que me iba a quedar en casa como acostumbraba hacer. 

De repente se oyó un ruido extraño proviniendo de la sala. Ciertamente nos asustamos, pero según yo se habían reventado unas vejigas que mi tío Victor había traído ese mismo día, y al asegurarles eso en seguida se nos volvió la calma. Pero siendo el curioso de siempre, me salí para averiguar lo que acontecía en la sala. Caminé por el corredor oscuro, acercándome a paso lento al marco de la puerta que daba para la sala. A partir del momento en que vi lo que estaba ocurriendo, mi vista y mi memoria se volvieron nebulosas como si alguien me hubiera puesto a fuerza unos lentes borrosos. La sangre corriendo por mis venas se calentó y empezó a correr ligeramente y me puse en pánico: vi a un hombre, de altura mediana, cargando un extintor rojo en una mano y una pistola en la otra, disparando a mi primo Wilbert; y al mismo tiempo, oí el grito de mi hermano, que era tan alto y tan desarrollado que parecía todo un hombre pese a que tenía unos 14 años, tan espantado: "Noooooooooo!"

De inmediato, corrí hacia la habitación de mi tía,donde se encontraban mi tío Jaime y su novia, mi tía y su esposo Victor, mis primos de 10 años y de 2 años, y mi hermana de apenas cinco años, quienes en ese instante estaban gozando de una novela. Bien aterrado, abrí la puerta, y entré al exclamar “¡Hay un hombre con una pistola adentro de la casa!” y, al unísono, respondieron “¿Qué?”. Justamente después de su reacción colectiva, el hombre quiso irrumpir en la habitación al empujar la puerta forzosamente mientras yo intenté detenerlo, hasta que acabó por meterse—tirándome hacia la pared y, por haber estado directamente en frente de la puerta cuanto penetró, atrapándome detrás de ella sin que él se diera cuenta. Allí se quedó parado al disparar a mi tío Jaime, matándolo instantáneamente en pura sangre fría. 

Todo pasó en un abrir y cerrar de ojos.

En ese entonces me convertí en realizador de una película cuyo trama yo no tenía control. Aunque mi cuerpo estuvo físicamente presente en la habitación, me sentí invisible e ingrávido—y de cierto modo lo era. En un momento decisivo, me desperté del trance y decidí arriesgar mi vida en huir. Estando atrapado en el espacio estrecho detrás de la puerta, no había espacio en el cual caminar, y mucho menos para poder salir huyendo. No obstante, conseguí escaparme de ahí sin jamás haber considerado el peligro que corría de posiblemente perecer en una muerte fría, puesto que nuestros cuerpos tocaron durante un segundo escalofriante. Pero él estaba en plena matanza rabiosa, no ha de haber reconocido nada.

Después, pasando por los sofás manchados y goteando de sangre, corrí por la sala donde encontré a mi madre que huía también; pero no huimos juntos, ni se nos ocurrió hacerlo y ni siquiera quedaba tiempo de pensar en absolutamente nada. Salí afuera donde encontré a mi primo Wilbert con la camisa y la garganta herida todas ensangrentadas. Le dije “Voy a buscar ayuda, okay?” En ese momento me tocó tomar otra decisión, ¿ir hacia la derecha o hacia la izquierda? Algo dentro de mí me dijo que no fuera hacia la derecha, donde, como me di cuenta mucho más después, resultó ser sitio de fatalidad y de herida. Me dirigí hacia la primera casa vecina. Nadie contestó cuando toqué la puerta. Llevado por el pánico, corrí una media cuadra hasta llegar a una casa rodeada por una cerca de alambre. Salté por encima de ella, desgarrando mi camisa y corriendo desesperadamente hacia las puertas. Toqué como un loco pero nadie me contestó. Ni un alma.

Desesperado, y sin saber qué hacer, seguí buscando auxilio porque no era una opción darme por vencido. Corrí más, pasando dos casas de las que, por alguna razón, no tuve la impresión que fueran hogares acogedores por sus cercas de alambre. No fue hasta que llegué a una casa amarilla que inexplicablemente me dio esperanza a pesar de también ser rodeada de una cerca de alambre. De una manera frenética, toqué la puerta como si alguien me estuviera persiguiendo. Una pareja joven me abrió la puerta y me preguntó sobre lo que me sucedía. A punto de llorar, les conté brevemente lo que había pasado en mi casa, y entonces, tan amable y compasivamente, me dieron refugio. Ellos me hicieron sentar mientras marcaban al 9-1-1. Todos los sentimientos me empezaron a afectar y me puse a llorar de repente. La mujer me pasó el teléfono tanto para contarle a la operadora lo que había acontecido en mi casa como para darle una descripción física del hombre. No logré tranquilizarme porque seguí temblando y echando lágrimas, pues sólo era un niño de 11 años. 

Después de colgar, permanecí inmóvil en el sofá, no prestando atención a la televisión encendida que estaba puesta a la misma novela que mi familia estaba viendo cuando penetró aquel desgraciado. Me sentía muerto y sin fuerza de tanta tristeza y de tantas lágrimas de modo que se quedaron mirándome los hijos de la pareja con caras desconcertadas; y estando tan abrumado de sentimiento de repente me dieron ganas de vomitar, o “echar las tripas”, como antes solía decir mi padre. Me puse de rodillas en frente del inodoro, quedándome así durante quizás unos cinco minutos que se sintieron como toda una eternidad. No pude vomitar, ni lo quise hacer. Temía hacerlo. Fue un golpe tan duro que me hizo perder control de mi destino y, por consiguiente, de mi propio cuerpo.

Sintiéndome avergonzado sin saber el por qué, salí del baño a oír los helicópteros y las sirenas policiales proviniendo de la calle. La mujer me dijo, “La policía me acaba de decir que te avisara que tu mamá te está buscando”. En ese momento me dio un consuelo temporáneo el oír que me reuniría con mi madre en seguida. 

Me acompañó la mujer hasta la calle, donde el esposo se encontraba hablando con un policía. Al abrirlo, salí a ver a una multitud de gente parada detrás de una cinta de acordonamiento y vi también a varios carros patrulleros., En ese instante no pude creer que me había pasado lo que jamás creía que me podría pasar. El policía me dirigió hacia la muchedumbre porque según él allí encontraría a mi madre. No fue cierto. En ese momento, sentí simultáneamente la decepción y la alegría al ver a una figura que caminaba hacia mí: fue mi abuela, la que vivía a unos quince minutos de mi casa. Nos abrazamos fuertemente, sollozando juntos, “It’s okay, it’s okay…,” y continuó a decir, “Todo va a estar bien, mijito”. Por la primera vez en lo que pareció ser toda una eternidad, quizás unos quince minutos en total de pánico, de terror, de escape y de búsqueda de auxilio, me sentí seguro al estar en los brazos de alguien que me amaba con todo su corazón.

Ya fuera del peligro, empecé a reconstruir la vida que derrumbó los celos incontrolados de un hombre encolerizado y bruto. Mi vida cambió para siempre.

quería decirte

sufrimos tanto, los seres humanos.
on me dit de ne pas trop réfléchir et analyser les choses, qu'on doit s'amuser dans la vie. mais en même temps on me dit de ne pas être trop décontracté, qu'il y a tant d'injustice et oppression que ce serait une illusion croire qu'il s'agit seulement de s'amuser.
y entonces qué hacer?
Yo me imagino ser parte de una colectiva compuesta de varios grupos colectivos. Pero a la vez me imagino ser un individuo también, independiente y dependiente de todo lo que me rodea. En voyant que nous nous situons dans un réseau tellement complexe, c'est évident que l'être humain doit être fort émotionelle, mentale, et physiquement pour pouvoir vivre avec aussi bien que pour s'aimer.
en fin, sufrimos tanto pero no nos contamos de lo que pasa y no nos podemos ayudar en la manera que debemos.

On September 15: Central American 'Independence'?

On September 15, 1821, the Captaincy General (an administrative unit in colonial Spanish America) of Guatemala successfully became independent from Spain. This Captaincy General includes what are now Guatemala, El Salvador, Nicaragua, Honduras and Costa Rica (not including Belize or Panama), as well as the now-Mexican state of Chiapas. These now-countries (except for the now-state of Chiapas) formed the Federal Republic of Central America in 1823 but dissolved in 1838. It was a failed project of democracy; but in my eyes I see it as a failed project of nationalism subverted by, ironically, more local nationalism.

Before exploring nationalism, then, I’d like to ask you: what exactly is to be celebrated during these so-called “independence” days all across the Americas—from the United States down to Chile? When we talk about Spanish American independences, we talk about how the colonies broke from imperial Spain. True, there were and continue to be marginalized peoples in what is now Latin America; but we are conflating “Latin America” with ‘marginalized’ and ‘oppressed’ when it is certainly much more nuanced than that. It is true that even the children of Spanish immigrants were treated as less than equals (so essentially discriminated against, ESPECIALLY if they were poor) in colonial Spanish America; so it was this resentment and sense of “Americanness” that drove the break from Europe.

But we cannot forget that independence movements were by and large—and this is a generalization, I’ll admit—for and by Creoles (children or descendants of Spaniards and sometimes other Europeans, a.k.a. ‘white people’) and consequently, the dominant power shifted from Europeans to ‘white people’ born in this continent who are now called, for example, Mexicans, Cubans, Peruvians, and Guatemalans. I will not discount the rebellions on the part of Black, Indigenous and other oppressed peoples against the status quo (even during the battles for independence) in order to achieve freedom. I will not discount that sometimes all peoples in colonial Spanish America fought in solidarity against the Spanish. But the outcome of this is, as I have said, a transference of power from one form of whiteness (the Spanish as the European) to another (the descendants of the Spanish or other Europeans, and sometimes even mestizos—in short, a gradation of racial whiteness).

But what does it mean to be Mexican, Cuban, Peruvian or Guatemalan? We are erroneously led to deem these nationalities as races by both the countries’ (racist) nationalist agendas and the United States’ racialization of Latin Americans in general. Countries such as Mexico and Guatemala publicly proclaim ‘el Indio’ or ‘the Indian’ as the symbol of the nation; but it’s merely rhetoric as it does not account for 1.) the continual oppression against Indigenous peoples and explicit/implicit denigration of Indigenous culture, values, and even appearance due to 2). White supremacy that persists across the Americas, from Canada down to Chile. In Latin America, one drop of ‘white blood’ does not make you white, but it makes you whiter. It is this that causes many mestizos and mulattos to denigrate people who do not exhibit ‘modern’ (i.e. white/western/Spanish) ways of dress, speech, cultural values, and even APPEARANCE. In short, nationalism has worked to reduce difference and variations (as nationalism does) through policy, institutions, military suppression and the public imagination in order to ensure that the society functions as the status quo needs it to.

Marginalized peoples in Latin America have not yet been liberated. So tell me: whose independence was it?

So forgive me for my hypocrisy since you'll probably see me sporting 'El Salvador' attire. Lets start to seriously challenge our assumptions.

Fluidity

Much like other things in life, my neighborhood is not a static, concrete thing, but fluid. Indeed, fluidity has and will continue to be a major theme in the in-progress book on my life.

We have always known life to be such a complex thing to understand, yet we have been conditioned to put its elements and even ourselves into boxes. To aspire to fit neatly into such a box is a struggle even when one has gained consciousness of the state’s real intent behind imposing these standards upon us.

But I personally know how easy it is to be at the cusp of a box’s border and what lies beyond. For instance, I was born on October 20th, “officially” a Libra but nearly a Scorpio; born in 1987 but born so late in the year that people wonder why I’m 19 when everyone else is 20; I’m queer but I don’t personally feel the need to limit myself to any specific gender in terms of sexual orientation; I use the term “Latino” to describe myself, but it comes with its serious limitations as it is both oppressive to certain people unfairly identified as such as well as it is generally erroneously used to describe things specifically Mexican/Mexican-American(a

t least in the West Coast); my parents have very different phenotypes from one another so inevitably I’m thought of as “ethnically ambiguous”; I was never the alpha male because of my “feminine” characteristics, but I’m still grappling with the fact that I am indeed firmly grounded within the oppressive male gender; I’m officially a 1st-generation American, but because my mother and her siblings came here at such a young age, I have had a lot of 2nd-generation American privileges; and on my mom’s side of the family, the two first cousins I do have are multi-ethnic.

And the list goes on. Surely fluidity constitutes a major theme in everyone’s lives, so I’m definitely not special in that respect. And as I’ve said, my neighborhood makes no exception. My permanent residence in Los Angeles is located officially within the neighborhood boundaries of East Hollywood; however, I live less than a block away from the Silver Lake neighborhood and only a few blocks away from the Los Feliz neighborhood. In short, my immediate neighborhood is a little of each; and my “extended neighborhood” is all these and more. My more immediate neighbors are my Salvadoran grandmother, a family headed by a Nicaraguan wife and Filiipino husband, Filipino families, a gay couple next door, the White lady across the street, the Native American household on the corner, Black families, elderly Armenians, and the White hipsters/gentrifiers who just moved in. Down the street, you’ll find the ever-Mexicanizing Polish church, formerly just a Polish Catholic church, whose masses are held in English, Spanish and Polish with a lady of Guadalupe statue out in front. Down the street, you’ll find the Silver Lake/Los Feliz Jewish Community Center. Down the street, you’ll find a Korean retirement home. Down the street, you’ll find the pupuserías, the coffeehouses, the gelato place, 6 Thai Restaurants, Pioneer CHICKEN, a Vietnamese-owned donut place, quite a few gay bars, a Japanese-Peruvian owned …Peruvian restaurant, a really, really good Indian restaurant,—all within a 3-block radius.

In short, my neighborhood defies classification; its heterogeneity inevitably causes some confusion, and it also cuts short communication between neighbors because it is difficult to transcend language, socioeconomic, and cultural barriers. So of course it isn’t perfect nor is it some "multicultural haven" as I may have portrayed it to be, far from it. But I am grateful to live in an environment whose heterogeneity further inspires and even encourages me to physically and psychologically step in and out of externally-imposed boxes...but also to do the human thing: remember that people are people.