Calcuations

The editors-in-chief, as the heads, making sure, that everything runs smoothly, underneath them, and when a tiny screw goes wrong, then, they have to, find that screw, and set it right again, the nitty-gritty of the job description of this line of, work and it takes a lot of attention to do, so, not everyone is fitted for the job title of an editor-in-chief!  Translated…

An editor-in-chief needs to know to calculate, everything.  And needs to also.  The daily: the number of words, number of lines, number of pages being printed.  The time it takes, the cost of the printing papers.  Who do we work with, who do we send the invitations to write for our magazines out to, what sort of materials in this, particular, edition?  How do we get the readers into the topics of discussion smoothly?  What’s the most in cost-benefit analysis?  What do we take off if we go over the budgets?  What happens if we end up with not enough money for what we’re printing on the day of the printing?  The highest we can possibly pay the writers, the photographers, the illustrators, and, if we want to print the volumes using a unique type of ink, or, to use the irregular bindings……………how do we, break even in the estimated sales?  This is related to the price setting, how do we negotiate with the sales department on it, how do we discuss the limited amount of promotion strategies, to make our, choices………

the editor-in-chief, hard at, work…photo from online

These items, although, can’t be declared completely and precisely in the time, being, and we’d needed the two-way communication repeatedly, but we’d always, stay on edge, and still took what’s handed down to, us.  But, there’s that calculator inside of us, with the fingers, keying, away constantly, not just for the first-line editors, but everybody in the production lines of the magazines, as well as the boss (or the “party A” in the contractual), as well as the finances, the means, and the purchasing department of the other party, especially, to the readers who will have, the finished, product.  How do you get at what they expect, what do they invest their money, energies, into the topics, how to provide each other with what we both, need?  Tell the truth, this is hard, and it can’t be, declared, and, everything is up to, fate still, and not as how we’d, planned it all out.  With the various media platforms, making this even, harder.  Positively though, we can only, know the end result, after we’d, finished making the products, and put it on the racks, an see how many actually, picked them, up, and each and every time, we’re the ones, swallowing the bitter or the, sweetened results of our own, hard, labors.

This may not be at all, scientific, nor fitted to the business growth theories; when we’d not made the quotas, it doesn’t mean that we did anything wrong; when we reached our quotas, people attributed to good luck, more than the reputations we’d worked so very hard, to set up and upkeep, and even if the publishing teams are confident about what they’re, putting, out, and believed that the end product in print, fitted to the times, and/or the needs of the society too, but, it wouldn’t be easy to determine concretely, what’s being passed down would be the parts of the contents, or, which steps in sales, the key to how it works is the means—and so, we’d, calculated even harder, like the workout routines we keep to every single day, and can only, work hard individually, and, keeping ourselves tightened and careful in our, means, but we can, only, use, that ordinary state of mind when the results came out in the end.  The publishers, in this time and age, there’s, the heads of the fields, engaging in, never-ending, competitions.

Bluntly put, the hardest to calculate is the personnel.  The estimates of the material, or the things, counting it up closely (if we’re allowed to do that), it’s actually, quite, healing.  As I was still an editor-in-chief of a magazine, I’d, loved spending a few days, picking and choosing what should go where in the printed, the harder it was to come up with the perfect layout, the more I’d wanted to, challenge it, to work hard, to get every article in the exact place where it needed to, be, to let the quarter-of-a-page space, to look like a-third, or half of the page by ratio; or at least, letting the quarter of a page, to stand out from the rest, to get the effects I desired.  Calculations, it’s, the show of the greatest amount of ingenuity, it’s in the limited, attempting to get the maximum effects, not just on, slicing the budgets, keeping the costs to, a minimum.

the job description…that NOT everybody who wants this job can, is able to, fulfill…from online

While, the hardest part about calculating in human resources—is that everyone has her/his own mind, desires, expectations, or, things that comes up unplanned, with the different angles of perceptions, of interpretation, then, tell me, how is an editor-in-chief going to, take care of everybody’s requirements, to satisfy, everyone who works under her/him?  Besides with the accumulations of these work experiences, you can deduct, that we’d, started, following the footsteps of others who came before.

It’s just, that the various overloads, the things we can’t, sum up, or what we felt owing (like the raise we’d wanted to give our writers for their work, but still, couldn’t give to them), says WHO, the editors, aren’t, mindful?

And so, this is how miniscule the work of an editor-in-chief of a magazine, a newspaper is, the person is the one, hollering out the orders, the deadlines, keeping everybody on schedule, and making sure that everything runs, smoothly, with all the writers, all the employees, as the nuts and bolts, of a bigger machine, and, when one tiny screw falls out of place, then the entire machine, malfunctions, and that, is what the editor-in-chief keeps an eye on, to make sure, that nothing is going wrong, that everything is, done on time, the deadlines are met, and the sales of the periodical exceeded the expected sales this month.  The work is nitty-gritty, but, it’s the most vital one, because without the editor-in-chief, leading the group, then, the members of the group would have ZERO clue of what to put, where, and the entire magazine, wouldn’t do as well.

What’s Patched Up Weren’t Just the Pants

This is, a DYING, industry, and these, tradesmen or tradeswomen, will eventually become, extinct one day in the future, as the cost of clothes production gets cheaper, cheaper, and cheaper…translated…

“Hi, ma’am, can you take a look at this pair of pants for me, is it, still, salvageable?”, I’d rushed to the tailor’s, before it closes at eight in the night, parked my bicycle in a hurry, before that easily, missed out, tailor’s shop, tilted my head in, as the rolling door was about, to get slammed to the, ground.  The owner, who was watching T.V., came toward me, looked closely at my, pants, nodded, “yes, I can use a piece of cloth, and stitched it on like patchwork, and it’ll be, good as, new, pick it up tomorrow.”

photo from online

Don’t know how many times, I’d brought my clothes that needed saving to this place, sometimes, they were the pants I’d ordered online, that wasn’t the right lengths, sometimes, the kids’ school uniforms are, too large, or the zippers on our coats got, busted up; I’d brought them all here, and, the tailor could always, perform magic, with that acceptable cost, gave new life, to these, clothes of, ours, to make them, live, longer.

In this era filled with the polyester, and other chemically made materials, we can purchase the clothes we wear at a very cheap cost, the younger generations, the working class, they all loved to have the changes in their, looks; and so, the clothes that we get attached to, what we didn’t want to, throw out, became, something, quite, rare, the tailors are, a dying, industries now.

“Hello, the pants I’d brought over yesterday,”, the owner rummaged through the plastic bags and the paper bags, to find the one that belonged to, me, told me, “I’d, patched it up for you, no need to use the patches, look, you can’t see the tear.”  Certainly, that new stitched seam, looked steadier, that a new pair of, pants would to me, and it’d only cost, fifty.  I’d looked at the owner, who’s, about sixty, and prayed, that she is to stay healthy longer; don’t know if she knew, that her existence, is so calming, in this, noisy, modern, city.

the art that’s, dying right now…photo from online

So, this is considered, a last of a, dying breed, as the clothes are manufactured cheaper by the days, it would be easier, to just, thrown the ones that no longer fitted us, that’s torn up, away, but, because of the attachments to these, items, it’d become, difficult for us to, part with them, and this is where these, traditional trades…

This is, a DYING, industry, and, there would be, less and less people, who are, able to, patch up, these, torn up, old clothes we’d become, attached to, and then, we can only, throw them out.

An Heirloom Sewing Machine

How the old sewing machine had found a spot in your heart, even though, it’s no longer, being, used anymore…translated…

Gone on a trip to Yilan, to visit a famed person’s home, in the side rooms of the mansion, I’d heard the clinking of an ancient sewing machine sounding, the years had, left the inerasable traces on it, and, that scent of nostalgia came surfacing up in my mind; by the side, there was a potted evergreen vine, with the heart-shaped leaves, dangling from the stems, and I’d, imagined, that the old sewing machine had found its, new life, as a, home, décor instead of still being used in sewing.

There was a sewing machine just like in when I was a young child at home, that was my mother’s dowery, ever since I could remember, it kept staying at the corner of our living room, like the cotton threads that the machine cranked out, connecting the era of the economy about to take flight, people in that era of time had that special connection with the machines.

After my mother started having children, she’d quit her job, and started focusing down on keeping the home, with the children coming quickly, how can the family live off of my father’s, measly, wages?  She’d needed to think of ways to help bring more money in.  And so, that sewing machine that was originally a décor of the home became, a tool which my mother was able to, make money from, and my mother only begun learning how to sew then.

At first, she’d only patched up the shirts, the pants for the families, to make simple clothes for us, children; and slowly, there were the neighbors who’d busted the zippers, whose pants loosened, they’d all come to my mother to have her fix the clothes for them; to later, my mother was introduced by a friend, to “sew up the sides” as a “side business”, she’d gotten her one-woman sewing factory up and running then, and she got, very, busy.

In the depth of the night, the sewing machine still ran in the living room, that was my mother, trying to, catch up with the work.  I didn’t want my mother to tire herself out, so I’d, begged and, pleaded for her to teach me to use the machine.  “First, slide the wheel with your hands, then, using a set tempo, started, stepping down on the, foot pedals, with your hands, adjusting the fabric you’re working on, slowly, moving the cloth………” after a few tries, I’d, finally, gotten it.

no longer working, but still, quite, precious…photo from online

And, there was also, another, interesting memory I’d shared with the sewing machine in childhood.  Whenever the sewing machine wasn’t at work the four of sisters, would use it as a makeshift desk to do our assignments on.  Whoever got home earliest, would store the sewing machines inside, then, put the board down, and it’d become, a desk for us to do our assignments, on, and it was, comforting, like we had someone who was watching us as we worked on our, assignments.

Time flew by, the four of us, grew up, gone away for school, to work, and our household economics improved, and the sewing machine had, slowly, made its, exit from our, lives.  Then, we’d married one by one, and, nobody cared about that sewing machine in the corner, gathering the dusts.  Until one day, my mother told, “when you guys decide to renovate the living room, take the sewing machine to the recycle shop.”

Time had passed, and it never, returned, what’s precious, were those moments that were deeply imprinted into our minds, of the people, the things, or maybe, we’d, stashed them all, at the, bottom most layer of our memories, and once there’s something that reminded us of them, then, they will all, come, surfacing, back out, again.

So, that’s the meaning of this, sewing machine to you, it’s  not only a tool which patched up your torn clothes from when you were younger, not just a tool that your mother used, to bring in more money to the family’s economics, but, it’d become, this twinkle in your memories, that glows, from time to time…

The Cab Back Home

The memories of that “tool” that her father made a living off of, and how she and her siblings “chipped in” to help get more business for her father, using what they had…translated…

My friend invited me to his place to eat that day, because it was a storefront residence, the parking spots are hard to find, so I’d called a cab.  And, as I got into the cab, out of habit, I’d, looked around to see if the car was, clean enough, and, the memories of helping my father cleaned up his cab surfaced to my mind.

In the earlier years, the pays for the servicemen is not enough, my father who’d wanted to make more money filed for early retirement, used the retirement pension, took out the loans, bought a cab to make a living, thought that he would take care of the family of seven then.  And yet, it wasn’t, as wonderful as he’d imagined it, the cabs are rented out by a company, and he’d had to pay the car loans every month, taking the amount for gas out, because my father was getting older, the company hired another younger man to take the shifts, and he’d demanded not a cent less of pay, and what was left, was only enough for food for all of us.  To help my parents with the household economics, I’d started part-timing in high school, to help make our ends meet.

In that era when the cabs weren’t equipped with the air-conditioning yet, it surely wasn’t wonderful in the heat of the summertime, riding in a cab, and if the cab is not clean enough, then, the customers wouldn’t want to ride again.  To help the clients have a good impression, or for them to remember my father’s license plate, my younger brothers and I would always, wash the cab early in the morn on Sundays, to finish cleaning by nine, so my father could start working.

her father’s cab…photo from online

My younger brother in middle school and my youngest brother in the elementary years, were in charge of the exterior, I, in charge of the interior.  I’d once heard my younger brother told my youngest brother, “we have it easy, cleaning the exterior, older sister is doing the interior, especially the top, the handles, she’d needed to lift her head up all this time, that’s, what’s, trying.” I was so moved as I’d heard him.  But, compared to my father, who basically sat inside an oven, driving the customers around, I had it, easy, because we only washed his cab once every week.

After several year, no matter what season, the three of us siblings, “worked hard cleaning the cars”, and helped our father get more customers, and this, was the only thing we can, do.  After I was married, I’d moved out from my parents’ home, two years later, I’d given birth to my eldest at Tri-Service General, was about to get discharged from the hospital, there was no freeway then, the distance was too far, from across the county lines, my father who wasn’t feeling well, insisted on giving us a lift to Zhongli, where we’d rented a, stay; that was the only time I’d ever ridden my own family’s cab, and the final time I’d, seen it too.

Because there was nothing to be made, in the end, the cab was, sold back to the cab company.  A little over two years after that, my father was, gone.  And, my connections with the cab, starting and ending, marked, that unforgettable time in my, younger, years.

And so, this is, what the cab meant to you, it wasn’t, just a livelihood for your family, but also, it’d carried that depth of memories to you, because you’d worked hard, to make your father’s cab look clean, so people would want to ride in it, and bringing more business to provide for your family.

Stuck

How the editor-in-chief is, easily, taken, advantage of, because he is, way too, considerate of those who are, delaying turning in their drafts…translated…

It’s past due, several days since the deadline I gave to the writer, and yet, the drafts that should’ve been finished, still hadn’t, turned, up.  As an editor who’d invited the writers to write, you’d given that message of “final mile!” or a smiley emoticon, but, that alarm rang inside: another round of tactical warfare begins.  How would we be at a standstill this time?  Although you’d, gotten used to it, what you need to do, you will, still, do, you’d still texted, “when did you mail your drafts out?  I may not have received it.”  you’d wanted to show in a round-and-about way, but not wanted the writer to be, pressured.

the deadline…photo from online

You’d understood, that s/he may be, stuck.  And you can, prove that: the guy posted on FB more often than before; before you’d sent the texts to hurry, you’d, come clean first, (fine, I’ll go easy on him); started delaying the responses of my texts, read but not returned, not yet read, not returned, to the ultimate, losing contact, gone missing completely.

Or maybe, s/he is, taking the long way, or trying to adjust her/himself, to find that sense of a ritual, to get her/himself back on track.  It’s not s/he isn’t working hard enough, but maybe, working too hard—it may not be the perfectionist character coming out, but every word that’s written, doesn’t seem, quite, right; not strong enough feelings or motives, can’t persuade oneself.  Too much the writer wanted to put down, hard to structure the piece, takes up too much time and mind to restructure the articles, to start writing from scratch.

You can easily call out your own problem—too serious, toward those who’d owed the drafts, to the point, to seeing everything during this period, as something you couldn’t, get, done, and until you get it all finished, then, you can, relax: go take a shower, or a walk.  Ah, I’m due for an appointment soon.  Need to clean the house, take a thirty-minute nap.  Cook, time to clean out the fridge and the freezer bins.  Time for the subcortical injection for my old, cat now.  The kids are stuck on a concept for homework, that can’t be delayed!  How can they choose THIS time, to have the duel with their pencils?  (must chase after them to make them stop!)  the overdue library books, stacking up a bit, too high here……..and, in going in-between the things on the to-do list, the day, swooshed by, again.

And, even as when your debtor is an editor too—with many letters of hurrying the writers on hand to write and to send out, thinking about the timing to send all the letters out just as you; the sales and printing departments came rushing you, or are passing the information to another through you, the boss, waiting to review the new book proposal, the authors, waiting on the edges of their seats, for the, results……………

You can understand one another’s trials, but there’s nothing that either of you can do, about the work that got, stuck.  You hoped that s/he didn’t have to be so humble, keep apologizing in the messages, after all, that doesn’t do a thing for finishing the drafts.  While, your problems are still, yours, besides, all the editors have their own, ways to resolve, and there are other things that they’re, busying on, more writers to push to turn in the drafts.

how the editor feels, more STUCK than the writers…illustration from online

But, it’s a standardized operating procedure, that the editors hep the writers get unstuck.  Sometimes, writers don’t see why or how they’re, stuck, or that they didn’t want to know.  Sometimes, they knew too well—only, s/he can (or is able to) fix it.  Sometimes, the knowing too well, can’t be, spoken out: for instance, there’s the dying motivations to write, as the invitations to write got received, or, there are, more pressing things, that’s, gotten more of the writers’, attention……….and, finishing the drafts became, a total, drag.  Even if we want to suggested to the writers, to read something relating, it may gain the exact opposite outcomes, for instance, the writers’ perspectives turned, getting defeated, with NO self-confidence left whatsoever.

You are willing: to invite the writers to go out for meals, to shop, to workout, to waste time, to do nothing at all, giving the writers affirmations of their work, or, carry the pressures of the pressing deadlines for them, so s/he can get out of, being, stuck; but problem being, you do NOT have the common time to share………especially, when you’re, the debt collector, that someone owes to.

Something else that’s even, harder.  That’s made getting stuck look like, nothing—everybody can be in it, getting stuck in life, work, marriage, parent-child interactions, health, the losses of assets……to the point of the emotional breakdown that came out of, nowhere, to the point of becoming, suicidal.  How can they even, think about, the drafts, meeting the, deadlines?

And so, as the editor, you don’t feel right, to press the writers to make their deadlines, because you considered too much for them, and, maybe, your writers saw that you are, too easy, that you would, let them slide, and so, they ABUSED you, and, by being considerate of them, you’re, enabling their bad behaviors of turning in their drafts by the deadlines, again, again, and again.  You should just, SET your foot down, and tell them, IF you turn in your drafts late again, you’re, OFF the list of writers for our, magazine, because sometimes, a little “threat” is, absolutely, NECESSARY, besides, you don’t know if your writers are, habitual, procrastinators, and that they’re, taking advantage of how you would, let them, slide.

Watching the Stands

Working for someone who’s, shady, doing the illegal business of selling the VCDs without the copyrights, on the borderlines of the laws, and the “boss” got arrested, and it was, just a part-time gig for you, nothing more…translated…

The first few years of work, I’d opened a workshop with my girlfriend, we couldn’t get enough business, to increase the incomes coming in, she’d gone to the hotpot store now, which used to be a chain café to part-time, while I’d, found me, a weird job.

At the time, people’s choice of watching the videos were in the forms of VCDS, with the DVDs being, high-end stuff, and, locally, there were, the video cassette rental shops, and that was when Blockbusters just made its way into the country, not long, ago, and that was what was in then.  As for the streaming online platforms?—well, us ordinary citizens, aren’t thinking, that far, ahead, yet.

That was the want ad in the classified section of the papers, that I’d found, the stand watcher at the night markets, either gender, no experiences necessary, paid daily.

And now, as we see these sorts of ads, we’d known, that there’s something fishy about the ad, but then, we were quite young, and took everything weird as, an, “opportunity”.

I’d immediately called to inquire, and the man told me he had too many stands that he operated, and couldn’t take care of them all, and needed someone to watch the stands for him.

What sort of a stand would I be watching?

Selling the tapes.  The man spoke in Taiwanese, would that work for you?  He’d asked.

I’d hesitated a bit, and told him, I’m, up for it.

Selling the tapes meant selling the records, the DVDs for children, the movies, or the gaming discs.

And, this man’s stand isn’t stationery, but, ran all around the local night markets, and so, every night my work location is different than before, mostly were in the metro of Taichung, but I’d gone as far as Changwha too.

It was already deep into the autumn, going into winter as I’d taken the job, I’d ridden my old 125, with the cold winds, cutting across my face, my body, to the stand he’d, told me to go to.

What do I do?  Just sit behind the stand, no need to holler, and as the customers came, no need to greet them either, just allow them to select the discs on their own would do.

First stand, I sat like a dummy, the novel I took, I’d almost, finished it up, in the enormous night market, there were, just a few, men who’d come up to the stand, to touch around the discs, to turn the discs over front and back, with no sales.

But at around eleven, a small-framed and not-quite-right man stood up from the stand next to the one I’d watched, he’d looked shorter than 5’2, with a bird’s nest hairstyle, mouth full of red from chewing the betel nuts, with a loose t-shirt, a dress shirt, and baggy pants on him, with the slanted slippers on his feet, his toes looked dirty enough, the nails don’t look healthy, wax yellow to black.

So, the man I’d thought was a customer who’d come on break, or the beggar, was the owner of this, stand, without a word, he’d, pulled out a $500 bill, told me I could go now.

Second day, I’d gone to a different night market, the third, another night market, during that time, I’d, left my footprints all over the major night markets in Taichung, and every time, that man had, stood beside and watched me worked.

I’d chatted with him a little, he was, completely, disinterested in me, and didn’t want to talk to much about himself either, and, boredom was what transpired between us, and, two, three months into work, we’d not, known one another at all.

What the stand sold, were the illegally copied DVDs and VCDs.

there were, too many of these “shops” around back in the late 80s, to the 90s here in Taiwan…photo from online

At the time, the illegally burned things was trending in Taiwan, whatever you wanted to see or hear, we can, burn them for you.

A few months, I’d worked, and that was a cold year at the end of year, I’d wanted out then, but, not doing anything on a work night, I got paid, $500 flat, that’s, a good deal, but this work was truly, boring, and, it’d not felt like I’d earned my wages each and every time I got, paid.

Besides, only fools would know, why they’d, hired an extra person to watch the stand.

And, one day, don’t know how long after that, I saw a news story on T.V., the police busted the illegally burned DVD factory, on the news, the towers of discs stacked up sky high, a few suspects, with faces that didn’t show, squatted at the wall close by.  Watching the news footage, I kept thinking about the man, his dark complex, his, thin as a skeleton figure, the toenails that could pass easily as a weapon, the oversized, the too tight shirts and pants he’d worn when he showed up, the face that was always, ashen, the red like lipstick lips of his, oh, and, as I’d, accidentally touched his hand when he’d paid me, always and, forever, icy, cold.

I’d, never, known, him.

And so, this is on, how, the lower side of those on the social economic statuses tried to survive, by walking on the borderlines of the laws, because it’s easy money, but when you get caught, you will, pay for it, and yet, it’s a way of life, for these people, with NO other viable skills, because they had to, make ends, meet…

When I’d Also, Become, a Recordkeeper of the Lives of the Migrant Workers

How the distance between us and them became, no longer existing, after we got to know them better, educating ourselves, on this group of people from other countries, who’d come here to work, translated…

Started from 2015, I’d moved from Guanmiao, Tainan to Taipei to work and to live, met up with a group of Taiwanese citizens and Indonesian migrant workers who are passionate about the subject of migrant workers’ rights and benefits.  Started back then, I’d, gathered with my friends from Indonesia, which was an important element of my life then.  We’d hung out together, eaten our meals, and shared our thoughts.

And because I’d worked in the migrant worker related organizations, in the small circle of rights of migrant workers, or as we sat down in the lobby of the Taipei Main Station, my friends and I often encountered a couple groups of people, they’d wanted to ask some things of the Indonesian friends sitting with us: the college students on their school assignments, the grad students finding a research topic for their theses, dissertations, the artists, the documentary makers, as well as the press reporters.

Yong-Da was that reporter who’d weaved in and out on the subject, also a friend of mine, from his “First Square—the Underground World Built up by the Migrant Workers”, the reports got started, and I’d known, he was writing on the subject relating to the migrant workers.  Later I’d also begun my own paths to writing too.  Other than seeing Yong-Da as my role model, he and I, always seemed to keep that, delicate distance between us, we both had.

While this time, after reading his new volume, “The Underground World Built Up by the Migrant Workers in the Society”, I kept on imagining, what the distance, was?

Earlier on, I’d not felt comfortable enough, writing about the encounters of these Indonesian migrant workers, because at the time, the lobby of the Taipei Main Station, there would be those, ambitious, research students, the writers who are, searching for the topics, or maybe, it was, a sort of an, ambiguity that I was feeling: on how the other person doesn’t use that microscope, to examine my friends, and I didn’t want my friends to get, taken advantage, of either.

But at the same time, this state of mind made me stuck.  I continually saw the things that sparked my interests in the stream-live of the Filipino migrant workers’ beauty pageants, the BIGO LIVE sleeping stream videos of Indonesian migrant workers.  I really wanted to share these with my friends, but, can, I?

As I’d tried to become a writer, I saw the similarities of me and Yong-Da; we both, carefully, maintained the friendship relations we’d set up with our, migrant worker friends, at the same time, we’d both, hoped to gain the affirmations of our Taiwanese friends who are supportive of the causes of getting the discussions of migrant workers’ rights and benefits, when we needed to, we wanted to prove ourselves; we would find, that in the interviews, or in interacting with the interviewers, found, that the person or people we’re interviewing, finally interpreted us as their, friends, or felt, that we are, becoming, closer in relating to, one, another.  When we’d both become writers, not only do we start thinking about how we’re, progressing in our own, writings, at the same time, we were, criticizing ourselves: did we do right by our reports, and those who interviewed, would we, for the sake of producing the excellent reports, have neglected how our friends might, feel?

All these struggles, I’m certain, is the mindset of all those who write nonfictional stories and reports must face from a daily basis.  I also feel, that all of these feelings, are like the cities’ covered up first squares, they’re all, out of sight, but, all too important, to be, not neglected.  We’d found some lights in those, places, started writing about the migrant workers—these strange faces, in the, crowds.

I’d started branching out from Taipei Main Stations, while Yong-Da’s circled around the First Square.  I know we’re on different paths, with different settings and perspectives, I wanted to write from an anthropological angle, to discussing what I find interesting, of the ways of life of these, migrant, workers; while Yong-Da used the sociological, journalistic perspectives, to find the materials, using that wider spectrum, to see how the Southeastern Asian countries’ migrant workers are stuck, by the Taiwanese systems of employment assigned specially to migrant workers, and, how they live as a group.  But we both used our own abilities, and what we can tap into, do our best, to describe the life of migrant workers, hidden out of side, of the mainstream, society.

illustration from UDN.com

I’d originally felt that sense of distance as I’d read Yong-Da’s new book, and yet, he’d used the first person perspectives to write, described how he’d gone in pursuit of new topic, and slowly gotten immersed in the lives of the migrant worker population, the thought to which he took, to finding the new interviewees.  In the reporting, the reporter needed to carefully select to use the first person pronouns’ perspectives.  In reading his past interviews that’s turned into this newly published book of his, it’s like interacting with someone who originally refused to tell you what had happened to them at first, to start, opening up about getting hurt, and the difficulties of life he’d experienced, just as you had, too, the struggles, the injuries he’d endured, and it’d, made me, less afraid of him now, he seemed to, be similar to me.

What surprised me was, as I got halfway through his book, I’d found, that we both carried the doubts of the motives of migrant workers coming here to work being because “families, for the sake of making money”.  Four years into getting to know my Indonesian migrant worker friends, my good friend, Entali told me, that she’d come to Taiwan, mostly to run away, getting away from the defeats she’d felt in a, relationship, her failed marriage, or the debts that her families had, accumulated, and how they couldn’t, pay the debts back.  They’d wanted to, escape “their own failed selves.”  While in Yong-Da’s book, I saw the familiar shadows of some of my friends too, or the things I’d missed out on in my interviews.  In a Filipino beauty pageant in Tainan back in 2017, first time I’d met the contestant, Roger (Jake, as Yong-Da’s book had, referred to him as), later, in Yong-Da’s stories of him, I’d come to learn about the delicate personality traits of Roger, his past, and his future hopes and, dreams.  And in the book, “Why are the Migrant Workers All Using YouTube Now?”, I’d explored how the various generations of migrant workers’ connections with others, and their lifestyle differences.  In his book, Yong-Da also pointed out, that their passionately involving themselves in social activities, is for the sake of connections, that way, when they’re in trouble, they will have the needed social, supports.

Reading to the very end, as I’d found in the dedications, Yong-Da wrote: “I grew up int eh countryside of Nantou………”, he’d told of how he was also, an outside who’d come to the city, seeing how the migrant workers had, worked hard to adapt themselves, or focused hard on their work, to turn their own lives, around too, it’d made him feel, less, lonely.  And it seemed, I’d finally, understood him too.  The migrant workers gave me that sense of belonging, moving to Taipei to live.  Migrant workers aren’t just, someone else, it every one of “us”, every person that made you feel, distanced, from.

So, in doing these stories about migrant workers, you got closer to yourselves, and this is the sole purpose of these assignments, to get to know others, their lives, their lifestyles, why they made the choices that they had, and we find traces of our own selves in the life experiences of others, and that takes that barrier which was, originally between “us” and “them”, away.

Our Unforgettable Nursing Courses

How these lessons of your schooling years you’re still using, in your, life to date, the practicality of a nursing degree…translated…

Forty years ago, when I taught nursing in the high schools, the third year women’s and children’s sanitation is a must-know for childrearing, every student had the impressive experiences of bathing an infant, the Lamaze breathing methods, the exercises for before and after birth, etc., etc., etc.  After we’d demonstrated to the students, there would be a ton that they’d, remembered: for instance, because of the students’ being too nervous, they’d gotten the soap into the infants’ eyes when bathing, to dropping the infant mannequin into the bathing basin; and there would always be the screams aloud too, some had made the baby cries, and there were those who’d mocked the mothers-in-law, started SWEARING and yelling on the side, and everybody in class was in laughter.

After the graduation, all of my students found their places, kept going in education, started to work, after they’d graduated, they’d gotten married, started their families, and, many years later, due to the advancement of high-tech, they’d started a group, the instructors of the mandatory courses aren’t forgotten that easily, while me, a nursing instructor, always got, invited, maybe, it’s due to how my class, is strictly related to their work, that’s, left a deep impression on them.

the occupational outlook for nursinig majors, photo from online

Once, May mentioned in the group that when she’d given birth, she’d used the Lamaze breathing methods, it’d, effectively reduced  her labor pains, which she’d later taught to her, daughter-in-law, and the classmates started, reminiscing, some told, that the exercises of “lying on the back, with knees to chest to the side” actually, correcting the positions of her unborn daughter.

Other than the techniques of birthing, they also found teaching them using Annie to do their C.P.R., the rhyme I’d given them “Annie, Annie, open your eyes!  (the noting of someone being unconscious), do call 119, pressing down the forehead, lifting the chins, opening up the airway, listen, look, feel, check if there’s breathing or not, (breathing stopped!), blow into the mouth twice, check the carotid for pulse, (pulse stopped!), check for the heart, two finger’s length over the heart, immediately perform the compressions!”

But, even after years of teaching, I’d, rarely had the chances of using these, or I’d only, needed to do a few steps: for instance, some people may only needed the Heimlich to get their airways cleared out, some only needed to put a bag to the mouth, a few deep breaths, then, the hyperventilation’s, solved.  But most importantly, nursing doesn’t just help the students acquire the abilities to care for others or the self, it’d, also, increased that respect the students have toward, life itself.

So, this is, the point of the nursing majors, and saving lives that only comes, second, it’s to, teach the students to respect every life, to try their best, to save a life whenever they are presented with the opportunities to do so, and these skills are, fundamentals, that everybody should have, because you never know, when you’ll, need, them.

Part-Timing at Seven-Eleven

Very first work experience EVER, that’s, too important, as it’d, helped you define yourself into the kind of employee you want to, become, translated…

I sat at the dining section of a Seven-Eleven, waiting for a friend, watching the employees busying in and out, then, I was, taken back to that summer from, long, long, long, ago.

In the summer of my junior year in college, I’d gone to a Seven-Eleven to part-time, and became, a first-time employee in the workforce, while, everything that’s inside the store fascinated me so.  Cleaning up the floors, keeping the environment clean, sorting through the shelves, restocking, that’s basic, and as I’d become, accustomed to these, the store manager asked me to try and work at the checkout.  “Welcome, thank you for coming”, became my most widely used phrases then, and, I’m glad, that back then, the super convenience shops didn’t offer such a multitude of services as they do now, that I was able to, learn the skills of work quite, successfully.

Once, after a function at a local high school was over, suddenly came, the influxes of students, rushing in to buy the drinks, the drink machines, the slurpee machines turned unstop, the ice bins, the refrigerators, emptied instantly, with the cash registers ringing nonstop……..that was the very first time I’d felt, that I’d, counted way too many bills and coins that my hands started, feeling the pains.  The shop was cramped, the air-conditioning couldn’t work fast enough, our originally orderly small super convenience store suddenly turned into, the traditional marketplaces, with the crowds, coming in, a mile a minute.

During the time of my serving as an employee, I’d felt regrettable, and apologetic, perhaps, toward the customers who were purchasing the ice creams.  The first few times I’d operated the machines, I wasn’t acquainted with it enough, couldn’t, pump out a good looking, tall and proud, ice cream in a cone, several times, it’d even felt, like the ice creams are about to, fall down…….I’m quite grateful my customers put up with me, never filed the complaints with my manager.

working at 7-Eleven…photo from online

Every day, I had the opportunities to interact with various customers, it’d become, what made me agile in my interactions with others later on.  Even if I’d transferred to a different kind of workforce, I’d still never forgotten, that being the first-line of workers, other than being quick on my hands and feet, I’d also, need to, wear my smiles, and, offer my customers my best, services.

So, this is how our very first jobs, became, what we built upon as we’d grown older, and switched in and out of the various fields of work we’re in.  That very first job, it’d, defined our attitudes, we’d learned, from observing, how to interact with the customers, and, the ethics of work we use, is also, started then.  So, the very first jobs we have, is, what defines us into the employees that we currently are right now.

Wasted Youth

There is, NO, wasted youth, everything that we do, serve that, purpose, even though, we can’t see it in the moment, but, they will, all accumulate, and become, whole one day, translated…

For the whole of my youth, I’d done, only, three things: watched the baseball games, watched the animes, and, chased after the stars.  In the precious years of between ten and twenty, surely, we’d spent most of our times in the classrooms; but, once we leave those books behind us, I’d only, focused my mind to doing these things that are, useless.  But, are they, really, useless?  To tell the truth, I can’t, give my actions an, explanation at the time, to show, how these things can, add to my own, life.  But, like all the younger years, that was, a period of time I went in search of, meaning of life; if the meanings were arrived at through deduction, then, how would we know if it’s useless, until, we’d, tried it out.  Thinking back, in my teens, most of the classmates are, busying, dating each other, researching how to dress up, going to the populated locations for their, dates.  While I was, a total, GEEK, buried my head in the comics, whenever I had my days, off, or, it’s the music, or, watching the baseball games by myself.  I’d disliked the crowded places, but I would, stand in the long lines in the summers, to go see the first show of the animated movie version of the Yuyu Hakusho, or, sit and do nothing at Ximenting all morning long, hoping to see my idol who’d come to Taiwan on a rare, occasion—that was, a total, waste of, time, and now, I would, NEVER do, such a thing, and, I’m in awe at my parents, who’d never, voiced a sound of, objection of my behaviors.  But, in the past, I had all the time in the world, all my unspent energies, my hard work, I’m, young!

Many a year ago, I’d, gained a new identity as a published author, and needed to get my book to other countries, of course, it’s not, always, smooth going, after all, there’s, a different market in, every country.  Japan is a market that sets the bar too high for foreigners; as I’d wanted to sell my book in Japan, my publisher asked me, “maybe you can, add some contents which are related to Japan, to add to the resonance with the Japanese locals?”, at the time, I can only respond, “I’m sorry, I’m not really familiar with the markets in Japan.”, and, I’m sure, that the publisher had, left, disappointed, and also thought, “this book would be a, total, bust!”.  Even on the social media, I, who only wrote in English, I’m a, foreign writer where there’s only seven-percent total of translated works in Japan.

like the song, performed by Brad Paisley, off of YouTube

And yet, one day, all of these, changed.  I was assigned to appear on a media that’s known for innovations, and discussed the technologies, the host, Ryan Takeshita, grew up in the U.S., and that was the very first time, I’d not needed a, translator to do an interview.  As we got halfway through the discussions of work, he’d asked, “do you watch the anime?  The main character of Evangelian, Shinji Ikari is famous overseas, does everybody have a Shinji Ikari in oneself?” I was more than certain, that this wasn’t, in the, interview questions.  Had it been me normally, I would’ve gotten, flustered, as I normally, couldn’t, adapt to answer the questions that I wasn’t, prepared to, answer; but at that very moment, I looked at him, and his facial expressions seemed to say to me, “it’s okay, let’s talk about something more, interesting.”  Then suddenly, there’s that feel of, meeting someone familiar in a foreign country, “I’d come to the right place, someone’s finally talking about anime with me!”, then, we’d gone from the anime that were popular in the nineties, “Dragonball Z”, “Slam Dunk!”, “Onepeg”, as well as the movie of “Slam Dunk!”, then, we’d, come back to, the discussion of the workplace.

When I was lecturing in Japan, a lot of the audiences wrote in their feedback, “I too, listened to the music of Amuru Namikuwe and ZARD”.  The 150-percent increase in followers on Twitter, were from my Japanese audience, they’d also, begun, trying to, interact with me using English.  Many wrote in Japanese, “ ‘Slam Dunk’ and ‘The Superpower of Quiet’, these are the two books that offered me the strengths.”  “That’s what the author of the comic, ‘SLAM DUNK!’, Takehiko Inoue said, the weaknesses of a person, si what made her/him, unique”.  “Too surprising, that a foreign author in a book about business, used the examples from the Japanese professional baseball player, and the Japanese comics.”  Although I’m still a foreigner, although, I still have the language barriers, but I no longer, felt like, the odd one out anymore.  And just like that, my book that’s been published from a year ago, returned back to the, bestsellers’ list.

If I didn’t have the me who’d done nothing useful in my own teens, I couldn’t have, talked about those subjects; and even if I had to prepare everything, how will I possibly finish reading the forty-two-volumes of single-spaced column comics of “Dragon Ball Z” in Japanese.  The geeky girl who’d spent all of her allowances on the comics, who’d waited for the weekly publishing of “JUMP”, had helped become the bridge between the middle aged author and many of the readers in a foreign country, that was something, she would’ve, never imagined she could, do.  No, I should say it to her, straight, and she would carry that I could care less flair, “I wanted to read them myself, it wasn’t, for you.”, fine then, just as well, that’s right too, those unimportant things we did, are just, for our own, selves.  There’s the saying of, “where you put the time, is where you will, come out on top”, it took me a whole of ten years, to do, three, “useless things”, I’m so, amazing!

And so, this showed, how we do NOT know where our futures may lead, and, what you’re doing now, that you thought, in irrelevant to what you may want to do in your futures, will all come together, like how it is for this woman in her life.  Nothing is too unimportant for you in life, and everything you do, will someday, add to, what you will be doing in your, futures.