I’m twenty. Two-oh. Two-en-tee.
Thinking about this fact, that number, makes it harder for me to breathe. For some odd reason, this birthday, unlike the others, has hit me hard with the reality that I am getting older. Perhaps it’s because I’ve crossed the threshold past the teenage years into young adulthood. Maybe it’s because this fact that I’m no longer a teenager is coupled with the idea that college is half over, that my final step towards being a grown-up is on it’s downswing, and that when it lands I’m going to be shoved into a world in which I am not welcome or wanted. Maybe it’s because I constantly surround my life with visions of nothing that actually acknowledging that I have a future makes me nervous.
Two decades. That’s a lot of time. That’s a lot of fashion trends, Christmases, Halloween costumes, New Year’s confetti, and Now That’s What I Call Music’s. And at the end of these two decades, here I am, shaken and confused, trying to remember the past twenty years without freaking out about the next twenty, if I even do have a next twenty.
Looking back on my twenty years of existence, there have been a lot of low points. A lot of sad stories. A lot of painful experiences and a lot of empty nights. A lot of fear and pressure, a lot of heartache and heartbreak. A lot of things I wish would never come to mind ever again. Moments of shame, of guilt, of disappointment, of regret and hurt. Too much for anyone to think, in any aspect, right to happen to someone (except it happens to everyone).
I find it kinda sad that when I look back on my life, the worst moments bubble to mind first when I KNOW that I have had so many joyous moments. So many memories of smiles and sunlight, hugs and happiness are hidden under layers of pain and darkness. For the first time in my life, I’m resenting the fact that I’m naturally pessimistic. I wish I were a bit more optimistic, that I could simply just see all the good things that has happened in my life instead of straining to remember them.
I guess I could be angry at God, or maybe even question Him, ask Him why is life so hard or so stressful for me, but I already know the answer: it’s cuz I can deal with it. And I have. Looking at who I am today, who I am right now as I sit in Brighton, MA with my laptop on my lap and listening to HIllsongs, I am proud. I am a balanced soul, full of idiosyncrasies that make people laugh more than cry and riddled with peculiarities that are thoroughly enjoyable once you get to know me. I am smart; I am bright; I am funny; I am childish; I am mature; I am stable (emotionally anyhow); I am a hopeless romantic; I am an avid listener; I am tall; I am healthy (somewhat); I am skinny; I am unique without trying too hard to be; I am fashionable; I am a growing, intellectual Christian. I know that it may be a bad thing to be proud of myself because I am an incomplete individual (who is proud of a half-finished project? That just sounds dumb HEY LOOK AT THIS PUZZLE I ONLY HAVE HALF OF IT DONE!), but nonetheless, I am proud. I feel like I’m a good person with mostly good intentions and good ambitions (albeit shortterm).
As much as my life has been riddled with pain and tears, I can look back at it and proclaim, whole-heartedly, that God is good, that His grace has poured into my pitiful life, that without Him, I don’t know how I’d be today. Maybe I wouldn’t be happy. Can you imagine a bitter, hateful Samuel Lee? I don’t know if I can…seems so strange to think of myself in any other light than the one I am in right now. I’m rambling. Back to the point.
The point is this: I’m looking back at the past twenty years and the path that took me to where I am today, and I’m happy. From the paradoxically carefree but fearful days of my youth to angry, depressed child in the suburbs of New Jersey, to the kind, Christian teenager, to the peculiar college student who is ridiculous in many ways, I cannot help but to acknowledge that my life has been long. But I don’t have too many regrets or feelings of animosity towards to where I am now and today. In fact, I’m pretty happy with the person I am, save for one thing.
I’ve been alive for twenty years. I have been a Christian for seven of those years. And yet, I feel like I’m still a baby in Christ. Like there is just so much I have yet to figure out and hear and experience with my Best Friend. So many talks of wisdom yet to embark on with my Dad. So many moments of movement with my Lord. Even though I’ve been a Christian for seven years, I cannot say that I have lived a life that would make my Daddy proud of me (even though I know He’s proud of me…which is pretty damn cool) or even grown to a point where He can take me outside and play catch with me.

So here’s to me, Sam Lee, now twenty.

19: 6’1 140
20: 6’1.5 145

p.s. here's a shoutout to the people who really made this birthday a birthday: my family. I miss you guys.

Dear Co-operating Teacher,

    As an English major, there is always some sort of pressure to anything I write. It has to be perfect under every light – there cannot be a single grammatical error, typo, or even a misplaced metaphor. In fact, vague metaphors are trashed upon and thus discouraged; if you’re gonna do something, do it right. Humor, if existent, must be light. The more esoteric the allusion, the better. Grander words and deeper meanings should be apparent upon first glance, and upon second glance, perfect wordplay and balance should shine like a Jane Austen work in the hands of an overzealous women writers professor. Nothing should be too heavy on the tongue; every word should be whipped up in some tasteful flare to signify that I, Samuel Lee, have mastered the language and the art of English.
    I, Samuel Lee, am a terrible English major. Sorry to disappoint, but I’m more of your normal guy than Mr. Sit-Under-The-Trees-With-A-Moleskin-And-iPod (yet more of the Mr. Sit-Under-The-Trees-With-A-Moleskin-And-iPod than your normal guy…confusing, I know). But, at the end of the day, I, Samuel Lee from New Jersey, am honored to meet and work with you, whomever you may be. I hope our relationship isn’t strained by my not-English-major-ness.

Yours Truly and Sincerely,
   





Samuel Lee

Before proceeding any further, there is a rather large cultural identity that most second-generation Korean Americans (the first generation that was born in America) possess that needs to be explained. Being a second-generation Korean American is a culture initofitself – there are experiences that sweep across the board and envelope the vast majority of this particular population. Among the attending church since the day one of birth, the embarrassment of hearing one’s parents scream in native tongue across public arenas, and the stink of kimchi that seems to flood one’s house only when he or she has guests over, most second-generation Korean Americans have typical, traditional parents. These parents are strict with rules, prefer corporeal punishment, are extremely involved in their child’s studies, and demand perfection across the board. They are famous for pushing their children to the limit with expectations of straight A’s and excellence in music, sports, and art. Korean parents are also extremely proud of their children, constantly bragging to other parents the merits of their kids. This leads to constant comparisons to other children and the question that each and every second-generation Korean American is familiar to: “Why can’t you be more like him/her?” There was always someone smarter, someone more artistic, someone more athletic that can always be picked out. Excellence in areas, however, is hardly ever rewarded; because it is expected, there is no prize for doing something well. Korean parents are authoritarians, high in demand yet low in responsiveness. Life is peaceful only when one can do everything he or she endeavors in well and never exacts any act of freedom. With all this being said, I can confidently assert that my father was not your typical Korean American father, but did resemble all of these traits in some way. He did not tell me that he expected straight A’s from me, but he would beat me if I brought home anything lower than a 90. He did not push me into sports, but he would often cite my lack of physical gifts as a means to demean me. He realized that pushing me towards music or fine art was only a waste of money and laments it, albeit playfully, to this day.