Semester Overview:

PS3: Political Science Research Methods, Professor Laura Stoker

I highly recommend taking Political Science 3 with Laura Stoker. She is an amazing instructor, very energetic and projects well. The first day of class, she wrote 3 numbers on the board: her cell phone, home and office numbers. If you go to her office hours, you will find that she explains concepts very thoroughly.

I personally LOVED this class. A+

PS2: Comparative Government, Professor Price

I did not like Professor Price. His lecture slides were sufficient enough for me, as I slept through most of his lectures. His lecture style is confined to pacing on a stage and making a few hand gestures. He was not dynamic at all. To top things off, I got the worse GSI ever- and it was an 8am section. (Note to self, no more 8am sections!!)

I do not recommend taking this class unless you seek to fulfill an International Studies Requirement, or intend to major in Political Science:

My Appraisal: C

History 111C: Political and Social History of Vietnam, Professor Peter Zinoman

This class was awesome. Well, at least I thought so. I did fall asleep in lecture a couple of times, but over all, it was very good. I have a few points for improving lecture, though. (that's later) Overall, essays were graded fairly. Material was covered thoroughly in lecture and in the readings. Our GSI's Office Hours were very convenient and well planned.

My appraisal: A-

EPS: c82/ IB: c82 : Intro to Oceans, Professors Powell and Bishop

This class was awesome. It made me care about the environment... just a little bit. I learned how the pH of the ocean affected marine life, how CO2 affects productivity in the ocean. I learned a lot. Lecture was interesting, because we had about 5 lecturers, (2 regularly).

The HW was Extra Credit! The midterms and final were fair. I did well.

I highly recommend: A

Backlash

My mother, a very wise woman, has told me that she thinks I pour too much of myself into my blogs. She put it this way: "Posting your heart in the internet." Well, I did ask for accountability. I gave her my complete honesty. No lies, no half truths...

Well. I suppose there is a grain of truth in everything she says, if not entirely. Reading that, I wanted to cry. Once again, I'd failed to be modest, demure, I'd run away with my damn emotions. Again.

What am I to do? Cloister my poetry on the hard drive of my computer, or on the unseen pages of my diary? Heck, I don't even have a diary. I deleted it months ago.

My first instinct was to erase my blogs and web albums. I think that's a bit extreme. So, I settled for deleting information from my profile.

What confuses me is the fact that no clear line exists between modesty and brazenness. I only posted poems. Is it to be equated with selling myself or giving too freely, for too cheap a prize? I do believe, in this quest to be transparent, I have maintained a sense of idealism. I haven't given up on the idea that I should share, and hide nothing. When I was reserved, I was called cold. And now, letting go of reserve, I have been told that I give too much.

Where is the balance set? Hmmm? God, You're there, I know it. You're omnipresent. I have a question for you. You know it already.

No More Finals!

I am DONE!!!

The first thing I did was re- read everything, and turn in the exam. Sweet completion! The first thing I did was call D. and tell him. Of course, I called at a bad time. Typical.

=)

Naptime.

Tears?

(she has rather distinctive lashes...)

This is one of those nights when I just want to cry. I simply feel too much tonight.

I felt rejection when on one picked up the phone.
I felt like a failure when I did not shower until 1:30pm, or fix the bed until almost 2pm.
I felt incompetent studying for this final exam.
I have done well thus far, but I can't see beyond the moment.
My stomach hurts, and to top things off, my heart hurts.
No one answered my IM's and I felt invisible.

I can find solace in prayer. My Savior listens to my every prayer...

If I had to pick a fashion icon it would be...

Audrey Hepburn. Cliche, I know. But I adore her dresses and shoes.

laters,

Experts Say That...

.
.
.

studying is bad for your brain.


not.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!

Just wanna make a shout- out to my best friend, Taylor!

HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!

Chicken Pot Pie (sans crust) for College Students

Ingredients:

3-4 chicken thighs
1/2 onion
a clove of garlic
corn (I used a can of sweet can, it provided *some* juice to keep the dish moist)
2-3 potatoes
seasoned salt
garlic salt
oregano
thyme
black pepper
cajun pepper

Instructions:

1. Season the chicken with oregano, thyme, seasoned salt, black pepper, garlic salt to taste. Let it sit for a day in the refrigerator, sealed in a bag.
2. Set oven for 425 Degrees
   
3. Boil 2-3 potatoes until you can stick a fork into them with moderate pressure.
4. Cut up the potatoes in 0.5" cubes and place in large mixing bowl
5. Dice at least half an onion (to taste), add to bowl
6. Open can of sweet corn, pour out most of the juice to avoid a mushy mix. Pour into bowl.
7. Season liberally to taste. I have listed suggested seasonings above.
8. cut chicken into boneless, bite sized pieces, add to bowl
   
9. mix all the ingredients
10. Place in a glass casserole dish (avoid using a metal pan, esp with potatoes), maybe 10" x 13" (I used a round dish about 6" in diameter, and 6" tall. It took about 2 hours.)
    
11. Cover with foil, but as the dish gets closer to being done, take the foil off to get a nice toasted color (but not burnt)
    
12. Let bake for at least an hour, or until the chicken is completely cooked. The length will depend on the depth of your dish.
13. Enjoy (after cooling, of course)

Feeds 3-4 hungry people, if supplemented with salad.


Sorry, I didn't take a picture, but it looked absolutely beautiful! Enjoy my recipe! =)

-Arri

Hello.

'Tis the end of the craziest 2 days I've had in about a year.

Friday:
7:45-17:00 WORK
17:30- 21:00 DINNER w/ the girls
21:00-02:00 Sleep/ talk (Didn't get to sleep until after 23:00)
02:15 Head to work

Saturday:
03:00- 08:00 WORK
08:00- 11:00 History 111C Final
11:00-17:00 STUDY for Political Science 2 Final Exam
17:00- 20:00 Political Science 2 final exam
21:00-00:00 Party- Listen to music- eat thing

Mannn... can you believe I had free time? It's like I have 25 hours in a day! Also, I am terribly sleep deprived, but wide awake.

That's the grace of God right there... seriously!!

My Day 12-12-07

I thought today was going to be a bad day. I woke up exactly on time, remembering my frustrating dreams, to top it off, I had a headache.

I got to work on time, 7:45, and I still didn't feel right. I studied for History 111C, and reviewed 700 years of Vietnamese history. Still, I did not feel right.

After work, I had a review session for Oceanography. That was helpful. I feel like I know the material pretty well. =) Also, I finally got a 100% on an assignment on that class.

I rewarded myself with pad thai. yummmy. While waiting for my food, I walked to get some boba. But, I stopped when I saw a man with a sign soliciting money. This was the same man that I'd told myself that I'd give a dollar everytime I see him.

He greeted me, thanking me before I even gave him the money. He asked me the customary questions, "how are you" "what are you majoring in?" "what are you going to do with a history major? teach?? {add incredulity}"

Then he asked, "Are you from New York? Or Boston? You got that accent."
I shook my head, "No, I was born in San Francisco."

We shook hands in parting, and he called after me, "Merry Christmas! Good luck on your finals!"

I learned two things: his name is Mike. And, a hard life is clearly evident in the teeth and eyes.

Life is good when you can help someone else.

Studying is bad for your brain

Apathy is the opposite of love. I no longer love History. I am apathetic to it. Let alone, Political Science. If I hated them, at least, I care enough to have strong feelings regarding these topics.

Today, I learned the meaning of "apathy." It is not simply a benign neglect.

It is something more degenerative than that...

Studying...

Studying for my History 111C final exam is no fun.

names:

Le Loi
Le Thanh Tong
Ho Chi Minh
Ngo Dinh Diem
Gia Long
Nguyen Anh
Tay Son Rebellion
August Revolution
Ho Quy Ly
Le Codes
Trung Sisters
The Tale of Kieu
Paradise of the Blind
Pigneau de Bahaine
Alexandre De Rhodes (17th c.)
Treaty of Saigon (1862):
Tonkin
Annam
Cochinchina
General Nguyen Tri Phuong





Dynasties:

1. Dinh (970-979)
2. Ly (1009-1225)
3. Tran (1225-1400)
4. Ho (1407- 1409)
5. Le (1428- 1787)
6. Nguyen (1802- 1954)

Periods of Chinese Control:

111 b.c.- 39 a.d

42- 186 a.d.

226- 540 a.d.

603- 939 a.d.

1407- 1427

legacy: neo- confucianism, administrative structure, imperial tribute, language, education, etc.

French Colonialism:

Why?
To establish dominance in an era of European Imperialism. Presumably, to protect the Jesuit/ Catholic population of Viet- nam. By this time, about 10% of the Vietnamese population had converted, and were subject to mild persecution at the hands of the gov't. Catholicism was classified as a heterodox religion and banned.

Merry Christmas!

Christmas is here!!!

The first thing I want is someone to share a cup of tea with.

could it be you?

.
.
.

I'm thinkin' House of Curries... =)

Let's not forget to remember this season, and His sacrifice. 'Tis a gift to all humankind.

=)

One of these days I'm going to burst with joy...

Final exams and sleep deprivation aren't hampering this either!

A Short Testimony...

I began my life in search of a hero. My first hero was the first man I laid my eyes upon, my father. My second hero was Jesus. Of course, Jesus seemed a more distant, strange hero than my father. I would learn much later in life that the real hero sacrifices his self- interests for the good of another. No greater love exists, than the love that compels one to die on behalf of another.

When I began the transition to womanhood, I began to look for heroic qualities in boys. I found very few budding heroes. I only found intellectuals, dolts, and slackers. There was no one person who could catch me in their arms as I fell without making reference to my bony frame or my budding breasts. I found my anti- hero in the older boy who pursued and ultimately hurt me. I never even knew his name, but I did learn his role: the disaffected actor who knew not the consequences of his actions, or simply ignored them.

It was then, that it became concrete in my mind that heroism went beyond actions, and that villainy was not simply the antithesis of good. No doubt, when his hands scoured me like a crudely made doll of little value, I did not think of the philosophical ramifications of that statement. Most present on my mind was the realization that no caped man would glide down and pummel my offender and whisk me away before all innocence was lost. All I do remember is a light, and the exhausting nature of self- defense. I stood at five foot nine, weighing one hundred thirty six pounds. He stood a good three inches taller than me, and had the physique of a football player- as a matter of fact, he was a football player. Beyond the shattered notions of the benevolent world, I finally witnessed the firming of my belief in the existence of angels.

I distinctly remember waking up at night, and seeing a guardian at the foot of my bed, bidding me rest. Of course, my statement was met with disbelief, and dismissed into the humdrum of daily life. My mother asked me to hand her a whisk quickly, and in my haste, I let go of the idea that an angel guarded me in my slumber. Later, I realized that the man at the foot of my bed was likely my father on his night- owl rounds, checking to see if the windows were closed and locked, and peering through the shades at the streets, overseeing the night.

When I began to endure the pangs of adolescence and puberty, I pushed my father away. There was no hero for me. My father was simply the mild- mannered man who worked tirelessly to see his family fed, housed and clothed. His joy was in being the father of three daughters and husband to his wife. My joy was not in being his daughter. My joy was in the solitary pleasures of the secret- keepers. It was not joy; really, it was a more illicit happiness. The creeping thought that maybe I did deserve what happened; maybe I had attracted his attention with my bright colors and shyness. The subversive fantasies of giving in when I should fight usurped the waning daydreams of childhood. I retreated within myself, writing poetry and sketching eyes that saw what I saw. My lyrics were dark and my art, incomplete. Meanwhile, my father was just an ordinary man.

I remember a spring day, when I spoke in low tones to my mother in the kitchen as she cooked. The room was hot, and I felt comfortable enough to tell her my secret. The words escaped like oil from a bottle, smoothly and simultaneously incendiary. My mother’s shock was evident on her visage. She held me, and my father approached. Keeping a distance, as the past three years had taught him, he gleaned what he could. In his forearm, his musculature took on nearly comic book proportions, as his fist tightened. His veins bulged with anger and sorrow, his failure to see and protect. He walked away in silence after asking me questions. Later, I smelled the distinct odor of gun oil on his shirt- he cleaned his gun in the garage. That was his solitude in thought; it was marriage of function and silence. I remember being called into my parents’ sanctuary, and they asked why I never said anything before. I don’t remember my answer, but I do remember the glint of the light on the shower, and the white shades. I don’t know why, but I do remember that I failed to make eye contact. I also remember the rhythmic pacing of my father as he pondered a course of action, ultimately realizing that none could be taken.

When the secret was no longer mine to keep in silence, I had no desire to speak of it. The last moment of my childhood had wrought its significance already, and there was no need to go back. I did sink into the trap of forgetfulness. The paradox of forgetting and forgiving my offender hindered me. To forget would be to forget the lesson I should have bequeathed from the death of innocence. To forgive would have to let go. To let go, would be to relinquish my excuse for every deviant thought and action. Who was to blame? Who failed to save me?

Letting go involved a lot of prayer, and a drastic means. I vividly recall the exquisite pain of writing out a suicide note, and dividing $27.17 between my sisters, and leaving all the artifacts of my childhood to the discretion of my family. I recall the apology I began the note with, and I certainly remember envisioning myself selecting a knife. The thing that stopped me was the fear that my death would be messy- the pain didn’t matter. That was the most emotionally detached I have ever been, and it scares me now, to think that, yes, I once had these thoughts, and they made perfect logical sense. My hero then, was my mother. She found me crying on the floor of my bedroom, and rocked me to full consciousness of my intended actions.

Almost six years later, I do not regret anything that has happened in my life. I am now a student in my second year of undergraduate study, and I have succeeded thus far, by the grace of God.

My Joy

I get so much joy from giving... {^ my mom's gift =) }














This is Andrea's gift ^















This is Antoinette's gift ^ :D

Sunday Sundries II

I am His beautiful creation. I was lovingly formed in His hands, from dust and clay, I was created. I was given choice. I was given redemption when I fell. I was forgiven when I repented. I am His beloved. I am His.

In my pain, He comforts me. When I cry out, He hears me. When I need, he fulfills. When I fall, he gives me strength. When I am alone, He cradles me in promise and remembrance.

I love You, O Lord, as the breath of my life, as the Guide and Protector of my life, as my heavenly Father.

Yours,
Arrianna

Note to self:

All nighters are bad for you.

uh- oh...

I may have made a huge mistake...

in the depths, I seek the light

Every time I walk by the Durant Food Court (colloquially Asian Ghetto) I see the same man holding a sign asking for spare change.

Every time, I determine that I will give him a certain amount of money. The last two times, I failed to stop and fish out a dollar bill because I was so engrossed in myself- my approaching deadlines, my perceived lack of things, my dissatisfaction. Those thoughts quickened my step, and justified my forgetfulness.

Today, at the lowest depth I know, I gave the man a dollar bill. He thanked me and blessed me with his words. Then he struck up a conversation. "Are you a Cal student?"

I nodded, "yeah."
He sat up straighter, "What's your major?"
"History."
"What do you want to be- a teacher?"
I shrugged, "That's a back- up. I want to be a lawyer first."
He nodded. "Where are you from, New York?"
"No, I was born in San Francisco."

After a while, I ended the conversation and he yelled "Merry Christmas! God bless you!"


I sincerely hoped that God would bless me... What is most significant to me is that the conversation humanized the man. No longer was he that man who sat on the crate on the sidewalk holding a sign, he was more personal...

what's more... it took my mind off my current woes. Thinking about and helping others is so much more satisfying than simply thinking selfishly.

-Arri

On the Silliness of Tradition: The Bonfire Rally

• "roll on you bears..."
• chanting Maori battle cries
• "Freshmen more wood! Freshmen more wood!"
• The tale of the Stanford axe

Wow. This tradition defies logic. It would make more sense to me if we could burn compacted trash and decrease the volume of trash in our landfills... but burning perfectly functional wooden crates? Hmmm.

I guess it is tradition.

PS,

I got candlewax on my jeans... and my jacket.

PSS

I love streetlights!