Mad In States

Mad in States

Note: Live the life you love, don't just love the life you live. Many of us dream of going to or living in America and Australia; some people get the chance. A Bhutanese in the States has become American. He has forgotten his country's traditions and cultures, even its language and his own homeland. This poem asks: if everyone does this, will one day everyone in Bhutan become American, losing what it means to be truly Bhutanese? And who, then, is a Bhutanese?

To be an American
is easy to be.
It was a decade ago that he settled
in the land called a "flowery life"—
a dream of every Bhutanese,
but a few have fulfilled it,
and some have done even more.

He was born to a Ngalop family,
brought up, educated, and survived
up to fifty-seven years.
A man has a wish at this age!
His instincts and roots were Bhutanese,
and all his ways were too.
But one day, somehow, he got a chance.
He flew.

After decades in America,
he adapted to Americans.
He was an American.
Parents, relatives—all forgotten.
People, land,
mother tongue, religion,
all ways—forgotten.

"New age," where he lives—
he floats there,
lingering between two ways.
He is more inclined to the latter.
Bhutan does not exist on his mental map.
This is how a person changes his life.
But who am I?
Roots do not change.

On the tip of Americans' tongues,
he remains different—
not a "real" one.
Mongoloid, Dravidian, or Arabian?
Variant cultures in America
and the buoyant life floated with riches.
One does care.
And who cares of life—
the root?
To have a rushing hour is okay.

Strength to Live

The strength of a man isn't how many buddies he has—
It's how good a buddy he is to his kids.

The strength of a man isn't how respected he is at work—
It's how respected he is at home.

The strength of a man isn't how hard he hits—
It's how tender he touches.

The strength of a man isn't how many women have loved him—
It's whether he can be true to one.

The strength of a man isn't the weight he can lift—
It's the burdens he can understand and overcome.

Best or Worst?

The 2014 World Cup is almost coming to an end. Brazil suffered the worst defeat in World Cup football history—7–1, if you’re keeping score at home or in therapy—which has brought great sadness to many of their fans. But a thought came to my mind: "Why only the best?"

I feel the best is selected precisely because the worst exists. Life has two sides, and credit belongs to both. It is because of suffering and worry that we come to know calm, peace, and the divine. Also, without bad games, we wouldn't appreciate the good ones. So thank you, Brazil. You took one for humanity.

Not only the top should be inscribed, shown, and broadcast. We should also write down the worst; they too should be appreciated and acknowledged. I am writing this because of the bad—good things are here as well, and vice versa. Everyone must be appreciated and respected. Even that uncle who oversalts the tea. Even that neighbor who plays the same song on repeat.

How does the world appear to those who are considered the worst or the ugliest? This earth consists of peaks and valleys, the fine and the weak. You encounter people, animals, countries, trees, air, water—everything is somehow divided into the rich and the poor, the superior and the inferior. Consider the many worst and deadly people around the world. Besides our film villains, there are scruffy and scrappy people in our own neighborhoods. You know who I mean. The ones who don't return shopping carts.

And what about animals? Which is the ugliest animal ever seen? I vote for Mr. Snail. It is said that beauty is in the eye of the beholder, to be sure, but this animal would not win a beauty contest even if it were the only one entered. Snails have faces only a mother—Mother Nature—could love, and in the contest of life, that is really the only thing that matters. Let's be honest: a snail is basically a slug with a backpack. And yet, it moves. Slowly. But it moves. That’s more than some people I know.

And I would vote for Brazil for their worst game ever played, but I do appreciate their active participation. They showed up. They tried. They conceded seven goals. That takes a certain kind of courage.

In schools, students are loved only if they excel in their studies. There are teachers in my school who only talk about good students and put more effort into them. They forget the weak ones, or have nothing to do with them. They call them flunkers and hardly check their notes or books. How can those students improve if they are left on their own? You can’t grow a plant by ignoring it and calling it names. Unless it’s a cactus. And even cacti need water sometimes.

The world would seem more harmonious if all people learned from one another—if they recognized what is best and what is worst, working to improve the worst and shape it fairly alongside the best. In this seemingly upside-down world, only the best are loved, even though our worst deserves attention just as much as the best.

One person changed this rule. The Lord Buddha left behind all the best things on this earth. He was a prince of a kingdom, living an esteemed life. Yet he did not want the best—he chose the worst, renouncing all worldly pleasures and wealth. Who would ever have guessed that he would become enlightened? Certainly not his palace chefs.

My own case may shed light on the road between what is best and what is worst. I was brought up with the utmost love by my beloved parents. I wore the best ragged clothes and was treated well. I wanted the best, and I got the best. I was fortunate to have a somewhat plentiful family—I say only in terms of provisions. What I needed, I received. I required the best and expected the best. I lavished much bread, wearing the best clothes, the best shoes, the best oils on school days. Yes, oils. Plural. I was that child.

I was truly convinced that I would always have the best. But what I am experiencing now is purely contradictory. All this life—who will upkeep my best? Like an unripe fruit that must mellow and drop, trifles will overcome my best. Now I face the worst: using less for worse clothes, worse shoes, and so on. I have come to understand that I am succumbing, lapsing, and relapsing into the worst with my meager monthly salary—unless I change my way. Or get a raise. Or find a snail that lays golden eggs.

Thus, I have learned that one should know both sides of a coin. Accept defeat to understand victory. Accept demeaning remarks to appreciate praise. Accept hopelessness to know that there is still hope. And accept that sometimes, you are Brazil. And sometimes, you are the snail. But either way, you keep moving.