Heart of Darkness

The horror, the horror, the horror.

That's three times of "horror" for three nights of sitting and half sleeping in a black box of ennui, i.e. the house of darkness... with no kids, no light, no music, no TV, no NOTHING... except the security system beeping every 10 minutes.

The freak storm that happened last Sunday blew the kids' Little Tykes slide across the yard and knocked out the power. I was one of those lucky last 40,000 among the 300,000 who lost power to get it back last.

So what's the big deal with power outage? At least the kids weren't around. True. It wouldn't have been that bad. I could camp out in school or Starbucks for wifi and AC. I didn't usually watch that much TV anyway. It was just the darkness... the Waiting-for-Godot nothingness that got to me. I can't explain it. I could easily have just breathed, meditate and go to sleep. Instead, I crashed on the couch with 88.5 playing NPR, BBC, Deutsche Radio, Canadian Radio etc. half enraptured by the great programming (yes, public radio is even better in the wee hours), half stirring up a soup of too-many-things out of nothing in my head.

My 19-year-old neighbor explained it better. He was actually alone too, on one of those nights, and found it much easier to fall asleep in the pitch darkness. It was that first night when my alarm system freaked out on me and keep going off. That's the way the human mind works. All it takes is for it to freak out once. He was, of course, right. So much more wisdom from someone so much younger.

I'm not about to get all Foucaultian but there really is just a very thin line between sanity and madness. And I had allowed myself to stray across the line somewhat in the last three nights. I excused myself by pointing out that I was tired and stressed, trying to get a million and one things done. But really, there was no logical reason. It was like a walk in the park I wanted to take.

So now that the ordeal is over, and there is light again, I need to go back to being my usual soak-up-the-sun self. It wasn't all darkness and horror. There were all the great friends who sent messages of empathy and offers of food, shelter and company. It made me wonder. If it takes so little to reach out and connect with someone, why are so many people afraid to do so. Isn't the darkness more scary? It definitely was, for me. I always thought of myself as someone who would one day go out into the woods to live deliberately. I guess not, after all. I'm grateful for the guys at CVS who said I was welcome to hang out there the whole night if I couldn't bear the dark, stuffy house. I'm also grateful for the BBC, which is comfort food for the mind to me. Most of all, I'm grateful for this scene, and several others, that I captured (in the great company of a fellow novice photo-enthusiast). That evening after the storm had one of the most gorgeous sunsets I had ever seen (and I've seen quite a few...including one over Tanah Lot).

Connectivity Killed the Romance Star.

So my social network knows I'm crazy about the World Cup. That's because it's all over my Facebook updates and postings. I've kept my Tweets restrained and restricted to 'professional' re-tweeting of serious news...such as Australia's first woman prime minister. If that's the side of me you prefer, find me on Twitter!

With social media and connectivity, the World Cup has become so much more fun. I can now watch it "with" my friends who are 10,000 miles away on FB or Gchat or Skype. In college we used to watch football in someone's dorm room. Later, it was in someone's home or at a bar. Now, we don't have to leave our child-rearing, home-sitting responsibilities behind. We can still share the experience of a match with our friends in "real time" without stepping out the door. That made it so much fun. Or, did it?

This was me a couple of days ago. The USA-Algeria match was on TV; the England-Slovenia match was streaming on the Mac Book; the iPod Touch was in one hand for FB and chats; the Blackberry was in the other for phone calls and emails. With so much connectivity around me, I actually could share the experience with many more people. See if I was watching with a bunch of people somewhere, it would just be with that bunch of people. But there, in my connectivity hub, I was sharing the experience with people around the US, in England, and in Asia.

During the half time break, I actually managed to use the bathroom, fix lunch, make coffee, take a call, and tweet, all at the same time (well, not all) and in time to be right back in position for the second half. And that was when it hit me. I saw a tweet from someone I didn't know that said that making tapes for someone is still the most romantic gesture of all time.

Wow. How true. I thought of all the ex-es I made tapes (and then later CDs) for and who did the same for me. For a second there, just before the second half started, I got that warm, fuzzy buzz. After the games were over (and I was very happy with the results) I felt like I had to unplug -- log out of all my accounts, shut down and just be NOT connected.

I kept thinking of the tweet, though, and how much technology and connectivity, while purportedly bringing people closer together, have actually taken away good old intimacy and romance.Think about this, starting with...

Making tapes:
Music on the go became a lifestyle phenomenon when the Sony Walkman was invented. In those days, making a tape for someone was the most romantic thing you could do. Then came the CD players, and you could still burn music files on to a CD. I'm not even going to go into the MDs and other formats that didn't take off, but basically, you can put together music for another person in a way that said, this is how much I care about you. Now, with iPod and iTunes, who wants CDs, and you don't need to figure out playlists because the Genius does it for you. Very cool and chic. Nothing warm or fuzzy.

Writing letters:
Before the music tapes, there was the love letter and the pen pal letters. Does anyone remember when it was cool to write letters? When pen is put to paper, thought is needed to make the words flow just right. When we write, the act somehow also inspires us to reveal our most intimate thoughts and feelings. Now, we have email. Who writes pensive, pining or pretty emails? Get to the point, cut to the chase, I have another 5,000 un-read mails in my inbox. Let's think of all the guys who would fail miserably if they had to write an email to express themselves...Shakespeare, Neruda, Keats, etc.

Phone call:
Now that we have text messaging, instant chat, Skype, Gtalk, FB chat, who really takes the trouble to call? Why do you need to spend hours talking about nothing over the phone, when you can send a text message or chat msg and get it over with in 5 minutes? Instead of calling someone just to see if he or she is ok, you can send an email. Hi, just dropping a note to say hope you're ok. We should hang out some time. And when that time comes, the meeting can be set up via email too. This place-that place- this, this or this day/time, that day/time is better....etc. After about five or ten mails, we'll get it right. That, is still easier than picking up the phone, especially if it's the iPhone 4. And now that we have email on our mobile phones, that makes life even easier.

In the same way, social networking sites have made life so much easier. Now I can know all the things I want to know about a 'friend' through his or her profile. I don't have to invest time chatting on the phone, or hanging out over coffee. There's so much connectivity all around me I can plug into and play.

So, what exactly was I complaining about again?

Fever Pitch - Top Ten Reasons I ♥ the World Cup

Nobody really needs to justify loving the World Cup. I mean, it's only the most watched sports event in the world, with an estimated 715 million viewers tuned in to the final game in 2006 (and that was apparently only the 4th most watched World Cup ever). But then I can't watch this joke of a match going on between Germany and Serbia. Besides, I think many of my friends believe I love the World Cup because of the shirtless, hot footballers. So this is my stab at redeeming myself. (And yes, I will call it 'football' like we do in most parts of the world.)

10. Shirtless, hot footballers (hey, they're hot, can't deny the facts)

9. Fan mania (this is one sport where it's perfectly legitimate for fans to be as rowdy, crazy, obsessed and over-the-top as we want to be...I mean most sports fanatics are obsessed, but in football, it's perfectly understandable and acceptable)

8. Teamwork (yeah, we have the stars, the superstars, in fact, but this sport is about teamwork and nowhere is it more apparent than in the World Cup when all these stars have to leave their club memberships, fat paychecks, and pride behind to play on par with the hardworking but less famous guys from back home)

7. Equalizer (football is the great equalizer all over the world, because you can be a homeless street kid and play/love this game...watch the documentary 'Kicking It' by one of my professors, Susan Koch, if you haven't already)

6. Strategy (to the naysayers who make jokes about men chasing a polka dotted ball around a field and 'just running' you have absolutely no clue how much brain work and play making goes into a solid team and match)

5. Controversy (the amazing rules...check out how many pages the official FIFA rules pdf has...make for great controversy stirring sh*t...especially in the day before 'live' digital video and offside calls tread a fine line between best intentions and error of human judgment...and let's not get started on the yellow and red cards, the penalty, free kicks, corners, etc. etc.)

4. Statistics (football is a mathematician's wet dream...there's player statistics, tries, goals, etc. and team statistics...and the World Cup, with its history and sheer number of teams probably needs its own dedicated server just to handle crunching all those NUMBERS)

3. Flags (look at all those gorgeous colors fluttering in the wind...it's better than the United Nations...tell me you're not swaying to 'Waving Flag' right now)

2. World Peace (seriously, the World Cup is the only time when nationalism and international relationships clash in healthy competition...bitter enemies, neighbors with love-hate affairs, a triangle or two, even...imagine if all strife in the world can be resolved on the pitch...you know, North & South Korea, USA-Iran, etc. The pen is mightier than the sword, but the ball is ROUND.

1. My Daddy.

When I was a little girl, my daddy introduced me to football...on TV. I remember many sultry Sunday afternoons spent watching EPL matches, AC Milan and Real Madrid. I think I learned how to spot an offside before I actually started playing any sports. I probably would have played football, if I didn't grow up in a part of the world where girls didn't get to play.

My daddy also introduced me to my first 'hero' - Pele. I would ditch the greatest footballer of all time later for my own role model - Daw Aung San Suu Kyi, who to me embodies feminine power, dedication to a cause and real courage as Hemingway described it. But deep in my heart, there will always be a deep respect for Pele, not just because he's who he is, but because my daddy respected him.

Then, when I was 14, I did what all girls do. I picked my own guy to have a crush on - Diego Maradona, the second greatest footballer ever. It was the year he led Argentina to a resounding World Cup victory. I made my mother buy tins and tins of a chocolate drink called "Milo" (or was it "Ovaltine") so I could collect all the team stickers and complete my World Cup handbook. I think that was also when I started to think of myself as a citizen of the world, and that must also have been what sparked my wanderlust and desire to visit as many different corners of the world as I can in my lifetime.

I live 10,000 miles away from my daddy now, but I'm pretty he's watching the World Cup and enjoying it as much as I am. Happy Father's Day, DAD.

One Is A Very Lonely Number 2

I grabbed him and squeezed him as hard as I could in my arms. He screwed up his face and backed away, as if I wasn't his mum, but a crazy stranger.


"Have fun now and take care of yourself, ok? Do you want kissing hands?"


Silence. What? No kissing hands? Since he was five, we had done the kissing hands ritual whenever he didn't want to say goodbye to me. It was something out of a children's story book, about a child who was afraid of being alone, and mum would plant a kiss on the back of the child's hand. Each time the child felt scared, the kiss would be right there.


I guess he didn’t think of himself as a child anymore. When we were packing his bags the day before, I had innocently asked if he wanted to bring a soft toy or pillow.


“What?! I don’t want to look like a child!”


“It’s OK, Amon. Those are on the packing list. I’m sure some of your friends will be bringing their toys too.”


“No! MUM!!!”


OK, fine! So, I watched quietly as he walked away from me, towards the three school buses waiting to take him and some 40 other 7 and 8-year-olds to the Shenandoah for a three-day camp. The yellow of the buses seemed extraordinarily bright and happy on this rainy, gray morning -- as if mocking me.


If I seemed like an over-reacting, emotional mum with real attachment issues, it was because this time last year, Amon and I spent the summer in a psychologist's waiting room. We were barely 20 minutes into the first meeting, when she pronounced: "At this point, I wouldn't recommend drugs."


“I would like to state upfront that I am categorically opposed to drugs.”


"That's what I mean...he doesn't need it."


"I know he doesn't need it. That's not what I'm here for."


I was there to help my son be happier at school. I wanted strategies to help him adapt socially, so that he wouldn't be bored and frustrated in class, crying every morning as he went to school, and crying at the few birthday parties he got invited to.

At the end of the summer sessions, she made another pronouncement, this time, in a nice official letter: “Amon has been diagnosed with mild Asperger’s Syndrome.”


If you don’t know what Asperger’s is, you can goggle it. Basically, he doesn’t make friends very well because he can’t quite ‘get’ social cues and norms the way other kids his age are picking them up. More specifically, he belongs to that small group of kids characterized as ‘Gifted with Asperger’s’. Ah, another label. We have been in the business of testing and collecting labels for him since he was five and got sent to the principal because he wouldn’t participate in art & craft and music in school. He got the gifted tag because at age five, he tested to be reading like a 9-year-old and doing math like an 11-year-old (or, was it the other way around?).


I didn’t like it one bit – all the testing and tagging. I wasn’t trying to find out how smart he was. I wanted to understand where his gifts and challenges were, so I could help his educators help him. It took me a long time to come to terms with the Aspie tag. I decided that I was done with psychologists and therapists. No one knew my child better than me. So I was the best person to help him. I devised my own therapy for him. Golf was one of them. We recently started blogging his epic fantasy story together. I found a delicate line between nudging him into more social interaction and allowing him to do so in his own time and comfort zone.


So, this was as big a deal for me, as it was for him. Here he was, going off to camp by himself. This was something he WANTED to do. A year ago, he wouldn’t even go to birthday parties. He caught up with his friend Nicolas, whom I guess was going to be his buddy for camp, and they boarded the bus together.


The funny thing was, the first time Amon attended a birthday party by himself, without me hanging around, without crying, and actually enjoyed it, was when Nicolas turned 8. Since then, I’ve been hearing about a few other boys, too. Seems like he actually has A GROUP of friends he plays with. A year ago, he only had one friend whom he stuck to all the time.


One is a number that Amon was very fond of. He once said to me: “Mum, one is a very lonely number.”


“Why is one a very lonely number?”


“Because it always has to go first.”


That would be Amon. He had to go first, and go by himself. I knew he was different from the time he was a baby. He knew his alphabets at 18 months, and was reading at age 3. It must have been lonely to be the only one out there, looking around at all his peers and wondering why he was different.


So in the last three years, I made it a point to always be the number two that was sometimes next to him, and at others, behind him. But in the next three days, I’m not going to be able to do that. He would have to scale walls, cross bridges, canoe in rivers and roll in mud all by himself – my baby, who only plays one sport (golf) and thinks of the outdoors as ‘hot, sticky, dirty and itchy’.


“You will always be my number one baby, you know that right Amon?”


“Yes, mum.”


I used to tell him that all the time. It comforted him. It also reinforced his place as my firstborn child, whenever he felt that his sister was getting more attention. I didn’t get the chance to tell him that this morning.


“Bye, mum.” He had just finished his breakfast.


“But you said you wanted me to come to school and see you off to camp….”


“Oh yeah, right. Say bye later then.”


I went around to the side of the bus and tapped on the window. Separated by the glass and the bus, he was more amiable to responding to his mother. He grinned and waved to me. Then, he turned to Nicolas. I stood there for the next five minutes as the teachers were counting off the kids. He never once looked up. The two friends had their head bent over something. I guessed he must have been showing one of his books to his friend. I continued to wave a rather dumb and limp wave at his downcast head.


The buses began to move off. I followed behind down the road, along with the other 20 mums. As the bus stopped at the traffic lights, Amon looked up. He waved once. And then, he was off. I felt an incredible urge to run to my car and follow the buses. Instead, I sat in the car for five minutes, half listening to NPR.


For the next three days at least, Amon is not going to need his number two. I’m just going to have to get better at being my own number one. I also realized that the sum of this equation wasn’t always one and one made two. Sometimes, one really just had to be alone.

Before I Get Old....

I guess this is the year I'll have to admit to being 28, instead of 18.

After all, I have been turning 18 every year for the last 10 years. Then, one day, about a month ago, the inevitable happened. I found my very first strand of *gasp* white hair. Sshhh! Don't tell a soul! I'm just only 28 -- way too young to be graying. Fortunately, there hasn't been a repeat of that unfortunate discovery since. Maybe, that was just a stray strand leftover from when I was 18 and had platinum blond streaks.

So, as I contemplate finally turning 28 (what's 10 years, give or take?), I'm hit with the usual "what-have-I-done-with-my-life" question. The truth is: a helluva lot. But somewhere along the line, I had lost sight of that.

The last few years of being 18 had been tough on many fronts, the hardest of which had been trying to re-build career, identity and a sense of self worth after letting it all go when the kids came along. In mothering my babies, I had forgotten how to take care of myself. Finding my way back took a lot of baby steps and mis-steps. I started with getting my body back into clothes meant for  my age again. It does wonders for the ego to be able to fit into clothes meant for 14-year-old girls. But that was the easy part. Reviving the soul and spirit proved a lot harder. It had to start with jump-starting the brain, and deciding to enroll for graduate studies in Georgetown was the best thing I had ever done for myself.

So maybe, now is a good time to start recapturing some of that spirit and fire of the past. I had been afraid of looking back, and was content to see my current state as a list of what I have not achieved, instead of acknowledging what I already have achieved. Well, like they say, better late than never (give or take 10 years).

I've been places, met people, and had once-in-a-lifetime kind of experiences. Like, hanging out with a barefoot, tank-top-and-shorts clad Lars Ulrich in the Metallica studio in Sausalito. Or, hunting for evidence of extra-terrestrial life forms with a UFO-logist (I kid you not) in Roswell. How about getting up close backstage with Sheryl Crow, Suede and Tom Jones (no panties involved), among others? I'll never forget the day that Jon Bon Jovi got off his chair and sat on the ground next to my very wobbly legs (unfortunately, no panties involved too, but he did take a very keen interest in my voice recorder). And when Madonna told me I had asked her a good question.

So, maybe those were all stargazing stuff that the 18-year-old me found inspiring. But before turning 28 this year, I had also done time at an online startup, strutted the suit-and-heels gig in the financial scene, taught yoga and English to kids in the Third World streets, done presentations for ministers, and looked death in the eye.

So, now that I'm all grown up, I'm ready to do more...much more, before I get old.

When Pete Townshend immortalized the line "I hope I die before I get old" back in 1965, way, way, way before I was born, he may have been talking about his generation and the fire of youth. But that note has resonated with many generations of youths since (although they may never have heard of him...duh Who?).

Later generations of psychologists have also been fond of quoting the line as a mistaken viewpoint that people are happiest when they are young. These very well-meaning researchers have done studies to show that people are in fact, happier when older, more mature, and fulfilled in life. While I don't disagree with the scientists, I think they have completely missed ol' Pete's point. I am of the opinion that "I hope I die before I get too old" has got nothing whatsoever to do with physical age.

It has to do with that fire that burns brightest in us when we are all 18, and somehow diminishes as we grow physically older. That is the fire that gives spark to dreams, to adventure, to courage to take on the unknown, and to really living...versus simply being alive. The day that flame burns out, is the day we get too old. Hence, I do hope I die before I get old, because I'm not letting my fire burn out anytime soon.

Perhaps, a later day band has re-interpreted the line in a better way, for the post-MTV generations who may be prone to taking things too literally. (Yes, this is where I finally get to the stuff us younglings recognize...Snow Patrol's Chasing Cars.)

"Forget what we're told.
Before we get too old,
Show me a garden that's bursting into life.
Let's waste time, chasing cars around our heads.
I need your grace to remind me to find my own.
If I lay here, if I just lay here, would you lie with me, and just forget the world?"

So, that's languid and kind of not fiery. But it's really about the same thing -- taking chances, and living in the moment (versus being stuck in the past or always anticipating the future). Or, just a very angst-ridden, 'now' way of saying what Marilyn Monroe had put very simply: "We should all start to live before we get too old. Fear is stupid. So are regrets."

Either way, I'm buying it. So I have a lot to do in the next ten years. Like, seeing Machu Picchu and Angkor Wat, riding the highest railway in the world into Lhasa, a horse across the Mongolian plains, and the Orient Express. I would like to spend time in an ashram in India, work with kids in Third World streets again, and produce my definitive piece of writing. Most importantly, I will re-build my professional life, doing something that I love doing. I also have a lofty ambition of becoming a walking Rosetta Stone. Well, I'm already proficient in two languages. Maybe, if I spend the next couple of years polishing the other two I already know, and then master a new one every two years after, I would have eight languages in ten years' time. Okay, maybe that's stretching it. But, definitely before I get old.

So anyway, I do hope I die before I get old. There's nothing worse than losing the fire for life. I know, for a fact, because I've lost it once, and had been given a chance to find it again. There's nothing worse than being told you're too old, too this or too that to do something; to lose the faith that you can do anything you want and be the person you are; to contort yourself to look, think, feel, dress, talk in a certain way because the rest of the world expects you to. That, in my book, is truly old. I will never let that happen to me again.

By the way, please remember that I'll be turning 28 for the next ten years, so you don't have to ask me about my age.

Reinventing the Cheating Game...

Guys and gals, sit up and listen. I'm about to propose changing the game...the cheating game, that is.

One of my girlfriends (who is the biggest sweetheart in the world) posted a link to an article titled "Will every man cheat one day?" on her FB profile. She then asked that all her married, male friends who have never cheated 'like' the post.

She got one response. And, a comment from me that no guy is ever going to be honest about this.

Now, let me state for the record that I'm no man hater, and I'm most certainly not going into a "all men are scums" rant. (On the contrary, as many of my guy buddies will testify, I rather like your species. You're pretty fun to be around when you're guzzling beer, watching soccer or beating up the mouse because you're being thrashed by the game algorithm.)

What I really don't like, is this really outdated discourse: 1. that men are biologically predisposed to cheat, and 2. hence the women must either stand by their men (I HATE that song) like a 'good wife' should, or turn into a man-hater.

Granted, the first point is completely true. It's been scientifically proven (although I did suspect if the whole study was just a brilliant conspiracy by the researchers to ratify the male species). It seems that there is a gene in the male makeup that determines if he is more predisposed to sowing his oats than other guys. The article my friend posted briefly quoted this study (http://www.mirror.co.uk/news/top-stories/2010/05/26/will-every-man-cheat-one-day-115875-22285910/).

So, we can't change nature. But we surely can change the way we perceive and think about the whole issue.

Firstly, in most cases, when a guy cheats, it usually has a lot more to do with the state of their relationship/marriage, or their personal issues, than their natural inability to keep their pants on. The therapists and counselors are pretty unanimous on the former probable cause. Married life can get boring, and the intimacy suffers, especially when the couple is sleep deprived or stressed out by the bills, the kids, etc. The psychologists, in the same note, agree on the latter cause. A guy who is having self esteem issues, or going through some major life changes, often finds a sexual conquest to be a great boost. (Like we women don't.)

So, I'm not saying I condone the act of cheating. I'm saying, stop demonizing the guy, but more importantly, stop focusing on the act. Seriously, each time a celebrity, or a friend of a neighbor's second cousin's friend is caught cheating, the whole world gasps and spreads the news, like it is really something new and surprising. Get over it, people. Give the guy and couple a break, and let them have a chance to sort out the root causes of their problems.

Secondly, and this is something you guys need to hear, it's not just the men who cheat. Women can, and do cheat, too. It's true. Maybe it happens less often with women, or we're just smarter and don't get caught as often, but yes, we can, and do cheat. And we're apparently not biologically predisposed to do so. Which then means, seriously, that there is this element called free will and/or choice that comes into play. Guys or gals, if we cheat, we make a choice to do it. Deal with it, and stop blaming the genes.

If you think about it, it's actually much easier for a woman to cheat. All she has to do is to put on makeup and some nice clothes. If, by the cliche definition of guys as biologically unable to not respond to a hotblooded, willing female, then it shouldn't be too hard for her to net one of them. C'est vrai?

What is really passe and trite in this whole discourse, is the concept of the 'good wife' -- the stoic, long suffering, noble woman who will 'stand by her man' (I HATE that song!), extend her gracious forgiveness and continue to hold their family together. This may have been a case of necessity in the good old days when women have no means of economic independence. But these days, we have OPTIONS.

So, this is what the gals need to hear. Our options, when it's broken, are: 1. Fix it, but only if we're sure we want to, and that they want to as well, and both parties are willing to work on it; 2. Leave it, and move on; and 3. Take one course, with the option of switching to the other.

And it's time to switch track for the whole "love-and-cherish, have-and-hold" paradigm of marriage to work in this day and age. The guy is no longer just there to provide, and the gal is no longer just there to nurture. Both need to do both and find some sort of comfortable meeting space in between. The rules need to change, and the whole game, reinvented.

Guys, if you want to be able to get away with it because you were bored, just having some fun, and it didn't mean anything, then you'll have to be able to live with it too if your wife/girlfriend does the same. Gals, "forever" and "happily ever after" only works if there is, indeed, happiness. If there's any standing to be done, it shouldn't be you, alone, by your man. It should be standing together.

Just so it's clear, I do still believe in good, old fashioned stuff like love and growing old together. There's not many scenes I find sweeter than an old couple, still holding hands, crossing the road or shuffling down the supermaket aisle together. Which brings me back to the point...it can only be done together, both parties willing, and working to make it happen.

Talk about Profiling!

I have just been a victim of profiling...social, and I believe, to some extent, racial.

I'm writing about it, not because I want to whine to the netizens who would read this about the bad day I had, but because I feel my story has a pertinent point to make about the whole discussion on profiling and prejudice.

So there I was at the corner of P and 35th, seat belt on, headlights on, foot on brakes, right turning signal on to indicate I was intending to pull out. I was the last car parked on the left side of the one way street. I looked behind to check in all 3 directions, looked in the rear view and side mirrors. Clear. Then, in the spilt second it took as I started to pull out, there he was, zipping right past me.

The point of contact between the two vehicles: my right front bumper, and his left back passenger door. So, you physicists out there can calculate how fast the other car must have been coming, especially if, according to him later, he had stopped at the stop sign on 35th, where my vehicle with all its lights on would have been fully visible.

He had to back up to pull to the side, so his car could still move. My car could still move. We both got out. Neither of us were hurt. So, as far as I know, the thing to do at that point would have been to exchange insurance information and make out respective reports.

He started yelling at me.

"I didn't see you! You didn't see me?"

"No, I didn't see you. We should exchange insurance information."

"Yeah I got insurance. It's your fault."

"I don't think we need to discuss whose fault it is."

He was yelling louder and louder, and I didn't want to get into an argument. We both got our paperwork from our cars. As he walked back towards me, he must have seen the Georgetown sticker on my car.

"You're going to make it seem like it's my fault! You're making me nervous! I don't have a good education like you! I'm calling the police!!"

I was making him nervous? What does my college have to do with this?

"Ok if that's your decision...but as far as I know, if nobody is hurt we shouldn't be calling the emergency number."

He called 911.

Fine. We'll make a police report then. But seriously, someone else could be really hurt and needing those officers to be there.

"Well, while we're waiting for the police to come, should we just exchange information cos we're going to have to do it anyway?"

I spent the next 20 minutes waving my insurance card at him trying to get him to see the sense in that. He spent that same amount of time yelling at me.

"How am I going to pay for this? I'm struggling you know! I just got this car!"

(Well, mister, I've been looking for a job FOREVER. And while everyone says they don't discriminate, seriously, when they see my resume, they don't see my experience, more than 10 years in journalism and PR and marketing, and the fact that I'm proficient in two languages and speak another two. They see a mum who left her career five years ago, and they will pass me up for someone who is younger and can work longer hours. While we're on profiling, let's just say it as it is.)

At this point, it struck me that he was indirectly admitting that he contributed to the accident. Why else would he have to worry about paying?

"I'm upset!"

Yes, I can see that and so can all these people walking by, giving me looks that said they were concerned for me but didn't know if they should intervene.

"I just came from the hospital. I'm having a bad day. I had to look after my father!"

At this point, I went from being frustrated at his barrage to empathy.

"Look, I'm sorry you're having a bad day. I have someone I need to look after too. My daughter is waiting for me to take her lunch and pick her up. The thing we need to do is exchange our information and make out reports."

I've always believed that if you treat people with kindness, compassion and openness, they will reciprocate. Today, I learned that unfortunately, it is not always so.

"No, I want to do this the right way or you're going to say it's my fault."

Firstly, I was the one who said we shouldn't be discussing whose fault it was, and let the insurance companies handle it. More importantly, the right way is not to abuse emergency services for this kind of scuffle huffle.

When the police arrived, he didn't give me a chance to speak to the officer. He just kept right on yelling. I told the officer respectfully that I was going to go sit in my car because I couldn't handle anymore of that man's yelling.

To cut the drama short, the police did what we should have done...collected information and gave the respective parties the other party's information. But of course, first he had to do all the checks on our IDs, vehicles, etc. What could have been a 5-minute resolution turned into a one-and-a-half hour ordeal.

Why? Profiling is to blame. He had profiled me as 1. someone who went to a good college, 2. by the inference of number one and the color of my skin, one of those smart Asians and 3. by inference of the above, probably connected with friends in important places. So then he jumped to the conclusion that I was going to oppress him and use whatever smarts and connections I have to make him pay money.

Regardless of the fact that I had said repeatedly, very calmly to him, that I wasn't going to discuss blame, I didn't want to argue with him, I just want to do the right thing, which is to exchange information and make our respective reports, he wouldn't hear the facts. Perhaps he had some nasty experience in the past that colored his worldview and made him afraid that he was going to be victimized. I wonder if there would ever be a day when he reflects on the incident and see the whole irony of the situation.

I wonder if he realized that he was the one who was guilty of racial and social profiling. Just because I had a college degree (and maybe he doesn't) he became aggressive and wanted to intimidate me. I wonder what he would think if he knew that when I was a little girl, my parents were so poor that we lived in a tiny one-bedroom apartment.

The point of this story is that profiling doesn't always happen in just one way. The whole conversion about prejudice and profiling can only make meaningful progress if everyone is willing to step away from their limited color schemes and social bandwidth.

This is not just a conversation about black-and-white, rich-or-poor, grad-non grad. It is about the baggage that each and every person, regardless of color or social status, carries in their hearts about the world around us.

So, keep talking about profiling, people. This conversation has just begun. And it's time for some honesty here.