A veteran Orange County lab assistant who claims that his boss banned him from speaking Vietnamese anytime on the job—even on breaks or at off-duty functions—has agreed to settle his employment discrimination lawsuit prior to a scheduled 2013 trial.
This story is fucked up. You know what else is fucked up? The image they chose to pair with this article.
Yo. Fuck you, OC Weekly. For some of us, torture photos are not a hipster joke.
A while back I went through a breakup. This one was especially painful. But as I lay there I remembered a story a teacher once told me. Over the next few days I said it to myself over and over again.
There was an old man who lived in a village with his son. They had a horse, and one day the horse ran away. The villagers said to the man, “how unlucky!” The old man shrugged it off. “Maybe it’s good, maybe it’s bad. I don’t know.”
The next day, the horse came back. And it brought with it a wild horse. And the villagers all thought, “how lucky!” Again the old man said, “Maybe it’s good, maybe it’s bad. I don’t know.”
The next day, the son was trying to train the wild horse. As he was trying to ride it, the horse threw him off, and the son broke his leg. And the villagers said, “How unlucky!” And the old man said, “Maybe it’s good, maybe it’s bad. I don’t know.”
The next day, a nearby village was attacked, and all the able-bodied young men were drafted for war. The son, having broken his leg the day before, was spared.
Maybe it’s good, maybe it’s bad. I don’t know.
I concocted my own version of this story for my newly fresh breakup. Maybe, had we stayed together, it would have been a life of heartbreak and misery. Or maybe it would have been a lifetime of happiness, but on our very next date we would have gotten into a car accident and been killed. Maybe it’s good, maybe it’s bad. I don’t know.
It’s so easy to go through life labeling everything that happens as good or bad. But you don’t know how things will play out. It’s not good or bad. It just is.
It’s so easy to label emotions, too. Joy is good. Pain is bad.
There’s a girl who literally cannot feel pain. Her nerves don’t send pain signals to her brain like they’re supposed to. Whereas you or I would touch a burning flame and immediately jerk back, she could just leave her finger there. And she’d always be picking at her eyes – it didn’t hurt. By the time she was 4, her left eye was so damaged that it had to be removed.
“Im going into this not knowing what i”ll find
but I’ve decided to follow my heart and abandon my mind
and if there be pain i know that at least i gave my all
and it’s better to have loved and lost than to not love at all
in the morning i may wake to smile or maybe to cry
but first to those of my past i must say goodbye”—'Pac
A couple nights ago I attended an interactive talk about African Americans in Oregon history that a colleague and friend offered at the Oregon Historical Society here in Portland.
The interactive part meant I had to turn around and talk to a retired white, male historian sitting behind me about…
“ allies who feel they have more to teach than to learn obstructs, fractures, and undermines our lives and work in ways the perpetrators can’t even perceive because their perspectives are so aloft with a mistaken sense of wisdom and competence, so drunk with privileges they believe it is their job to mete out at their own discretion, so frenzied with panic over the dissolution of the structural superiority”
It was an eventful weekend… for weeks - months maybe - I had been working to organize our new-found family. Our festival was a blast, we had unprecedented attendance at the campus conference, and were really growing into unit. Cleaning up after the festival felt like a musical act - chairs and tables flung about, yet somehow we all managed to get it right into place.
Following the festival, we made our way to a good friend’s place; he was having a nice gathering at his apartment with plenty of good company and of course card games to keep us aloof! DCHS, we were playing tiến lên, it was your idea, and a good one at that.
Before long we grew feeble and made our way, what was soon to be home. It was cold out. We weren’t sure if you had a way in, so I offered my roof and we made our way there. The place was a mess from the preparation of the night before. I thought to address it, but to be honest, we were tired and a bit hungry. Luckily, there was some bánh bột lọc in the freezer - I nuked it had a small bite, and were ready to get some rest.
Instead, fireworks and flashing lights followed and it’s been four years since.