Tenzin Samchok

Ms. Pohan Creative Nonfiction 23 January 2023 Skinny

My entire life, I have been skinny. Underweight, Slim-Jim, Slender, Stick, Lanky, Twig, whatever you want to call it. Every year when I would go to the doctor for an annual checkup, the results would be the same: underweight

It's not like I was all skin and bones. I had parents that fed me adequate meals three times a day. I wasn't anorexic, and I didn't have any eating disorders; I was just skinny.

When I was younger, I was proud of how skinny I was. It was a huge advantage: I could let myself loose, eating as much junk food as I wanted without worrying about weight gain. My mom would sometimes warn me how eating chips and drinking soda had nutritional consequences even if I wasn't gaining weight. However, I would just brush her comments off because I honestly didn't care enough; but who would?

Every skinny kid must have felt this way at one point.

One of the biggest challenges of being underweight has been the constant comments and questions from others. Friends and family would often ask if I was eating well. Coming home after a long day of playing outside, my face covered in sweat and dirt, my parents would always compare me to the likes of unfortunate children in the slums. It was heartbreaking to hear that from my parents. Did they really think their comment was inciteful? Because it clearly wasn't. At family reunions, my relatives would tell me how similar my uncle and I looked. In all honesty, this really felt like backhanded compliments because the only real resemblance was our slim frame. So I would grin and agree with them, "Yea, I get that a lot."

Even if I never showed it, being underweight made me feel weak. I was always the skinniest kid in my class, and that's just who I was. Of course, being skinny didn't really keep me up at night, tossing and turning in negligence of the fact that I was how I was, but at times it'd make me say, "damn I really do look like a stick."

But with all this projection, did I really have a reason to neglect their honest criticism? Instead of putting aside conflicts and blaming others, wouldn't it be best to tackle them? These excuses were compensating for my lack of work ethic and weak mentality. But it's easy for me to talk the talk, but let it be known that I have not been able to walk the walk. Ironically, my only progress has been those energies surged, 3 am Eureka moments. You know what I'm talking about. It's just a regular shallow Saturday night. Suddenly, you become the CEO of productivity. Instead of going to bed, you're cleaning your room, doing some push-ups, and finishing homework for classes that aren't due till next week. But this epiphany has no lasting longevity. The following day, you're bummed out; but of course, you are. You've hit a plateau.

Needless to say, my journey is nowhere near the end, but that hasn't discouraged me. Now how do I draw it back to the definition of skinny? Just like Cheryl Peck said, the attention given to societal standards has been demeaning. Being underweight has definitely had its challenges, but it has also taught me valuable lessons about self-acceptance and resilience. But neglecting that I, by birth, have always been skinny won't do me any good, so what's best to accept fate and work towards improving it?

Tenzin Samchok Ms. Pohan Creative Nonfiction Period 2 The Library

Although English has never been my favorite subject, I must confess that I loved reading books when I was younger. This is in part because my parents would frequently take me to the library. At one point in middle school, my dad and I would go to the Stephen A. Schwarzman Library every Saturday, on Fifth Avenue, between 40th and 42nd Street.

The hot air rising from the depths of the train station; the aroma of roasted peanuts and marinated chicken mixing in with the smoky fumes from the roaring engines of the halal carts; the over-exaggerative tour guides in their bright red shirts advertising "the best and only tour bus you’ll ever need!"; the loud exhausts coming from the traffic-congested road—the tranquility of the library overshadowed all of these city ambiances. The marble facade of the New York Public Library is ornate, with Beaux-Arts architecture flanked by two world-renowned marble lions. I remember sprinting up the marble steps, eager to get inside. The security guard at the entrance would greet us while he inspected our bags, and while he was doing so, I would dash away, deserting my father, to what was the holy grail of the whole library: the children’s room.

As I entered the children's room, my gaze was drawn to the abundance of books. Everywhere you looked, you were sure to find some sort of book in some sort of genre. There

were other kids as well (of course there would be), older and younger, some sitting by their parents as they read along to their favorite picture book and some on the chunky library computers, clicking and clacking away on the keyboard. To the side were large windows looking onto 5th Avenue, shining down bright and vibrant beams of light. However, my particular memories resided in the back corner of the room, away from the line of sight, in a cozy little crevice. The back corner of the children’s room held rows of laminated wooden shelves filled with colorful alphabetized fiction books that stood brave and proper in anticipation of their next reader. I loved that there was a gigantic Clifford the Big Red Dog stuffed animal resting valiantly on one of the bookshelves. Sitting on the soft red carpet, I sifted my slender little fingers through the covers of books that meant a lot to me: Diary of a Wimpy Kid, My Weird School, and, of course, Captain Underpants, one of the greatest children's novels ever written! I would pull the books out with a pinch on the cover, away from the rows of neatly arranged novels, carefully enough so that the rest of the books wouldn't fall, and stack them up like Jenga blocks, with great anticipation of what I was about to read. As I flipped through the pages, I would often lose track of time, immersed in the wealth of the books. I loved going to the library.

Yet, it wasn’t merely the books that gave the library such sincerity; it was also my father's willingness to sacrifice his weekends to spend time with me. My father would work night shifts on the weekdays, and as a result, I'd only catch a glimpse of him early in the morning due to the rustling of his keys at the door of our apartment and the luminescent yellow light of the hallway. By the time I got back from school, he'd already been off to work. The weekends that we spent

together were dear, and even though I would sometimes catch him dozing off or staring into his screen, it didn't matter because this was quality time bonding between father and son.

Sad to say, my father became too preoccupied with work to accompany me to the library. It didn’t help that the commute to the New York Public Library was a forty-minute train ride, and I was too young to go by myself. As an alternative, I would go to my local library, but reading just didn't feel the same. There was just an explainable difference in the environment that had originally kept me going to the NYPL. Maybe I've read all the good books? Maybe I just became lazier? Whatever it was, slowly but surely, I lost interest.

I haven’t gone to the Stephen A. Schwarzman Library ever since then, but I always pass by the Bryant Park train station on my way to school. It was ironic: I had the opportunity to revisit a part of my childhood, but I never brought it upon myself to step foot onto the platform and walk. This was just one of those psychological things that's just human nature. Or maybe that's just me. All I have to say is that I hope my future self will take responsibility.

Tenzin Samchok Ms. Pohan Creative Nonfiction Period 2 Distractions

It’s 3 am, and I’m lying in bed wide awake. My eyes are glued to the screen of my phone, scrolling through endless feeds of social media, my mind constantly hooked on the never ending media.

I see it everywhere and with everyone. Their neck in an incredibly terrible posture, slouching down to look at their phone. Just look around you, on the train, at school, maybe even whilst walking. I sound like an 80 year old grandpa, I find myself doing the same things as everyone else. But that doesn’t mean I can’t express my major distraught in itself. . It’s not just the constant distractions that are the problem, it’s also the way that technology has changed my attention span. I used to be able to focuson one task for hours on end, but now my mind is constantly racing, jumping from one thing to the next. I find myself rewarding a fifteen minute “productive” session with an hour of social media.

It’s a strange feeling, to be both captivated and skeptical of something at the same time. I can’t help but feel like I’m addicted to this endless stream of content, always searching for the next hit of entertainment.

Of course I’ve tried to avoid social media. I deleted apps that I found were too distracting to use but at the end of the day I still retained my old habits, finding alternatives like watching YouTube on my browser. It’s not that I don’t want to change, it’s just that the convenience of being connected is too hard to resist.

It’s really gone to the point where when I’m out in public I’m constantly checking my phone even though I have nothing more to be waiting for then the guy next to me walking home. And instead of taking time to relax and unwind, I find myself still tethered to digital media even when I’m supposed to be taking a breal. Unlike when I play video games, where I feel a sense of accomplishment and progress, mindlessly scrolling through my phone leaves me feeling unfulfilled and without any tangible gain. Just valuable time lost.

It’s crazy to think but just three years ago, I didn’t even have a phone. I’d commute to school by train, attend classes, go outside, hang out with my friends, everything without a cellular device. Back then notifications, and instant gratification weren’t important to me. Those things could wait till I got home but now that technology is so much more embraced after covid-19, I’m just on my phone even at school. Back when phones weren’t allowed in the lunchroom, where we’d make the most grotesque and vile concoctions and dare each other to eat it.

I often find myself feeling like the main character of a post-apocalyptic movie, looking back at a distant past that now seems almost inconceivable. The world before the COVID-19

pandemic was one of normalcy and fairness, but now it feels like a distant memory. It’s brought about such a shift in our lives that it’s hard to remember what it was like before. Even though it’s only been a year or two, so much has changed. I often find myself feeling nostalgic for the pre-pandemic era, but at the same time, I know that it’s not as simple as just going back to the way things were. The pandemic has changed the world in ways that I would have never imagined. The covid generation. The generation according to old-heads, would rather text a friend rather than socialize with them in person. There’s so many things that we’ve been confided to but what I’ve found the most useless is just the distractions that we have been given. So much technology in front of our little developing brains, we’d all be better off inhibiting this dopamine producing device. It’s even worse with the ipad kids, my parents have gotten my brother hooked on their phones. I’d call this lazy parenting but when it’s so much easier to manage and ignore a problem, wouldn’t you too? But it’s inevitable, everything is being managed online and through laptops, computers, phones; look at how school’s turned out, more than half the things we do are handled digitally. Ironically enough I’m writing this on the school laptop.

I’m back at the beginning. As I lay here in bed, staring at my pgone, I can’t help but feel a mix of emotions. On one hand, I am captivated by the endless stream of content and the convenience of being connected. On the other hand, I am skeptical of the constant distractions and the way it’s changed me.

Tenzin Samchok Ms. Pohan Creative Nonfiction Period 2 A Seven Month Stay

In 2011, my parents and I emigrated from India to the United States to seek a better life, pursuing the so-called American Dream. Roughly six months later, however, I was back at the Indira Gandhi International Airport in New Delhi, India, getting picked up by my uncle.

At the time, I had no idea why I was heading back, but that did not bother me. Instead, the thought of seeing my relatives and friends excited me. I was only disheartened when my parents broke the news that they were not coming with me. "Sorry, we are a bit busy with work, so I think it is best for us not to come," my mother explained. It took me a few seconds to process what had just come out of my mother's mouth, and when I did, all these questions flooded my brain. Who was going to accompany me on this transcontinental flight? What if something happened to me during the sixteen hours on the airplane? Who is going to pick me up? But there was nothing I could do except embrace it, so I did.

Thankfully, I was not going to be alone. My parents found a family friend who was also traveling to India. As a result of this convenience, my parents asked him to watch over me during the flight. The only problem was that I had never seen him in my entire life. When my dad

brought me to the JFK airport, there stood a short Asian man with brown hair and brown eyes, wearing a black North Face puffer jacket, clenching a suitcase in his hand. He must have been my dad’s old colleague because they were busy with whatever conversation they were having. On the other hand, I was dying of boredom, staring off into space, frantically fidgeting with the zipper on my jacket. Aside from the greetings and goodbyes, we did not converse much. I knew nothing about him, and he knew nothing about me. We respected this mutuality, only bothering one another when necessary. The majority of my stay in India was at the Tibetan Children’s Village, or TCV, for short. TCV was founded to educate and foster orphans, refugees, and the impoverished in exile as a means of keeping intact the Tibetan culture. At the time of my trip, TCV was well established all over India. It was in my parent's best interest to send me to the Gopalpur branch because one of my maternal aunts taught there.

When my uncle first brought me to TCV, the unfamiliarity of the hostel overwhelmed me. Everywhere I looked, there were faces that I had never seen before. Yet, the whole time, I was met with a very warm and friendly vibe. Everyone we passed by would greet us with an ecstatic smile. Saying goodbye to my uncle was not as frightening as I thought it would have been. The hostel was separated into many different houses where the kids were supposed to live. And in those houses, there would be kids ages four all the way to eighteen, all under the care of an ama. The word ama means mother in Tibetan, and although she was not our biological mother, she took care of us like one. In the house the elders were held responsible for supervising younger siblings. They were also expected to cook and prepare food for everyone. When it came to the younger children, we held the most exhausting task, distributing the utensils and plates. Just kidding. After everything was fully prepared, we would all sit together, say our prayers, and eat.

Something different about TCV compared to other boarding schools was the relationship between everyone and each other. The Tibetans from different walks of life together as a community gave me the impression that this was not just an ordinary boarding school. There were refugees, students who had never seen their parents, and students who were fortunate enough to have parents like me. Some lived in India their whole lives, and some lived abroad like me. Despite our differences, the culture that we shared and our similar interests bonded us. On a regular school day, the bell would ring, and everyone would get up for breakfast. Then, one by one, we would all trickle out of the house. For some odd reason, schools in India were from Monday to Saturday, meaning that it was just a one-day weekend. At first, I could not comprehend how anyone could live like this. But, I soon realized that the scarcity made me appreciate the weekends more. It has been so long since I was last in TCV that I forgot everything that happened during school. However, whenever my mom would be on the phone with my aunt, she would bring up how I participated all the time during English. The few months in the states helped me get a headstart compared to everyone else, and as a result, I would help teach the class most of the time. When recalling English class at TCV, unfortunately, I only remember that our classes would be held in the library. As a five-year-old, I witnessed many differences between the United States and India. For starters, the seats on the swings were metal, as opposed to plastic, so on extremely sunny days, we would go to a nearby stream and scoop out water to pour over the seats. Even though our pants would be partially wet, this was way better than sitting on the scorching hot metal. The corn in India was not as sweet as those my parents bought at the supermarket in the United States, but that was not terrible news. Instead, this meant the perfect coating of salted Amul butter to enhance the savory flavor. With much more important contrasts, kids were allowed to roam the streets with complete independence. Whereas

in the United States, it is just too dangerous. Likewise, if you fall, your natural intuition would be to get up and fix yourself. With this mindset, being soft was out of the picture in India. With my only reference being New York, maybe these differences were just urban things that happened only in densely populated states. Quite possibly, in states like Ohio, these logistics did not apply. Nevertheless, whatever it was, there was a different atmosphere in India. My green card only permitted the trip to be within a one-year duration, and so seven months later, I was headed back to the United States. The sunny and warm climate of the campus in the woods would soon be left behind. I would not be able to see my friends, my teachers, and my ama again now that I was heading home. The flight on the way back was solely under the care of the flight attendants. As I entered the airplane full of strangers, I felt very uncomfortable because now I did not know anyone on board. However, I was fortunate enough to have a nice lady sitting next to me to accompany me on the flight. As the attendant directed me to my seat, I was met with a charismatic and contagious bright smile. An old lady was sitting near the window. Being alone and traveling abroad filled me with paranoia. But I had also noticed the old lady, too, was all by themselves. So I wondered, was she nervous too? She was much older and wiser than me, but at the end of the day, she and I were two human beings on a flight to NYC. Nevertheless, realizing that someone else also felt uncomfortable eased my nervousness, and I bet it helped her too. One moment I recall on the flight was during meal time. Row by row, one at a time, the flight attendant shoved the cart aisle by aisle, getting everyone’s requests. Everyone except for mine. I was puzzled why I had been singled out, and so, right as I was getting ready to question their work, the old lady beside me requested a second meal. Before eating her meal, the kind lady started feeding me with the extra tray that she got. At that moment, I was in complete awe; the crew that was supposed to take care of me had just ignored me, yet this stranger, who had never

seen me before, took it upon themselves to feed me. Right as I finished my food, an attendant took me to their cabinet. That’s when it all hit me, they were going to feed me after they had finished catering. I quickly attempted to alert them that I was full and had already eaten. However, due to possible language barriers, they continued to feed me. The attendants only realized when I regurgitated a yellowish liquid with bits of half-digested substances that were once my food. Everyone in the cabinet quickly flocked away, like a bunch of pigeons, in hopes of avoiding this morbid projectile. The repulsive stench of the vomit overpowered the cabinet, and I quickly fled back to my seat in embarrassment. When I got back, I looked across my seat to the sight of the old lady taking a nap. With the blinding sun shining through the windows, the sound of jet engines speeding up the runway for takeoff, and the eager passengers waiting for their flight to come, I waved one last time to the lady that had sat next to me on the flight. I knew that we would never see one another ever again. Despite the short encounter, this exact moment resonated in my heart. It was the old lady who sat next to me.