By RainbewLatte
Just as it was shared in a like-minded conversation with my math professor on the last day of class last quarter (Q2), two quarters of college—two quarters of my first year (freshman year) of college—really flew by. And wow, is that quite the feeling to take in? Well, there go approximately 22 weeks of my life.
In so many moments, well, most significantly at the start of the quarter, the first few weeks I told myself I had figured out what it meant to “delight”—what it meant to write a delight or, in terms of verb form, what it meant to delight.
Given the multitude of questions I faced in regards to any shroud of continuing this practice and this inconsistent written weekly delight (as evidenced by the end of Quarter 1), I ultimately caved.
Even if I wasn’t really going to write anything, even if I could only churn out a good piece or two, I felt there was or is such a delight in continuation, this odd linearity, that I guess with anything of value to oneself, I ultimately decided to give it a shot.
I mean, why not?
Quarter 2 brought about a series of realizations in regards to this practice, as there is always this want to bring something new with another volume, or in this case, "quarter,” to prevent it from getting stale and redundant, and I suppose I also saw it as a redemption to right my wrongs, to change my approach, to tell better stories, to find more delight in this far from limitless school, and maybe in some ways not meander as much. But in terms of new avenues to explore, in many ways, Quarter 1 had everything. It had the energy (until it didn’t). It had life (until it didn’t). It had the freshness and everything else I could’ve asked for in the introduction to my work in the field of delight, and it perfectly aligned with the start of college life. Isn’t that exciting?
And I can’t forget Katharine’s loving support.
In many ways, at the end of Quarter 1, or towards the tail end, when an uptick in pieces occurred, the energy, drive, and purpose of the practice sort of died. Though that was something that was hard to admit, I denied it many times, perhaps because of the pride I had in my work and the ultimate nature of how it sort of altered and shifted my life and the way I viewed the world around me. I was almost doing things and acting under the umbrella of delight, almost as a way to convince myself that I was happy and that I could be happy, largely as a way to say that I was okay when maybe I was not.
I think I became infatuated with my work and the feeling that I was making something, adding something to my name, when it truly was providing more hurt than help. In some ways, Quarter 2 brought about a series of realizations about this practice that I didn’t fully understand or what it entailed, despite initially telling myself I had it all figured out. This is the type of piece I’m going to write. These are the types of things I’m going to pay attention to. Approach it this way. Little did I know life would throw me for a loop in the most unexpected of ways, right when the ball really got rolling. Not long after my birthday, while in the library with friends, I received an email from an unexpected somebody from my school, someone I never thought I’d have to talk to, telling me to set up a meeting as she had something to say.
The email was directed at me. And as is true for many college emails (or life in general), that isn’t always the case.
For all the things I may have seen or experienced, I couldn’t quite capture what they wanted with me, and that was definitely unnerving. All the while, I felt like I was still nursing a wounded dog. To later find out after a series of unfortunate events that it had everything to do with a book self-bound with out-of-pocket money for the sake of sharing, more specifically Memories of Finn Quarter 1, I wouldn’t be lying if I said that further unmotivated me.
But, keeping this part of the book true to what it’s meant to be, as it’s by no means the acknowledgements section, there is never enough gratitude, but thank you to all the people who guided me along and motivated me. Though at its core this was a personal endeavor, this wouldn’t be here without all the people who made it what it was. Sometimes you need someone to tap you on the shoulder and point for you to look up. Whether it’s a turkey vulture or simply (by no means simply) the sky above, this book is filled with an abundance of these things.
Though this book is truly a book of delight, grudge, and college stories in many ways, a great thanks, in some ways an extension, a tribute to the work of Ross Gay and his work on delights in application to my life in this college setting, his work is a great reminder that it’s okay to not always stay true to the rules you set, to find the joy, the good, the hint of laughter in even the littlest of things, to not forget to cherish their worth, and that there’s always time for delight.
Going back to a thing I told my friend in conversation after the conception of Memories of Finn Quarter 1, this is a book that is meant to be read linearly and nonlinearly. It’s a book of memories, a book of gratitude, and ultimately a book of love.
And with that, may we embark on this journey together once more.
By RainbewLatte
I got an email from Wicked Chicken (a fried chicken restaurant across the street from my dorm, just next to Taco Bell and Safeway, well, more like in between), and for a moment it kind of ticked me off that the first person or “thing” to “greet me” (I suppose and wonder if "miss you, please come back, and give us money” is a way of greeting) was a chicken restaurant. And beyond that, they called me “Stranger” (Hello, Stranger!), which the last time I checked wasn’t a nickname I remember having.
Hello…Stranger…
Huh. Sure is something.
Your Friends at Wicked Chicken Wings.
(Can I share that they bolded their name?)
Wicked Chicken Wings.
It humored me.
Making similar promises to myself as I did last quarter, I decided that I had to eat breakfast given that it was only the first day. In reality, I think breakfast is such a necessity; you should always eat breakfast, but for context, I did a lot of morning grind and studying last quarter, which is probably better left unglorified.
It was bad.
Having your stomach growl in class (now called “lectures”) is like the least cool thing one could ask for. You start to wonder if the professor (especially with the class sizes at SCU, which for more context is quite small; it’s like a second “private high school”) is calling on you to answer a question, or to tell your stomach to shut up, or, as was the case in my middle school (yes, I also “forgot” to eat breakfast sometimes in middle school), have the teacher offer you a granola bar from their “secret room,” only to have the class turn towards you (out of spite, jealousy, or sympathy, I don’t know which) as she approaches, the granola bar in hand, before telling you to “eat up.”
Then, the class watches (some letting out a sigh of disbelief, others now thinking they have the kindest or best teacher in the world, which I “suppose” is true) as you slowly unwrap the granola bar, struggling a little bit with the finicky wrapper, only for the teacher to ask if you “need help" and that now that your table partner is helping you, you’re finally able to take a bite.
Only then do they leave you alone.
But, to get back to the grandeur life of college, or the first day back in college (legit the only day I have any measurable amount of energy, which already sort of dies after my first lecture), I was making my way to Mission Bakery in Benson, our dining hall, having ordered a yogurt parfait (for those who’ve stayed or continued on this journey with me, the butter croissant that sort of spurred on this whole telling of college stories was no longer on the menu) only to cross (more like “encounter”) Emily, my wonderful CF, on the way there.
“Oh hi! I didn’t see you there!"
The conversation sort of rambled on as we made our way over to Benson together (this was totally unplanned) only for her to ask me about my break, which was so-so (sorry Katharine, Letsy, Karina, and friends, those days were of much delight), and upon reaching Benson, we parted ways.
“Nice talking!”
I headed towards Mission Bakery while simultaneously searching for a seat, as I hadn’t been notified that my order was ready despite placing it before I even left my dorm, only for this order of yogurt parfait to take its sweet time.
…
I did in fact have class, and instead of being across some patches of grass with Kenna Hall, I had class in some building that apparently only I called “Edward” (if we’re going by last names, it’s "Dowd"), which was on the complete other side of campus from Mission Bakery, so I was “totally” in the mood to wait. But, being the kind, calm, and collected student I am on the first day back on campus, I waited.
And waited.
And waited.
And…
Bzzt!
I felt a buzz in my pocket and eagerly grabbed my phone, expecting a notification that my yogurt parfait was ready. Instead, it was a text message from my friend Katharine.
“Good morning!”
I sighed, staring at the message. Of course, the one time I actually wanted a food notification, it was something mundane. My stomach grumbled in protest.
Good morning…
Still no parfait.
Resigning myself to a yogurt-less fate, I decided to give up and head to class. As I walked out of Mission Bakery, my mind wandered back to Wicked Chicken's email. At least they wanted me back.
As I trudged across campus, I couldn't help but laugh at the absurdity of it all. The first day of the new quarter and I was already reminded of the unpredictable nature of college life. Whether it was my stomach growling in the middle of lectures, getting caught in an endless wait for breakfast, or receiving the most untimely texts, it all seemed like part of the adventure.
Maybe next time I'll get my yogurt parfait on time. Or maybe I'll end up with another story to tell. Here's to another unpredictable quarter, I sighed. To another quarter and more!
By RainbewLatte
Having returned to campus and being done with classes for the day, I decided to pay tribute (okay, this sounds like I’m writing to the deceased; it was more like “paying a visit,” which now sounds like I’m going to Grandma’s) to Safeway, which is (and was always, as far as I know) right across the street from Finn, my dorm.
And sure enough (at least to my belief), I dressed accordingly: gray beanie from my grand adventures with Katharine, a hoodie with all sorts of holes, and a set of earbuds dangling over my ears blasting Bibi.
For those who don’t know, Bibi is a K-pop artist.
She’s kind of cool.
Check her out.
Having gone to Safeway to buy oat milk and yogurt, I went to the checkout line (not self-checkout this time due to the growing line), to which the lady at the checkout (who was oh so kind) told me, as I was flittering with my bag, “Welcome back,” with an energy that isn’t typically displayed on Mondays.
I paused, taken aback by her warm greeting. It wasn't just the words, but the genuine smile that accompanied them. For a moment, I felt a sense of belonging wash over me. It was a small gesture, but it meant a lot.
"Thanks," I replied, managing a smile of my own. "It's good to be back."
As I walked back to my dorm, groceries in hand, I reflected on the day. From the unexpected email from Wicked Chicken to the long wait for my yogurt parfait that never came, it had been a day full of small annoyances and minor disappointments. Yet, here I was, feeling strangely content.
College life was unpredictable, filled with both frustrating and delightful moments. But it was these little interactions, the unexpected greetings, and the shared laughs that made it all worthwhile.
As I unlocked the door to my dorm room, I couldn't help but feel a renewed sense of excitement for the quarter ahead. There would be more hectic mornings, more missed breakfasts, and certainly more humorous mishaps. But there would also be more connections, more laughter, and more moments that made it all worth it.
Settling down at my desk, I put away the oat milk and yogurt, and started preparing for the next day.
By RainbewLatte
Sometimes you get the random urge to do something you can’t exactly reason out—something you usually end up doing anyway “just because.” It shouldn’t take long, I told myself the exact same thing.
However, unlike the usual feeling of satisfaction that comes with having an itch scratched, I was sitting by my window gazing out towards the Safeway parking lot that lay just beyond my window at 1:35 a.m., trying to find the words to a response I was trying to formulate. I felt one of these urges catching a glance of my newly bound book (or collection of “a few” essays) titled *Memories of Finn and Further Down Quarter One*. Like a few other books, it simply sat on my desk propped up, “displayed.”
Getting nowhere with my response as I listened to the gentle buzz of the mini fridge largely overcast by the sound of my suitemate showering and my dorm mate sleeping just a table’s length away from me, I worked away by lamplight. Despite having written half a page (which I am thankful for as it’s better than none), it was upon giving in and picking up the book that I ran my fingertips across the pages, flipping through them one by one (66 pages total) ever so gently, ever so carefully. I felt as if I were cradling a baby or holding, touching, engaging with some artifact, something with a loaded history, a family lineage perhaps. I thought back to all that went into making such a thing, from collecting and organizing photographs to plotting down ideas for cover art to designing the cover, from all the editing, all the loneliness, and all the laughs. I remembered how it felt to write (create) such a thing. Perhaps I felt too many things. Or maybe, truly, too few.
Looking back, none of it feels real to me and I almost can’t believe I wrote such a thing. As much as it pains me to have to read over my own work, many of the words and the process of writing and constructing it are ever present in my memory. Yet many are also so faded and in need of a refresh, and it is in engaging in the act of reading over one’s own work for the billionth time that a sense of joy warms me.
Despite all the pain and all the struggle I can’t help but not forget as that, too, has become a part of me that I try to learn from and wear, embrace with pride. I thank not only myself (or this past version of me who had written this) but all those who made it possible. Without their help, support, and motivation, I’d be nothing.
But sometimes it’s not about the others. Sometimes, it’s in re-engaging with oneself, one’s past, that you learn something, that you take something away. Maybe you even find the motivation I found in this moment of silent reflection and gentle delight—the motivation to keep going.
By RainbewLatte
The dread of having a class on a Friday afternoon (especially before a three-day weekend, which I’ve never had in college) was really hitting as I ran down the stairs of my dorm in hopes I’d get to class on time. For those who don’t know, I live on the 4th, and highest, floor of Finn. My math class was in O’Connor Hall, which, like a good sum of my classes this quarter, was on the complete other side of campus. Despite the slight comfort I had in knowing that this school isn’t exactly large, it was quite the gut punch to see that the first thing I’d see upon exiting the stairs wasn’t exactly an open path leading to the outside, but rather a bunch of cameras and people wearing SCU merchandise holding SCU signs.
Of course. They’re here to film in SCU’s best dorm. Shite.
Upon making it to the bottom of the staircase, I’d stand there for a moment in awe and confusion, as, despite being a dorm resident, I hadn’t been notified. And sure enough, they took up the entire walkway.
Do I wait? I checked my wristwatch only to be hit with the realization that I had 10 minutes to get to class.
More shite.
The only way out of my situation was to take the elevator, which I had decided not to take for the sake of speed (imagine just idly standing there waiting for the elevator when you only have 10 minutes to get to class on the other side of campus), as exiting from the elevator would allow me the grandeur of being able to bypass all the filming and head out the side door exit that most took to get to Safeway.
Looking around in panic as I tried to process all the thoughts in my head (imagine being late on the first week!) not knowing if I was allowed to quickly get through or if I’d have to head back up the stairs or just wait, I’d catch a glimpse of someone I believed to have been a CF mouthing or attempting to mouth what I believed to have been the words We’re almost done.
I wasn’t too sure. In my head, I was just screaming, I can't, I won't, I can’t. Point at my wrist watch. Point at the door. Motion running.
Class.
I made my way back up the stairs in an attempt to catch the elevator, only to wait what felt like an eternity in my state of panic. By the time the elevator got to the first floor (with me in it), the filming seemed to have wrapped up.
Good riddance, I thought. Triple shite.
I darted, dashed, and hustled out the door (oh, the use of verbs is the only means of delight in this one) only to sprint (more like hobbled and wobbled) across campus, constantly trying to find a shortcut that wasn’t going to come, only to somehow make it to class on time.
Phew! Enough exercise; I thought only to let out a massive sigh. The students in this class are probably wondering what’s wrong with me. I sat down in a vacant seat (sitting down not too long after darting across campus—it’s strenuous exercise—is definitely not the move) only to realize a good portion of my class hadn’t arrived either. Worse yet, my professor hadn’t arrived. Well, it’s 45. (Class began at 4:45.) Being the wonderful student I was, I got set up with my notebook and pen, only to watch as minutes passed and then more.
Well…
46.
Well…
47.
Welh…
50…
Then, through the doors, walking ever so idly, coffee in hand, he came.
By RainbewLatte
There is nothing like watching someone wrapped “burrito-style” walk down the hallway midday, which I suppose isn’t all that big of a surprise in college with the abundance of fuzzy slippers. I was simply strolling the halls for the sake of strolling (I suppose I was squandering a bit of time before heading to class), for which I encountered a dorm resident strolling ever so freely (roaming free spirits are a means and cause for delight), to which I was brought back to a conversation I had with a friend just a couple days ago about the existence of “burrito walkers” or “burrito sleepers,” to which my friend, Katharine, recommended I join the latter. Ever since the workload in college has really ramped up, my sleep quality has been insanely poor.
It kind of throws people off.
With going to class an inevitable reality of any schooling, I proceeded on with my day, only for the lingering thought to remain.
Burrito walkers. And! I always complain that I’m cold.
Sometimes it just takes a spark to start a fire.
Sometimes two. But perhaps the "burrito walker" was evidence of the start of a chain reaction for me.
So, that night, being a dreadful Monday, I decided to “sushi roll” or “burrito” myself in my sheets (I guess I have in fact indulged in this experience with a sibling, “making sushi"), only for me to come to the realization that walking down the hallway wrapped “burrito style” is something I’d do, and sure enough, I slept like a baby.
By RainbewLatte
I was returning to my seat during lunch, having had my biology lecture not too long prior, when I had a strange intuition that I recognized someone nearby. Having left most of my personal belongings behind to go pick up my order of tandoori chicken, it was upon my return that it became apparent that it was Gabby, my lab TA and neuroscience classmate from a quarter prior, sitting at a table both parallel and overlooking mine.
For those who don’t know, Santa Clara University (where I go to college) isn’t the largest of schools, yet somehow the crossings (unless intentional) are far and few. And, as is often the case, once two people cross paths and lock eyes, recognizing each other, conversation sort of becomes unavoidable, so we talked. Little did I know the first thing she did was congratulate me (I guess it’s something coming from a TA) for some odd achievement or accomplishment I achieved last quarter, which I had knowledge of but never clarified to me. So, go me, I guess…
And thank you, Gabby.
It is often interesting to watch as conversations weave the way they do, especially when there’s been a significant (or at least noticeable) gap in time since two individuals (or even a group of individuals) last talked. Yet, it wasn’t like we had a world to catch up on either.
There’s just something so near and dear about the act of encountering—the act of crossing—that in and of itself is a way of conversing—a way of delight.
Odd encounters work wonders, and such an unexpected crossing definitely brought a glimmer to my day.
By RainbewLatte
With rain there are happenings, and with happenings there are “bin squirrels” (squirrel, singular, in my case). I was walking out of my dorm simply to indulge in my Sunday (given the rain had let up a little), when I crossed a fellow that I had the urge to name “Thing” (probably not the kindest of names), which in reality was just a squirrel standing on one of the four edges of the trash bin just a short walk away from my dorm.
And for the longest moment, I was enamored by the thing as it stood motionless and with eyesight like mine under the hood of the trash can (is that what it’s called?) I almost couldn’t make out the thing. But having encountered what I believe to have been possums twice during my time here at SCU, I knew that that was the one thing it couldn’t be.
Besides, there are plenty of squirrels at SCU, so I guess I shouldn’t be too surprised.
I continued on my stroll with no destination in mind (after taking a picture, maybe two), unable to shake the thought from my mind. I couldn’t help but ponder the secret life of bin squirrels. Were they the unsung heroes of campus clean-up, bravely perched on the frontlines of refuse management? Or, perhaps, in their tiny, furry minds, they held clandestine meetings, discussing the latest gossip from the grounds of SCU.
I watched as raindrops continued their soft percussion on the leaves above (a little harder now), creating a tranquil soundtrack (or backtrack to the soundtrack I was listening to) to my musings. And, in the process, I found myself involuntarily glancing at every trash bin I passed, half-expecting another bin squirrel to appear. A game of hide-and-seek, Where’s Waldo, or iSpy with these elusive campus dwellers, one in which they’d hardly ever be found.
Having made my rounds, I made my way back towards my dorm, stopping at the trash bin once more, only to notice that it was gone.
Leaving the trash bins and their clandestine gatherings behind as I made my way through my dorm’s front door, I couldn’t help but smile at the thought of these untold stories unfolding right under our noses (or, in this case, right under the hoods of trash cans), wondering, if we truly paid attention, truly noticed, what type of things we’d find.
By RainbewLatte
I was once again at Chef’s Table (the location Korean Bibimbap—a piece I wrote last quarter—took place) to pick up my order of BYO (build your own) Dim Sum, which in and of itself was shocking. (Dim Sum?! In college dining halls? Hooray!)
Even though I’m practically getting charged $17 for not much, like I’m still hungry after eating it (7-Eleven, here I come), the lady working behind the counter made my day in ways I couldn’t possibly foresee. She asked me, “What sauce?”
Okay. Kidding. But she did ask.
Selecting the sauce that seemed least likely to go on Dim Sum, as none of the sauces really did (sweet and sour?) I was redirected toward the scanner, where I scanned my pickup barcode only for it to “not go beep.”
In other words, the scanner refused to scan.
Now, that isn’t to say that this was the first time the scanner wasn’t working (the scanners in Benson—our dining hall—literally just suck), but never once have I been called a “poor thing” or “you poor thing,” preceded by awws. If anything (and for reference), those working at Mission Bakery (the café in Benson) never feel bad for me, so I could really feel her sympathy.
Before long as the scanner really wasn’t going (oh, how can a scanner suck this bad), she set the plate of Dim Sum before me before air-tapping my shoulder (I kind of just “sensed” the tapping motion though contact wasn’t made) only to make for a whisper. Saying ever so silently and ever so gently were the words "Shhh, it's okay," in drawn-out forms, providing reassurance but also giving the impression that she was dispelling some secret to me.
I couldn’t help but respond.
“Okay…” I replied even more quietly before making a shush sign, putting my right pointer finger up to my nose as if to say, “I know.”
With no one else in line (or behind me), I took my order, and from there, we sort of just laughed.
By RainbewLatte
I guess there’s still direction in being lost. I was idly walking in the rain with my “sky-patterned” umbrella (whatever that entails) on my way to class (which was on the complete other side of the school from my dorm) listening to Bibi’s “Restless” and whatever else I usually listen to (a mixed array of mish mash) as I ate away at a butter croissant I got this morning, recognizing just how far I strayed from my usual routine.
Sometimes life is just off.
Listening to my music with nothing better to do as I inched ever closer to the art building (Dowd), I realized that rather than eating a yogurt parfait (something I’ve basically routinely eaten every day for breakfast for the past two weeks), I was eating a butter croissant, and beyond that, I forgot to read Ross Gay (a delight in his Book of Delights) before I left for class, and I would be lying if I didn’t say that sort of bugged me.
Has that aspect of school already caught up to me? Has it really begun?
Despite the gnawing feelings within me, some days will inevitably play themselves out like this.
Some days, it's just harder to be happy. Some days, you just have to learn to get by.
However, it was then and there that I started to recognize the world around me, admiring the beauty within this gentle rain. It was raining hard enough that I found the use of my umbrella necessary. The greens, the purples, and the browns, the people, the pathways, and the pattering of rain.
Walking down the large paved pathway to class where plenty roamed and skateboarders “flew” (soared, perhaps zoomed), I watched as a squirrel, sort of lost, it seemed, ran beside me as if it wanted to accompany me on this journey. And I guess in its unknowing (unless it truly was following me after my croissant, perhaps muttering “feed me”), it will never truly know or understand how much it delighted me.
It was like the glimmer of the sun in the midst of rain and the reassurance that there’s an end to pain. Life happens, and it’s okay if you aren’t always able to stick to your routine(s). Sometimes you just have to learn to adapt and run free.
By RainbewLatte
Katharine and I were kind of joking yesterday (Katharine’s my friend, by the way) about how much I was dreading being the discussion leader for my ARTH class because with being the discussion leader came a lot of reading (and writing!) that I wasn’t exactly set up to be able to do to the best of my ability (which bothered me) due to how deep I was into “the homework grind,” which is another way of saying that I was sleep deprived. ("ARTH,” for those who don’t know, is basically just “art” with an “h.”) As much as I wanted to question the necessity of discussion leaders in college (it just felt unnecessary and a little too middle school-like), being a discussion leader was inevitable; being a discussion leader at least once this quarter was a must, and so rather than putting it off until later (as I do with too many things), I was going to get it done and over with.
But blame me! (My perception of time is nonexistent.)
Although it was a pure, unavoidable 40 pages of reading and a couple hours of pain, I was somehow able to get it done.
Hooray!
I walked into class this morning sort of dreading this presentation (it’s the feeling you get when you know you have to present something you know you kind of rushed and crammed) only for my professor’s dog to run towards me the moment I opened the door. And rather than dart out the door, as I suppose someone who has no real understanding of a dog might predict, it began to follow me and soon followed me all the way to my seat, where I mentally prepared myself to be the disaster I knew I’d be.
Huff. Just getting ready.
The moment I sat down was when the fellow friend really began to sniff me, my legs specifically (which are by no means charming), class began, and I was “forced” to present.
Morning class! (It was raining.)
My leading or presenting went as accordingly as possible: not as bad as I expected, but I had also walked in with a notebook splattered with ink and four printed pages of notes, so I guess in a way I was “prepared.” Technology wasn’t allowed in the class. Phones off at the door. Returning to my seat, class progressed accordingly.
It wasn’t until about halfway through class that I really started to feel this odd warmth pressing up against my leg. Doing as I expected myself to do, I looked beneath my desk only to notice my professor’s dog, now settled, all snuggled up, and sort of snoring, at my feet.
By RainbewLatte
There's something about believing I have decent time management skills—okay, maybe more like passable, maybe more like fine. Knowing I had class at 11:45, I was still sitting in SCDI, a place where labs are held at SCU, at around 11:30, working on my laptop while simultaneously cross-referencing this notebook of mine. This notebook, by the way, is a delight—the cover reads “Put Yourself First Damn It” in one of the nicest fonts I’ve seen in quite some time. Artistic, truly. I believed I could pack up and get to class in 10 minutes, which I could. But there’s always room for doubt.
As I walked to class (which is conveniently near my dorm), I had the nagging feeling that, as someone who still uses physical notebooks rather than an iPad, the one notebook I didn't have on me—red-covered and labeled "Chem"—was the one I “needed” for my next class. “Needed” is in quotes because I could have taken notes in any of my notebooks; they’re all essentially the same, but I treat them differently.
So, given the somewhat convenient distance despite living on the 4th floor, I wasn’t going to not stop at my dorm.
(Oh, the delight of a double negative.) Mr. Let’s Inconvenience Myself here couldn’t just check his bag to confirm or disprove his theory.
I reached my dorm room at around 11:40, and that was when I really started to panic because, despite the proximity of my next class, I couldn’t find where I had put my darn chemistry notebook, which was quite shameful to me because being forgetful isn’t something I want associated with my name.
I "attempt" to be organized. Well, I'm messy and organized (is that a thing?).
With just a few minutes left to get to class, I darted out the door (having accepted defeat) with exactly what I had brought in—nothing more, nothing less. Hurrying (well, more like hobbling) to class, I arrived perfectly on time—right-smack 11:45—only to realize upon sitting down that my notebook had been in my backpack the entire time.
By RainbewLatte
There’s something so wholesome about watching your college calculus professor (who usually gives us problems that require a little too much knowledge and digging, such as Newton’s Law of Cooling and the body temperature of the average dead person) write the equation 1+1 on the chalkboard (yes, chalk) in hopes that a student will answer.
But, as is typical of this class I’m shamefully a part of, no one did.
Well, I guess I repeated the answer half a dozen times in my head, largely out of disbelief.
It’s two.
1+1 is 2.
But still, no one responded.
This has got to be a mistake.
Convinced there was some hidden element to his seemingly obvious equation, I sat and pondered before speaking up. “It’s two.”
It was upon speaking up that I realized what I had done was a mistake. The sheer excitement like that of a groundbreaking discovery exuded by my professor was enough to convince me that the earth is flat, if that had been the message he had wanted to portray.
“It’s two!” he exclaimed. “Twoo!” He was basically saying, “Can you believe it? The answer is (by some mystical external force) two.”
Mhm…
He’d repeat this number a couple of times, perhaps a couple dozen times, ingraining this seemingly insignificant number in my mind as he gazed into each and every pair of eyes that wasn’t looking down into the endless void of some device (oh, how I regretted sitting at the front of the class), and eventually, when the feeling struck, I was forced to hold in my laugh.
That’s a way to end the week, I thought. Never did I think I’d smile so much in math.
By RainbewLatte
When The Chef’s Table announced they were selling desserts every Tuesday and Thursday, it felt like just another way to siphon money from students. But who was I kidding? Sometimes, you have to indulge, right? Curiosity getting the better of me, I caved without much thought. Looking at the menu, I decided to try a banoffee pie. I had never had one before. It wasn’t a desert that usually crossed my mind. So, I ordered.
Now, there’s something frustrating about the way The Chef’s Table operates. After placing an order, you’re required to “check in” 10–15 minutes later via a mobile app notification before they “prepare” your order (which is already made, truth be told). This system is likely designed to manage traffic and keep orders organized. However, many students seem to game the system by showing up early, often getting their order regardless, so I’m starting to believe that the people working at The Chef’s Table just don't care. This lax enforcement has made the whole process seem pointless.
Having gone to grab my dinner (chicken katsu), I received my notification to check in while I was still in line at The Global Grill, another location in our dining hall. Unlike The Chef’s Table, orders at The Global Grill are ready almost immediately, with no check-in required.
Having received my order of katsu, I noticed that the line at The Chef’s Table still hadn’t died down (it was still impossibly long), so rather than let my hot food run cold, I decided to let the line cool down a bit before joining.
It’s not like anyone’s going to take my pie. Right?
I mean, I already paid.
Little did I know, this decision would cost me my banoffee pie.
When I finally made my way to the scanner to check in, I noticed the dwindling number of banoffee pies. And, by the time I reached the pick-up counter, the last of the pies had been given away. The gentleman working at The Chef’s Table would be ever so kind to inform me that they’d sold (more like mindlessly given away; I had already been charged for mine) the last of the banoffee pies.
I was like, I know. Though this was not verbalized, frustration bubbled within me. I cursed (again, internally) the line-orderers who’d snatched up the desserts. Screw you, line-orderers!
Likely recognizing my frustration, the gentleman asked, “Is there something else you’d like?”
The only option left was a Georgia peach pie, which was not bad—not something I had much recollection of ever having either—but it wasn’t what I ordered.
Resigned to my fate (given they weren’t going to offer me a refund), I decided to give the Georgia peach pie a try. It was topped with two generous scoops of strawberries and a helpful side of whipped cream, which I assumed was sort of an apology, making it a strawberry peach pie.
Suffice it to say, those strawberries were some of the best I’d had in a long time, so in the end, I guess my misadventure turned into a nummy delight.
By RainbewLatte
I was sitting in my school’s dining hall, Benson, trying to finish some homework assignments when I came across a video in our digital textbook that I thought might be helpful to watch. As such, I paused the song I was listening to on my phone before transitioning my attention back toward my laptop. Feeling no urge to remove my earbuds, I proceeded to play the video before quickly noticing that I wasn’t hearing anything.
With the roaring conversations around me and news reports blaring from televisions, it was easy to assume my volume just wasn’t high enough. But it was also easy to assume that the video didn’t have any sound. It was just a link in my digital textbook, after all.
Still, I tapped away at my volume button, and that’s when I came to the daunting realization that my headphones were still plugged into my phone, and I was probably one of the few people in my vicinity, if not the only one, who didn’t hear the video’s crackly sound.
By RainbewLatte
I was up at 1 a.m., having napped a tinge in the afternoon after lab, transferring the schedule for research talks and teaching demonstrations for biology department job candidates into my notes app on my laptop. The app was essentially my running to-do list. Working from a photo I took on my phone, I came across a word spelled “SCDI.”
S-C-D-I, I thought. Isn't it "SCIDI?"
For context, SCIDI (or SCDI) is where most labs on campus are held and also the location of Fresh Bytes, a spot that sells boba. Numerous catastrophes occurred there last quarter, making it all the more significant and memorable. But, overall, it’s just a great place to be. In terms of biology and what I was currently working on, it was where the majority of these talks and demonstrations were being held. Mind you, the only real motivation or incentive I had for inputting such information into my notes app was for the possible extra credit of an undetermined value.
I could always use some of that.
It's hard to pass up an extra credit opportunity, but unfortunately, I couldn’t attend about half of the events even if I wanted to. One research talk and one teaching demonstration per candidate made for a total of six events, and despite my desire to attend all of them, my schedule just didn’t allow it, and skipping class to accumulate extra credit of undetermined value also didn’t seem like the way to go.
But, to reflect back on the location’s name, I remembered calling it "SCIDI" (Skiddy). Looking at the word again, I realize it should probably be pronounced “SCI DI,” which might sound something like “sci dye” or “side-eye.”
The name "Skiddy" originated from my suitemate's frequent and enthusiastic calls for me to join him there after my chemistry lectures last quarter. And, as a result, I suppose the name stuck with me.
“Johnny, come to ‘Skiddy’!”
I shall proceed to spell it S-C-I-D-I.
Despite what might’ve been a sign, I wasn’t quite ready to accept defeat, especially at 1 a.m. under lamplight. If anyone was spelling it wrong (despite being dead smack on the side of the building in its “very long form"), it wasn’t going to be me.
And how come no one corrected me?
But I guess there is something slightly warm and delightful about self-discovery.
At the same time, saying this was the result of slight embarrassment would be an understatement.
I mean, I walk past or through that building every day, literally, yet I had been spelling it “SCIDI” in all my mentions last quarter and the first three weeks of this one. Not a big deal—we all make mistakes—but it was embarrassing to think I submitted pieces for potential publication in SCU's undergraduate-only publication, The Owl, earlier that day with the incorrect spelling.
Like, imagine.
Like many things, I couldn’t help but Google.
Longhanded Sobrato Campus for Discovery and Innovation—sure enough, it’s SCDI.
By RainbewLatte
I had lunch with my mom today, braving the rain as she parked next to Sizzling Lunch in Cupertino, just along the street. As we got out of the car and headed toward the door, we quickly realized, to our surprise, that the door wouldn’t budge.
The rain drumming a subtle rhythm against the awning that appeared more decorative than practical, we headed toward the two other doors on opposite sides only to be greeted by a pink sheet of paper that read, quite literally, “Use the front door,” the exact door we had just tried.
But isn’t that…
Slightly desperate (as it was raining, after all), we gave the doors another tug before returning to the front door. There, we noticed the flashing “OPEN” sign.
The place was open, alright.
But the door still didn’t budge.
Sizzling Lunch, for those who don’t know, opens at 11 a.m. on Sundays, and as a regular customer (like regular regular), I could only be surprised. We were by no means early. I started to wonder if today was some odd holiday I hadn’t been notified of. Or, I just forgot. I mean, there wasn’t a Google Doodle or anything.
Worst-case scenario: the place had closed down within a week’s time, and someone forgot to turn off the “OPEN” sign.
That’d suck.
But I wasn’t quite ready to give up.
The last thing I wanted to be in the history books for was “Getting wet with Mom trying to figure out if a flashing OPEN sign means anything on a Sunday.”
Okay, maybe that was a bit dramatic.
With Google and my phone being uncooperative, I did the only thing I could think of: peep inside. For those who don’t know, Sizzling Lunch never has their lights on during the daytime. They have lantern-like lights that they turn on during the later hours of the day, but otherwise they rely on sunlight.
And sure enough, it looked empty inside.
Do we just give up? Find something else to eat?
I mean, it looked to me like there might’ve been someone in the corner, but what I was seeing through the tinted window wasn’t very clear. Or hopeful.
What I was seeing could easily have been a chair.
Is that an employee?
Well, come to think of it, if there had been someone in the store, I would have expected to be helped by now. It was raining, and they probably noticed two people (us) circling the store visibly frustrated, which could only mean one thing. We were hungry, wanted to eat, and committed to eating Sizzling.
So it was a chair.
Concluding that the store couldn’t possibly be closed without something to denote that it was closed, my mom, in an act of freak might (likely out of hunger), placed her hand on the front door handle before giving it a firm tug, and sure enough, it opened.
I guess some doors just need a little more tug. Or, as my mom likes to say, given how often the front door of my dorm is broken, a little more care and love.
By RainbewLatte
I woke up exhausted—it was exam week Monday, and Mondays are always dreadful. As I made my way to class, spoon-feeding myself a yogurt parfait that had been heavily delayed (something is seriously wrong with our school dining system these days), I entered my ARTH class ("Art plus H class") with a feeling that something was missing. Usually, my professor's dog would come running toward me as soon as the door creaked open, but today, nothing happened.
Is the dog not here today? I thought.
In some ways, I considered the dog my biggest luck charm and, in others, the most delightful distraction in the class. My mind wandered to the magnetic nature of that cute, cuddly creature, thinking, Maybe it’s me.
Maybe the dog’s bored of me.
Though there was never any obligation for the dog to cater to my unnecessary wants, its presence, lying next to me, curled up, and at my feet, was something I always looked forward to during in-person class. I found it endearing.
Its very presence warmed me.
I made my way across the classroom, only to be met with a sweet surprise. With eyes of wonder glowing brighter than the morning sun, the furry friend stood beside my seat.
By RainbewLatte
There’s something not so joyful about midterms week, which this time around isn’t all that well defined. I mean, this week is technically “midterms week,” as denoted by our school calendar, but it carries into next week, and from what I heard, some people even had midterms starting last week. So, should we just call it midterm month?
All that is to say, I really wasn’t feeling it. I was hardly in the mood for anything. Compounded with lab reports, readings, and other assignments I simply had to do and research lectures and teaching demonstrations I felt some obligation to go to, it was as if the gods had decided to condemn me to a week of un-delight.
As the pouring rain and howling winds further dampened my mood, I prayed that this dreadful week would slowly, but surely, pass me by.
I was leaving the final research presentation for the third and final candidate being considered for the biology department when I ran into two older classmates. They jokingly pointed out my lateness—I had walked into the presentation 15 minutes late. Despite being notified of the time change to 3:45 just this morning (a forward shift of 15 minutes), I had forgotten. Sadly, it wasn’t the first time I was late; the presentations had been rescheduled multiple times, and I had never managed to arrive on time.
To all the presenters and candidates, I apologize.
Joining these two friends, we waited for the elevator to arrive before making our way to the first floor of a building I no longer spelled "SCIDI" (for those who don’t know, refer to Oh, Nope! It’s me!). Upon finding an open table, my other friend and I attempted to collectively troubleshoot an issue that had come up in conversation. My friend Polly was having a tech issue, more specifically a graphing concern, with Excel, something I could relate to given my own struggles with it. It really led me to wonder why we use such things. Given my general inability to solve anything tech-related, I effectively played the role of emotional support unit, nodding along like a bobblehead as if I understood anything that was being said.
Cookies! Cache! Duo security! I only know how to open and close my laptop and pray.
After a thunderstorm of Duo Security verifications, Excel was finally reinstalled. My tech-savvy classmate headed out (thank you! ), but not before saying a fair goodbye. I waited with Polly as Excel slowly booted up, taking its sweet time, feeling relieved that our efforts weren’t in vain.
Imagine having to redownload again!
Doing all I could to help expedite the process, we successfully graphed the data, and she pasted the screenshot onto her lab report before we headed to Benson for dinner. On our way, we admired the clouds.
Those clouds sure are something.
The “sharing” of clouds brought us joy and a great sense of delight, but with the sun setting and the rain starting to drizzle, we hastened our way into Benson. Faced with the all-too-common question, “What do we eat?” we settled on something simple. Chicken and rice. We migrated a few times before settling down. It was then and there that the thought of asking my friend crossed my mind. Ever tried a London fog?
I couldn’t believe I was promoting anything related to Mission Bakery, but with the London fog being a priceless drink (literally, the damn app doesn’t display its price), we indulged. On a wacky week like this, there’s nothing more lovely than sharing a London fog with a friend in sweet company.
Put simply, there’s nothing like sharing and spending time with a friend.
By RainbewLatte
There's nothing quite like hearing your name followed by the word “modification” in a college math class, especially when it comes from your professor, who is attempting to derive a complex concept (more like a weary thing) from the textbook that no one is really following.
Well, maybe some of the other students were. But passively. There were a lot of eyes glued to tablets and laptops. They got called out a couple of times.
I was half asleep.
It didn’t help that it was the last class of the day (for me, at least), ending a little too close to 6 p.m. Though nowhere close to my bedtime (many can vouch), I feel like 5–6 p.m. is around the time when my tiredness really kicks in. Plus, it didn’t help that I had two strenuous classes prior.
This class was only strenuous to listen to.
By the time I got called on (as I usually am when no one else answers) with an overly enthused “My man!” I couldn’t help but respond with tired eyes.
How is it only the middle of the week?
My professor proceeded to make a point.
By the time he was finished explaining the thing he had granted the name “The Jonathan Modification,” something I can almost confidently say only some 2 of 30 students grasped from his very organized chalk writing, I was frozen cold from embarrassment.
How can he be so proud of the name?
Garnering stares while still very much suffering from midweek blues, I guess what truly came across as hilarious to me was the fact that the so-called “Jonathan Modification” was literally a mirror identical to the equation for carrying capacity.
By RainbewLatte
Vandalism is often deemed detrimental, a belief ingrained in many of us. Despite an appreciation for certain art styles, such as graffiti, I’ve always held that viewpoint without much introspection.
Is vandalism truly unnecessary?
I was working in the library with friends one day when I noticed a vandalized wall. The wall, which I glanced at whenever I felt stuck on the mathematical equation I was working on, was covered with an array of words and phrases, mostly positive, though some were completely random.
One phrase stood out: “I am my dad.” Intrigued, I set my laptop aside and traced the words with my finger, hoping a bit of the message might rub off.
It didn't.
The phrase was firmly inscribed, steadfast, and immovable. As had become typical behavior, I momentarily abandoned my work to read a few more of the wall’s messages.
My eyes wandered from left to right, fluttering with fatigue (I guess the tiredness of an afternoon was hitting me), until I stumbled upon a series of questions that resonated with me given some recent occurrences that had happened in my life: “What (I think this was meant to be ‘why’) does it hurt? Why is it hard?” And the most poignant: “What is love?"
By RainbewLatte
After a hectic Saturday spent with friends—an Uber-spontaneous delight I’m undoubtedly grateful for—I found myself leaving my dorm around 8 p.m., my stash of instant noodles depleted, heading to our school’s dining hall, Benson, for dinner.
For those unfamiliar with Benson on a weekend, it’s essentially a culinary wasteland, compounded by the fact that it was raining. Hard. There’s a unique misery in trudging through downpour, umbrella-less, just to consume some truly mediocre food. But I was hungry.
I sat in the nearly deserted dining hall, savoring the calm silence as I ate, before texting and calling a friend—a conversation that quickly grew quite loud. Afterwards, I returned to my dorm, changed into dry clothes, and began to reflect. Sometimes, there’s no need to chase after excitement or seek out wild experiences. Sometimes, the very act of doing nothing is something.
I know, it sounds like something that doesn’t exactly need to be said.
Settling into the only chair in my dorm room, I positioned myself by the window as I have many times before, leaning back in my rocking chair and crossing my legs in the oddest way imaginable. Thank God no one was watching.
I picked up The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck from my desk and began to read. It was the latest addition to my reading list. As the rain drummed against the windowpane, I found myself immersed in the simple yet profound act of being present—something that often goes unnoticed in our fast-paced lives. In a world that constantly urges us to seek excitement and novelty, I discovered the profound significance of “just being.” It reminded me that sometimes the most meaningful experiences are found in moments of tranquility when we allow ourselves to pause, reflect, and appreciate the simplicity of existence.
Delving into the pages of the book without any particular destination in mind, I was reminded that true fulfillment doesn’t always come from grand adventures or the constant striving for more. Instead, it’s about finding contentment in the small joys, the quiet moments, and the gentle rhythm of everyday life.
So, as I sat there, with the rain as my companion and the book in my hands, I embraced the beauty of doing “nothing,” recognizing that in those moments, I was truly alive, truly present, and truly grateful for the simple pleasures that surrounded me.
By RainbewLatte
I was sitting in the car with my dad, having just finished reading another portion of The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck by the remarkable Mark Manson, whom I recently followed on social media. It had become a book that practically never left my side.
I gazed out the window of my dad’s car, admiring the rain, as he played Line Bubble, a game on his phone, thinking about the delight that sat in the Van Gogh tote bag between my legs. Watching and listening as the rain pattered harder against the car’s exterior, creating a pleasant, audible backdrop, in that moment I realized that if I hadn’t gone back to my dorm, I would be screwed. Or, in better, more precise terms, soaked.
My dad had requested to have lunch with me the day prior at 11 a.m., and for once I was on track to be on time. That being, I expected myself to get to his car by 11. But, despite catching a glimpse of sunlight (and not rain) from my fourth-floor dorm room and thinking, It's not going to rain, right? There’s sun! I proceeded to head out the side door towards Safeway, only to turn back, heading back up four flights of stairs, to grab my umbrella.
And, as a result, I was 10 minutes late.
Call it foresight.
Thankfully, my dad didn’t mind. We're busy people, after all.
After spending some quality time admiring the rain, chatting, and doing whatever else a father and son in a car might do (such as indulging in Line Bubble), we finally left the car. The sun had started to peek out again, but the rain continued to fall. I felt a sense of satisfaction for having the foresight to bring my umbrella. How nice it is to have an umbrella, I thought. But how dreadful it is to have to share one (as he boxed me for umbrella coverage with his shoulder) with my dad.
By RainbewLatte
There’s something delightful about wearing a new piece of clothing, even if it was purchased seventeen days ago. My latest addition, a beige Tommy Hilfiger sweatshirt from T.J. Maxx, had been hanging in my closet with the tag still attached as a constant reminder of the great deal I scored on my birthday. In addition, my mom said it was just the type of thing I’d wear, and today finally felt like the day to wear it.
Time to cut the tag!
The shining sun added to the sense of occasion. Bringing the sweatshirt to my desk before whipping out a pair of golden scissors gifted to me by my mom, I prepared to remove the tag. Although it took a moment—brand-name tags are surprisingly tough—I managed to snip it off.
Thanks for the scissors, Mom!
I guess thick tags serve as a viable way to justify their usual price.
Fresh from a shower, I carefully removed the necessary sizing stickers and threw it on. However, instead of looking like the handsome individual I remembered from the T.J. Maxx mirrors on my birthday shopping spree, I found my head wouldn’t even fit through the neck hole.
Having likely been distracted by the great deal as T.J. Maxx puts a new price on things and how good it looked in the store mirrors (it looked like it fit!) I hadn’t noticed that I’d bought a size too small.
Well, maybe two.
By RainbewLatte
This week's roughness was perfectly encapsulated by my morning of groggy thoughts. The first words that crossed my mind as I stumbled out of bed—more sluggish than usual after a 2 a.m. bedtime—were later jotted down in typical fashion.
I think this week's roughness has been duly emphasized by my morning of foul prayers.
Despite typically being an early riser, waking between 7-9 a.m. (and sometimes even 5), I was surprised to find my roommate already up, impeccably dressed, and standing by the sink. He was meticulously spraying his hair with the single bottle always by our sink, making it damp.
Watching him partake in such an act brought back memories of my elementary school days, when I often left the house with a wet head. I was notorious for bedhead yet stubbornly remained adamant about choosing hairstyles that made it all the worse. At one point, it pretty much became a joke for my mom.
Hairspray? I thought. However, on closer inspection, I realized the bottle contained only water, further reminding me of how I would catch the water running from the bathroom sink with a cupped hand before dousing it on my head and heading out.
Most times, my hair still wouldn’t flatten out.
But what fascinated me most about his routine, which I only recently observed, was its rhythmic and precise nature. He would spray his hair twice with misty water, lean in to examine the slight change in the mirror, and then repeat the process.
Not satisfied? Spray again! And again. And again, he’d go.
By RainbewLatte
I was grinding away at college work in my dorm room when my roommate texted me something puzzling: I’m you today. My immediate reaction was a baffled, um, what?—though neither of us voiced these thoughts aloud.
Care to explain?
He followed up with a photo of a name tag bearing my name.
That still doesn’t explain anything. I’m confused, I replied.
He responded, That’s your name, as if I hadn’t known that my whole life.
Yes. I know. Thankfully, I still remember my name.
Our conversation continued in various confusing directions as he explained, or rather attempted to explain, that he was attending an off-campus event where participants could wear other people’s name tags. Since my name tag was apparently an option (available?), he chose to be me.
Now, I couldn’t fathom how my name got there or why he was so keen on "being me," but I figured, why not?
As our conversation drew on, it became clear that the event organizers had printed name tags for last year’s attendees, making it all the more interesting, but, for those curious, the “Jonathan Lin” he now claimed to be wasn’t me.
By RainbewLatte
There's something delightful about three loving chemistry students (friends) squeezing under one umbrella after a midterm exam, trying to stay dry as they make their way to a dorm to fetch another umbrella. They know well that their cozy arrangement (this squeezing, this loving, this closeness) isn't going to work for long, especially on the way to lunch.
This amusing scenario happened to me and two friends as we headed to Sanfilippo, a dorm, to grab another umbrella. The one I had on me was far from adequate for a party our size. In addition, it was the elegant but impractical kind, caving with each drop of rain and utterly useless against the wind. And, of course, the wind came.
We took the elevator to the second (or third) floor, sharing laughs while nervously eyeing the old, clunky elevator that was in serious need of maintenance. But who takes the stairs when there’s an elevator?
Not us.
Upon arrival, my umbrella-fetching friend hurried to his room and returned with an entire backpack (context: he almost never brings his backpack to class, just his iPad, a notebook, and, I believe, some pens). We headed back down the elevator (making the most of our resources or just being lazy) and stepped outside.
Resting under the awning as it was quite apparent the rain hadn’t let up, I prepared my umbrella, the sky-patterned and dazzlingly useful thing it was, before my friend looked over at my umbrella-grabbing friend (now “friend who should also have an umbrella on them”), his backpack slung over one shoulder and not the other, and asked, “Where’s your umbrella?
He patted his pockets (as if an umbrella could fit in there), checked his backpack, and then let out a weary laugh, saying, "I... I think I left it in my room.”
By RainbewLatte
I was on another one of my frequent calls with a friend (having escaped a suitemate who unnecessarily wanted to meet) when I started packing my belongings—two books and a laptop. It seemed courteous to not be overly enthusiastic in my room while my roommate was busy. As I pondered how to carry my books without an extra bag or awkwardly tucking them under my arm, I had a stroke of genius: why not snugly fit them into the pocket of my laptop bag? They were novellas, after all, not too long or large.
Genius, I know.
What I didn’t anticipate was the consequence of this seemingly brilliant idea. Heading down the stairs of my dorm, then back up, before finally settling in an unoccupied cubicle-like space at the end of a hall, I quickly realized the sin I had committed in carelessly stuffing a book I had just bought fresh off the shelf that afternoon (which cost a pretty penny) into a laptop bag “like that.”
I had braved the rainy, wet, and unideal bookstore parking lot terrain just to keep that book dry and pristine.
I was more than willing to let the book wind and meander its way into well-loved territory, but only after I had given it a read.
As I freed T. Kingfisher’s What Moves the Dead (a USA Today bestseller!) from the shackles of my laptop bag, my heart sank.
The cover, once pristine, now had a gut-wrenching crease (as gut-wrenching as the book itself) running from the “S” in “Kingfisher” to the “O” in “Today.”
I stood there, staring at the damaged, jaw-dropping cover, feeling like I had just committed a literary crime. My book had gone from "mint condition" to "folded disgrace" in mere minutes.
I guess some genius ideas are better left in the brainstorming phase. As for my book, it now serves as a reminder that not all shortcuts are worth taking, and some days, it's best to just let the book warm under your arm.
By RainbewLatte
As I strolled through campus today, feeling slightly disoriented from the effects of daylight savings (spring forward), I encountered a Girl Scout selling cookies from a folding wagon, accompanied by her father. It might be worth noting that this was in fact the weekend, and I could’ve easily used that extra hour, just like my roommate, who was still fast asleep. This unexpected sight immediately brought back memories of my last Girl Scout encounter, just 11 days ago. That time, I was hustling to my math class, having left later than intended, when I saw the first group of Girl Scouts on campus this year, also selling cookies from a folding wagon.
Adoration for folding wagons!
I have a soft spot for folding wagons, having watched my fair share of kids ride in them growing up. To some degree, I was probably a little jealous. But, as my mom likes to say, I’m probably a little too big for it now.
A parent or guardian watched over the girls as they eagerly engaged with potential customers, and I couldn't help but be delighted by their entrepreneurial spirit.
Girl Scout cookies? Anyone?
As much as I wanted to stop and buy a box or two (I had already stocked up from another troop that weekend), I was in a rush, knowing well that by the time class was over, they’d be gone.
As I walked, I overheard a group of students, just loud enough to be heard over my earbuds, talking about the cleverness of the Girl Scouts’ strategy.
"They’re so smart! Setting up and selling on a college campus to college students! That’s business!"
Curious, I turned to see the line forming near our mascot statue, just a little ways from Graham Hall. Students were lining up in no organized manner (I was walking backwards now), eagerly awaiting their cookies. I watched as they left the line, cookies in hand, chatting away, looking a little happier and more delighted than before.
Oh, the power of a box of cookies! Or, as my mom likes to say, “Devilish cookies.”
The power of these micro delights, these spontaneous expenditures, is undeniable. After all, who wouldn't want a treat?
A cute kid selling cookies? It’s hard to say no.
By RainbewLatte
The delight of beanies, this seemingly new obsession of mine ever since Katharine and I went to the mall together over winter break, this gray on sale Uniqlo beanie that I can’t get over. The way Alara berates me for my mispronunciation of Uniqlo. The warmth of the beanie—a similar warmth, if not even warmer than one of the first few beanies that I could truly call my own—brings. The beanie I got from Curry House (curry is a favorite dish of mine), which is also a place that is no longer open now. I sort of miss it. It was a classic Friday night meal with family, most definitely my dad and sister, a weekend meal, and an afternoon. It was a Gudetama beanie, something that came with the Gudetama meal, which was at the time considered overpriced and kind of a scam.
That is now the price of an average meal.
Limited quantities daily! On weekends, I don’t even think they were sold. The delight of being able to delight in that meal that night. The abundance of photographs, the abundance of laughs, and the abundance of love. Family bonding time. Oh, how delightful that was. But none was warmer than the tight hug Katharine gave me standing by the Macy’s exit for the first time after a 10-week college quarter (plus finals week). Oh, how warm that was! The way I wore that gray beanie for mere seconds after coughing a few that day, the way she smiled at me. Now, isn’t that lovely? Patrick, a suitemate of mine, and his Dave’s Hot Chicken Reaper spicy chicken sandwich (spice level: REAPER), which he had half eaten, well, mostly eaten, and offered some to me after cutting it with a plastic knife, the kind that bends on contact, the kind that only cuts with repeated friction. He hobbled over to my side of the suite. I understood and delighted in this act, this act of kindness, this act of sharing, knowing well he had it in his internals that he was probably, most likely, trying to test me. I mean, reaper spicy? Like, seriously?
Alright. Shit was hot.
Relaying the story to my lab TA, whom I had haphazardly run into in Benson, our dining hall, after biology, the way I sat down blasting music into my ears, the way she just happened to be sitting on the high table just perpendicular to me, the way I waved as I often do when I recognize somebody (I feel it is unkind to not wave at someone I recognize), and the way she waved back before we engaged in a conversation of spontaneous things only for her to tell me, upon hearing my free bits of reaper chicken story, that my spice tolerance was something I needed to work on. On this road, maybe I’ll be like my dad someday.
He just fights through the pain.
The yogurt parfait that I ordered two consecutive days in a row from Mission Bakery, both taken from me (as in someone had taken my order), the upset I felt that day being hungry and the lack of service they were willing to provide me, but the spring back giddiness of realization, the act of learning, watching as my friend plotted to take someone else’s hamburger because she, too, was hungry, that maybe this was just something students do. But, then again, why can’t you just order your own parfait? There’s always that damned receipt on mine, anyway.
The strand of hair streaking and long—the darn thing—probably the longest strand of hair I’ve seen in a good while—was nicely packaged in my cup of yogurt parfait once I finally got one all nice and cozy, three quarters deep in my yogurt. The way I looked at my head full of hair afterward, pulling on a few strands to test the length, only to be telling myself there’s no way my hair’s this long. And please don’t remind me of quarantine. Perhaps there was a point in time when my hair got “close enough” to that length.
The delight (and power!) of mishearing one another over the slight footsteps and static of a phone call made “madness” become "magnets,” which is now a way I describe joy. The practice, or what seemed to be a practice, of my roommate watching Fresh Off the Boat every day for a notable period of time, the magnetizing it did to me and my attention span (it’s hard to focus when someone’s watching TV), and the hard-hit realization that I’m old. The first episode aired in 2015 on the 4th of February, one day before my birthday. I was 9. For all I know, the boys are all in college, and I’m in college.
Jeez.
From the $5 books at the bookstore to being slightly late to class, seats being taken, and missing somebody, I guess it’s evident that sometimes and some days I notice myself paying closer attention to the little things, the awkward, unexpected, yet slightly delightful spontaneous conversations like sharing moments with elderly down Safeway isles, to my roommate sending me pictures of my charging toothbrush with a more modern, slangy, less elegant way of saying, “It’s dancing."
| Author Notes |
Let me first say thank you to everyone at SCU and all those who have in some way passed its grounds sometime this quarter, student, faculty, staff, or not, as they all touched this book and its conception in some way. I am especially indebted to Katharine, the loveliest and better half of “JK,” for the thoughtful and heartfelt conversations we had about this book and its conception through highs and lows. For the many times this book almost fell through the hole in the ground beneath our feet, this book really wouldn’t be here without you. You helped me see things I never would have and made Memories of Finn Q2 significantly more delightful. Or, as we like to say in reference to Quarter 1, a little more grudging. To you, I’m forever grateful.
To the group I mentally named G.E.W. (Gabriel, Emma, and Won), two classmates, and a friend who really took me in as one of their own, thank you for the countable but infinitely meaningful spontaneous adventures away from Benson Food. You all are the reason why I know so much more about food. Even as a local in this area, I’m surprised. Thank you all for the library sessions, the Doordashes, Uber Eats, and the 2 a.m.'s, and thank you all for taking care of me. Thank you, Nina. Never has a three-and-a-half-hour conversation been so delightful, so nonlinear, so unexpected yet lovely. Your smile, positive outlook, and insights on life are contagious and leave me feeling refreshed and inspired. It's rare to find someone who can engage in such deep, meaningful conversations while still infusing every moment with joy and warmth. Your presence alone brightens any room, and I'm grateful for the opportunities I had to share thoughts and laughter with you. Until our next conversation, may your days be filled with the same brightness you bring to others. To Angelina, a forever friend and companion who bore with me through high school and now college, I will never have enough words to describe your worth and the delight you’ve brought into my life. May you always find my work “meditative” and “calming” to read. Thank you. To my mom and my dad, thank you for the reminders that writing something like this means I’ll have something to leave behind when I’m gone and that we’re mere mortals after all. I’d hate to say that’s the type of thought that motivates me, but as with most things you tell me, I guess it’s true. Thank you for the weekend lunches; they’re arguably the best lunches I have every week while I’m in school, and so for as long as I’m here (and as long as you’re here), I hope that’s something we’re able to continue. To my dorm Finn, the Owl, Benson, Fresh Bytes, SCDI, and every hall I had lectures and labs in this quarter, thank you for another quarter of delight and memories. And finally, dear reader, I am always grateful to you. This journey wouldn’t have been what it was without you. - Rainbew |
By RainbewLatte
When anxiety creeps in, I find solace in night walks. While the companionship of the moon and stars isn’t necessary, they certainly add to the delight.
Anything is better than the rush to class.
This practice took shape over the past seven and a half weeks of this quarter (Quarter 2). During this time, it went from being something I did when time permitted to becoming a must, something I couldn’t forgo. With my earbuds in, I often neglect my worries; I leave them behind as the world shifts around me, rain or shine.
Gazing at the sky and stars, I learn to forgive myself for my daily mishaps. I learn not to dwell on negative feelings as my earbuds hum, and I start to feel not only a sense of smallness but also a sense of warmth. There’s an overwhelming sense of wonder and a bit of gratitude.
What a delight it is to be alive and to be here in this moment. Even if the sky is pure darkness and I can’t pick out a single star.
I usually ditch my stuff in the library to lighten my load. It saves me the significant time it takes to go back to my dorm and go up four floors.
I leave my belongings in a quiet corner, a spot that feels safe enough despite the warnings about leaving things behind. Trusting the space, I step into the open darkness. Given the illumination from lamps, it’s not all that dark. The lamps cast a soft, golden glow, barely cutting through the inky darkness. The night air is crisp, carrying a faint scent of pine, and it brushes against my skin like a cool whisper.
Real darkness lies just outside Dowd, the art building where I often spend my days.
That’s where I like to go venturing.
That’s where I’m truly at peace.
As I stand outside SCDI, where most labs are held, I’m mesmerized by the boulder of glass. Light pours out, illuminating the surrounding palm trees like a beacon in the night.
Experiencing the briskness of night air, especially after dinner when the food fatigue really sets in, making you sleepy, even though it’s only 8 or 9 p.m. (which in college is far from late), wakes you up, tickling your senses just a little. It’s comforting.
In these quiet moments, I realize that life’s true joys lie in its simplest pleasures—the steady rhythm of my breath, the clarity that comes with stillness, and the quiet joy of just being. It's a reminder that peace is found not in the absence of anxiety but in the moments we take to walk through it.
Stopping now, as I gaze off into the distance at the dimming lights before me, I can’t help but write myself a note documenting this memory: There’s nothing like a good walk. Right now, in this moment, I feel free.
Maybe it’s not deep or inspiring, but it’s real. These walks remind me of what truly matters: the quiet contentment found in solitude, the simplicity of existing without demands, and the beauty of being present. They teach me that amidst the chaos and pressure of daily life, there’s a sanctuary within—a place where I can breathe deeply, think clearly, and reconnect with myself. In these moments, I realize that peace isn’t something to chase; it’s something to embrace—one step at a time, under the vast, silent sky.
| Author Notes | For those who have been following or were following all that was prior, guess here's an added one. |
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