THe jOuRnAL Of HAPPY HAPPenInGs
WWW.happyhap.CoM
sPRInG 2010 vOLume 1
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Editor-in-Chief Sunnie J. Tölle Design André Hermetschweiler Copy Editors Hannah Mendlowitz, Annie Loeb Contributing Writers Erica Pool, Mackenzie Rivers, Megan Lee Contributing Photographers Anya van Wagtendonk, Esther Hyun, Joe Breen, Susan Park, Veronica Iacono, Yen Duong Staff Members Cynthia Situ, Daksha Rajagopalan, Ploy Urapeepatanapong, Stefano Giulietti, Susan Park, Murong Yang Faculty Advisor Assistant Professor of Psychology June Gruber Research Consultant Ruth Ditlmann The HappyHap Competition and Prize Committee Dean John Loge, Duane Isabella, Jeanne DeChello, Jeffrey Kwolek, Sharon Kugler, Sunnie J. Tölle Special thanks to the Timothy Dwight Sudler Fund, Master T and UOFC. This publication is published by Yale College students. Yale University is not responsible for its contents.
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Spring 2010 - The Journal of Happy Happenings
Inside INTRODuCTION 6
The Recipe Behind the HappyHap Project By Sunnie J. Tölle
HAPPYHAPS ARE A GLOBAL CONCEPT 8
Africa: Excited to Be Going Home
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Europe: Why Rainy Days Don’t Have to Be Gray
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South America: Companionship
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North America: Played with a Baby Today
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Asia: Jellyfish
Posted anonymously on www.happyhap.com from Kenya
Posted anonymously on www.happyhap.com from Switzerland By Mackenzie Rivers from Brazil
Posted anonymously on www.happyhap.com from the USA Posted anonymously on www.happyhap.com from Vietnam
Happyhaps in pictures 11
HappyHaps in Pictures
By Anya van Wagtendonk, Susan Park, Veronica Iacono, Esther Hyun, Yen Duong
HAPPYHAPS by Yale Students 15
Into the White
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Cookie Dough or Oreo?
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Real Madrid
By Erica Pool
By Megan Lee By Erica Pool
Happyhap in the newhaven community 21
“Something Makes Me Happy” By Daksha Rajagopalan
www.happyhap.com
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Spring 2010 - The Journal of Happy Happenings
LeTTeR fROm THe edITOR Dear Reader, You are holding in your hands the first issue of the Happyhap.com publication. It is part of The HappyHap Project, which aims to create platforms where people share happy happenings (happyhaps) with each other. On a local level our publication works toward this goal as the Yale community shares happy happenings in written and in visual form on its pages. On a global level www.HappyHap.com is a website where people share happiness with each other across countries and continents in real time. Users can upload posts, videos or photos about a happy happening and dedicate it to those they care about. While a single post spreads happiness on a familiar scale, the website as a whole becomes a great reminder that happy moments happen all the time, all over the world. Curious? Check out our website www.HappyHap.com or read more about the components of the project on page 6. See for yourself on pages 8-10 where you can read the worldwide most viewed happyhaps posted on www.HappyHap.com. Moreover, Yale students start sharing their happyhaps on page 15. And if you are not in the mood for reading stories, get a visual introduction with the HappyHaps in Pictures section on page 11.
THe HAPPYHAP COnCePT
Something makes you happy and you want to share it. You upload a post, video or photo about it on www.HappyHap.com and dedicate it to your friends and family.
Have fun with the first issue of Happyhap.com! Most happily,
They receive an email and link to your happyhap post. Happiness is contagious. Reading about your happyhap lets them share your happiness, puts a smile on their face and reminds them that good things happen all the time.
Sunnie J. Tรถlle Founder of the HappyHap Organization Editor-in-Chief
WWW.happyhap.CoM
Inspired by you, they may share their happiness with others, too. As this happens again and again, www.HappyHap.com becomes a great space for happiness built by many individuals worldwide.
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The Recipe behind the HappyHap Project By Sunnie J. Tölle
Take a Good Idea What would happen if you were to create a platform where people could let each other know about the many happy happenings (happyhaps) that are taking place all the time, all over the world? Imagine the amount of happiness you could compile! Imagine how it could develop into a global happiness statement!
“WHATEVER IT IS, IT IS A HAPPYHAP! NOW, WHERE IS THAT TREE TO CLIMB AND SHOUT OUT LOUD FROM? THAT IS WHERE HAPPYHAP.COM COMES IN.” Add a Structure Happyhaps happen to everyone, and yet they tend to slip so fast from our memory. They are those oh-so-great wow-moments when everything just works out, life is beautiful and you are so happy you want to climb a tree and shout it out loud. You know, those moments when you cannot take the huge grin off your face and there is a bounce in your every step and you think: Gosh, this is so incredibly amazing! Be it that your roommates have organized a surprise birthday party for you, be it that your brother has become a father, be it that you got the grade you wanted in that killermath class, be it that the awesome girl in your section finally talked to you and you are going on a date, be it that you won some random bet against your frat brother. Whatever it is, it is a happyhap! Now, where is that tree to climb and shout out loud from? That is where www.happyhap.com comes in. You go to the website, write about your happyhap, maybe even attach a photo or video and dedicate your post to your friends and/or family. They get an email notification about your post and visit www.happyhap.com as well. Reading about your happyhap lets them share your happiness and puts a smile on their face. The next time around, they may put up a post and dedicate it to their friends. As this happens again and again, www.happyhap.com becomes a space for happiness built by many individuals worldwide. Expand Your Team Within due time I mentioned my idea to Max Uhlenhuth, a friend and computer science major who agreed to develop the project on a programming level. I wrote up the content 6
and got André Hermetschweiler involved, a graphic designer and friend living in Switzerland (my home country). André designed the site. By May 2008 we had worked our magic and were ready to launch the alpha version. Make Your Friends Be Your First Guests Now it was time for some market research, for creating feedback cycles and listening carefully. And that is exactly what we did during our alpha launch phase. Since then we have learned lots, Greg Grinberg took over on the programming front, André redesigned the site completely and together we jointly pushed the project to the next level. Publish It Early on, a good friend, Nimit Jain, asked me why I did not want to use the happyhap idea to found an on-campus publication. I was amazed by his input and my roommates were too. That is how the Happyhap.com magazine came into existence, at least in our minds. To us, Happyhap.com should be a reminder that happy moments happen all the time – regardless of how stressful and unhappyhapful the day may seem.
“TO US, HAPPYHAP.COM SHOULD BE A REMINDER THAT HAPPY MOMENTS HAPPEN ALL THE TIME – REGARDLESS OF HOW STRESSFULL AND UNHAPPYHAPFUL THE DAY MAY SEEM.”
Spice It Up with a Competition and a Committee To get some first submissions we put our money where our mouth is: in March 2009 the HappyHap Organization launched its first Happyhap.com competition for which we asked all Yale students to send us written and/or photographic happyhaps. Concurrently, we started building the HappyHap Competition and Prize Committee. People from all walks of life would review the submissions and decide on which happyhaps would be featured in our first issue. For this task we recruited the Dean of Timothy Dwight John Loge, the Timothy Dwight Dining Hall Manager Jeffrey Kwolek, the Silliman and Timothy Dwight Building Superintendent Jeanne DeChello as well as the University Chaplain Shane Kugler and her husband Duane Isabella.
Spring 2010 - The Journal of Happy Happenings
www.happyhap.com
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HAppyHAps Are A GlobAl Concept In this section we bring you a sample of the most viewed happyhaps from each continent posted on www.happyhap.com. We hope they make you smile and inspire you to post your own!
Africa: Excited to Be Going Home Posted anonymously on www.happyhap.com from Kenya So in one week I will be going home to Kenya. I am super excited. My friends from high school have been road-tripping across Western Kenya and they have loved every bit of it. I want to do the same. The pictures and facebook updates have been fantastic. I can‘t wait to be in the Kenyan outdoors and experience the same!
Europe: Why Rainy Days Don’t Have To Be Gray
Posted anonymously on www.happyhap.com from Switzerland No wonderful story today, nothing extraordinary happened, school, lunch, exam, more school. Rained the whole day. What made me smile from ear to ear anyways? This guy I‘ve been seeing: Not only is he definitely a keeper :), but he (as a hopeless optimist) has been making me realize the complete and utter luck of breathing! Embrace it baby! :) Walk in the rain, dance as if no one is watching, smile because you can.
South America: Companionship
By Mackenzie Rivers from Brazil Outside of the old city, the streets were clear in Paraty past ten p.m. I had told my roommate Hugo that I was taking a walk. The air was thin and the temperature had dropped severely since the afternoon. The pregaming party of the neighboring room had gone to the
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game, their chairs and bottles spread and toppled by the pool. I walked out of the hotel, over the bridge, and into the city. The only illumination came from rare street lights casting orange circles in the road. The streets were silent except for bursts of barking dogs. Spooked, I fell into the first open store, a pizza place. They didn‘t have slices and I didn‘t want a pie, but they had computers and I figured my excursion would be worthwhile if I used the Internet. I couldn‘t help but glance at the screen next to mine. After a few attempts, I saw a somewhat familiar blue module probably a Brazilian version of Facebook. After that my web visits seemed more obnoxious. I was worried the boy would also glance over, and scoff at my idleness. He would ask – why are you playing chess? Why are you checking those pointless sports statistics, again? And I would have no answer. Finally, I went to Yahoo answers and asked: “How do you strike up a conversation in a foreign country?” A half an hour later I left and walked a few more blocks, towards what my professor called “The Old City”. Soon, through a glass store front, I saw two kids around my age sitting in front of a TV. I changed to their side of the street and slowly approached. The pixilated green grass alone told me instantly their game. It was 09 too. One of the boys glanced over his shoulder and saw me watching, but I quickly walked ahead as if it had only been a glance. I circled back on the other side of the street. There was a white poster draped over part of the glass front. I situated myself behind it and peered around the edge to watch them play more privately. I watched their back and forth, judging their offense, defense and strategy. They were good, not great. After a goal, I walked out from behind my hiding place, only to be spotted by the same boy. He caught my eye, concerned for good reason. I scampered away, not looking back to see if he watched me go. After I was out of sight, I slowed steadily, thinking
Spring 2010 - The Journal of Happy Happenings
envious thoughts. I arrived at the bar which my classmates and I had visited the night before. Sitting at our table were a group of young adults too homogenous to be Brazilian. Like us, each had a beer and a Caipirinha. I decided to turn back, not so much because of my anxiety over my status as a tourist, as that I...well, maybe it was that. In that moment, four twenty somethings walked by, laughing and being boisterous. I thought of my question on yahoo, and of possible answers to it. People would tell me to smile, to be gracious, and to ask them to repeat themselves if I didn‘t understand. I thought of how I would critique their simplemindedness. I thought of the boys playing FIFA in the store front. Oh, how I love FIFA, I thought. My mind flooded with excuses. Listening to myself think, I felt lame and simple. I started back towards the glass front, wondering if I couldn‘t finagle something.
“ONE OF THE BOYS GLANCED OVER HIS SHOULDER AND SAW ME WATCHING, BUT I QUICKLY WALKED AHEAD AS IF IT HAD ONLY BEEN A GLANCE.” I took my headphones off, as I nervously knocked on the glass. The boy who had caught me staring looked at me for a moment and then back at his partner. He held up his finger, instructing me to be patient as their hands remained on the controllers. Eventually, he paused the game and came toward the glass. He had vertical curly hair, and was wearing a blue rugby shirt. He stared at me for a moment curiously, conscientiously perplexed. He slid a glass door open and bent his neck outside. I made sure I spoke first: “Sorry, but I am American. I adore FIFA much. Can I watch?” I said in Portuguese as I pointed to an empty chair next to theirs. He stood motionless for a second, thinking. “Sim,” he said softly, stepping away from the door. I entered leisurely; confident in my investment. The two of them sat below the TV propped high on the wall. The boy that let me in was sitting by the glass, and the other was sitting in an office chair behind the desk. He had straight, feathered hair and crooked teeth. He had been checking his phone while the first boy had gotten me. When I sat down, the curly haired boy reluctantly told me the score, pointing to his chest and saying “Um” and then to his friend, “Treis.” His friend smirked triumphantly as they turned away from me back towards the screen. As I watched, they talked to each other loudly, as if for my benefit. The one that had opened the door www.happyhap.com
shouted the names of the players in his possession, pronouncing their importance. When there was a shot on goal, we all exclaimed, and then decompressed audibly. When there was a goal scored by the one behind the desk, he stood up and pointed at his compatriot, jeering sharply. I laughed as the other boy shrugged without complaint. As the game played on, I went through my prepared series of questions, which more or less used the extent of my vocabulary: “In your opinions, who is the best soccer player in the world?” I said trying to leave space for either to answer. “Best in the world?” the boy in the blue shirt repeated. I nodded, and he thought aloud something I couldn’t understand. “…Kaka, in my opinion. But I don’t know. Who is your best?” I immediately decided not to say Messi. I searched down the list of obvious choices for a more provocative name. Eventually, I responded. “Andrea Iniesta. Andrea Iniesta is amazing.“ “The best?” he wondered. “Think so?” “In my opinion, Messi. Messi is the best,” entered the boy behind the desk. I regretted dearly, my pretension, and began telling him I thought Messi was great. I felt I had missed a connection. But the next dead ball, the boy turned in his seat to nod pleasantly at my descriptions.
“AND FOR A WHILE WE ONLY SPOKE AT GOALS, EACH OF US SAYING IN THE UNIVERSAL LANGUAGE “OOHH”, “AHH”, AND “GOOOLLL!“
I continued, asking what team they supported – none in particular; where they were from – “Paraty,” they answered meekly; and if they thought Brazil would win the Confederations Cup, which was currently underway. The last question sparked the one behind the counter’s interest. He started explaining how they were good enough to win, if only…something or other, Portuguese, Portuguese. He turned to me and asked “The United States is still in the tournament, huh?” “Yeah but they’re bad.” “Very bad,” he added quickly, “Very weak. They lost two games out of three, they are no good.“ I agreed spiritedly. He asked me in Portuguese, “Where are you from? Are you Spanish?” “No, I don’t speak Spanish,” I misunderstood. “Are you from England?” he asked. I finally registered his question and said quickly that I was from Chicago, 9
but he didn’t understand. He then asked using English, “From? You from?” I repeated Chicago and then added “in the United States.” The first boy looked at him exhaustingly. “Oh from the United States,” he said, perhaps embarrassed of his criticism. To assure him that he kept good standing, I tried my best to explain that I agreed that the national team was no good. The conversation died, no one sure of the next logical question. And for a while we only spoke at goals, each of us saying in the universal language “Oohh”, “Ahh”, and “Gooolll!” When they finished their game, the first boy, who lost, offered me his controller and gestured for me to take his seat in front of the TV. He kneeled down and told me the use of each button – “Shoota, passa, crossa.” I nodded readily and we got to playing. As soon as the game began there was a knock on the glass door. A pretty young woman around our age, wearing a white t-shirt and soft pink pants, pressed her face against the glass saying something naggingly to the boys. They waved her off, uninterested. I thought about asking who she was and how they knew her, but my tongue caught itself before I could form the words. I figured it wasn‘t my place, and went back to the game. I was out of practice and not used to a few differences in the Xbox controller, but my defense was solid and the game was tied 0-0 at the end of regulation time. In overtime, we each scored once. But then he scored twice more, and I had to give up my controller and seat. We played a couple of more games, laughing heartily and ganging up on each other‘s misfortune. As I watched admiringly the fluid movement of soccer – even the artificial kind – I felt myself relax. Although I worried about silences, suddenly I didn‘t feel the need to be preparing a question. The game was enough for us. When it was my turn again, I played much better and won handily. As the final whistle blew, the boy behind the counter looked at his watch and said something to the other. I got up from my chair instinctively, and the curly haired boy made a gesture with his hands to politely show that we were done. As we stood there, I asked them their names, “Alexandro” and “Sambuka.” I thanked them each for letting me play, and asked if I could have Sambuka‘s number. He smiled warmly and said something like “Of course, this was fun right?” As he wrote it down, I asked shyly, “we will play again?” They nodded to each other, and then to me, as Sambuka said “Ta, ta.” Sambuka handed me the paper, and I thanked each of them again, feeling better every second they smiled at me. I said goodnight, and walked back out into the empty streets, which seemed brighter now at midnight than they had at ten. 10
North America: Played with a Baby Today Posted anonymously on www.happyhap.com from the USA I went to Kasbah Garden Cafe today to see a Balkan band with a great lady drummer. Missed most of their show, but ran into two friends with a friendly, calm, curious, happy 13-month-old baby. Another friend showed me how to hold the baby and to hold her two hands as she walked around the garden, leading the way. The baby picked up rocks from one part of the garden and walked over to another part to put them down, and she loved saying “Hi“ to the “Bok boks“ which were these wooden duck decoys in the garden. She liked crossing over a small bridge in the garden, over and over again. I gave her a quarter-segment of my orange, the baby‘s first orange ever. She put it in her mouth, and then immediately spit it out and looked at it. She put it back in her mouth and sucked the juice out of the little piece of orange. We weren‘t sure if she liked it.
Asia: Jellyfish
Posted anonymously on www.happyhap.com from Vietnam I was on a secluded, tropical beach in Vietnam. The water was so warm and shallow, and the clearest green that you can imagine. I walked farther out in the water, and all of a sudden I saw a bright blue jellyfish. I walked a little farther and I saw another jellyfish, then another. When I looked up at the waves, I realized that there was a whole exodus of jellyfish swimming together. The friend that I was with is a scuba diving instructor, and he told me that if I touched the cap of the jellyfish, I wouldn‘t get stung. So it became a kind of whack-amole game with the jellyfish: I would try to gently punch the caps of as many jellyfish as I could, they‘d spin, and then start to swim away again. It also reminded me of the scene from Finding Nemo when Nemo and Dory were trying to bounce on the jellyfish without touching the tentacles. The happy happening was something that I can only imagine seeing in a movie, but I was actually experiencing it. I had so much fun, playing childishly with all the jellyfish amidst a warm and soft tropical beach, a scene that I still find so surreal whenever I think about it.
Spring 2010 - The Journal of Happy Happenings
HAPPYHAPS in Pictures
By Joe Breen www.happyhap.com
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Lucy, one of the campers at the day camp where I worked this summer.
By Anya van Wagtendonk
A beautiful early morning on Laguna Beach during the California tour with Mixed Company, one of Yale‘s a cappella groups, chasing waves before a long day of performances. Finally, getting to take my 3 inch heels off to dip my feet in the water, waking up with the people I love to the sound of beach waves in Laguna, California. Pure happiness. By Esther Hyun
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Spring 2010 - The Journal of Happy Happenings
This is my daughter Serena Farley when she‘s happy. I love it… By Veronica Iacono
www.happyhap.com
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By Susan Park
An In-n-Out burger By Yen Duong 14
Spring 2010 - The Journal of Happy Happenings
HAPPYHAPS by YAlE Students As it is Happyhap.com’s main objective to create a broader platform for happiness on Yale campus, some Yale students share their own happyhaps with you in this section. Enjoy!
Into the White By Erica Pool
My fingers are thawing, curled up in my gloves. They throb to the rhythm of my heartbeat. My lips are chapped and pale, my face stings. It’s almost as pink as the scratchy scarf that’s wrapped around it. I can’t feel my foot, strapped to a five-foot piece of plastic, metal, and Plexiglas. I only know it’s still there because the knee above it is twisted painfully with the floating weight.
“AN ANCIENT, VENERABLE BREEZE RUFFLES MY HAIR AND NIPS MY EARS, WHISPERING THE SECRETS OF THE EARTH, IF ONLY I COULD UNDERSTAND THEM.” But none of this pain fully registers, because the anticipation and contentment fill my soul, and that completeness doesn’t leave any room for intruders. I slowly relish this wholeness, tasting it. Gradually, my glowing excitement bleeds into the trees around me, and I leave it behind. The trees then seep into me, a feeling of ancient tranquility flows through my veins as I observe nature’s calm splendor. An ancient, venerable breeze ruffles my hair and nips my ears, whispering the secrets of the Earth, if only I could understand them. The wind whistles; I breathe a slow vapory sound. A misty cloud billows forth, then dissipates into the frigid air. Other than the wind and my breathing, the world is breathtakingly silent. The rattle of the chairlift has faded into non-existence – it doesn’t belong here. The scent of white hangs in the air like no other. I draw in the crisp, biting smell and it brings a tinge of woodiness and soil with it, a rich aroma that smells like www.happyhap.com
life. I close my eyes, trying to capture it, but I have to keep going back for more, and it starts to numb my nose. I open my eyes to the blue and grey above me. The vault of the sky is eternal, a cold sapphire that con-tinues upwards forever. The encroaching grey to the west yearns to join it, but it is too heavy, too solid, and it sinks, smothering the blue. Looking down, few patches of noble green show from beneath the endless world of white. The ground is enveloped with a smooth blanket of snow, as pure and glittering and blinding as I think heaven must be. I sit and revel, humbled by the ancient wisdom of nature. I can feel bliss gathering behind my eyes, and the world is blurry for a moment. The spell is broken as the lift passes the next hill with a shudder, revealing the sight of newbs and shredders on my favorite run. I capture the fleeting, contemplative emotions in my heart, saving them. My excitement floods back as I watch dozens of boarders and skiers strapping up and starting in various directions. The greens, blues, reds and blacks of their jackets and ski pants are crusted with damp delight. I’m almost at the station. As my pulse picks up and my stomach flutters, a wide grin breaks across my face. I can feel the board humming beneath me, itching to taste the snow. The chair slows. I touch down, and carve into the white powder .
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Cookie Dough or Oreo? By Megan Lee
When I was younger, I always leaned forward into that middle open space between the two front seats of my parents‘ car. I would rest my chin on my two hands, watching the exchange between my parents in wonder always feeling so safe and warm. I especially liked that instant when they would ask me what I would like to eat, and I would giggle and chatter on and on about places to go until my parents would laugh. During the first two years of college, it was extraordinary how independent I had become. But when spring break began, my parents wanted to drive from Virginia to pick me up. Seeing them arrive with smiles and open arms, perhaps looking a bit older and wiser, I suddenly became very thankful for how precious I am in my parents‘ eyes, not to mention that they would travel almost 18 hours without a complaint. I enjoy discussing politics and philosophy, occasionally ruminating about poetry. As soon as I jumped in the car, however, I reveled in putting my chin in my hands, listening to my parents, and just waiting for the next rest stop and the little choices of the afternoon – cookie dough or Oreo, for here or to go?
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Spring 2010 - The Journal of Happy Happenings
Real Madrid By Erica Pool
I was lost in the woods, disoriented by a thick fog that felt like a damp cloth pressed to my face. I heard rustling noises all around me, and strange rasping moans. I paused, switched directions, froze again – just then, a horde of freakish forest monsters emerged, limping and lurching across the dirt, howling and waving their limbs. Some shouted, some keened, others made guttural noises, gesticulating wildly at the birds that fled them in terror. They were the brain-damaged and handicapped inpatients of a psychiatric hospital just outside Madrid, and I hated them. Ushered on their daily walks in the park by mulish, blue-clad nurses, they were my worst nightmare: imprisoned inside their bodies, unable to communicate, alone in their own heads. It plagued me at night, thinking I was really just like them. Alone and trapped that way. When I lived in Madrid, I was terribly lonely. The spring of 2008 was unusually soppy and moody in the city, and the north winds blew ferociously across the great plateau of Castilla León. Trudging to the metro stop was lonely, sitting in the plastic seats was lonely, walking the crowded streets was lonely. I was lonely with my iPod, lonely with my camera, lonely with my laptop and my Spanish and my international Motorola that had two different numbers for home: Marga’s House, and Home. I lived twenty minutes from the ancient buildings and modern billboards of Madrid, in a tightly walled suburban neighborhood with rows of identical, claustrophobic little houses. I was there to learn Spanish and teach English to Margarita de Vega and her daughters. Carmen and Loreto de Vega were fourteen and twelve respectively, and went to school full time, so I could shirk everything besides giving them lessons after school and on Sunday afternoons. Marga was a working mom, divorced and irritable; the three of them did little besides scream at each other. Oh, they were nice to me, technically, but I was used as a weapon in their constant triangulations of conflict, the fierce emotional battles they couldn’t stop waging. www.happyhap.com
When I could, I fled downtown by metro. It was like a perfectly crafted sand-city, with castles, narrow streets, spindly towers, and intricately-carved buildings that looked like they might dissolve in the rain. I went to museums, danced in clubs, drank and met a myriad of Europeans. But the relationships and the enjoyment I found were all temporary, fleeting; no matter what I did all night, at dawn I always had to take the metro home by myself. I would have an acquaintance for a fortnight, a weekend, a night. I had a long list of numbers in my phone, and I was still alone. People think Generation Y is all about social networking, but I contend that none of us really know how to socialize at all. We just text and drink.
“People think generation Y is all about social networking, but I contend that none of us really know how to socialize at all. We just text and drink.”
When the spring rains surrendered to the sun, I went for walks in the park. Casa de Campo used to be a royal hunting estate, and is now a giant national park full of winding hiking paths and little brooks. The park’s wroughtiron kissing gate was right across the street from the de Vega’s house, and I often burst from the little house after lessons to go hide in the forest. Sometimes I pretended to jog, but really I was just wandering. The forest always left an imprint on the back of my eyelids, bright and ephemeral. I took dozens of pictures and picked bunches of flowers, trying somehow to preserve it. It was a terrible, awful beauty, because when I turned around, there was no one there to share it with me. In avoiding their hideousness, I uncovered an ugly side of myself, too. I found deeper and deeper paths into the forest, shamefully hiding. If I heard them coming up my stretch of dirt, I would wrestle my way through the 17
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shrubbery to the next path. There were a few particular regulars I recognized and did my best to never see: a fat old woman in a wheelchair, with half of her face paralyzed; a short, boyish-looking man caught in sick, everlasting youth by Down syndrome; and a hunched man with badly scarred features, wearing a soccer shirt that read Real Madrid Club de Fútbol. His gnarled, curled hands constantly clutched at nothing like a slow, drooling T-Rex. This continued for weeks – my constant evasion, my shame, the ruination of the only hobby that made me feel okay to be so alone. One golden June afternoon I was all prettied up and waiting at the fancy new metro stop, which consisted of a slightly raised platform, metal tracks and wires like a trolley car, and some red benches, all outside and right next to the sidewalk. It was quiet, clean, and neatly decorated with shrubbery and grass. Like everything is, even in European suburbia. I was clacking back and forth from the platform to the sidewalk, fiddling with the stupid iPod, when I crashed shoulders with the man in the Real Madrid shirt. I yelped. I couldn’t help it. I whirled away from his gruesome presence, and nearly smacked into the frowning nurse. I knew she recognized me. I looked at her, turned to him, opened my mouth to apologize, closed it as I mentally switched to Spanish, opened it again, and www.happyhap.com
then the metro arrived. “Lo siento,” I apologized indistinctly as I shoved my way onto the train. I didn’t look either of them in the eye as I passed, and they watched me from the sidewalk, not ten feet from the closing doors.
“Suddenly it was my own reflection smiling and waving at me through the window.”
The only seat available was facing the window. Facing them. So I sat, keeping my head down, pretending to be doing something with my phone, feeling their judging gazes on the top of my head through the glass. I wanted to vanish from my own skin. I felt the train lurch, and dared a glance up. The man in the Real Madrid shirt was waving to me. And smiling. It was the first moment I realized the ravaged visage above his neck was actually a face, capable of expression. It was probably just a reflex, the mimicry part of the human brain that makes people inclined to unconsciously and automatically copy one another, but I couldn’t help smiling back. As the train pulled away from the surprised 19
nurse and the wide-eyed soccer fan, I waved back, too. The train hit the darkness of the tunnel. Suddenly it was my own reflection smiling and waving at me through the window. It was startling. I look at myself all the time, but do I ever smile at myself like that? We spend so much time looking at ourselves, my generation. Mirrors, Facebook profiles, Flickr, Tumblr, YouTube. iPhones, iPods, iTunes – the iGeneration, the Me Generation, selfcentered, narcissistic, and shallow. People say we only care about ourselves, our clothes, our perfectly pouting faces. They complain that we are always networking, checking opinion blogs, googling, wikiing, searching. I think we are searching, looking for ourselves the only way we know how. We are looking to make sure someone’s watching, someone’s with us, anyone out there is thinking the same things we are, that we are not alone in our own heads. Yes, we spend an inordinate amount of time commenting on one another’s photos – but we are not collectively mooning over ourselves. Instead, we are just trying to keep a grasp on one another, no matter how tenuous, terrified to be alone for even a second. We’re not self-absorbed, we’re afraid of ourselves: we continually check ourselves out in the mirror, but we’re afraid to step close and make eye-contact, afraid to truly face ourselves. The next morning when the Real Madrid guy and his compatriots came gamboling down the path, I instinctively smiled and waved. It was almost an accident, and I kept walking. But the horrible guilt and anger was gone. The next time, I stopped, turned off my iPod, looked him in eye, and said “¡Hola! ¿Que tal?” He smiled. Spain had just won the Euro Cup, and he couldn’t be happier, said the nurses. I chatted with them about the weather, the city, the way city-dwellers treat each other. It was not much of an effort, but I waved every time I saw them, - High Volume Copying sometimes stopping for a quick hello, and Real Madrid Printing - Direct Mail Services always greeted me back. gn - Faxing Services Maybe it was just because summer had come at last, vices - Portfolios but the days were brighter, my smile wider. I was still aloa Management - Offset Printing ne, but now, I could take all my exultation and turn it inwards, keep it for myself. I didn’t need to turn around and make sure someone else was appreciating it too. I closed my eyes and felt the sun on my face, and absorbed my own happiness. Every metro ride after that, when I saw my own reflection in the window, I winked. The dressed-up girl waggling her foot across from me – maybe she was a little lost, but she was real, and I found her here in this beautiful city, and I could be okay, maybe, being alone with her. 20
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Spring 2010 - The Journal of happy happeningS
HAPPYHAP In THe new HAven COmmunITY
Attachment 5
“sOmeTHInG mAkes me HAPPY� By Daksha Rajagopalan
The first time I stepped into the New Haven Reads Community Book Bank excitement bubbled within me. Located at 45 Bristol Street, New Haven Reads is a unique environment that gives children and adults access to free books and tutoring services with the goal of increasing their literacy skills and academic performance. Currently, volunteers from across the New Haven community tutor over 300 students (!) after school and on weekends for one or more hours per week. In addition to individual tutoring, New Haven Reads also sponsors homework tables and a writing club. Apart from its extensive tutoring program, the book bank at New Haven Reads offers free books to individuals, teachers, and organizations. New Haven Reads also has a Book Distribution Program that delivers books to the Yale New Haven Hospital, the Hill Health Center, and numerous nursery schools, shelters, and senior centers, as well as local schools and individual classrooms.
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Last summer, I volunteered at New Haven Reads to help with the distribution of books. My group and I wrote grants, sorted books and distributed them at Shaw’s Supermarket. I also made numerous phone calls to confirm the fall tutoring schedule. Although this is something I usually find quite unexciting, I relished my job to a degree I never had before. Since my summer experience, I have been tutoring elementary and middle-school students on a weekly basis. The joy I experience from helping at New Haven Reads is incredible. It is great to realize how I contribute to increasing my tutees’ understanding of reading and writing – skills I know will be of lifelong use to her – just by spending a few hours a week at 45 Bristol Street. Often over a game of chess or while working on a passage about a famous athlete, I find myself passing on pieces of advice and more basic life-lessons. Recently, for example, I worked with the writing club and asked them to reflect on: “What makes you happy?” Some excerpts from this writing exercise are featured along with this article. Although I grew up doing a lot of different community service in South and Southeast Asia, I have rarely encountered an environment as happy and enthusiastic as New Haven Reads. Christine Alexander, the organization‘s founder and executive director, is a phenomenal person whose leadership and integrity continue to inspire me. One of the first and most memorable things she told me was that in a lot of social service, you eventually end up getting more than what you initially gave – not in a selfish sense, but rather in a happy and nurturing one. 22
Spring 2010 - The Journal of Happy Happenings
“Want to get involved with HappyHap.com? We’re a young Yale student organization committed to creativity, happy moments and fun ideas. Send us your HappyHap! Written or visual, long or short, please email us your contribution for our next HappyHap.com issue! Or, tell us what you think about our project. We would love to get your feedback, answer your questions, or hear your comments. Contact us at myhappyhap@gmail.com.”
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