The Great Haemi

In 1999, I had to find an apartment and quickly. My family was getting evicted, among other things, for having a chihuahua in a "no pets" building. That building was horrible and the landlord pretended to be impeccable, always chiding us for running, or parking my car slightly askew, or getting visited by my cousin too frequently (he thought my cousin lived in the apartment, which was true, although temporary, and that's a whole another therapy session). So after receiving the notice, I said to myself, "good riddance" and went on a desperate search for an apartment in a decent part of Glendale, my hometown since 1990.

The rent in Glendale has nearly skyrocketed since 1990, and this was the first time I had to look for an apartment -- so far, the only time I've had to. It was hard finding something that fit our budget, and yet was in a liveable neighborhood with a garage/parking lot. They also had to take pets, because I wasn't willing to be parted from my beloved "Jjang," the chihuahua. (Jjang in Korean is a slang term, loosely equivalent to the English slang, da bomb.)

I searched through the LA Times and found a place. The price was right, and it was in a pretty good place. I went to visit it, and I fell in love. It was just big enough for my family + pet, and it was bright. It had the most adorable kitchen, and the whole place was just so darn cozy, and I don't mean small. We moved in later that month.

This apartment, which is the very place I am typing from now, is on Myrtle Street. I found nothing odd, but some time after I moved in, I realized that Myrtle is a character from The Great Gatsby, one of my favorite books, and a must read for all high school students. Not only is Myrtle from that novel, so is Daisy, which happens to be my English name. Daisy, of course, in the novel, runs over Myrtle with Gatsby's car. It is an odd coincidence, but it's really small and I'm probably connecting too many non-existent dots, but to me, it's pretty neat. I feel like something out of the roaring 20's, something from Fitzgerald novels. His characters are always so dramatic and yet fabulous.

I was reading a few other blogs by people I've never met, and came across this one: laStella*, which is written by a Janet Kwok, as mentioned in the Harvardblog. In the blog, she uses a pseudonym, which got me thinking. Maybe, I should get a pseudonym. Wouldn't that be romantic? Now if I could only find one to suit me... I don't know since when, but using your real name is so bleh. I recall an excerpt from The House on Mango Street by Sandra Cisneros. The narrator hates her name, Esperanza, and wants something else for a name, such as Xexe the X. Of course, Cisneros did write it up more eloquently than my one sentence summary, but Xexe? The X? Not for me.

If I were to have one, I would need something bold but romantic, sharp but softening, innocent, but not without a bite. Too much to ask for in a name? Something very feminine, but with a strong connotation. Something like the name Chanel except that's so plebian. And no Indian names like Pocowhachamacalla or Thunder Thighs. Maybe a man's name, but something that melts like bittersweet dark chocolate on my tongue. Claude. Pangloss. Like George Elliot, but I wouldn't want to bite off from her. Perhaps Grendela. That was a joke.

Of course, if I were to write something to be published, like a novel or something, or perhaps paint something marvelous, I would definitely need a pseudonym. Not because I want to hide, but because I'm just fabulous like that. Ultimately, when I die, I would just have to be known as "The Great Haemi." Because I will be great, and will be remembered as such. Which reminds me. If I want to be great, I should get to my school work and tackle MacroEconomics by its achilles heels. Sometimes reality feels like sandpaper, scrubbing against my gentle, gossamer daydream.