First off, I apologize for not blogging lately. I’ve been extremely preoccupied with schoolwork and logistics of my U.S. Department of State internship this summer. Last week, as a part of the security clearance process, I was questioned by a Special Investigator and was required to spontaneously produce information I never thought I’d have to know. So I proceeded to investigate myself and scrounged through all 11,049 of my emails for details such as what airline I used when flying to China in 2006. The most miserable part was when the investigator asked, “Who takes care of your siblings in China when your dad is in Florida?”
I, who had just denied any continuous contact with foreign nationals, gulped. “My grandma.”
“Well, I need her information. Name, address, employer, age, etc.”
“I, uh…I don’t know her name. I believe her last name is Pan?” I’m a disgrace to my ancestors.
Mr. Investigator frowned. “Oh, I see. Your father has made it so you aren’t very close to your relatives?”
“What? No, um, I just don’t know their names.” Kill me now.
“She’s unemployed. Age is 19 plus 49, which is…68.”
“Oh? You know she was born 49 years before you?”
“No, I know she had my dad when she was 19, and my dad is 49, so…”
He must have thought I had been disowned by my family. As if that weren’t painful enough, he then questioned me about substance abuse abroad. I admitted to drinking alcohol in Spain and China, but thankfully I had turned down a taste of the kilo of weed a friend had bought in Spain. Regarding romantic involvement with foreign nationals, this was my thought process: does the German dude count? Nah. What about the Polish guy? No, absolutely not. Nope, no romantic involvement with foreign nationals!
Now that I’ve gone off on a long tangent, let me return to what was supposed to be the topic of this post. Why do I want this internship so badly? Why do I want this career so desperately?
In my humble opinion, there are two types of people in the world: those who stay, and those who run. Sometimes, the former group is associated with passivity and stagnancy and the latter with workaholism and fickleness. To tell which category you fall under, ask yourself: do you like where you came from? If you answer “yes”, you are a stayer. If “no”, you are a runner.
Well, guess what? I’m a runner, and the thought of staying still in one spot without anything to chase — even if it’s my own tail — is terrifying. As long as I live, I will always seek that proverbial pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Nothing would make me happier than a job that requires me to be constantly on the run.
How about you? Are you a stayer or a runner?