I have no need for another ultra lightweight down puffer jacket, but I find myself rifling through the racks of clothing at Uniqlo in SoHo, thinking about something my son asked me this morning as we were finishing up breakfast: "What are you going to do today?"
Only half-jokingly, I answer that we'll probably go to the Kith store, then the Adidas store, then the other Adidas store, and probably end up at Uniqlo. And, as sons will do, he says with a slight smirk in his voice, "Oh, yeah, because there's never anything to do in New York City."
I know he means to point out that we are in the Cultural Capital of the country, so maybe we should do something. But as I'm wandering the aisles of clothing, I realize that the reason I'm in New York City has absolutely nothing to do with what brings most tourists here. It's not the theater, the museums, or the "culture": it's my kids. And we had already managed to have a very nice breakfast with both of them at the Clinton Street Baking Company (the peach-nectarine waffle was delicious and had too much whipped cream, which is pretty much unheard of). My anti-bougie brunch daughter seemed to enjoy her lox scramble, and my vaguely minimalist son who likes bougie breakfasts seemed to like his Farmer's Breakfast, as well. (I'm pretty sure a real farmer would not have had to pay $17 for three eggs, toast, and sausage, but I get the reference.) Everything was delicious. We discussed our plans for the day over our bougie food, in this bougie establishment, among our bougie selves. My son, in for the weekend from Philadelphia, was spending the day seeing old college and high school classmates. My daughter was headed into DUMBO to start a new internship at Art In General. And then, there's us parents. Boring as ever.
My son is right, of course, we should take advantage of our time in New York and "see the sights." But what I couldn't say to him--and maybe I should have--was that my goal for the day had already been accomplished. My husband and I got to spend time with him and his sister, all four of us together. And the next highlight of my day would be dinnertime, when we would all be together again. So it didn't really matter if there were a bunch of museums nearby, or Broadway shows that some friend said I "should" see, because that's not what makes me happy. I already did what I set out to do here.
Can't wait till dinnertime.
Monday, October 28, 2019
Monday, June 1, 2015
okaerinasai / itterasshai
The boy has returned. A full college-year older. The dog was ecstatic ... for about two minutes. Then, he plopped down on the living room rug, chin on the floor, eyes looking upward like a God-fearing apostle in a Renaissance painting, imploring, where art my dog treats? and looking very bored. The boy had a similar rush of excitement when he came home that seemed to wear off rather quickly and was replaced by happy boredom. He spent most of his days sitting in front of a screen of some sort, which seems like it would be boring, but he seemed to be both excited and happy, content to interact with whomever was pinging him while he made music or played that game where a small circle eats smaller circles (which he explained to me in great detail). In spite of this default setting for indoor activities, both the boy and the dog seemed happiest when outside of the house, running, at least for a little while, which made my daily to-do list a bit shorter: When you come downstairs, could you walk the dog, please?
After two weeks of allowing our son to decompress, we went to a picnic where he was asked how long he'd been home. His father replied, "Hasn't it been about a week?" while our son answered, "Feels like it's been about a month."
Well, that pretty much sums it up. It's rather unfair that time speeds up when you are older, and have less of it, while those who are still young feel like time is just dragging on and on and on, with WiFi and everything just so slooooowwwwwww. As much as I'd like to tell my son -- Hey! Slow is good! Appreciate your youthful young years, you young whippersnapper! -- I'm sure it won't mean a lot to him right now. (Okay, okay, I probably will tell him, anyways, since I'm prone to talking whether or not anybody is listening.)After two weeks of allowing our son to decompress, we went to a picnic where he was asked how long he'd been home. His father replied, "Hasn't it been about a week?" while our son answered, "Feels like it's been about a month."
Monday, January 19, 2015
appreciating diversity
I've lived in this little town of Piedmont since the turn of the century. Just saying that makes me sound old, and I guess I'm mature enough to realize that yes, I am old. To clarify, the century I am talking about started in the year 2000, so I'm old, but not that old. With one child out of the nest, I took on a few new volunteer positions this year, and one of those is with the Piedmont Appreciating Diversity Committee (PADC). I've been a MINO for over a decade -- that is, Member in Name Only -- and decided it was time to support the organization in a more active way. It didn't hurt that they had a fundraiser at Yoshi's last year featuring Sheila E.
The PADC's biggest annual event is it's MLK Jr. holiday celebration, which I had always intended on attending, but had never gotten around to it. This year, I went partly out of a sense of duty, but also because of a desire to see the Oaktown Jazz Ensemble and to support the four Asian American women speakers in the program. I didn't realize that I was about to see a sliver of Piedmont that I hadn't seen before.
I heard a woman speak today about her memories as a child, when she lived in El Paso, Texas, and could not use a drinking fountain unless it was labeled "COLORED." She spoke of her father, a veteran of two wars, wearing his uniform when he took his family to ride on a train to California -- and being permitted to ride only in the "colored" car. Her family moved to the Bay Area when her father was stationed in Monterey, California, and her mother wanted to live in San Leandro, but was convinced that this wasn't possible because people would not sell houses to blacks in San Leandro. She recalled her father telling her mother -- Don't worry, I'll wear my uniform, and we will be able to buy a house in San Leandro -- and how her father was wrong.
The woman then spoke of the pride she felt now, many years later, at a time when she, an African American woman, represents the district where San Leandro is located, as the Representative in the United States Congress.
Representative Barbara Lee lauded "the heroes and she-roes who came before me, who marched and fought for equality, without whom I would not be the 100th African American elected to the United States Congress" -- as she closed her remarks, shortly before she left for her flight back to Washington, DC. It was an honor to hear her speak, and to know that she took the time out of her schedule to address this intimate gathering of community members.
The PADC's biggest annual event is it's MLK Jr. holiday celebration, which I had always intended on attending, but had never gotten around to it. This year, I went partly out of a sense of duty, but also because of a desire to see the Oaktown Jazz Ensemble and to support the four Asian American women speakers in the program. I didn't realize that I was about to see a sliver of Piedmont that I hadn't seen before.
I heard a woman speak today about her memories as a child, when she lived in El Paso, Texas, and could not use a drinking fountain unless it was labeled "COLORED." She spoke of her father, a veteran of two wars, wearing his uniform when he took his family to ride on a train to California -- and being permitted to ride only in the "colored" car. Her family moved to the Bay Area when her father was stationed in Monterey, California, and her mother wanted to live in San Leandro, but was convinced that this wasn't possible because people would not sell houses to blacks in San Leandro. She recalled her father telling her mother -- Don't worry, I'll wear my uniform, and we will be able to buy a house in San Leandro -- and how her father was wrong.
The woman then spoke of the pride she felt now, many years later, at a time when she, an African American woman, represents the district where San Leandro is located, as the Representative in the United States Congress.
Representative Barbara Lee lauded "the heroes and she-roes who came before me, who marched and fought for equality, without whom I would not be the 100th African American elected to the United States Congress" -- as she closed her remarks, shortly before she left for her flight back to Washington, DC. It was an honor to hear her speak, and to know that she took the time out of her schedule to address this intimate gathering of community members.
It was a moving and inspiring event. In addition to Rep. Lee addressing the gathering, there was also Mayor Margaret Fujioka giving a call to action directed at the youth in the audience, a self-reflection on "faith" by high school student Courtney Gao, a spoken word piece on white privilege by high school junior Jenna Stein-Corman, and one of the biggest surprises for me -- Piedmont Police Chief Rikki Goede, who started her speech with references to Ferguson and Brooklyn, and spoke about community policing and acknowledging the existence of issues such as fear on the part of the police that may not be justified, and the need to be critical and improve, to approach the question not as "What's wrong with them?" but as "What's wrong with us?"
Self-assessment, change, tolerance and hope were the common themes of the day -- appropriate for today and everyday. Thank you to the Piedmont Appreciating Diversity Committee for giving our community a place to celebrate and appreciate diversity!
Wednesday, October 22, 2014
waiting by the phone
With less driving around to do, I should have lots of extra time to do whatever I want ... but somehow it doesn't feel that way. I still feel like I am bouncing from one task to the next, punctuated by many tasks in the category of Putting-Food-in-My-Mouth, also known as Mindless Snacking -- not technically on my list of things to do, but something I do a lot. This has not been good for my waistline, but this is also not completely out of the ordinary. It has, however, gotten bad enough that I have taken to wearing loose-fitting dresses so that I don't have to feel the sensation of a tourniquet around my waist whenever I put on jeans. (But that's another story. Which I will put off for now. I will have a little snack while I am thinking about it.)
Being an almost-empty nester is something that has been made easier because I have friends with older kids, and they have tried to ease me into making the transition. One of my sempai is my friend Debbie, who is very good about getting me out of the house for a walk from time-to-time. She is a great multi-tasker, and she always suggests that I bring my dog. My dog loves Debbie.
As we were walking the other day, my phone emitted a choo-choo sound that almost made me jump for joy, or at least made my heart skip a beat ... my son had texted me!
"I have to get this," I said, apologetically.
"Yes, you do," said Debbie, with a nod.
I fiddled around with the phone and responded.
We continued on our walk, both of us knowing that the odds of this text-and-response turning into an actual text conversation were pretty slim.
Debbie proceeded to tell me about a text she got from her son, who had been traveling, telling her that he had arrived in Munich and was in line at a beer garden.
"I was so happy to hear that he was ALIVE, but then I'm looking at the time of the text and thinking that it's about 8:30 in the morning in Munich, and what the heck is he doing in the beer line at 8:30 in the morning? But then I couldn't ask him, because I didn't want him to regret that he had texted me, right?"
I agreed. It was tough to straddle that fine line of still being a parent and worrying about them, and not wanting to scare them away from texting you at all. I told her she should get a pet, because my son would almost always reply to a text of a picture of the dog. Video was even better. My husband's co-worker had confirmed that this was a "thing" -- she sent pictures of the family cat to her daughter at college, and always got a response. Debbie was not convinced that she should get a pet, but I think she may have considered it for a brief moment.
I will confess that I sent several pictures of our dog to my son, and eventually, that did not even garner a response. Sigh. He has, however, FaceTimed us a few times, for extended face-to-virtual face conversations, which has been very nice. The worst part about that is the dog can hear my son's voice, but can't seem to see him on the screen. I guess the dog is the only one who knows what's real. Meanwhile, I will take anything I can get. Don't mind me, I'll just be sitting by the phone.
Saturday, October 18, 2014
under the rim interlude
Had the pleasure of playing in a J-Sei fundraiser (a.k.a. FUN-raiser), Under the Rim and Over the Hill, a 3-on-3 basketball tournament for hoopsters over 40. I had managed to cobble together a team of myself, my husband, Big Dave, and Mike Yoshii, also known as The Rev (because he is actually a reverend for the Buena Vista United Methodist Church). I had never played with Dave before, unless you count when he and my husband coached our daughters, and we all used to scrimmage them when the girls were all still shorter than me.
Mike Yoshii, however, I had met back in the day when my husband and I used to play at the Oakland JCC with the Asian Law Caucus pick-up game. You could tell Mike was a baller, even when he was just standing on the sidelines bouncing the ball. Since then, he’s survived a heart attack while playing basketball (props out to Deanna at the gym who gave him CPR until the EMTs arrived) and continues to preach and play ball.
As I sat there watching him play in one of the Under the Rim games, I caught a glimpse of him where everything just slowed down, as if I were watching him frame-by-frame. Top of the key, executing his signature stutter step, weight-shifting magic, the ball bouncing up and spinning in his palm, not knowing which way The Rev was going to take it as he blew by the competition. Basketball poetry in motion.
Amen.
Mike Yoshii, however, I had met back in the day when my husband and I used to play at the Oakland JCC with the Asian Law Caucus pick-up game. You could tell Mike was a baller, even when he was just standing on the sidelines bouncing the ball. Since then, he’s survived a heart attack while playing basketball (props out to Deanna at the gym who gave him CPR until the EMTs arrived) and continues to preach and play ball.
As I sat there watching him play in one of the Under the Rim games, I caught a glimpse of him where everything just slowed down, as if I were watching him frame-by-frame. Top of the key, executing his signature stutter step, weight-shifting magic, the ball bouncing up and spinning in his palm, not knowing which way The Rev was going to take it as he blew by the competition. Basketball poetry in motion.
Amen.
Wednesday, August 27, 2014
the drop-off: move-in day
Move-In Day. This was it. The first day of college orientation.
It was also Miles’s birthday.
“Do you want me to get a cake?”
“No, Mom, NO. I don't really want people to know it's my birthday.”
“Oh, okay. But ...”
“No.”
I guess that was clear enough, even for me.
We loaded up the car and drove the four miles to campus, and were greeted by a couple of cheerful students who directed us to park and register before unloading the car. We followed instructions, sort of, parked and took the scenic route to the registration building. As we made our way there, we passed trios that looked like us – a father, a mother, and a young adult/kid, looking slightly embarrassed. The weather was glorious. At least we could all talk about how nice the weather was as we – like our son – met a bunch of people for the first time who we suddenly had a lot in common with.
There was no registration line. We just walked on up and registered. The only glitch was with some fees that for some reason didn’t get pulled from the monthly installments that I was sure we made – believe me, there is no doubt when those tuition payments get automatically drawn out of your bank account – and I was a bit taken aback when the woman behind the table addressed my son and had him sign a document stating he would bring a check over to the office within a week’s time. Wow. This is really happening. Now, instead of wondering if I had forgotten to pay something on time, I could start wondering if my son had forgotten to pay something on time! This is getting real. Somehow, it felt like my life had just gotten more stressful, even though it should have had the opposite effect.
We decided to attend a faculty talk that was part of the parents’ “orientation” program. It was nice to run into a few other parents we had met in the Bay Area, and we sat next to each other like our own little club. The speakers were all very reassuring, and I started to feel ... reassured. This felt like the right school for Miles. He had chosen it, and it had, literally, chosen him. The talk went on with different administrators describing how they interact with the kids and what their areas of expertise were. They all gave different messages that basically amounted to the same thing: Leave your child alone, Don’t call the school, Don’t email the school, No you aren’t on the school emails but your child will be, Don’t call the professors, Do have your child call or email the professors, When you leave the school today, say good-bye. And leave.
Even with the bluntness that was underneath all the nice reassuring presentations, I felt okay with it all. Then, a woman raised her hand and started to ask a question. She was pretty much already in tears and could barely get her question out. She was doing exactly what I had imagined I would be doing: bordering on being a blubbering mess. And yet, I was sitting there, not crying, feeling ... strangely happy. This was my son’s time, and I was happier for him than I was sad for myself. Realizing this made me even happier.
After the talk, we found our son again and took one last look at his room. Time was ticking away, counting down to 4 pm when we would say our farewells. As I stepped into the hallway, a young woman stopped me and asked me if I was Miles's mom, and what kind of cake Miles liked, chocolate? She told me they knew it was his birthday, and they were going to get a cake and celebrate with him later. And, she was also allergic to nuts, so she would make sure it was nut-free. With that, I got to feel even more reassured. I was loving this college more and more by the minute!
We assessed his room again, and decided to make one last run to Bed Bath & Beyond to get a trash can, some over-the-door hooks, and maybe a full-length mirror. We said good-bye for now and hopped into the rental car and down Lancaster Avenue again. Careening around Bed Bath & Beyond, we grabbed a few options for hooks, one trash can, and no mirror. None of them fit the sleek modern lines of his room, so ironically, I decided against getting one.
As I drove around like a reality show contestant trying to beat a deadline, I made a mental note of the things a mom would notice: there’s the CVS, there’s the bank, there’s the Wawa Market, there’s the Chipotle. All within a two mile radius of campus. This gave me some peace of mind, since, let’s face it – my kid could get most of his needs taken care of at CVS, the bank, Wawa, and Chipotle.
It was surreal to think that eighteen years to the day, I was in labor, getting ready to bring this baby boy into the world. And, now, I was just worried about how close he would be to CVS, the bank, Wawa and Chipotle.
Driving back to campus this time, it was all feeling more bittersweet. This was the last time we’d see him. And we were running late, so we had barely enough time to get our latest purchases into his room before the parents’ reception and dinner, and the students’ orientation kick-off remarks. I rushed around, embarrassing him, since I had to walk past his small orientation group that was gathered in the common room on his hall. And, finally, it was time. Good-bye, I love you, good-bye, study hard, I love you! Good-bye.
And, amazingly, I still didn’t cry.
It was also Miles’s birthday.
“Do you want me to get a cake?”
“No, Mom, NO. I don't really want people to know it's my birthday.”
“Oh, okay. But ...”
“No.”
I guess that was clear enough, even for me.
We loaded up the car and drove the four miles to campus, and were greeted by a couple of cheerful students who directed us to park and register before unloading the car. We followed instructions, sort of, parked and took the scenic route to the registration building. As we made our way there, we passed trios that looked like us – a father, a mother, and a young adult/kid, looking slightly embarrassed. The weather was glorious. At least we could all talk about how nice the weather was as we – like our son – met a bunch of people for the first time who we suddenly had a lot in common with.
There was no registration line. We just walked on up and registered. The only glitch was with some fees that for some reason didn’t get pulled from the monthly installments that I was sure we made – believe me, there is no doubt when those tuition payments get automatically drawn out of your bank account – and I was a bit taken aback when the woman behind the table addressed my son and had him sign a document stating he would bring a check over to the office within a week’s time. Wow. This is really happening. Now, instead of wondering if I had forgotten to pay something on time, I could start wondering if my son had forgotten to pay something on time! This is getting real. Somehow, it felt like my life had just gotten more stressful, even though it should have had the opposite effect.
We decided to attend a faculty talk that was part of the parents’ “orientation” program. It was nice to run into a few other parents we had met in the Bay Area, and we sat next to each other like our own little club. The speakers were all very reassuring, and I started to feel ... reassured. This felt like the right school for Miles. He had chosen it, and it had, literally, chosen him. The talk went on with different administrators describing how they interact with the kids and what their areas of expertise were. They all gave different messages that basically amounted to the same thing: Leave your child alone, Don’t call the school, Don’t email the school, No you aren’t on the school emails but your child will be, Don’t call the professors, Do have your child call or email the professors, When you leave the school today, say good-bye. And leave.
Even with the bluntness that was underneath all the nice reassuring presentations, I felt okay with it all. Then, a woman raised her hand and started to ask a question. She was pretty much already in tears and could barely get her question out. She was doing exactly what I had imagined I would be doing: bordering on being a blubbering mess. And yet, I was sitting there, not crying, feeling ... strangely happy. This was my son’s time, and I was happier for him than I was sad for myself. Realizing this made me even happier.
After the talk, we found our son again and took one last look at his room. Time was ticking away, counting down to 4 pm when we would say our farewells. As I stepped into the hallway, a young woman stopped me and asked me if I was Miles's mom, and what kind of cake Miles liked, chocolate? She told me they knew it was his birthday, and they were going to get a cake and celebrate with him later. And, she was also allergic to nuts, so she would make sure it was nut-free. With that, I got to feel even more reassured. I was loving this college more and more by the minute!
We assessed his room again, and decided to make one last run to Bed Bath & Beyond to get a trash can, some over-the-door hooks, and maybe a full-length mirror. We said good-bye for now and hopped into the rental car and down Lancaster Avenue again. Careening around Bed Bath & Beyond, we grabbed a few options for hooks, one trash can, and no mirror. None of them fit the sleek modern lines of his room, so ironically, I decided against getting one.
As I drove around like a reality show contestant trying to beat a deadline, I made a mental note of the things a mom would notice: there’s the CVS, there’s the bank, there’s the Wawa Market, there’s the Chipotle. All within a two mile radius of campus. This gave me some peace of mind, since, let’s face it – my kid could get most of his needs taken care of at CVS, the bank, Wawa, and Chipotle.
It was surreal to think that eighteen years to the day, I was in labor, getting ready to bring this baby boy into the world. And, now, I was just worried about how close he would be to CVS, the bank, Wawa and Chipotle.
Driving back to campus this time, it was all feeling more bittersweet. This was the last time we’d see him. And we were running late, so we had barely enough time to get our latest purchases into his room before the parents’ reception and dinner, and the students’ orientation kick-off remarks. I rushed around, embarrassing him, since I had to walk past his small orientation group that was gathered in the common room on his hall. And, finally, it was time. Good-bye, I love you, good-bye, study hard, I love you! Good-bye.
And, amazingly, I still didn’t cry.
the drop-off: getting ready
The day had finally arrived. My son was leaving for college. And, unlike when I went to college on the opposite coast – his parents were coming along with him for “move-in day.” It would be a first for all three of us.
Packing was no small feat. I was determined to let him do it himself, just as I had done. Back in the 80’s when I was a kid, I had to rely on myself ... and my very prepared and understanding Eagle Scout boyfriend with his mom’s old Datsun wagon and good ol’ UPS on Western Avenue to ship my stuff across the country.
My son would have two personal couriers with him. I figured the least he could do was pack everything himself.
My husband, of course, as prone to fantasy as he is about his sports teams, is more realistic than me when it comes to real life. Plus, he used to be a teenaged boy. So he casually (at first) asked to see Miles’s luggage. Then, I heard him gently suggesting things to our son. Ultimately, he just decided it was necessary to jump in and re-pack everything, going through my son’s room with him and asking do-you-need-this-how-about-that and eventually emerging with the necessities of life for a college freshman. Of course, the first thing to figure out was how to pack the Klipsch with the subwoofer. Of course. And how to pack his posters so they wouldn’t get munched.
Things he didn’t need or want, which I would have considered basic necessities:
mirror
hairbrush
Apparently, my son doesn’t need such frivolous things. And that’s not necessarily a bad thing. I stayed up most of the night, doing more laundry, just in case. This would be the last time I would be doing his laundry for a few months, so I didn’t mind. Plus, I probably wouldn’t have slept very well, anyway. While I waited for the washing machine and dryer to do the actual washing and drying, I searched the internet for a picture of Pikachu and Ash, Pokemon Getto Daze playing over and over in my head.
Miles said his good-byes to his sister and the dog, and then we made our way to San Francisco International Airport early the next morning and got checked in. I fell asleep as soon as I found my seat on the plane, and, as if in a time machine, we seemed to instantaneously land in Philadelphia. The rest of the day was a blur of luggage, rental car, Siri’s voice telling me where to go, and driving to the hotel, from the hotel, to Bed Bath & Beyond, to Target, to Chik-Fil-A, and back to the hotel again. Anything that he hadn’t packed that he thought he needed, we bought. This included a laundry bag, laundry detergent, shampoo, body wash (so he wouldn’t have to deal with carrying around a bar of soap), a pillow, towels, a trash can, ibuprofen and scissors.
Still no mirror or hairbrush.
Packing was no small feat. I was determined to let him do it himself, just as I had done. Back in the 80’s when I was a kid, I had to rely on myself ... and my very prepared and understanding Eagle Scout boyfriend with his mom’s old Datsun wagon and good ol’ UPS on Western Avenue to ship my stuff across the country.
My son would have two personal couriers with him. I figured the least he could do was pack everything himself.
My husband, of course, as prone to fantasy as he is about his sports teams, is more realistic than me when it comes to real life. Plus, he used to be a teenaged boy. So he casually (at first) asked to see Miles’s luggage. Then, I heard him gently suggesting things to our son. Ultimately, he just decided it was necessary to jump in and re-pack everything, going through my son’s room with him and asking do-you-need-this-how-about-that and eventually emerging with the necessities of life for a college freshman. Of course, the first thing to figure out was how to pack the Klipsch with the subwoofer. Of course. And how to pack his posters so they wouldn’t get munched.
Things he didn’t need or want, which I would have considered basic necessities:
mirror
hairbrush
Apparently, my son doesn’t need such frivolous things. And that’s not necessarily a bad thing. I stayed up most of the night, doing more laundry, just in case. This would be the last time I would be doing his laundry for a few months, so I didn’t mind. Plus, I probably wouldn’t have slept very well, anyway. While I waited for the washing machine and dryer to do the actual washing and drying, I searched the internet for a picture of Pikachu and Ash, Pokemon Getto Daze playing over and over in my head.
Miles said his good-byes to his sister and the dog, and then we made our way to San Francisco International Airport early the next morning and got checked in. I fell asleep as soon as I found my seat on the plane, and, as if in a time machine, we seemed to instantaneously land in Philadelphia. The rest of the day was a blur of luggage, rental car, Siri’s voice telling me where to go, and driving to the hotel, from the hotel, to Bed Bath & Beyond, to Target, to Chik-Fil-A, and back to the hotel again. Anything that he hadn’t packed that he thought he needed, we bought. This included a laundry bag, laundry detergent, shampoo, body wash (so he wouldn’t have to deal with carrying around a bar of soap), a pillow, towels, a trash can, ibuprofen and scissors.
Still no mirror or hairbrush.
Tuesday, January 14, 2014
furusato
This past year has been one of reflection. Time passes, as do friends and loved ones. Change is inevitable. My children have outgrown me, literally, standing taller than me now. Evidence in the face of my denial.
In spite of change -- or maybe because of it -- there is a place in my heart that I retain and nurture for my furusato: Gardena, in the South Bay area of L.A. Even though I have not lived there for more than a summer since I left high school, I still refer to it as “home.”
As I lunge headfirst into this new year and one of my milestone birthdays, I’ll say a toast to all of you who’ve made my life what it is today -- Gardena homies and non-homies, alike. With appreciation and gratitude to you all, but especially to my better-half, who orchestrated my early surprise birthday celebration -- here’s to many more memories, and more milestones to come.
And ... happy birthday to all of my classmates who are hitting that milestone this year, too!
In spite of change -- or maybe because of it -- there is a place in my heart that I retain and nurture for my furusato: Gardena, in the South Bay area of L.A. Even though I have not lived there for more than a summer since I left high school, I still refer to it as “home.”
furusato
The place where I felt completely normal and average
not a model of anything, and certainly not a minority
Where I walked to school with a couple friends
across the railroad tracks on Normandie
hoping there wouldn’t be a train
when we were only six years old
Where I learned to play basketball in my backyard
and played tennis and rollerskated
on the smooth concrete of South Park
back in the day when the courts were new
and we all wore Dittos and rainbow pocket jeans
Where our club basketball team roster read
Ageno
Endo
Jung
Mochizuki
Monuki
Oyama
Sialana
Shiota
Tabata
Watanabe
and it was unusual because there were two names that were not Japanese
Where bento was something you took to school
not something you ordered at a restaurant
and nobody crinkled their nose and said "What's that?"
when you pulled out a rice ball for lunch
Where we knew what sushi was before it became trendy
Ordered from Sakae Sushi by the box
always wrapped in white paper and tied with a red string
Happy to play Uncle Min jan-ken-po (not ro sham bo)
for that last piece of ebi
I liked the saba better, but liked seeing Uncle smile
as we faced off
and I somehow won again
Where I can still speak Japanese today
in one of the handful of Japanese grocery stores
and people are confused by my looks --
What self-respecting Japanese woman lets her hair go grey?
and what’s up with all the age spots
(surely she knows there is no such thing as a “shimi-bijin”)?
Where my mom still has her yarn shop
a few doors down from the manju place
and you can still go to the Buddhist Church carnival to get
buttered corn on the cob
Okinawa dango
udon
teriyaki
and
of course
tamales
Where I was lucky enough to gather with friends and family
to celebrate the new year and years past
Sharing a moment with some who have changed my diapers
and others who I’ve “only” known since kindergarten or junior high
All of whom shared a time in their lives
when they called this place “home,” too
Time and distance have separated us
but we still share this space
that has shaped us in some way
Our furusato
As I lunge headfirst into this new year and one of my milestone birthdays, I’ll say a toast to all of you who’ve made my life what it is today -- Gardena homies and non-homies, alike. With appreciation and gratitude to you all, but especially to my better-half, who orchestrated my early surprise birthday celebration -- here’s to many more memories, and more milestones to come.
And ... happy birthday to all of my classmates who are hitting that milestone this year, too!
Sunday, October 20, 2013
checkpoint
The alarm on my phone is set to sound like church bells, although they are ringing rather early this Sunday morning. Bleary-eyed, I turn it off, not worried about waking up my husband -- he should be up, anyway. I had offered to take Miles to the airport by myself, but he said he wanted to go, too.
Our son has a 6:15 am flight out of SFO, direct to Philadelphia, for a college visit. It's only for a few days, but it feels like a trial run of the real thing, less than a year away. We decided to leave the house by 4:30 am. Which really means 4:45 am.
I am putting on my make-up when I hear my son chatting with my husband. Miles is up and ready to go! He had packed his bags the night before, printed out his boarding passes and forms required by the college, charged up his phone, and clearly knew better than to rely on me to wake him up. I got myself dressed and went down to get the sandwiches I had packed for him last night, added napkins and a bag of Popchips, and tried to impart some words of wisdom to him.
"So, when you're done eating the sandwiches or discarding what you decide not to eat -- you should at least keep the big outside Ziploc, because that will still be clean, and it's a good idea to have an extra Ziploc bag when you are traveling. They come in handy sometimes," I say, trying not to sound overly anal, and failing miserably.
"Okay," replies my son. No judgment or eye-rolling. Just the usual okay, thank goodness.
I find myself telling him random things like this with increasing frequency these days. It's as if I sense that my days with him are numbered, and I am realizing there is so much I am not sure he would think of on his own. My father was relentless in telling us the "right" way to do things, and, quite frankly, I still hear his voice today in my head, making me do things better. I fear I have failed my kids in this area, and I'm cramming it in now, in their teenage years. I doubt that they like it much, but they humor me by just saying "okay."
We drive across the Bay Bridge, lit up in its stark beauty against the black sky ... and then, it feels like only a minute before we are driving through the fogginess of South City. We have arrived at our destination: San Francisco Airport.
My husband tells me that he'll wait at the curb with the car -- no need to pay for parking when it will only be a few minutes to see our son off to the security checkpoint. I get out of the car to see Miles jokingly shaking hands with his father as they say their good-bye's, and am surprised when he turns to me, hand extended, saying "Bye, Mom ..."
"What? Oh! No, I'm walking in with you," I say as I give him a quick hug at the curb. "Where's your bag?"
"It's in the back. I'll get it," he zips over to get it and he follows me into the terminal. We stop in front of the monitors, looking up in unison. I see his flight information on the screen, but I don't say anything.
"US Airways. 6:15. On time. Gate 26," my son reads off the monitor. I'm glad I didn't say anything. My son is growing up. He's a seasoned traveler. He will be fine. I'm so relieved. I get ready to say my real good-bye to him.
"Okay -- have a good time," I say, as he hugs me and picks my feet off the floor in the process, "-- but not too much of a good time."
I chuckle, and he gives me the polite okay-that's-a-weird-mom-thing-to-say smile as he starts walking away from me ... and away from the entrance to the checkpoint.
"Wait! Miles! No -- you enter over there, under the sign that says: 'ENTER HERE' --"
"Oh, wait, what? Oh, okay ..."
And with that, my son walked off in the right direction, through the ID checkpoint.
He didn't look back once. I know, because I stood there, discreetly watching him, trying to stay out of his sight. I could have stood there and waved frantically, screaming, "MILES!!! MILES!!! DON'T FORGET TO CALL!!! MAKE SURE YOU REMEMBER TO EAT YOUR LUNCH! REMEMBER THE TIME DIFFERENCE! THEY ARE THREE HOURS AHEAD OF US! DO YOU HAVE YOUR TOOTHBRUSH? YOU BRUSHED YOUR TEETH, DIDN'T YOU? CALL ME WHEN YOU GET THERE!!! BYE!!!"
But, I didn't.
Instead, I watched in silence. Then, I noticed a few other adults standing randomly, facing towards the security checkpoint maze, much closer to the glass barrier that separates the travelers from those of us watching and waiting. I walk over to that area, not making eye contact with anybody, trying to keep my sight-line on my son.
"Excuse me, ma'am." I look down towards the voice of a man bending over near my foot. Apparently, I'm standing too close to a storefront gate that needs to open, so I apologize and move a few steps over. I look up. Where's Miles? Did he already get through security? Could he have gotten through so quickly?
I panic for a millisecond, then realize he is just blocked from my view by a post. I watch as he gets up to the pre-conveyor belt area, puts his bag on the table, grabs a bin, puts in his shoes, puts in his phone, takes off his sweatshirt, puts his backpack down, scoots his stuff over to make room for the person behind him, puts his sweatshirt into the bin, puts his bags on the conveyor belt, waits his turn, and steps into the screening machine. I see him put his hands up as the imaging device does its thing. It's getting harder to see him now, but I catch enough of him to see him grab something (his sweatshirt? yes, his sweatshirt), put on his sweatshirt and grab something else (his shoes?) and something else and something else and then move away from the conveyor belt.
He sits down and disappears from sight. I think about leaving, but wait a moment longer, and try to find him. Could that be him? No, not him. Is that him? It's hard to see with my old eyes, but I make out a young man wearing a hoodie. Is that him? That looks like his backpack. Ah, yes, and that's his bag.
That's him. My son. The young man.
I watch as he disappears down the concourse, not looking back.
Note: I didn't cry as I watched him go, but I can't say the same as I write this. They really do grow up so fast.
Our son has a 6:15 am flight out of SFO, direct to Philadelphia, for a college visit. It's only for a few days, but it feels like a trial run of the real thing, less than a year away. We decided to leave the house by 4:30 am. Which really means 4:45 am.
I am putting on my make-up when I hear my son chatting with my husband. Miles is up and ready to go! He had packed his bags the night before, printed out his boarding passes and forms required by the college, charged up his phone, and clearly knew better than to rely on me to wake him up. I got myself dressed and went down to get the sandwiches I had packed for him last night, added napkins and a bag of Popchips, and tried to impart some words of wisdom to him.
"So, when you're done eating the sandwiches or discarding what you decide not to eat -- you should at least keep the big outside Ziploc, because that will still be clean, and it's a good idea to have an extra Ziploc bag when you are traveling. They come in handy sometimes," I say, trying not to sound overly anal, and failing miserably.
"Okay," replies my son. No judgment or eye-rolling. Just the usual okay, thank goodness.
I find myself telling him random things like this with increasing frequency these days. It's as if I sense that my days with him are numbered, and I am realizing there is so much I am not sure he would think of on his own. My father was relentless in telling us the "right" way to do things, and, quite frankly, I still hear his voice today in my head, making me do things better. I fear I have failed my kids in this area, and I'm cramming it in now, in their teenage years. I doubt that they like it much, but they humor me by just saying "okay."
We drive across the Bay Bridge, lit up in its stark beauty against the black sky ... and then, it feels like only a minute before we are driving through the fogginess of South City. We have arrived at our destination: San Francisco Airport.
My husband tells me that he'll wait at the curb with the car -- no need to pay for parking when it will only be a few minutes to see our son off to the security checkpoint. I get out of the car to see Miles jokingly shaking hands with his father as they say their good-bye's, and am surprised when he turns to me, hand extended, saying "Bye, Mom ..."
"What? Oh! No, I'm walking in with you," I say as I give him a quick hug at the curb. "Where's your bag?"
"It's in the back. I'll get it," he zips over to get it and he follows me into the terminal. We stop in front of the monitors, looking up in unison. I see his flight information on the screen, but I don't say anything.
"US Airways. 6:15. On time. Gate 26," my son reads off the monitor. I'm glad I didn't say anything. My son is growing up. He's a seasoned traveler. He will be fine. I'm so relieved. I get ready to say my real good-bye to him.
"Okay -- have a good time," I say, as he hugs me and picks my feet off the floor in the process, "-- but not too much of a good time."
I chuckle, and he gives me the polite okay-that's-a-weird-mom-thing-to-say smile as he starts walking away from me ... and away from the entrance to the checkpoint.
"Wait! Miles! No -- you enter over there, under the sign that says: 'ENTER HERE' --"
"Oh, wait, what? Oh, okay ..."
And with that, my son walked off in the right direction, through the ID checkpoint.
He didn't look back once. I know, because I stood there, discreetly watching him, trying to stay out of his sight. I could have stood there and waved frantically, screaming, "MILES!!! MILES!!! DON'T FORGET TO CALL!!! MAKE SURE YOU REMEMBER TO EAT YOUR LUNCH! REMEMBER THE TIME DIFFERENCE! THEY ARE THREE HOURS AHEAD OF US! DO YOU HAVE YOUR TOOTHBRUSH? YOU BRUSHED YOUR TEETH, DIDN'T YOU? CALL ME WHEN YOU GET THERE!!! BYE!!!"
But, I didn't.
Instead, I watched in silence. Then, I noticed a few other adults standing randomly, facing towards the security checkpoint maze, much closer to the glass barrier that separates the travelers from those of us watching and waiting. I walk over to that area, not making eye contact with anybody, trying to keep my sight-line on my son.
"Excuse me, ma'am." I look down towards the voice of a man bending over near my foot. Apparently, I'm standing too close to a storefront gate that needs to open, so I apologize and move a few steps over. I look up. Where's Miles? Did he already get through security? Could he have gotten through so quickly?
I panic for a millisecond, then realize he is just blocked from my view by a post. I watch as he gets up to the pre-conveyor belt area, puts his bag on the table, grabs a bin, puts in his shoes, puts in his phone, takes off his sweatshirt, puts his backpack down, scoots his stuff over to make room for the person behind him, puts his sweatshirt into the bin, puts his bags on the conveyor belt, waits his turn, and steps into the screening machine. I see him put his hands up as the imaging device does its thing. It's getting harder to see him now, but I catch enough of him to see him grab something (his sweatshirt? yes, his sweatshirt), put on his sweatshirt and grab something else (his shoes?) and something else and something else and then move away from the conveyor belt.
He sits down and disappears from sight. I think about leaving, but wait a moment longer, and try to find him. Could that be him? No, not him. Is that him? It's hard to see with my old eyes, but I make out a young man wearing a hoodie. Is that him? That looks like his backpack. Ah, yes, and that's his bag.
That's him. My son. The young man.
I watch as he disappears down the concourse, not looking back.
Thursday, September 26, 2013
snapshot
We go about our lives, increasingly on display. In the old days (i.e., the late 1990’s) when internet service was slow and modems were noisy, with their boing-boing-ccchhhhhhh calls of power, we resorted to sharing via snail mail. A snapshot printed on a photo card, sent out during the holiday season. A few photos enclosed with a thank you note. This was about all we would present to the outside world: a glossy version of our lives, maybe with a carefully edited note on recent happenings.
The video version of our lives, of course, is undoubtedly less attractive. Yes, we now have YouTube, but I find it increasingly hard to believe that anything posted on there isn’t staged. And, the parts that are real, are still edited, in that holiday-card-ready kind of way. This is how we prefer to see our own, and each other’s lives. Nobody really wants to look at the outtakes, the parts that we want desperately to die a thousand deaths on the cutting room floor. And yet, somehow, it is those parts that tend to live on in some deep recesses of our minds, perhaps just reminding us that we, as human beings -- and especially when we human beings choose to live only within ourselves – are fallible and incomplete. It is the reaching out and connecting with others that makes us feel whole.
In our newfangled digital age, we see each other’s snapshots constantly on Facebook, Instagram, SnapChat (oops, wait I missed that!), tumblr, Twitter and probably a zillion other places. It was on Facebook that I saw a post from a friend that has made me think about these things. It said: Erik is missing. I looked at it and paused. Wasn’t her husband’s name Erik? This was not a post about a family pet. This was about her husband. I reached out via Facebook, and we spoke for the first time since our college years.
I would discover that the happy, carefree life of hers that I had viewed through the lens of holiday-card-emails and Facebook posts, had been punctuated by times of darkness that never showed in the snapshots I saw. Erik had battled an assortment of demons, with my friend holding her family together, insulating her children from the consequences of his addictions when she could, and finally setting boundaries on their interactions when she could not.
The struggles she faced living with a bipolar husband were finally highlighted, in video, on a newscast in Los Angeles. Although she is a very private person, she has shed her opaque veneer for a far more translucent one, with the public peering in on her and her family’s lives as they search for their husband and father, trading their privacy for the hope of finding him. She would continue peeling back the layers for the public, doing radio interviews, newspaper interviews, any medium that would take her story to a broader audience.
Summer has come and gone, still with no word on Erik’s whereabouts. And yet, there is hope – hope that he will be found, and hope that his story will help others. While I continue to post my own aspirational glossy snapshots, as well as view those of my friends, I will try to remember to reach out in real time, and be ready to lend support when the story behind the images is less than picture perfect.
For more information go to the Help Us Find Erik Lamberg page on Facebook.
The video version of our lives, of course, is undoubtedly less attractive. Yes, we now have YouTube, but I find it increasingly hard to believe that anything posted on there isn’t staged. And, the parts that are real, are still edited, in that holiday-card-ready kind of way. This is how we prefer to see our own, and each other’s lives. Nobody really wants to look at the outtakes, the parts that we want desperately to die a thousand deaths on the cutting room floor. And yet, somehow, it is those parts that tend to live on in some deep recesses of our minds, perhaps just reminding us that we, as human beings -- and especially when we human beings choose to live only within ourselves – are fallible and incomplete. It is the reaching out and connecting with others that makes us feel whole.
In our newfangled digital age, we see each other’s snapshots constantly on Facebook, Instagram, SnapChat (oops, wait I missed that!), tumblr, Twitter and probably a zillion other places. It was on Facebook that I saw a post from a friend that has made me think about these things. It said: Erik is missing. I looked at it and paused. Wasn’t her husband’s name Erik? This was not a post about a family pet. This was about her husband. I reached out via Facebook, and we spoke for the first time since our college years.
I would discover that the happy, carefree life of hers that I had viewed through the lens of holiday-card-emails and Facebook posts, had been punctuated by times of darkness that never showed in the snapshots I saw. Erik had battled an assortment of demons, with my friend holding her family together, insulating her children from the consequences of his addictions when she could, and finally setting boundaries on their interactions when she could not.
The struggles she faced living with a bipolar husband were finally highlighted, in video, on a newscast in Los Angeles. Although she is a very private person, she has shed her opaque veneer for a far more translucent one, with the public peering in on her and her family’s lives as they search for their husband and father, trading their privacy for the hope of finding him. She would continue peeling back the layers for the public, doing radio interviews, newspaper interviews, any medium that would take her story to a broader audience.
Summer has come and gone, still with no word on Erik’s whereabouts. And yet, there is hope – hope that he will be found, and hope that his story will help others. While I continue to post my own aspirational glossy snapshots, as well as view those of my friends, I will try to remember to reach out in real time, and be ready to lend support when the story behind the images is less than picture perfect.
For more information go to the Help Us Find Erik Lamberg page on Facebook.
Monday, July 29, 2013
ode to joe
I lost a good friend on Friday night. I will miss you so much, Joe. So glad I got to see you in May ... so sorry that I didn't get my act together to meet up with you since. I always thought I would see you again to share another meal, have another laugh, part with another heartfelt hug. It is truly unbelievable that you are gone.
****************************************
re-post of big buttons (february 2009)
My friend Joe looks down at me as I am buttoning my Woo Stassia coat, and comments,
"Whoa, those are some big buttons you've got there."
"Joe, I love it when you talk about my big buttons," I quip, knowing that he will find this amusing. He is, after all, always ready with a one-liner -- and I know this because we have known each other for over two decades now.
When I first met him, he was on a basketball court, even though it sometimes seemed that he was playing football. Off the court, he was usually wearing his Doc Martens, jeans, a t-shirt and a leather jacket. He wore his hair shaved around the back and sides, longer and slicked back on top -- clearly the inspiration for Gavin Newsom's current hairstyle. When we went out to a club, he wouldn't (or couldn't) do the Cabbage Patch. "Do your own dance!" he would say with a smile, as he busted some unique move that he must have created himself or learned during his days as a Valley Guy. He is one of the few people I know who is skinnier and in better shape than he was twenty years ago, but aside from his trimmed down physique, he is the same Joe to me. We used to bond over things like how to cut and roll a room, back in the day when we used to paint our own houses -- before we had kids.
The occasion for seeing Joe (and Nancy, Bill, Debbie, Tim, Ada, Jin, Peter, Steve, Onilda, Jackie and "the kids") tonight was a Happy Super Chinese New Year's Bowl Party, complete with chips & guacamole, calamari, roast duck, pressed duck, chicken, ribs, crab, shrimp, fish, chow mein, two different seafood & veggie dishes, fried rice, sticky rice, duck & organic greens salad, seven-layer jell-o, and a berry trifle made with Chinese sponge cake for dessert. Orchestrated by Debbie and Bill, we somehow managed to find a date when all of us and most of our kids were available to spend a few hours together. As we sat around the dinner table, we talked about how we all knew one another, and it was interesting to see that all of my relationships in that room were somehow tied to my summer clerkship for the Asian Law Caucus in 1987, when Bill took me with him to play basketball. It was great to just have some time together, talking about the old and the new; potty-training puppies and college applications; affirmative action and domestic violence; lumpia and egg rolls; Top Chef and CNN; the Cardinals and the Steelers. Real conversations in real time. Friendships that started out with being connected by something other than a Facebook link. Wow. What a concept.
Thanks for a great evening, and a toast to all the pre-Facebook friendships out there. And, yes, Joe -- I do have some really big buttons. I look forward to showing them to you again sometime soon.
****************************************
re-post of big buttons (february 2009)
My friend Joe looks down at me as I am buttoning my Woo Stassia coat, and comments,
"Whoa, those are some big buttons you've got there."
"Joe, I love it when you talk about my big buttons," I quip, knowing that he will find this amusing. He is, after all, always ready with a one-liner -- and I know this because we have known each other for over two decades now.
When I first met him, he was on a basketball court, even though it sometimes seemed that he was playing football. Off the court, he was usually wearing his Doc Martens, jeans, a t-shirt and a leather jacket. He wore his hair shaved around the back and sides, longer and slicked back on top -- clearly the inspiration for Gavin Newsom's current hairstyle. When we went out to a club, he wouldn't (or couldn't) do the Cabbage Patch. "Do your own dance!" he would say with a smile, as he busted some unique move that he must have created himself or learned during his days as a Valley Guy. He is one of the few people I know who is skinnier and in better shape than he was twenty years ago, but aside from his trimmed down physique, he is the same Joe to me. We used to bond over things like how to cut and roll a room, back in the day when we used to paint our own houses -- before we had kids.
The occasion for seeing Joe (and Nancy, Bill, Debbie, Tim, Ada, Jin, Peter, Steve, Onilda, Jackie and "the kids") tonight was a Happy Super Chinese New Year's Bowl Party, complete with chips & guacamole, calamari, roast duck, pressed duck, chicken, ribs, crab, shrimp, fish, chow mein, two different seafood & veggie dishes, fried rice, sticky rice, duck & organic greens salad, seven-layer jell-o, and a berry trifle made with Chinese sponge cake for dessert. Orchestrated by Debbie and Bill, we somehow managed to find a date when all of us and most of our kids were available to spend a few hours together. As we sat around the dinner table, we talked about how we all knew one another, and it was interesting to see that all of my relationships in that room were somehow tied to my summer clerkship for the Asian Law Caucus in 1987, when Bill took me with him to play basketball. It was great to just have some time together, talking about the old and the new; potty-training puppies and college applications; affirmative action and domestic violence; lumpia and egg rolls; Top Chef and CNN; the Cardinals and the Steelers. Real conversations in real time. Friendships that started out with being connected by something other than a Facebook link. Wow. What a concept.
Thanks for a great evening, and a toast to all the pre-Facebook friendships out there. And, yes, Joe -- I do have some really big buttons. I look forward to showing them to you again sometime soon.
Wednesday, June 12, 2013
once a farmer
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After a while, the dog is still lying there, and I've run out of reading material. I feel an undeniable desire ... to do some gardening. I hop inside, grab my hat, my gloves, and my clippers. It's time to get to work.
I start with deadheading the roses, which are blooming much better this year since I remembered to prune them before Super Bowl Sunday (a tip a neighbor gave me at the first house we lived in, and I have tried to adhere to, even as the Super Bowl has been moved back into February). I trim back the vining thing with the little white flowers, so pretty to look at but an annoyance in the current layout. I will need to stay on this task throughout the summer, or it will get too friendly with the fig tree, pulling it into its grasp and strangling its limbs.
The dog is now rolling around, thrashing his head about and growling at some phantom playmate until he stops, breathing heavily, and continues what he was doing before: lying on the grass. I turn back to the yardwork, and I remember a discussion with my sister when we talked about our mutual love of gardening, and I can hear her saying, "I think our ancestors must have been farmers. I'll be pulling weeds out of muddy ground, and I always think about rice farmers, and how we probably had ancestors who did that." I think she's right. Or, perhaps, it's just being raised by parents who spent their childhoods in Japan, where nature and gardening are just treated with a different level of respect than it is in our American culture. We spent hours as kids pulling weeds and messing around with bugs, and I actually thought it was fun. Our garden always looked great, thanks to my parents and a couple of uncles who knew bonsaiand would help my dad trim our shrubs to perfection.
I also remember one day, pulling weeds with my husband and telling him what my sister said about our family coming from farmers. Without missing a beat, he stood there wearing a pair of my dad's old gardening gloves, both of us covered in a thin film of grime from being outside all day, and replied: "Yeah. I think my ancestors must have been merchants."Can I get a rimshot? Hey, diggy diggy ... the guy definitely knows how to make me laugh. And, I think he's right. Some of us are born to be close to the earth, and some of us would rather go make some money and pay somebody to do that. Luckily, I like being out here, and I have a dog who will remind me to come outside and tend to the roses.
Sunday, June 9, 2013
counting backwards
"What's up with the buttons?" Theresa blurts out at the deli ladies.
The deli ladies look like they are going to freak out. "Oh my god, the buttons! My mom collected buttons. The only thing I kept of hers is this box of buttons."
Clearly, Theresa had been sent to the deli to communicate these messages from the afterlife to the deli ladies, and the Long Island Medium has another successful segment for her show.
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I am mesmerized. Although it's basically about dead people, this is a really happy show. This Theresa woman gets to deliver good messages to random people from beyond. A box of buttons, a stuffed shark hanging over a boy's bed, a pocket watch hidden in a sofa, a catch phrase, a nickname that nobody else knew about -- all of these things serve as her certificate of authenticity in a given situation. Tears of joy outnumber tears of sadness on this show.
As I watch episode after episode, unable to turn away and unaware that this was going to turn into some kind of marathon, I start thinking about my own mortality, counting backwards from the age I think I am likely to live until (based on family history) and calculate how old my children will be at that time. Not happy with that result, I start thinking about how old I will be when my children are my age, and am a tiny bit appalled at the answer.
To see my kids live up to my current age, I will have to live for a good 35 more years, and hopefully, go beyond that in an able-bodied manner that allows me to be useful to my kids or my grandchildren, experiencing the beauty of grandmotherhood without becoming a burden. Or, at least, not too much of a burden. That's a lot of years. By that time, my husband will be in his nineties. He has a good chance of reaching that ripe old age, thought, since he's got better long-life genes in his family than I do.
I remember my late father-in-law, then the spitting image of an active, healthy senior, sitting at our kitchen table, bored, bored, bored, bored, bored. He was getting ready to drive into the City to talk to some folks at a senior center -- not for himself, but to see how they ran things, so he could apply these ideas back in Seattle -- and saying to me with a tone of disgust, "Ninety. My life expectancy is ninety! Now, they tell me I have to find something to keep me busy until I'm NINETY." He made it sound dreadful. Trying to make polite conversation, I offered something lame, like, "Well, you can golf ..." to which I'm sure he just shot me a look of disgust. He was tired of having to stay "busy" and challenge himself everyday, but that was what he would do, as long as he had anything to say about it. For him, relaxation was overrated.
One of my friends told me that when he turned fifty, he started counting how many days he had left in his projected life. This, he told me, was a natural thing to do, especially for men -- looking back on his life, and trying to project his future. Calculating that he would live to be eighty, he would have had 10,957 days left. It sounds like a lot, and it probably feels like a lot, too. Maybe it even feels like so many days that you would view it with dread. But if you start counting backwards everyday, suddenly the end is closer than it was yesterday, and one's time on earth feels much more finite.
It's easy to see only the mundane in our lives, when each day just feels like a laundry list of things to do, including doing laundry. I have the fleeting thought that perhaps I would value each day more if I had a way of reminding myself that our time on earth is limited. Maybe I would eat better. No, I mean really eat better. And watch my weight. And get organized, because how will anybody know where anything is when I'm gone?
What if I got a giant jar of 10,957 jellybeans and took one out each day, watching the jar become more and more empty as the years passed? Maybe that would help ... but I know I'll never do this. First of all, counting out all those jellybeans would take a long time, not to mention the difficulty of finding a jar big enough to hold them all. Also, I'm too superstitious to do this. What if I was meant to put 16,000 jellybeans in, and shortchanged myself by 5,043 days? What if I miscounted? What if somebody else ate the jellybeans while I wasn't looking and depleted the jar prematurely? I know it is silly and illogical to think that I would drop dead on-the-spot when the jar was empty (which I will attribute to having watched one too many Twilight Zone marathons), but why tempt fate? In any case, I will not be embarking on the jellybean jar experiment. Jar or no jar, my days are numbered, and I need to do a better job of valuing each day.
The deli ladies look like they are going to freak out. "Oh my god, the buttons! My mom collected buttons. The only thing I kept of hers is this box of buttons."
Clearly, Theresa had been sent to the deli to communicate these messages from the afterlife to the deli ladies, and the Long Island Medium has another successful segment for her show.
.JPG)
I am mesmerized. Although it's basically about dead people, this is a really happy show. This Theresa woman gets to deliver good messages to random people from beyond. A box of buttons, a stuffed shark hanging over a boy's bed, a pocket watch hidden in a sofa, a catch phrase, a nickname that nobody else knew about -- all of these things serve as her certificate of authenticity in a given situation. Tears of joy outnumber tears of sadness on this show.As I watch episode after episode, unable to turn away and unaware that this was going to turn into some kind of marathon, I start thinking about my own mortality, counting backwards from the age I think I am likely to live until (based on family history) and calculate how old my children will be at that time. Not happy with that result, I start thinking about how old I will be when my children are my age, and am a tiny bit appalled at the answer.
To see my kids live up to my current age, I will have to live for a good 35 more years, and hopefully, go beyond that in an able-bodied manner that allows me to be useful to my kids or my grandchildren, experiencing the beauty of grandmotherhood without becoming a burden. Or, at least, not too much of a burden. That's a lot of years. By that time, my husband will be in his nineties. He has a good chance of reaching that ripe old age, thought, since he's got better long-life genes in his family than I do.
I remember my late father-in-law, then the spitting image of an active, healthy senior, sitting at our kitchen table, bored, bored, bored, bored, bored. He was getting ready to drive into the City to talk to some folks at a senior center -- not for himself, but to see how they ran things, so he could apply these ideas back in Seattle -- and saying to me with a tone of disgust, "Ninety. My life expectancy is ninety! Now, they tell me I have to find something to keep me busy until I'm NINETY." He made it sound dreadful. Trying to make polite conversation, I offered something lame, like, "Well, you can golf ..." to which I'm sure he just shot me a look of disgust. He was tired of having to stay "busy" and challenge himself everyday, but that was what he would do, as long as he had anything to say about it. For him, relaxation was overrated.
One of my friends told me that when he turned fifty, he started counting how many days he had left in his projected life. This, he told me, was a natural thing to do, especially for men -- looking back on his life, and trying to project his future. Calculating that he would live to be eighty, he would have had 10,957 days left. It sounds like a lot, and it probably feels like a lot, too. Maybe it even feels like so many days that you would view it with dread. But if you start counting backwards everyday, suddenly the end is closer than it was yesterday, and one's time on earth feels much more finite.
It's easy to see only the mundane in our lives, when each day just feels like a laundry list of things to do, including doing laundry. I have the fleeting thought that perhaps I would value each day more if I had a way of reminding myself that our time on earth is limited. Maybe I would eat better. No, I mean really eat better. And watch my weight. And get organized, because how will anybody know where anything is when I'm gone?
What if I got a giant jar of 10,957 jellybeans and took one out each day, watching the jar become more and more empty as the years passed? Maybe that would help ... but I know I'll never do this. First of all, counting out all those jellybeans would take a long time, not to mention the difficulty of finding a jar big enough to hold them all. Also, I'm too superstitious to do this. What if I was meant to put 16,000 jellybeans in, and shortchanged myself by 5,043 days? What if I miscounted? What if somebody else ate the jellybeans while I wasn't looking and depleted the jar prematurely? I know it is silly and illogical to think that I would drop dead on-the-spot when the jar was empty (which I will attribute to having watched one too many Twilight Zone marathons), but why tempt fate? In any case, I will not be embarking on the jellybean jar experiment. Jar or no jar, my days are numbered, and I need to do a better job of valuing each day.
Friday, May 17, 2013
preggers again
This is going to feel like a flashback to an earlier post, but really, I am not obsessed with pregnancy. Sure, I miss the days of unfettered eating, forty-pound weight gain, swollen ankles, the development of hips that were wider than my shoulders, and boobs that actually require a bra. The one thing I don't miss: boob sweat (which, since the aforementioned bigger-than-normal boobs were only temporary, I have not had to experience in over fourteen years).
Somehow, I got pregnant again. For about three-and-a-half hours. It all happened because a friend of a friend who is an artist was looking for women to participate in a photo shoot. Since one of her themes was women-and-aging, I must have seemed like a good pick, with my increasingly "silver" hair. The balance has definitely tipped to more "salt" than "pepper" in my hair color, and I have just accepted it and find humor in the instances when somebody mistakenly thinks I am wearing a Halloween witch wig. My "freckles" have somehow morphed into what I think would now be called "age spots," so I could do double-duty, if needed, within the aging narrative. When I met the artist, however, it was apparent that I didn't quite fit into what had been envisioned for me. Perhaps it was my height or my girth, but whatever the case -- I soon found myself trying on a dress that was a celebration of motherhood, complete with a baby bump. My pregnancy was instantaneous, as soon as I put on the polyfill-enhanced unitard, BOOM. Preggers!
Apparently, the artist, Kate Mitchell, liked the contradiction of an older, greying woman portraying a pregnant woman, and so it was. I was selected to wear the pregnancy dress.
A few weeks later, I arrived at 8 am, glad that nobody saw me without a lick of make-up on, driving around the artist loft neighborhoods of Emeryville -- ready for my transformation before the photo shoot. I was nervous and excited. Getting pregnant and unpregnant would definitely never be easier than this. Plus, I would get to have my hair and make-up done by a professional! I wondered what my new persona would look like.
As I sat in the chair, the make-up artist reads the instructions given for my look: natural -- like her, but more. "Oh, okay. Got it," she says and gets down to business. We talk about my amazing ability to not blink and flinch while she is putting on my eye make-up, which she attributes to my being a contact lens wearer. Contact lens wearers are good at not flinching. Make-up artists like that. I overhear bits and pieces of her talking to others in the room, and pick up that she has done make-up for The Lion King in San Francisco, and that she did the make-up for some of the female vocalists. It all sounds very glamorous. My make-up, however, looks very much like ... me, just a bit more smoothed out and softer looking. She didn't even cover up my dark eye circles, but I think that maybe the dark circles are part of my pregnant persona, so that would only add to my character portrayal.
We wait and wait for the photographers to be ready for us. When it is finally time to start, I get into my pregnancy garb and go downstairs. In addition to the baby bump unitard and beautifully artistic creaton of a dress, I have a flowy hood over my head, which makes me look and feel like a nun. Very Virgin Mary. Or that older sister on The Flying Nun. As I am waiting, I realize that I'm not standing like a pregnant woman -- I'm standing like a person with a pillow under my dress -- so I force the small of my back inward, shoulders backward, my chest outward, and -- voila! My back is in that uncomfortable "S" curve that we pregnant women have. Okay, now I'm feelin' it. I get into position and my directions are to be ... well, what is it? The photographer and Kate banter about this a bit, then Kate gestures with her hands at her sides, palms facing forward, taking a deep cleansing breath and closing her eyes in a meditative way. I think I hear somebody in the background chanting, "Ommmmm." Okay ... so I should be serene. And motherly. I am creating life. I am woman, hear me be serene. I'm sure a more naturally theatrical person would have been able to take this direction and perform it naturally -- but in my case, I felt stiff and I'm sure I looked even stiffer. My nun hood kept shifting every time I moved the hair out of my eyes, and I felt myself trying not to move so things would not fall out of place during the shot. I'm certain I looked like a cardboard cutout, even though I kept trying to be "loose." Fed up with this cardboard model he has been given, the photographer finally says, "Well ... what would Pee Wee Herman do?"
"Pee Wee Herman?" I'm thinking, hmmmm, Pee Wee is not what I would call serene, but I'll go with it, and I start singing, "Ba dun duh duh duh duh dun dun ... ba dun duh duh duh duh duuuhhh ... tequila!" doing the Pee Wee Herman dance in all my immaculately conceived glory. "Great! I like it!" says the photographer, clicking away. Go figure. I'm a bit confused, but it was fun to dance around, and I certainly wasn't stiff doing the Pee Wee Herman dance.
My part of the photo shoot is finished, at least until the group shot at the end, so I have the opportunity to watch all the other photo shoots, as well. To make sure my dress doesn't wrinkle, I have to stay standing the whole time, so it's good to have the entertainment of watching as the other women emerge from hair and make-up and pose for their shots. It's fun to see all of these women -- most of them dancers -- move and be expressive in such a natural way. There is a spicy, sexy, Temptress; a disheveled, fresh-from-a-romp, saucy Maid; the sweet and innocent Maiden; and the voluptuous, regal Vixen. And then, there's me. The Pregnant Lady. And, after standing up through everybody's photo shoots, a funny thing happened: my back started to hurt, just like when I was really pregnant! I bend over, stretching out to touch the air near the vicinity of my toes, and the saucy Maid reaches over to give me a back rub. I felt old and pregnant. Which, I guess, means I was playing my part well.
The book will release in November, and I will post a link at that time for anybody who is curious about how I looked ... I'm a little bit scared that my posing skills just weren't up to snuff, but I'm happy that I gave it a try. As a parent, I am always telling my kids that it's good to try new things, and I am glad I was able to walk-the-walk this time!
Somehow, I got pregnant again. For about three-and-a-half hours. It all happened because a friend of a friend who is an artist was looking for women to participate in a photo shoot. Since one of her themes was women-and-aging, I must have seemed like a good pick, with my increasingly "silver" hair. The balance has definitely tipped to more "salt" than "pepper" in my hair color, and I have just accepted it and find humor in the instances when somebody mistakenly thinks I am wearing a Halloween witch wig. My "freckles" have somehow morphed into what I think would now be called "age spots," so I could do double-duty, if needed, within the aging narrative. When I met the artist, however, it was apparent that I didn't quite fit into what had been envisioned for me. Perhaps it was my height or my girth, but whatever the case -- I soon found myself trying on a dress that was a celebration of motherhood, complete with a baby bump. My pregnancy was instantaneous, as soon as I put on the polyfill-enhanced unitard, BOOM. Preggers!
Apparently, the artist, Kate Mitchell, liked the contradiction of an older, greying woman portraying a pregnant woman, and so it was. I was selected to wear the pregnancy dress.
A few weeks later, I arrived at 8 am, glad that nobody saw me without a lick of make-up on, driving around the artist loft neighborhoods of Emeryville -- ready for my transformation before the photo shoot. I was nervous and excited. Getting pregnant and unpregnant would definitely never be easier than this. Plus, I would get to have my hair and make-up done by a professional! I wondered what my new persona would look like.
As I sat in the chair, the make-up artist reads the instructions given for my look: natural -- like her, but more. "Oh, okay. Got it," she says and gets down to business. We talk about my amazing ability to not blink and flinch while she is putting on my eye make-up, which she attributes to my being a contact lens wearer. Contact lens wearers are good at not flinching. Make-up artists like that. I overhear bits and pieces of her talking to others in the room, and pick up that she has done make-up for The Lion King in San Francisco, and that she did the make-up for some of the female vocalists. It all sounds very glamorous. My make-up, however, looks very much like ... me, just a bit more smoothed out and softer looking. She didn't even cover up my dark eye circles, but I think that maybe the dark circles are part of my pregnant persona, so that would only add to my character portrayal.
We wait and wait for the photographers to be ready for us. When it is finally time to start, I get into my pregnancy garb and go downstairs. In addition to the baby bump unitard and beautifully artistic creaton of a dress, I have a flowy hood over my head, which makes me look and feel like a nun. Very Virgin Mary. Or that older sister on The Flying Nun. As I am waiting, I realize that I'm not standing like a pregnant woman -- I'm standing like a person with a pillow under my dress -- so I force the small of my back inward, shoulders backward, my chest outward, and -- voila! My back is in that uncomfortable "S" curve that we pregnant women have. Okay, now I'm feelin' it. I get into position and my directions are to be ... well, what is it? The photographer and Kate banter about this a bit, then Kate gestures with her hands at her sides, palms facing forward, taking a deep cleansing breath and closing her eyes in a meditative way. I think I hear somebody in the background chanting, "Ommmmm." Okay ... so I should be serene. And motherly. I am creating life. I am woman, hear me be serene. I'm sure a more naturally theatrical person would have been able to take this direction and perform it naturally -- but in my case, I felt stiff and I'm sure I looked even stiffer. My nun hood kept shifting every time I moved the hair out of my eyes, and I felt myself trying not to move so things would not fall out of place during the shot. I'm certain I looked like a cardboard cutout, even though I kept trying to be "loose." Fed up with this cardboard model he has been given, the photographer finally says, "Well ... what would Pee Wee Herman do?"
"Pee Wee Herman?" I'm thinking, hmmmm, Pee Wee is not what I would call serene, but I'll go with it, and I start singing, "Ba dun duh duh duh duh dun dun ... ba dun duh duh duh duh duuuhhh ... tequila!" doing the Pee Wee Herman dance in all my immaculately conceived glory. "Great! I like it!" says the photographer, clicking away. Go figure. I'm a bit confused, but it was fun to dance around, and I certainly wasn't stiff doing the Pee Wee Herman dance.
My part of the photo shoot is finished, at least until the group shot at the end, so I have the opportunity to watch all the other photo shoots, as well. To make sure my dress doesn't wrinkle, I have to stay standing the whole time, so it's good to have the entertainment of watching as the other women emerge from hair and make-up and pose for their shots. It's fun to see all of these women -- most of them dancers -- move and be expressive in such a natural way. There is a spicy, sexy, Temptress; a disheveled, fresh-from-a-romp, saucy Maid; the sweet and innocent Maiden; and the voluptuous, regal Vixen. And then, there's me. The Pregnant Lady. And, after standing up through everybody's photo shoots, a funny thing happened: my back started to hurt, just like when I was really pregnant! I bend over, stretching out to touch the air near the vicinity of my toes, and the saucy Maid reaches over to give me a back rub. I felt old and pregnant. Which, I guess, means I was playing my part well.
The book will release in November, and I will post a link at that time for anybody who is curious about how I looked ... I'm a little bit scared that my posing skills just weren't up to snuff, but I'm happy that I gave it a try. As a parent, I am always telling my kids that it's good to try new things, and I am glad I was able to walk-the-walk this time!
Thursday, April 4, 2013
ojiichan and gung gung
I found out on Facebook. In response to my post on paper sons, my sister-in-law commented:
I guess I will have to come to terms with the fact that I probably wouldn't have heard about this if I hadn't posted something about paper sons on Facebook, but it's all good. I learned that my children have great-grandfathers on both sides of their family who illegally immigrated to America: my ojiichan, and their father's gung gung. I'm glad I can share this family history with my children, so they can process the current immigration debate through the lens of our own personal history. In outing my ojiichan as somebody who immigrated illegally, I'm hoping we can look back without shame, and recognize the validity of each person's journey. The story of the paper sons has taught us that we can celebrate this -- whether the immigration path was legal, illegal, or somewhere in between. Once our ancestors started their lives here, we became part of the American story. We are all a part of American history.
I interviewed my maternal grandfather many years ago while writing a family history paper for school. He was a paper son. His paper "Dad" was from the same Woo village so at least he was able to keep his family name. I can assure you that he was in no way open and willing to tell me much about his immigration experience. Much of the information that I got about the paper son business was hearsay from my mom. Maybe it's the later generations who talk about it openly but the actual paper sons, not so much.What?!!! I had gone with a twenty-plus person contingent of Woo family members to the village in China, and nobody spoke about the fact that he was a paper son during or after the visit. Apparently, there was a written family history that was passed around the bus, but I didn't read it (I get motion sickness when I read in a bus), and apparently, neither did my husband. I wish we had known before we went to Angel Island -- it would have made for a very different experience for my kids, and their classmates. I guess this was not exactly a family "secret," but -- like the story of my own grandfather -- it was not something spoken about very often.
I guess I will have to come to terms with the fact that I probably wouldn't have heard about this if I hadn't posted something about paper sons on Facebook, but it's all good. I learned that my children have great-grandfathers on both sides of their family who illegally immigrated to America: my ojiichan, and their father's gung gung. I'm glad I can share this family history with my children, so they can process the current immigration debate through the lens of our own personal history. In outing my ojiichan as somebody who immigrated illegally, I'm hoping we can look back without shame, and recognize the validity of each person's journey. The story of the paper sons has taught us that we can celebrate this -- whether the immigration path was legal, illegal, or somewhere in between. Once our ancestors started their lives here, we became part of the American story. We are all a part of American history.
Tuesday, April 2, 2013
paper sons
I think it's interesting how different communities view illegal immigration. As a Japanese American, this was not something that was ever spoken of, and certainly not something that was celebrated. In contrast, the Chinese American community has embraced the legacy of the "paper sons" -- which, if you think about it, is probably the biggest concerted immigration fraud ever perpetrated on the US. But it is not viewed as shameful, it is viewed as historic.
While on a school field trip to Angel Island several years ago, I listened to the Chinese American docent describe the horrendous journey of the Chinese who came through that immigration station. Many were "paper sons" -- people who were entering under the guise of being the son of somebody who already had American citizenship. The 1906 San Francisco earthquake had created an inadvertent immigration loophole; birth records were destroyed, and Chinese men who were already living in the country could claim that they had been born in San Francisco, and therefore, were citizens. I'm not sure who first figured out that this ruse might work, but once they established it did, there was no turning back. For those who could overcome the barriers put up by the immigration officials who were trying to combat this practice, the prize was American citizenship. The emotional costs, however, were high, and for some, a heavy burden to carry even as they grew their families in America.
For others, however, the legacy of the paper sons has been cause for celebration, and the renovation of the Angel Island Immigration Station is part of that narrative. During the field trip, I asked the docent -- "Were there ever any Japanese paper sons?" He was stumped. No, he said, he could not remember ever hearing about Japanese paper sons, although they may have existed. There was certainly never a concerted effort and business built around it, as it was with the paper sons.
I'm no historian, but I think I know why we have never heard of a Japanese paper son. As we say in our household, it's a cultural thang. If there were any Japanese paper sons, they would not be talking about it. Ever. Never, never, never ever. Okay, maybe on somebody's deathbed, but not before then. It would be a shameful secret to be kept secret. Japanese Americans barely spoke about the internment, and they were the ones who were wronged! On the other hand, the Chinese American community seems almost universally quite open about the whole paper sons scenario. As my Chinese American husband would say, Chinese are loud. Loud and proud, baby. Successful paper sons had to pass a test that their lives depended on, convincing immigration officials that they knew details about their paper father's family that only a real son would know. And they did it. They had gamed the system and won the prize.
I've spoken with people who will very matter-of-factly state something like, "I'm a Wong but I'm really a Lee." My husband has a whole family of cousins whose middle name is their "real" family name, but their "legal" last name is their "paper" family name. It's confusing and fascinating at the same time. The one thing they never say is: my grandfather was an illegal alien.
Don't get me wrong -- I think it's great that the Chinese American community has chosen to shine a light on the paper sons as part of their history. What I find curious is how different our perception is of a "paper son" versus an "illegal alien." It seems that we as a society are comfortable with treating documentation fraud or marriage fraud as somehow less "illegal" than somebody who enters the country without documents. With the myriad reasons and paths to entry into this country, I can only hope that there will be a shift that recognizes these experiences as equally valid means of becoming a part of America.
Click for more information on the Angel Island Immigration Station Foundation and the Angel Island Conservancy.
While on a school field trip to Angel Island several years ago, I listened to the Chinese American docent describe the horrendous journey of the Chinese who came through that immigration station. Many were "paper sons" -- people who were entering under the guise of being the son of somebody who already had American citizenship. The 1906 San Francisco earthquake had created an inadvertent immigration loophole; birth records were destroyed, and Chinese men who were already living in the country could claim that they had been born in San Francisco, and therefore, were citizens. I'm not sure who first figured out that this ruse might work, but once they established it did, there was no turning back. For those who could overcome the barriers put up by the immigration officials who were trying to combat this practice, the prize was American citizenship. The emotional costs, however, were high, and for some, a heavy burden to carry even as they grew their families in America.
For others, however, the legacy of the paper sons has been cause for celebration, and the renovation of the Angel Island Immigration Station is part of that narrative. During the field trip, I asked the docent -- "Were there ever any Japanese paper sons?" He was stumped. No, he said, he could not remember ever hearing about Japanese paper sons, although they may have existed. There was certainly never a concerted effort and business built around it, as it was with the paper sons.
I'm no historian, but I think I know why we have never heard of a Japanese paper son. As we say in our household, it's a cultural thang. If there were any Japanese paper sons, they would not be talking about it. Ever. Never, never, never ever. Okay, maybe on somebody's deathbed, but not before then. It would be a shameful secret to be kept secret. Japanese Americans barely spoke about the internment, and they were the ones who were wronged! On the other hand, the Chinese American community seems almost universally quite open about the whole paper sons scenario. As my Chinese American husband would say, Chinese are loud. Loud and proud, baby. Successful paper sons had to pass a test that their lives depended on, convincing immigration officials that they knew details about their paper father's family that only a real son would know. And they did it. They had gamed the system and won the prize.
I've spoken with people who will very matter-of-factly state something like, "I'm a Wong but I'm really a Lee." My husband has a whole family of cousins whose middle name is their "real" family name, but their "legal" last name is their "paper" family name. It's confusing and fascinating at the same time. The one thing they never say is: my grandfather was an illegal alien.
Don't get me wrong -- I think it's great that the Chinese American community has chosen to shine a light on the paper sons as part of their history. What I find curious is how different our perception is of a "paper son" versus an "illegal alien." It seems that we as a society are comfortable with treating documentation fraud or marriage fraud as somehow less "illegal" than somebody who enters the country without documents. With the myriad reasons and paths to entry into this country, I can only hope that there will be a shift that recognizes these experiences as equally valid means of becoming a part of America.
Click for more information on the Angel Island Immigration Station Foundation and the Angel Island Conservancy.
Monday, March 25, 2013
ojiichan was an "illegal"
In my family’s case, it was something that was talked about, but not very often. Although I had heard the story as a child, I didn’t really remember the details until I had to do a family history for school as a young adult. And then, at some point, I realized: my grandfather was an illegal alien.
My father was born here, I was born here, and my grandparents had long since returned to Japan and lived out their lives there, so this realization didn’t strike fear in me -- but it did put things into perspective. I remember growing up and hearing my father, uncles and others routinely speaking about “Wetbacks”* – which was ironic, since my grandfather crossed the border into California, without papers, from Mexico. Family lore tells it something like this:
My grandfather grew up in Japan and wanted to be in the military. However, due to poor eyesight, he was turned down when he went to apply. Having lost face in his failure to join the military, he heard about an opportunity to go to Mexico for work, and was on his way. After spending some time in Mexico, he and his friend decided to head north to California. I wonder how often they thought about how fitting their names were – my not-very-tall grandfather, Oyama 小山,meaning “small mountain,” and his friend, the tall Takayama 高山, meaning “tall mountain.” Perhaps they didn’t think about it at all, given that they were trying to make a new life in a foreign land. They devised a plan to walk across the border, backwards, so that their footprints would always be heading south and they would not attract the attention of the border patrol. They walked only at night, all night, and then they would dig a hole in which to rest and hide during the day. Because they were going through desert, they used a wet tortilla to stay hydrated while they hid during the day. They repeated this routine until they were in California, walking along the train tracks. My grandfather pulled out a silver dollar, and, flashing it in the bright sunshine, caught the attention of the engineer, who stopped the train and let them hitch a ride in exchange for the silver dollar. And, just like that, they made it to Los Angeles.
My grandfather worked the fields, where the immigration inspectors would conduct raids on horseback. Other undocumented workers would run, and inevitably some would be caught. Apparently, my grandfather would stay put, look up from his work, wave, and say, “Good morning, officer.” Since he didn’t run, they never bothered to check if he had papers. At some point, he went to San Francisco and paid an attorney for some documents that allowed him to live and travel without fear. He went back to Japan, returned to California with a wife, and proceeded to build a life in America – at least, until he felt they had overstayed their welcome and took his family to Japan in about 1940.
I am one of the younger cousins of my generation, and I always assumed all of the cousins had heard this story of our family history. I discovered that I was mistaken in 1995, when my Uncle Min passed away and I took a trip to attend the service. Uncle Min had visited us in California several times, but usually by himself. I had memories of playing two-square with him when I was in second grade, falling asleep on his shoulder in the back of the Impala as we drove to another uncle’s house for dinner, as well as golfing with him in San Francisco and Los Angeles as an adult. I had always heard stories about my cousins and their children, and had come out to my cousin Mark’s wedding during my college years. Since then, we crossed paths infrequently, and it was bittersweet to see my cousins without my uncle there.
At some point during the visit, my Michigan cousins, my cousin Rick from L.A., and I were gathered at Uncle’s house, and for some reason, the discussion turned to immigration policy. It was the basic keep-them-out attitude that my father had expressed, which was a pretty popular viewpoint at the time and wasn’t surprising at all. I was clearly outnumbered with my pro-immigrant, pro-legalization, lefty Californian perspective.
My polite Japanese upbringing told me to just smile and listen quietly.
Instead, I ended up blurting out, “Well, you know Ojiichan was an illegal alien.”
I can still see the expression on my cousin Mike’s face, stunned and frozen for a split-second, as the collective, “What are you talking about?” clattered out of the group. “He was an illegal! He walked backwards across the border, so his footprints would face south. Haven’t you heard that story before?” I continued. Well, apparently, Uncle Min had neglected to tell this part of the family history to the Michigan Oyamas. After the initial commotion had settled, one of the cousins said, “Doesn’t matter! That was then, this is now!” “Yeah! I got mine, you go get your own!” said Mike, and we all started laughing about it. All the Michigan cousins talked in this humorous, jokey manner that Uncle Min had, and it made me laugh, too.
And, my Japanese upbringing told me that this was fine; it was okay to laugh and let this go. We were connected by blood and history -- and not all of it was pretty.
With the current immigration debate going on in our legislature, I have to wonder: would all of our lawmakers be here today if all of the "illegal" ancestors in their past were not allowed to build lives here and give birth to the next generation of Americans? Do our legislators know their own family histories, or our country's history of racist immigration laws?
* Note: at the time, not only was it common to hear racist terminology in everyday conversation, you could see comedians on TV regularly use words like "Polak" -- which, as a child, I actually thought was an acceptable word for a Polish person! Sometimes it doesn't feel like it, but we have made some progress!
Friday, February 15, 2013
the convergence
About a decade ago, I came to a startling realization: hormone levels would wreak havoc on our household when our kids became teenagers. And, no, I don’t mean just because of our teenagers. Doing some simple calculations, I realized that my pre-menopausal years would precisely coincide with my kids’ adolescent years.
And, now, it’s happening. The Convergence. All the hormones have been colliding and disrupting our happy home.
I’m sad. I’m happy! Crying at weird moments. Eating everything in sight! My son seems sad. And then, he’s happy! He’s giving me a hug! Then, he disappears into his headphones. I hear sounds of objects and doors slamming. My daughter seems happy – and then she seems really quiet and not particularly happy. She doesn’t slam things though. Well, not so far. I bake cookies to cheer them up. Then, I eat too many of the cookies and get sad. I look at myself in the mirror and hear my friend Laura’s voice saying, “Look at her! She is just a mess!” She never said that to my face, but if she could see me now, I think she would say it about me. Then, I look for something else to eat, while I ponder how quiet the house will be when the kids are off at college and there is nobody around to slam doors. The dog looks at me. I don’t think he is judging me, but I could be wrong.
Going through this has confirmed a theory of mine that – at least from a biological standpoint – women are not meant to bear children in their thirties. This would explain the decreased fertility women experience in their thirties and beyond, and the apparently hyper-levels of fertility of teenagers. I’ve seen Teen Mom. Believe me, that show has caused many thirty-something women on fertility drugs to glare at the television seething with pangs of injustice while watching a 15 year old who can’t even legally drive or vote struggling to care for a baby that was conceived after doing it “only once.”
Think about it. If you had a baby when you were 18, you would be a relatively fresh and young 32 years old when your child turned 14. You would be the cool and hip mom, rational and high-energy, relatively calm in the face of teenage emotional rage. By the time they are off to college – assuming they didn’t get pregnant at 15 and earn a starring role on Teen Mom – you are 36 years old, your kid can drive and vote, and you still have several years before your own hormone levels start getting crazy. You can actually be happy about having an empty nest! You have a whole decade of non-hormonal years left ahead of you! This is what biology intended. I was pretty sure of it before, and now, I feel like I am living proof.
That said, I had my kids in my thirties. Technically, my early thirties, but still my thirties. Which has made things pretty interesting around here lately.
I blame myself for somehow jinxing us, because, before The Convergence, I was very happy with my kids because they were so happy! (My husband will say I blame myself because I have “Japanese guilt” and I tend to blame myself for everything, but that’s a separate issue.) I thought that maybe, just maybe, I had been wrong about the convergence, and our domestic tranquility would emerge from the adolescent years unscathed.
But … I was right. (This, my husband will also say has something to do with my being Japanese, but I digress.) My older one didn’t go over to the dark side until this year, which, of course, coincided with my own shift over to the darkness, as well as my younger child’s very, very, very slight transition into that grey area that precedes the darkness. I was right! I am usually happy about being right, but not this time.
I was discussing our household hormone levels with my kids when my husband stumbles upon the conversation. I have taken the approach that it’s okay to talk about hormones, so I thought it was a good idea to talk about The Convergence with the kids, if for no other reason than self-preservation and, hopefully, giving us all some awareness and context to what’s happening to us.
“Remember?” I say to my husband, “I told you this would happen! When the kids were little. Remember?”“Uhmmm. No. What did you say?”“I told you that all the hormones would be raging in our household at the same time, because the kids would be going through adolescence and I would be pre-menopausal. And, I told you that you had permission, in advance, to leave the house to escape us if you needed to.”“Oh. Okay,” he says. “That’s good to know.”
Shortly after that conversation, he took a spontaneous trip to the Super Bowl. The Convergence at home was balanced out by a Cosmic Convergence for my husband that had the sports and travel gods smiling down on him, and he decided to go to the Super Bowl. Believe it or not, I was honestly happy for him and encouraged him to go. And, I was reallyhappy when he came back home.
Sunday, October 21, 2012
good news, bad news
First, the good news: I figured out what was causing the old vinyl floors in our kitchen to buckle.
The bad news: it was caused by our refrigerator, which had a small leak that was seeping into the seam between the wall and the flooring.
Also bad news: I finally diagnosed the problem because the leak had gotten worse, and a small puddle appeared in front of the refrigerator last night, and again this morning. I had thought it was from a melted ice cube. I was wrong.
And, more bad news: the trap door access to the basement where the water supply shut-off to the refrigerator is located was waterlogged and could not be opened with the handle in the usual way. The handle started separating from the hatch, like a peel-off sticker from a waxy sheet of paper. Not good.
Then, some good news! My son climbed under the house from an exterior access point, crawling in the mounds of dirt and debris that had been left behind during a remodel by the previous owner, and was able to turn off the water supply and pushed open the hatch door from below, literally pushing the door up with his back in a super-push-up burst of herculean teen-age strength. (It is moments like these when my husband is especially happy we have a strong, healthy and helpful son.)
But the elation is short-lived. My son reports what he sees in the basement. "There's about an inch of water down here, and the furnace is kind of submerged at the bottom." And then, a glimmer of good: "The water heater is on a stand, though, so it looks okay."
Apparently, the small leak had been seeping into and through the floor boards, raining down onto the concrete pad below, where the water heater and furnace are located.
Surprise good news: my husband reports that there is a sump pump down there!
But, you guessed it, bad news: it wasn't working.
I put on my Japanese gardening boots that my dad gave me and head down to start bailing, and decide to check out the sump pump while I am down there. I hit the reset button on the electrical outlet, and nothing happens. I pull the pump out of the waterlogged hole and try to manually trip the buoyed switch, and nothing happens. I continue with the bowl and bucket, then, I notice an extension cord. And ... good news!!! I plug in the sump pump plug into the extension cord, and it immediately starts siphoning water out and into the long snaking hose that appears to lead out of the basement crawlspace.
Wait. I say "appears to" because I don't actually know where it leads. I've never seen a sump pump hose outside of our house, which is partly why I was convinced we didn't have one. Surely, the water must be going out and away from the house, right? I strain to see where the hose is leading, but can't see much with all the dirt. I unplug the sump pump, and decide it's my turn to get dirty. My husband gets me a step stool so I can climb out of the concrete utility pit and onto the dirt, following the hose until I find the end, which didn't take long because it was inside the basement, emptying the water directly against the interior of the foundation. Bad, bad, bad news. It looks like somebody had done some shearwalling within the crawlspace -- good news -- and closed up the exit point for the hose, and decided to just leave it dumping water along the foundation -- very bad.
We decide to re-route the hose up the stairs, through the laundry area and out the door. Good plan. Unfortunately, the hose has many holes in it, and in my effort to make sure the hole-riddened section stayed in the basement squirting into the concrete pit and not inside the house, I didn't give enough hose to make it completely out of the doorway and, once the pumping started, the hose moved around like a serpent and belched out its watery innards inside the house. Bad.
Undeterred, we try again. With a little bit of duct tape and tweaking, we finally get it working so the water goes out of the house, trailing away from the house and its foundation with no further serpentine belching in the house. Good, good, good.
The concrete pit is now empty enough that I am no longer sloshing around in my boots. There is still enough water to make puddles on the concrete -- which does not seem to be draining towards the sump pump hole (bad!!!) -- but I am not going to lose sleep over this. My husband has been busy drying out the laundry area, which is extra important since this doorway, unfortunately, is our main entrance in and out of the house right now. The handset on our front door was broken, and since our contractor was not able to finish the job before the weekend, the front door is literally screwed shut until he comes back. Sigh. Bad, but not too bad.
It feels like Murphy's Law has been in full effect today, but I am still feeling pretty good that things are better than they were when the day began. As I take off my boots, I say a little "Thanks, Dad" -- grateful that I got to be the "boy" of the family, watching him fix things while playing the part of daddy's little helper, internalizing the curiosity and persistence it takes to trial-and-error things in hopes of some sort of resolution.
Now, it's time to get some dinner and a bake a birthday cake. Today, my daughter's birthday, was almost completely consumed by our little home project. Almost. There's still time to celebrate. And that is definitely good news.
The bad news: it was caused by our refrigerator, which had a small leak that was seeping into the seam between the wall and the flooring.
Also bad news: I finally diagnosed the problem because the leak had gotten worse, and a small puddle appeared in front of the refrigerator last night, and again this morning. I had thought it was from a melted ice cube. I was wrong.
And, more bad news: the trap door access to the basement where the water supply shut-off to the refrigerator is located was waterlogged and could not be opened with the handle in the usual way. The handle started separating from the hatch, like a peel-off sticker from a waxy sheet of paper. Not good.
Then, some good news! My son climbed under the house from an exterior access point, crawling in the mounds of dirt and debris that had been left behind during a remodel by the previous owner, and was able to turn off the water supply and pushed open the hatch door from below, literally pushing the door up with his back in a super-push-up burst of herculean teen-age strength. (It is moments like these when my husband is especially happy we have a strong, healthy and helpful son.)
But the elation is short-lived. My son reports what he sees in the basement. "There's about an inch of water down here, and the furnace is kind of submerged at the bottom." And then, a glimmer of good: "The water heater is on a stand, though, so it looks okay."
Apparently, the small leak had been seeping into and through the floor boards, raining down onto the concrete pad below, where the water heater and furnace are located.
Surprise good news: my husband reports that there is a sump pump down there!
But, you guessed it, bad news: it wasn't working.
I put on my Japanese gardening boots that my dad gave me and head down to start bailing, and decide to check out the sump pump while I am down there. I hit the reset button on the electrical outlet, and nothing happens. I pull the pump out of the waterlogged hole and try to manually trip the buoyed switch, and nothing happens. I continue with the bowl and bucket, then, I notice an extension cord. And ... good news!!! I plug in the sump pump plug into the extension cord, and it immediately starts siphoning water out and into the long snaking hose that appears to lead out of the basement crawlspace.
Wait. I say "appears to" because I don't actually know where it leads. I've never seen a sump pump hose outside of our house, which is partly why I was convinced we didn't have one. Surely, the water must be going out and away from the house, right? I strain to see where the hose is leading, but can't see much with all the dirt. I unplug the sump pump, and decide it's my turn to get dirty. My husband gets me a step stool so I can climb out of the concrete utility pit and onto the dirt, following the hose until I find the end, which didn't take long because it was inside the basement, emptying the water directly against the interior of the foundation. Bad, bad, bad news. It looks like somebody had done some shearwalling within the crawlspace -- good news -- and closed up the exit point for the hose, and decided to just leave it dumping water along the foundation -- very bad.
We decide to re-route the hose up the stairs, through the laundry area and out the door. Good plan. Unfortunately, the hose has many holes in it, and in my effort to make sure the hole-riddened section stayed in the basement squirting into the concrete pit and not inside the house, I didn't give enough hose to make it completely out of the doorway and, once the pumping started, the hose moved around like a serpent and belched out its watery innards inside the house. Bad.
Undeterred, we try again. With a little bit of duct tape and tweaking, we finally get it working so the water goes out of the house, trailing away from the house and its foundation with no further serpentine belching in the house. Good, good, good.
The concrete pit is now empty enough that I am no longer sloshing around in my boots. There is still enough water to make puddles on the concrete -- which does not seem to be draining towards the sump pump hole (bad!!!) -- but I am not going to lose sleep over this. My husband has been busy drying out the laundry area, which is extra important since this doorway, unfortunately, is our main entrance in and out of the house right now. The handset on our front door was broken, and since our contractor was not able to finish the job before the weekend, the front door is literally screwed shut until he comes back. Sigh. Bad, but not too bad.
It feels like Murphy's Law has been in full effect today, but I am still feeling pretty good that things are better than they were when the day began. As I take off my boots, I say a little "Thanks, Dad" -- grateful that I got to be the "boy" of the family, watching him fix things while playing the part of daddy's little helper, internalizing the curiosity and persistence it takes to trial-and-error things in hopes of some sort of resolution.
Now, it's time to get some dinner and a bake a birthday cake. Today, my daughter's birthday, was almost completely consumed by our little home project. Almost. There's still time to celebrate. And that is definitely good news.
Wednesday, July 25, 2012
uncomfort zone
I am out of my comfort zone. I was coaxed here, into the uncomfort zone, by love. My love for my husband, children, and extended family. So ... here I am, sleeping in a bunkbed, listening for mosquitoes, which I can still hear in spite of the alternating and nearly identical snoring of my husband in the top bunk and his brother in the next room. Just as I think I am ready to doze off, I hear the distinct buzzing of an insect intent on sucking my life's blood from me, and I spring into defensive action. I turn on my iPhone Flashlight App, grope around to find my glasses and search the coffin-like landscape of the lower bunk. BAM!!! Got him. Or her. Doesn't matter. I close my eyes, lulled into slumber by the now snoring-in-unison brothers.
Some people love "roughing it" -- oh, the joys, of communing with nature, lugging all your stuff and food and trash and children and pillows and sleeping bags and contact lens solution through dust and dirt and then "relaxing" out of sheer exhaustion before it's time to cook food and clean-up and hide all the food because the mice might visit during the night. Granted, we are not in tents, and we have plumbing, so this is not "camping." But this is as close to camping as I like to get. We've been here before, so I know what to expect -- tap water that smells like sulfur, the aforementioned blood-thirsty insects, various and sundry rodents, the occasional bat, no TV, and generally feeling dirty (not that kind of dirty) and feeling dirty again (not that kind of dirty) almost as soon as you've taken a shower in the sulphury smelling water. Did I mention there's no TV?
"Who wants to go on a hike?" says Cindy, my
sister-in-law and ringleader of all things fun. She is a big reason why I am in the uncomfort zone. She has a way of getting me to do things I would not otherwise do. I think there is magic or hypnosis involved, but I have not figured it out yet. We all fall in line, the glorious sun beating down on us. We are on Decatur Island, one of the San Juan Islands, and the scenery is just beautiful. From the sea star in the tidepools, to the vast expanse of water surrounding us, everything looks like it belongs on a postcard.
Although my husband and his siblings have all been here on different occasions, this is the first time all five of them have been here together. With the adults' work schedules and the kids' summer schedules, it was a small miracle that they all managed to get themselves here to this tiny island. We snap several photos of them, all together, and I think to myself that their parents are probably looking down on us, approving and proud of the family they raised, their children, now parents themselves.
Which brings me to another thing I knew to expect on this trip: family memories. Catching crab. Eating crab. Building a fire. Roasting marshmallows. Eating s'mores. Collecting rocks. Playing board games. Playing tennis. Playing basketball. Walking along the beach. Talking. Listening. Just being. Together.
And isn't that, really, what family vacations are all about?
By the fourth night, our last night in Decatur, I find myself strangely comfortable here. I'm going to miss this place.
Some people love "roughing it" -- oh, the joys, of communing with nature, lugging all your stuff and food and trash and children and pillows and sleeping bags and contact lens solution through dust and dirt and then "relaxing" out of sheer exhaustion before it's time to cook food and clean-up and hide all the food because the mice might visit during the night. Granted, we are not in tents, and we have plumbing, so this is not "camping." But this is as close to camping as I like to get. We've been here before, so I know what to expect -- tap water that smells like sulfur, the aforementioned blood-thirsty insects, various and sundry rodents, the occasional bat, no TV, and generally feeling dirty (not that kind of dirty) and feeling dirty again (not that kind of dirty) almost as soon as you've taken a shower in the sulphury smelling water. Did I mention there's no TV?
"Who wants to go on a hike?" says Cindy, mysister-in-law and ringleader of all things fun. She is a big reason why I am in the uncomfort zone. She has a way of getting me to do things I would not otherwise do. I think there is magic or hypnosis involved, but I have not figured it out yet. We all fall in line, the glorious sun beating down on us. We are on Decatur Island, one of the San Juan Islands, and the scenery is just beautiful. From the sea star in the tidepools, to the vast expanse of water surrounding us, everything looks like it belongs on a postcard.
Although my husband and his siblings have all been here on different occasions, this is the first time all five of them have been here together. With the adults' work schedules and the kids' summer schedules, it was a small miracle that they all managed to get themselves here to this tiny island. We snap several photos of them, all together, and I think to myself that their parents are probably looking down on us, approving and proud of the family they raised, their children, now parents themselves.
Which brings me to another thing I knew to expect on this trip: family memories. Catching crab. Eating crab. Building a fire. Roasting marshmallows. Eating s'mores. Collecting rocks. Playing board games. Playing tennis. Playing basketball. Walking along the beach. Talking. Listening. Just being. Together.
And isn't that, really, what family vacations are all about?
By the fourth night, our last night in Decatur, I find myself strangely comfortable here. I'm going to miss this place.
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