bye, bye, bunny

This is the year that I finally stopped being the Easter Bunny. No jelly beans. No plastic eggs. No chocolate shaped like eggs and bunnies. Not even a single pack of Peeps. With a twelve year old and a fourteen year old, we really should have stopped a while ago, but I always felt guilty if I didn't have something for the kids on Easter. Hunting for eggs and receiving a chocolate bunny were always fun as a child, and I wanted them to have that memory, too. But it seemed like the time was right to stop this tradition in our household ... plus, I had neglected to buy anything for them, since I've been a bit distracted lately.

Fortunately, my kids didn't mind. And, as an added bonus, my daughter Mika shared an Easter memory with us.

I remember one time we had a Easter egg hunt in the living room, and one of the eggs had a dinosaur in it. And then we went skiing. And when we went through the drive-thru at McDonald's, the guy said, "Happy Easter!" or something like that.

Really? Are you sure it wasn't some imposter-Mom who had her act together enough to make sure you got an Easter egg hunt in at 5:30 am before we left for the slopes? I had virtually no independent memory of the Easter ski day she described, but I was sure she was right about it all. It was a coincidence that she would mention this, since if the weather had cooperated today, we were planning on spending our Easter morning driving up to Tahoe for our own sunrise service, communing with nature. Unfortunately, the forecast was not looking very good for skiing, and we had plenty of other things to attend to today, although none were Easter-related.

Thank goodness my daughter has some positive memories about my attempts at celebrating this holiday, even if it has been wiped from my own memory! It's nice to know that these little details are locked away somewhere in her mind. Maybe she'll put a dinosaur in some child's Easter egg someday.

UPDATE: I couldn't resist the 50% off Easter candy at the store today. Picked up a chocolate-covered Peeps and some little Dove bunnies and eggs. My kids were quite excited about it, so I think I may have just started a new family tradition!

i could use a little help here ...

Several weeks ago, my friend Consuelo asked me if my daughter and I would want to participate in the Macy's Flower Show "Mom and Me" Fashion Presentation. I was flattered to be asked, even though I was pretty nervous about it. This whole "modeling" thing is, well, not my thing. I knew my daughter would do well, having been on stage in dance recitals twice a year since she was five years old -- but when I asked her, I was surprised that she was a little hesitant to do it. After a little bit of discussion, I decided for us. "Mika, I think we should do this because nobody will ever ask Mommy to be a model again. You will probably have other chances, but I'm pretty sure this is my last chance," I stated, matter-of-factly. "O...kay," said my daughter, "that's fine."

And so it began. I watched what I ate carefully. For a few days. Then I fell off the wagon and Girl Scout cookies were here and the thought of the fashion presentation went to the back burner of my mind. As the date grew closer, I worried about the upcoming fitting ... and snacked, nervously. And then, suddenly, it was time. The days had floated away, scattered by the wind like a calendar in a Hanna-Barbera cartoon.

I had never been to a fitting before, so it was great fun to see all the clothes lined up, ready for us to try on. Mika's "looks" were mostly too big -- I had neglected to say "girl" size, and so her clothes were junior-sized. Consuelo hurried off to get some clothes for Mika from the Girls section that did not scream "little girl." The clothes I got to try on were mostly things that I would never have picked for myself -- which made me realize how drab and colorless my wardrobe is!

I feel like a girl playing dress-up -- somehow it is more fun to try on things that somebody else has picked out for me, rather than the usual little black dress that I would choose if left to my own devices. My final line-up: a forgivingly flouncy floral Rachel Roy; a strapless tropical Nanette Lepore that was crying out for cleavage; a tailored, polka dot Ralph Lauren that was about two cup sizes too big on top; and an extremely unforgiving super-fitted white Ellen Tracy. Sigh. While trying on the white dress, I look over at Consuelo and say, "Can I model some Spanx with this?" She shakes her head and says, politely, "Oh, no, you don't need it! You look great!"

Yeah, right.

I look at the mirror. Clearly, I am not seeing what she is seeing. The woman I see in the mirror could use a little help. With no alternations allowed, I realize that I am going to have to alter myself -- with the magic of foundation garments -- in order to not humiliate myself the next day.

At home, I dig frantically through my rarely-used-lingerie-and-foundation-garments drawer until I strike gold: bra insert pads. A similarly small-busted friend had given them to me years ago for my birthday with the note, "Happy Ta-Ta's to You!" I have not had the need to use them much, simply avoiding anything that requires a buxom silhouette, so they had become buried in the drawer over the years. But now, my need was overwhelming. I shrieked for joy when I found them and showed my daughter -- "Look, Mika! I found my boob pads!" She looked at me quizzically at first, then gave me her oh-it's-just-Mom-being-weird-again look.

Also hidden in my drawer was the Jezebel corset I bought in order to fill out my wedding gown. I thought about it for a split-second, then decided it was really not worth attempting to fit into anything from circa wedding day. Technology had more to offer in the new millennium. I zipped over to the nearby Target store and picked up a pair of "Assets by Spanx" -- the style that most resembles a high-waisted girdle in "nude" (which, while literally invoking nudity, is the least sexy color of all).

Fortunately, the unattractive nude-colored high-waisted Assets shaper is not meant to be seen in public, but to hide things that we don't want to be seen in public. And, if nothing else, I was rockin' my Assets at the fashion presentation. It was nice to have my tummy all tucked in and flattened out, and my boobs looking all poofed-out and puffed-up. The bigger boobs make my stomach look instantly skinnier, and the shaper is holding in anything that might want to jiggle out. I look like a complete imposter, but I don't care.

My husband and son were among the audience, partaking in tea sandwiches and scones as they watched the mother-child duos take turns modeling our looks. The other children were much younger than mine ... and I am assuming their mothers had me by about a decade. I quickly realized I was there as the "mature" mom -- which, I am happy to say, did not bother me at all! I had my adorable daughter, fabulous dresses and shoes, and my assets. Represent!

maui memories

On the anniversary of Dr. John Lee, M.D.'s passing, I wanted to share my post from April 2008.

"Hewo, dere, Mika," Miles said to his little sister, talking though an empty miniature box of cereal.
"Hewo, dere, Miyoz," Mika said back to her big brother. With the help of Boyar, I am flashing back to the memory of the kids sitting on the condo balcony in Wailea.

Today, the kids sit at a counter in a different condo in Wailea, chomping down some cereal that they have poured themselves, reenacting the "Hewo, dere" scene to indulge their parents.

"How old were you guys when you did that?" I ask.
"Really young," says Miles.
"I dunno. Too young for me to remember!" answers Mika.

My guess is it was seven years ago. Mika would have been two, Miles, four years old. And Dad would have been about seventy years old. We were staying at his condo on one of the golf courses in Wailea, where he had slept on the sofa so that we could commandeer the rest of the condo with our Pack n Play and various other little kid contraptions.

Boyar had videotaped the scene of the kids eating their cereal -- with a healthy dose of zooming out to film the golf course -- his adorable kids' voices still in the background as he cropped them out of the frame to capture the beauty of another creature that was close to his heart. Father and son would go off together later that day, rendezvousing with one of the gorgeous golf courses on Maui. Makena? Wailea Blue? Gold? Maybe it was the public course, Waiehu, where they sell Spam musubi at the turn instead of hot dogs. Hey, the better the bargain, the better the golf. As a condo owner, Dad enjoyed the local resident kama'aina rate, which he was very happy about.

It is bittersweet to reflect on this now, having just laid Dr. John Lee, M.D. to rest a few days ago. He was my second "dad", and I remember feeling privileged that he let me call him that. He was my mainstream, out-there, super-confident, always happenin' dad; similar and different from my own dad in so many ways. Having a father-in-law is like getting to have a dad who has no memory of what a pain you were when you were little, no headaches or annoyances to reflect back on, no decades of expectations one could never fulfill, a no-baggage dad. Or, at least, that's how it seemed for me.

It's hard not to tear up as we vacation here, with many good memories of Dad, thinking about how he looked out on this same sunset, played a round of golf on this same course. I dropped off Boyar at Makena this afternoon -- twilight rate begins at 2 pm -- and had an image of Dad and Boyar in Wailea, looking hot and tired, sitting outside a pro-shop as I drove over to pick them up. Relief on their faces as they saw me drive up, getting up and walking over to the car, walking that same walk, looking like each other, a father-and-son twosome.

Boyar is golfing as a single today. But I'm thinking Dad might be right there with him.

happy cesar chavez day

As we commemorate the struggles for safe working conditions, I was reminded of my daughter's interview of Dolores Huerta on Obama's inauguration day in 2009, and thought I would share it today:

Dolores Huerta persuaded the people that the farmworkers did not work in safe conditions, so the people did not buy those products, so the farmers had to give their workers safer conditions. She also made up “Si se puede!” which means “Yes we can!” and the farmworkers used it before Obama did.

Ms. Huerta was so gracious and patient, sitting with my daughter and recounting the struggle in terms an elementary student could understand. After they were finished, my daughter moved along to look for another interviewee as Senator Boxer introduced Ms. Huerta to the roomful of reception guests. Looking back on that day, it seems so far away in too many ways to count. You can read the full set of her "interviews" here.

balloons

It's amazing what can happen when you just get out of the way.

I had a great idea last year -- buy a large, blank canvas for the kids to paint and display in my husband's bland, undecorated office. We had just come back from a trip to Paris and its many museums, and we were all feeling inspired.

Then, like so many other things in life, the project stalled. I take responsibility for that, being the one who let the summer slip by, the one who insisted on ideas being sketched out and painted on a smaller (and much less expensive) "test" canvas, and who always let other things be a higher priority than this. It was, in the scheme of things, a pretty optional project. But I still kicked myself every time I walked past the giant, still-blank canvas in the dining room. I toyed with the idea of just painting a brown dot in the middle and calling it Freckle, a modern self-portrait that would hang ominously above my husband's head. Or, a splatter painting, made by painting our dog and having him shake off on the canvas.

In the end, however, I knew that I needed to follow through with the original idea. My son was not as interested in participating, so this had become my daughter's project, and I couldn't take that away from her. She had given this a lot of thought and made some pencil sketches, but had not gone about this in the systematic logical way I thought she should. Yesterday, I finally let go and got out of the way. We needed to get that canvas out of the dining room; it had loomed long enough. I asked my daughter if she could do the painting then, and she replied with a bright-eyed smile: "Yes!"

A few hours later and one frantic run to Michael's before closing time, and the blank canvas had been transformed ... full of movement and color ... with nothing (and nobody) to stand in the way ... a handful of balloons pulling gently upward and away.

tsunami: far away, yet close to home

UPDATE: click here to find out how to help.

I was expecting the usual 11 o’clock news last Thursday, but instead -- breaking news: earthquake and tsunami in Japan. I watched in horror, mesmerized by the blurry image of the amoeba-like blob moving across the screen, gathering up everything in its path. It was like a supersized, real-life, pancaked version of the Japanese video game, “We Love Katamari,” where a giant ball rolls around swallowing up cows, cars, people, etc. The real-life version paralyzes me. I try to focus on the little map they show on the screen, trying to pinpoint where the devastation is in relation to where my cousins, aunts and uncles live. I am relieved to see that the tsunami has not impacted the areas where I think my family would be, but it is still unnerving to watch. I fall asleep with images of the scary blob replaying in my head.

The next day is not any better. Tsunami coverage has gone local, as the tsunami has actually crossed the Pacific and has landed on the West Coast. I watch footage of some boats being tossed around and a dock being pushed out of the water, thinking it is new film from Japan; then, I realize it is showing Santa Cruz, just down the coast from here. Further north, I would later learn that a young man was swept away to his death while he was trying to take photos of the tsunami. So preventable. So sad. I hope they don't report this in Japan, since it would just confirm the stereotypes of Americans doing stupid, inappropriate things; on the other hand, I guess this is one reason for that stereotype existing in the world outside the U.S. I am guessing this little tidbit of news will not make it into the rotation on NHK, since they have much more pressing matters to report on right now.

One thing that I had not thought about but that my husband heard one commentator report on was that the Japanese people -- typically polite and civilized as a general rule -- have become even more so during this crisis. She observed pedestrians in Tokyo still waiting patiently for the green “walk” light, even though the cars on the street were clearly not moving in the post-quake gridlock. People lined up at stores, in the usual, orderly fashion. Food and water were reportedly scarce in Tokyo, as people who worked in the city were unable to leave, and yet, they lined up. As one reporter put it: “The people of Japan have handled this in a dignified, lawful, civilized fashion.”

In Japan, I am guessing this is not news. Being civilized and lawful in a time of crisis is simply not news: it is expected, understood, a given. This is something that would only be reported outside of Japan. It made me wonder what would happen here in a big city -- San Francisco, Los Angeles, New York -- under similar circumstances. Would we be civilized? Or would people resort to opportunistic behavior? I hope we never have to experience such a disaster to find out.

Curse of the Tiger Other

When I first heard all the media hype and parental chatter about the “Tiger Mother,” I just wanted to wait it out until it all blew over. I didn't want to write about it for fear of what I would say. That is, until Denene Millner asked me to write about it for her blog, My Brown Baby.

“She’s a nut job ... and, she’s a genius, because she is making a lot more money off of this book than she is from being a law professor!” That’s how a friend of mine summed up her take on Amy Chua’s Wall Street Journal article, “Why Chinese Mothers are Superior,” and I would have to say I agree with her.

I was surprised at how much attention this topic got from the mainstream media, but I was even more surprised by the reaction of Asian Americans. There seemed to be two camps: those who were immediately enamored with Chua and treated her like a celebrity, and those of us who just groaned and muttered, “Here we go again.” Since Asian American “celebrities” are relatively few and far between, I understand Chua’s taking on this rock star status for some. She was getting all kinds of press, and she didn’t even have to do any martial arts moves! She did, however, resort to the usual mystical “Oriental” lingo that is so plentiful in stereotypes of Asian Americans. Chua -- although born in Illinois and raised in Berkeley, California -- decided to call herself a Tiger Mother. I guess Dragon Lady was already taken, but seriously, do we need any more stereotyping than we already have? Couldn’t we be content with simply being overachieving and studious, without also being overbearing and crazy?

Unfortunately, you can’t unring a gong. We had been other-fied, once again, and by one of “us,” no less. Decades of civil rights activism fighting for Asian Americans to be recognized as Just Americans – poof! Decimated, like so many tiny fluttering cherry blossoms flying into a tsunami. One racially charged Wall Street Journal headline, and we were, once again, reduced to foreign freaks, something other than American. Other-fied.

Ironically, all of this Tiger Mother hype was happening right around January 30, 2011, which marked the first Fred Korematsu Day in California. Korematsu was a Bay Area native who defied Executive Order 3066 and refused to report to be placed in an internment camp during WWII. Korematsu’s legacy was to stand up for his rights as an American citizen, regardless of his Japanese ancestry. One of my favorite photos of Korematsu shows him with Rosa Parks, both aged and smiling, two regular folks who became heroes in their communities. I thought of my Chinese American mother-in-law, who, I was once told, used to wear a button that read “I am Chinese” so that she would not be mistaken for Japanese or Japanese American during the war. And now, here we were in 2011, with a Chinese American emphasizing that she is so un-“Western” and so very different and “Chinese.” And in today’s political and economic climate, being considered “Chinese” is not necessarily a good thing. Chua’s book release seemed perfectly timed to coincide with Obama’s reference to our country’s current Sputnik moment – and, based on Chua’s terminology, all of the “Western” parents’ kids will be competing right here at home with the kids of all those crazy “Chinese” parents.

Before all of this Tiger Mother business, I had convinced myself that we were doing pretty well, finally getting some mainstream TV facetime on Lost, Glee, Hawaii-Five 0 and the AT&T commercials. I hadn’t heard “ching chong ching chong” uttered by some little white boy in my carpool in, oh, four years now. Maybe we were finally being viewed as Just Americans. And then, out of nowhere ... the Tiger Mother! All of those old fears that my kids would be stereotyped and not recognized as individuals have risen to the surface again. I worry that my Chinese-surnamed children will be viewed as “Chinese” and not “real Americans.” Just Chinese. Chua’s book has given birth to a new stereotype that would impact all of our children, and it would last far longer than one media cycle. In the world of college admissions, there is already an “Asian tax” where Asian American students appear to have a tougher admissions standard to meet, and this perception that a student’s achievements were because of “Tiger” parents – and not the student’s own drive and intellect – will serve only to create yet another reason to justify non-admission in higher education. Hurray.

When I talked with my like-minded Asian American mom and dad friends, we made sure to have our conversations in private. Our town is predominantly white, and Chua’s article caused quite a buzz. It was even mentioned in our local paper, in a column written by the mother of one of my daughter’s classmates. By the end of the column, she conveyed that she felt both validated and threatened by Tiger Mothers and their kids, and had confirmed my theory that Chua’s article had other-fied us, stating in her closing that this was clear evidence of a “cultural divide.” I also confirmed that others assumed that I am a Tiger Mother -- or, maybe there was some other reason that the moms sitting behind me at a school function who starting talking about the article decided it was best to quickly hush each other when they realized I was sitting right in front of them. I found myself relieved, not really wanting to overhear what they thought about this topic; after all, regardless of what they thought, it would not change the fact that I would be interacting with them in the future, since our kids are the same age in a small community.

In private, we talked about the Tiger Mother setback for our kids and Asian Americans, in general. We discussed how this would impact our kids' futures, and how -- ironically -- they would now have to work even harder to overcome the stereotype that they are "just" hard workers. Coincidentally, my Asian American friends and their kids are all academically high achievers. Also, coincidentally, none of us thinks of ourselves as “Tiger” parents, nor did we have overbearing, micromanaging parents ourselves. Our parents were too busy working to hover over us. We were all self-motivated -- the unspoken expectation of our parents’ generation being enough to make us strive for good grades and assume we could get them. As a parent, I struggled to find a way to pass this on to my kids. They were growing up in a different kind of community, with different community standards than I grew up with, and peers whose families complained about the schools giving grades at all. I was finally confronted with the issue when my son made the observation, “You know, Mom, a ‘B’ is a perfectly good grade, too.” I agreed, and then asked, “But why would you not want to at least try get an ‘A?’ We know not all kids can get ‘A’’s – but we know you are capable of getting an ‘A.’” He pondered for a split second, and replied, “Good point.” Then he went back to his room to study. After that, he seemed to get it. He wanted the A’s, and he would do what was needed to at least try to get them.

If there is a “style” of parenting that I subscribe to, I suppose I would sum it up as Parenting Based on Expectations and Having Standards. That doesn’t have a very good ring to it, though, so maybe we should call it “Bamboo Parenting Style” since we expect to build up our kids to have strength, being able to bend and not break.  Or, even better, “Turtle-Dragon Style” because we assume quiet diligence unless there is injustice and the dragon is awakened! I am just kidding, of course. I am sure there are plenty of non-Asian American families who parent the same way. Instead of labeling it as something mystical and foreign, let’s just say it is one style of American parenting.

I did get one major bonus out of this Tiger Mother business, for which I owe Chua my gratitude. Her article showed my kids that I am totally reasonable, even though they had previously commented that I was “strict compared to other parents.” Now, I look like a complete lightweight! And, I will confess, I have gotten some validation out of that. I’m not crazy. At least, not compared to that Tiger Mother. Hear me roar.

photo credit: Shirley Nakao, courtesy of the Korematsu Institute