You caught the car. Now what?

When I was in my mid 20s my two closest coworkers, one “pro-life” and the other “pro-choice,” pulled me into their discussion, expecting me to pick a side.  Both of them considered me to have a position of authority since out of the three of us, I was the only one who was ever pregnant since I was the only one with a uterus.  

I told them my honest belief based on my values.  I thought the debate was stupid and unhelpful.  Instead of focusing on the law, I wanted to focus on the root causes and wanted a world where people had access to birth control to reduce unwanted pregnancies, families had access to affordable healthcare to carry the baby to term safely and delivery safely, kids had safe daycares so parents could work, and any other financial and community support needed too be a happy family.

Both of these guys laughed and told me I was naive.  That world would never exist.  For almost 20 years, I still believed in the possibility of that world.  This week, I painfully accepted my naïveté and am grieving the loss of my hope and the loss of the possibility of us supporting women through pregnancy and parenting with the leak of the Supreme Court opinion striking down Roe.

I’ve mentioned before to people how Roe was irrelevant to me because as a Catholic abortion wasn’t a known factor in my life, but I was wrong, very, very wrong.  After the news break about the decision, I thought of my mother and how if she lived her circumstances in a post Roe world, she could be charged for multiple murders for her miscarriages.  After the trauma of losing a child, she could be forced by some politically or religiously motivated individuals to relive the loss and the grief as she was forced to prove her miscarriages were an act of God and not intentionally induced abortions.  While I was too young to now what happened at the time, I still remember her sadness and deep grief with the loss of those pregnancies, and to think of how cruelly woman will be treated in these moments makes me angry.

Roe’s presumption of privacy is also foundational to other parts which do greatly impact my life, up to and including my interracial marriage.  Ending Roe is also an affront to religious freedoms.  This decision is the imposition of a narrow Christian religious view on others and the codification of religion in a nation founded on religious freedom.  To my Buddhist mother, those babies she lost would be reincarnated in a hopefully better life.  Their short time with her was part of their journey.  She grieved her loss at not knowing them, not the loss of their lives.  I worry about my Jewish friends who will be forced to choose between following their religious laws or the laws of their locality because their religions defines life differently than mine.  I worry about neighbors spying on their neighbors instead of being neighborly.  As we watch the Supreme Court, for the first time take rights away instead of expanding them, I worry about the degradation of the American community as certain groups want tighter and tighter controls over others.  I worry about our maternal mortality rate getting worse than its already dismal level as more moms die in childbirth because we refused to expand Medicaid coverage to them in Republican leaning states.  I worry about the increase in child poverty levels, and domestic violence as women are forced into precarious situations by communities won’t fund the services they need.  I worry.

Determining the beginning of life is hard.  Seeing the life of the people in front of us shouldn’t be.  So what comes next.  Is this really what we want?  Is this really how we want to show we care about life?

Lessons from a bird

With a heavy heart, we said goodbye to our dear little Mr. Phoebe this weekend.  Her death was as shocking as the depth of the devastation we felt.  She is a part of our little family and now the house feels emptier in the quiet she leaves behind. 

I never expected nor intended to share a home with a bird.  I regarded them as quirky, fickle, high maintenance pets.  Honestly, while I like dogs and wished I could at least pet a cat, I never considered my life lacking if it were pet less.  Then, I became the mother of a child whose life revolves around animals and who still doesn’t believe in the concept of “too many animals.”  He came with a menagerie of pets, which a few years ago, included a bird, a small tiny baby cockatiel named Phoebe.

Phoebe making a friend

She didn’t like me at first.  I scared her as I wasn’t among the first of our family she met.  Introduced to her a week later, she found me a nuisance who woke her from a deep sleep when I returned home from a late flight.  My laughter seemed to warm her to me.  She found the noise interesting and tried to mimic it.  Then we tried to teach her songs, whistling various tunes trying to discern which ones she liked.  Through laughter and music, we bonded, two different individuals, different species, both wild at heart finding commonality and understanding.  I learned how to listen, how to understand her, how to be with her.

She was wild.  Unlike our domesticated dogs, Phoebe was wild.  She was separate from us, yet seemed to enjoy playing with us.  She was a decent peek a boo player.  She had a unique song for each of us, including our dog, Clyde.  While we may have been a flock, we all knew she was wild with her own life to live.  She wanted affection when she wanted it and didn’t when she didn’t.  She, we discovered when her plumage came in, was also a he, so we navigated together and adjusted her moniker to “Mr. Phoebe.”  Our love for her grew as we learned how to share each day together in our respective enclosures, hers within ours.  We love her for who she is, not what we wanted her to be.  Her unique personality honestly filled my days with joy.

My office mate

I still marvel a bit at how we ended up sharing a home with a bird.  Our son never questioned being able to provide a home for her, even while he bounced from dorm to apartment to home to apartment through his college years.  He didn’t know how his roommates would react to her loud shrieks, to her off key singing, to her mashing up of tunes.  Without worrying about the future, he leapt.  He could fly so freely ahead because we were his and Phoebe’s safety net.  They would always have a home.  They would always have our love.  They would always have our support.  Because of this safety net, we in turn got a bird who brightened our days with her joy, her songs, her kisses, her demands for affection, her light.  Phoebe’s existence challenges me to think about how much brighter and joyful my world could be if a safety net grew and extended out further into the world.  How many lives are dimmed because there isn’t a net to catch them if they stumble when they leap?  My life dimmed a bit this weekend when she left us.  My hope is if I keep these lessons close to my heart, maybe some of the joy she brought will be found again.

Becoming Ashes

Though I hope a long stretch of years lay before me, my Catholic faith’s distribution of ashes today reminds me of my mortality and the need to prepare my soul.  At some point in high school, I gave up giving up things for Lent and opted towards action or reflection.  The time God has given me is limited and I measure my soul’s preparedness for being with God against the impact I have on others and the world.  Lent is my time to cram in as much good as I can into my soul to make up for my failings the rest of the year, so as I began planning for this year, I came up with many areas where I just don’t think I’m doing enough, where my soul is calling out for focus and attention and a connection.  I want to make the most of this gift of time I’ve been given and leave God’s grace behind me as I move closer to becoming ashes.  I want to be intentional.  

To that end, my food choices have bubbled their way back to the forefront of my consciousness.  I am fortunate enough to have food choices and I do squander the choice without much thought towards the impact of my choices on the environment or on the people involved in the making of my food.  For Lent, I will be more intentional about the food I eat, the foods I don’t eat, and the people involved in making my meals a reality, from planting to distribution, to my plate.  I am still a strong believer in sustainable farming methods, and I will be more intentional in supporting these farmers and producers.  I want to honor the planet with which we’ve been entrusted by being a better eater.

To be intentional, I need to be more aware.  As someone who struggles sitting still, meditation has never been my thing.  I generally am the one asking, “are we done yet?” approximately 30 seconds into the meditation practice.  Fortunately, I found the Jesuit practice of the Examen, which I lovingly call the Contemplative in Action’s guide to meditation.  It also aligns with the Dalai Lama’s analytical meditation notes, so it’s good enough for me to consider it meditation.  I will practice the Examen each day in Lent, reflecting on where I dimmed God’s light and where I brightened it.

As I put it into the universe, may it be so.  May your Lenten journey be what your soul needs.

Yin Yang

I am not a fundamentalist.  I may be fundamentally anti-fundamentalism.  Being fundamental just doesn’t seem to be a part of my nature; it is not who I am.  How could it be?  I am both Asian and European.  I am an American born abroad whose roots tracing back to the founding of this Nation.  My American family is from the South and the North.  My dad is a Catholic, my mom was a Buddhist.  I don’t exactly fit in most survey boxes, and while I am comfortable with this yin yang life, others seem to have a very difficult time with my lack of desire to adhere to any one set of fundamental principles.  I let go of others’ expectations of me a long time ago, and I’m surprised with how hard my refusal to accept their expectations has been for some.

For instance, I am definitely not a religious fundamentalist.  I still think of myself as a Catholic and at the same time, I have never really bought into the orthodox of Catholicism or Christianity as the only pathway to heaven.  Reading more about Buddhism and the Jesuits validated a lot of what I  perceived as similarities between Eastern and Western philosophies and religions.  Yet, more than one Catholic in my life has been dismayed at my dismissal of the Catechism and the patriotically view of all roads to heaven flow through Catholicism whether to “good” person knows it or not.  I find that logic dripping if not drowning in hubris and pride.  I find the forcing of one’s belief onto another as a violation of our basic humanity.  I prefer the intertwining of philosophies to find the meaning message for each of us.  God is expansive enough to be in multiple faiths.

I am not a market fundamentalist.  I still believe in capitalism and free markets, yet markets are not the only nor the best solution to all that ails us.  Capitalism exists as a part of an ecosystem of other human made constructs like community and government and is a garden requiring tending, not a forest to run wild on its own.  Because the market is not solution to everything, it should not be left unfettered.  It should work in partnership with government and society to increase returns to scale, or grow the economy.  I agree with Mike Munger that markets are excellent at promoting division of labor and specialization, and at the same time, markets have issues which should be taken into account when we design the boundaries.

I am not a political fundamentalist.  I see value in the platforms and policies of both major political parties in the US.  The diversity of approaches creates better policies overall for America.  We need a balance between big government and small government to find the right size government; a balance between local and federal policies to meet the needs of the citizens; to leverage the scale of large institutions and the nimbleness of small departments. 

I’m not a fundamentalist.  I look at false binaries and ask, why can’t we have some combination of both?

What I am feeling now the rise of fundamentalism choking out discourse, ideas, and civility.  I feel the demands of others expecting us to think one way, believe one thing, and behave one way.  The pull of the comfort in binary positions instead of the messy beauty of a breadth of the spectrum.  The rise of hate fueled language and actions based on fundamentalism appalls me.  The dehumanization of someone who doesn’t follow the same beliefs troubles me.  We seem to have forgotten our fallibility and its cure grounded in dialogue and curiosity.  I miss being with people who are seekers, who know they don’t have all the answers and are comfortable searching for nuggets of truth in multiple places, harvesting knowledge along the way.  I don’t want to be with people who have all the answers.  I find them rather dull and boring.  I prefer those who live curiously with a twinkle of delight when they find conflicting insights.

At least he asked

I’ve seen and heard a resurgence in the last few days of the concept of “we are all one human race,” and while this is a lovely ideal, it is not, sadly the reality forced upon me by others. The latest incident happened while volunteering at a vaccination site this week. After completing his check in forms and handing them to me, the man asked me if he could ask me a question of a somewhat personal nature. I said sure and then wondered what I had just agreed to. He asked me what I thought about all this talk about people hating Asians. I think I rolled my eyes and said something along the lines, “it’s something.” He interpreted my vague response as alignment with his views and began to launch into comments about how he knew it was all a liberal hoax. I shut him down immediately and told him discrimination against Asians is real. I have been on the receiving end of it. I’ve felt it. I’ve known it.

He was shocked and dismayed. His first action was to apologize. Then he asked me why. “Why would anyone do that to you? Why would they discriminate against Asians, we love Asians. Your people have done so much for this country.”

These comments stung to the point they still pop up and hurt me a couple of days later. I sure hope my people have done a lot for this country since my people fought in the American Revolution to create this Nation. Through his words, he communicated very clearly how he doesn’t see me as American. I’m Asian to him. “My people” are from some foreign place, not from here. “My people” aren’t Americans, we are others who happen to live in America. With comments like that, it doesn’t matter how long “my people” live here, how American our accents may be, how pale skinned we are, how our ancestry may go all the way back to the birth of this nation. To some, we will never be American “enough.”

It hurts.

It also saddens me this person didn’t have any other Asian in his life he could talk to about this. He had to find one in the wild. Yet, there is hope. While he may have started down the “liberal hoax” path, he didn’t stay there. He quickly diverted and accepted my reality as real. Trust me when I say this is extremely affirming and a nice change of pace. Also, he asked. He was interested in dialogue. It was a conversation. I did tell him while I may have experienced my share of discrimination, I have also experienced a lot of love. Here’s to hoping love will win out, and here’s to actively loving each other and ourselves so it can.

An American Experience – told through food

We as a nation seem to be struggling with what it means to be American and who fits into the American story. America has been described as both a melting pot and as a salad. To extend the metaphor and because, to me, food is love, here is my American experience told through food.

Because I am a Korean American, I keep kimchi in my fridge and will put it on my hot dog. You will find seaweed snacks in my pantry. Gochujang is my favorite condiment to kick up spice levels followed by chili flakes in chili oil. I love sautéed bok choy with sugar snap peas. My favorite “sushi wrap” will always be pickled daikon radishes with a slightly sweetened omelet wrapped in rice and nori. You’ll find gourmet ramen packets in my pantry and edamame in my freezer.

Because I am Irish American, Guinesss and Smithwick are my preferred beers. I would rather have a Teeling than Woodfords. I spell whiskey with an “e.” I cook as full of an Irish breakfast as I can on St. Patrick’s Day. I get very excited when I can find black and white pudding. I will eat bags upon bags of Taytos before I eat other brands of chips. I think lamb is divine. I cook with Kerrygold butter. I have an incredible weakness for almost anything potato (soup, fried, baked, sautéed, roasted, you get the drift).

Because I married an Italian American, I look forward to stuffed artichokes for holiday and special occasion meals. I get to eat real pasta gravy made from the recipe of a nonna instead of the stuff that comes out of a jar. I can ask for stuffed shells as a special birthday treat. I look forward to braciole, and I pour pasta gravy all over it. The food and wine and conversations are plentiful and last for hours.

Because I am a Southern American, I start the year with Hoppin’ Johns. I cook green beans for hours with a meaty hunk of pork. I have a bacon grease jar in my fridge which I refill regularly and cook with often. I have opinions on what makes good friend chicken. Ice tea is always sweet and best when steeped by the sun in a sweet tea jar. Pecan pies should always have bourbon. I have a ton of casserole recipes ready for almost any occasion. I make my pie dough from scratch, and it includes Crisco. I love Tabasco and you will find it in my pantry.

Because I am a Tennessee American, I will always love Cracker Barrel and acknowledge it’s complicated employment history. Because I am an American often in Minnesota, I love chicken and wild rice soup and now eat it without hot sauce. I think cheese curds are amazing. Because I am an American living in Memphis, I will more than likely politely decline your offer for your barbecue. Because I am an American raised in Nashville, I will shed a tear of joy every time I bite into a Goo-Goo cluster, especially if it is peanut butter. I have one every Christmas.

All of these different dishes and parts of my life make me who I am. I don’t see America as a melting pot or as a salad. I see America as the best potluck ever. We are not one dish. We are a collection of dishes makes the meal whole. Quirky and weird at times, but also vibrant and amazing. When I look at the table that is America with all of us around that table sharing in a meal and sharing our time together, the different dishes we each bring to the table does not threaten me. I get excited and look forward to experiencing what each of us brings to the table.

I am an enigma

I was born in South Korea, a country who at that time decided I didn’t belong because of the American nationality of my father. He is an American of Irish decent. Ireland is the country that whenever I visit and tell people my family is from Kilkenny wraps me in open arms. I’m heralded with exclamations of “welcome home!” and sometimes regaled with stories of my family’s prowess on the hurling pitch. Contrast that to my life in the USA, a country I have been a part of since before birth and lived in since early childhood; a nation my ancestors literally helped found by fighting for her freedom and establishing her as an country independent of British rule. Not a year goes by without some other American asking me where I am from. Nevermind my great great aunt traced our lineage back to the Revolution; to many other fellow citizens, I am still see as an “outsider.” The last time I was asked the question of “where are you from,” I attempted to bypass the true notion of the question with the response of, “I live in Memphis.” This past May, I dodged the follow up of, “Sure, but where are you REALLY from, with “I grew up in Nashville. I know, my lack of a Southern accent can really throw people off.” I did not have the grace nor patience to deal with his bigotry.

But here’s the thing. I believe he was a nice guy. No, he will probably never openly welcome anyone who looks like me like the Irish do. As much as I would love to be seen as an American by most White Americans, I accept I am welcomed more in Ireland, having never lived there, then a I am by White America. It doesn’t matter to White America that my ancestor established this Nation because they don’t see me as part of the American narrative. So indulge me for a moment and examine the American narrative with me.

We call ourselves the “home of the brave” but what’s so brave about shooting up a Wal-Mart of families shopping for school supplies because the nationalities of the families is questioned? What is so brave about spewing racial hate instead of confronting our fears of losing our status in our communities to others? What is so brave about hiding behind the bigoted racial hate speech of party leaders instead of standing up for the values of our Nation and putting Country before Party? What is so brave about putting children in cages instead of acknowledging the complex and complicate story of making an economy which functions for all of us, immigrant and native born alike? What is so brave about blaming video games for gun violence instead of having the difficult conversations about our gun culture and the responsibilities one must put in place to maintain the Second Amendment? What is so brave about vilifying and othering people who don’t look like you or belong to a different party than treating them with the dignity of being another human being?

I am tired. I tired of defending my “Americanness” to a group of people who don’t even realize America wouldn’t exist if not for my ancestors and their like minded compatriots. I am tired of defending my belong to a group of immigrants who landed here after my ancestors, even if they look more “white” than I do. My family has literally been here longer, but because I don’t look like they do, they question MY belonging. No more. If you do not stand up to hate, to bigotry, to racism, to partisanship, then you are the problem. Your complacency and silence breeds hate. It breed racism. It breeds partisanship. It breeds fear. It breeds slavery of your mind. We are the home of the free. We are the home of the brave. You are either with this national democratic experiment, pushing partisanship aside, or you are against all of the values that make America the exceptional experiment and beacon of hope it is. Chose your side wisely. History will judge you; and do not ever ask me or anyone else of color where we are from. Just don’t.

A better question, from a place of genuine curiosity of seeking common ground is, “So where’s your hometown?” Then, just roll with it. Go forth and be an enigma with us.

Words Matter

There is this story I was given many, many years ago about a guy in a subway car. His kids were running amok, tearing up and down the car in a hyper mess of a ball of action much to the dismay of the many passengers in the car while the guy, the responsible adult, the father did nothing. Finally, one of the passengers in the car turned to the uninterested dad and said, “hey, buddy, your kids!” The uninterested father turned to the put out guy and replied, “sorry, their mom died today and I don’t know how to tell them.”

Paradigm shift.

What if the distraught dad who was facing the loss of his wife and companion lashed out and just decked the guy for not understanding his grief? What if the annoyed and inconvenienced passenger told the guy he was a lousy father and unfit to have kids? What if the whole thing ended in a fist fight instead of an exchange of words and, hopefully, understanding? Words matter.

Tonight, my life was again touched by suicide, and I cannot help but think “what words mattered?” What words, if any, could have altered the path that led to today, and why do we as a collective refuse to stare down the demon of mental illness facing us right now? Why is it still taboo to discuss that occasionally life isn’t perfect and rainbow and unicorns? Why don’t we all admit that every once in a while we have a supremely craptastic day, or week, or month, or year? Why don’t we feel comfortable admitting to others how the words they uttered as a toss away aren’t toss away but are blunt daggers tearing into us? Why do we carry these harsh words closer to our hearts than the many words of love and acceptance thrown our way?

Mental illness within my familial unit has been a concern of mine for decades. When one feels deeply, one can be wounded deeply. Plus, there is so little tolerance for the need of “mental breaks” in our society. “Buck up,” we tell people. Your life will be amazing if only you accept these criteria for success we’ve outline for you. “Soldier on” we expect out of others. Well, I call foul. Why is it wrong to feel, to grieve, to mourn, to rage, to elate, to feel? Why can’t we be upset that someone was harsh and cruel and insensitive? Why can’t we be confused that we may want something different out of our lives than those who love us? Why can’t we just be and be the best version of ourselves that WE deem to be? Why do people feel so free to fling harshness in the direction of others to alleviate their own pain because they are too cowardly to tackle them themselves? You are right. That statement is too harsh. It comes from a place of loss. It comes from a place of pain. It come from a place of dread for all others who are sad and lost and wandering. Maybe it comes from a place of hope.

If you feel alone, please know you are not. This is one freaking big planet. There is someone out there who understands your position, your feelings, and your thoughts. Please don’t give up, but go find that person. You never know if your words might be ones that save him or her… or even yourself. You are beautiful and to be celebrated and if the people around you can’t see that, then it’s ok to find people who do. Words matter. Keep the affirming ones and toss all the others.

1-800-273-8255 – National Suicide Hotline

https://suicidepreventionlifeline.org/

Birthday eve

Conversation I had with Mike last week:

Me: Where do you want to go for your birthday eve?

Him: That’s not a thing.

Me: What’s not a thing?

Him: Birthday eve. That’s not a thing.

Me: Of course it’s a thing.

Him: No, it’s not a thing.

Me: I will never understand you people with siblings.

We have a long standing understanding in our home that I celebrate my birthday for an entire week or more. Generally, my celebration involves declarations like, “It’s my birthday, I’m not doing the dishes,” but it also includes allowing myself special treats like cupcakes for breakfast. I firmly believe in more robust celebrations for birthday eve, the actual birth day, and then the day after, which is the first full day of one’s new age. Being Mike’s first birthday without the teenager at home, I felt it was time he to embraced the three day celebration format. Being a middle child who married an only child who together had an only child, he thought the three day format was a bit silly.

Here’s the thing – I see too many people taking life too seriously. I am often one of those individuals taking life too seriously. There are unread emails in my inbox. I’m overdue in a status update. I have several business stakeholders I haven’t met with yet today. I haven’t returned a few phone calls. I have a mountain of laundry at home and the carpet needs to be vacuumed. My list of home improvements continue to grow as nothing gets taken off. My weekends are spoken for and I don’t think I have a free moment until June 14…of 2019. I put too much on myself and I don’t make time for fun, except when it comes to celebrating.

We try to celebrate a lot as a family unit. This was a bit of fun Mike brought into our relationship. No matter how big or small, we celebrated. We’ve celebrate the loss of teeth (and the sprouting of new ones), the start of a sports season, the completion of a project, the wrap up of a school play, the start of a new job, the end of a hard school or work week, the anniversaries of births, deaths, love, the beauty of a Southern spring day, the emptiness of the laundry basket, and just about any other reason we could find. If we can declare a celebration of some sort, we try to declare it.

By no means are each celebrations big affairs. We may shout a brief “hoorah!!” but we don’t really need more. It is merely an act of gratitude and accomplishment. It is an acknowledgment of life and a gratefulness we have people with us on our little journey through it. Maybe my only child status influences or sparks my desire to celebrate. My immediate families have been small my entire life. I am blessed though to have large extended families and a strong network of friends who have been a part of many of my little celebrations, whether they realize it or not, and that is something worth celebrating.

For your next birthday eve or for the next joy that stumbles into your life, maybe you to can shout a little “hoorah!” You might just like taking a small moment to acknowledge it and celebrate, whatever it is.

Perspective

Well, you’re alive and can be thankful for that. Then you can worry about finding any job.

~ Overheard while walking through a park in Ireland

The Irish seem to have remarkable perspective. For instance, while walking around in a park, I overheard a grandfatherly gentleman tell his young female companion the statement above. I can only guess about the backstory. Was she ill? Was he ill? Was this just the sharing of a lesson learned through many decades of living? Does the backstory even matter or is the lesson enough?

While traveling around Ireland, I was amazed by how everyone we met was friendly, engaging, and happy, and not in a superficial way. When I talked with someone, I felt as if the person listened to what I was saying instead of thinking of what he or she was going to say next. People seemed truly interested in the conversation and the shared story we were creating together. A thread of genuine curiosity underpinned every conversation, and each person seemed to embrace the advice of the grandfatherly gentleman who extolled the importance of appreciating life. It was exhilarating!

I also marveled at the public art we saw and the stories we heard. Walking around Dublin, you will see statues and architecture devoted to writing, music, and wit. I don’t recall seeing a single object honoring or glorifying war or military might or victors who forcably conquered others. Instead, the culture appears to place other things on a higher pedestal, and I love this the most about Ireland. Heck, their national symbol is a harp! Again, the Irish seem to know what to value and have the right perspective about life.

I miss Ireland, and the re-entry into the United States didn’t supply a soothing balm. Instead, I was jarred by the crass abrasiveness of the very loud, very obnoxious American in the airport lounge. He had not kissed the Blarney Stone in his life and was not given the gift of gab. Instead, his story telling was self focused and more of an assault on one’s ears than a tender lithe tale of ones adventures. Nope, it was a litany of “accomplishments” and what I can only assume to be “sharing of wisdom through his awesomeness.” Maybe I’m being too harsh on the poor guy, or maybe we could all use a bit more of the Irish perspective in ours. If an Irish cabbie can curse you from a place of love and make you laugh at the same time, then maybe we can be more welcoming and opening in our general interactions.