Loss

It has been a tumultuous week. Yesterday, my heart was so heavy that all I wanted to do was wallow in my own sadness. There's a certain comfort in wallowing. Perhaps that's why pigs do it.

This week I went to my Uncle's funeral. I did not think it would be as emotional as it was for me...remains for me. I saw family that I usually only see at weddings and funerals. It was nice to see them. It was nice to be together, although I am virtually a stranger to some of them and them to me. Yet, I have known most of them for all our lives. There is some comfort in knowing that you share blood. Odd, isn't it, the power of familial bonds.

After the funeral, my Aunty (the widow) collapsed in the restroom and was taken to the hospital. Later that day, my mom informed me my cousin was recently diagnosed with pancreatic cancer and the outlook is rather grim.

I did not experience a tidal wave of sadness -- powerful and forceful. But more along the lines of feeling myself sinking slowly into the depths of the ocean. Overwhelming, not in a dramatic way, but rather, in a quiet, silent, sensory deprivation type of way. No wailing or sobbing, but as my chest tightens ever so slowly, tears silently seep out of my eyes.

I cried out to God. Asked for refuge. To hide in a cave. Wanted to continue wallowing. God is good. He allowed some time for wallowing, then He provided real comfort. Thanks, God.

Today is better. My heart is not as heavy and I have decided wallowing is for pigs. My Aunty is doing well and should be going home today. They believe she collapsed from dehydration, so she received fluids and is feeling better. My parents visited my cousin and said he looks well, although he has quite the battle ahead of him.

I miss my Uncle. He always had a ready smile and "hello," and would ask how I was doing. Even when his health began failing and he was weaker and had difficulty getting out of bed. He was soft-spoken and conveyed a gentleness that was welcoming and comforting at the same time. From family stories, I know he could be strict, but I never saw that side.

They showed a video at his funeral, of my Uncle in his wheelchair, singing "Jesus Loves Me" to his great-grandson. Singing in the halting way that older people sometimes do, as though they cannot get enough air into their lungs. But it was sweet and genuine...childlike in the loveliest, most respectful and complementary sense of that word.

I love you, Uncle. You will be missed.

Happy Father's Day

To all the men who:
Sacrifice for others,
Stuck around through thick and thin,
Tried to rectify your mistakes,
Walk in faith,
Want more for another human being than what you had . . .
Happy Father's Day.

For all the men who:
Tried and keep trying,
Mentored and keep mentoring,
Encouraged and keep encouraging,
Hoped and keep hoping,
Loved and keep loving . . .
Happy Father's Day.

Happy Father's Day to my Dad. A man who embodies all of the above and so much more. I am so lucky to have you as my earthly Father. I love you.

Parents are People, Too

I am not sure when in time I had this epiphany, but the moment itself is clear. One day I realized that my parents were more than just my parents, they were individuals apart from me. I am embarrassed that this realization came rather late in life (I believe I was in my mid-twenties and out of college). It was one of those defining moments for me where my world paradigm shifted, never again to revert.

In some ways my Dad is your typical Asian patriarch. King of his castle, he communicates in grunts and facial expressions. “Taisho,” as my Mom calls him. But there is another side to my Dad. He can be a talker, a teller of stories. It is a source of amusement in our family. At a family gathering, we’ll see him talking to one of my uncles or a cousin and say to each other, “Okay, I guess we’re not leaving for another half an hour!” Or we’ll commiserate, “Oh, poor uncle/cousin, cornered by Dad!”

So I grew up hearing his stories, and as a typical child, was bored when he started (in my mind), droning on and on about the old days. Since he grew up in Hawai’i, he did not have the “I walked 5 miles in the snow to get to school” story, but every other “typical” old-time story was told. I heard about working in the plantation on the Big Island. Learning to swim by getting thrown into the stream by the older boys. How his friend “Udon” got that nickname (which is a hilarious story).

My Mom is more reticent. She is more of a listener than a talker (a lesson I have been trying to adopt from her all my life), but even she will get nostalgic and talk about her past. About how she and her six siblings walked barefoot everywhere (no shoes). How she pretended to be asleep so she would not have to go work in the family farm early in the morning. That her friends got her English name put on her birth certificate one day when she was absent from school.

Now that I am older (and thankfully a bit wiser), I have grown to cherish these stories of my parents’ lives. Not just their stories as children growing up in the Territory of Hawai’i (pre-statehood), but when they first met and how they struggled to purchase their first house. How difficult it was to find a white-collar job as an Asian man and what life was like before Unionization.

But there is one story in particular that really turned a light on for me and made me fully realize that my parents are individuals. Individuals with dreams, hopes, disappointments and struggles all their own, apart from me, apart from our family, and even apart from each other. I do not know why this story among all the others particularly resonated with me, but it did…it still does.

One day my Mom and I were talking and she mentioned (almost off-handedly) that when my Dad was younger, he had wanted to become a teacher. What?!? It amazed me that my Dad had wanted to be something other than what he was. Didn’t he always want to be in insurance? Didn’t he want to be in sales? I mean, it seemed to fit with the gabby, bon vivant side of him.

My Mom went on to tell me that he did not become a teacher because he had to quit school (which I knew, because his father died before my Dad was in high school, so as the oldest boy, he had to quit school and earn money to support the family). What I learned that day was that my Dad came to O’ahu to find better opportunities to earn a living and to support his siblings. Even after his siblings were off on their own, he and my Mom had already married and he had a family to support.

My parents raised me to believe that I could be anything I wanted to be; do anything I wanted to do if I worked hard enough and put in enough effort. Yet my Dad, because of how seriously he took his responsibility to his family, was not able to be what he wanted to be. He had to give up his dream of being a teacher. Part of the reason he worked so hard was to ensure that I (and the rest of his kids) would have that choice that he did not have. It is something I have always known (I mean, everyone knows most parents work and sacrifice to give their children a better life), but now it was personal and real to me.

It humbled me to learn this. I have always loved and respected my parents, and except for a few rocky years in my teens, I knew I was lucky to belong to my family. And I know that my parents deserve a lot of credit for whatever is good in me. But for some reason, still beyond my comprehension, learning about the dream my Dad decided to forego just made everything sharper, more intense, more real. Maybe it is because it seems so seminal…what one does for a living. Maybe it is the Gen X belief in the importance to find meaning in your work and that the ultimate is to do what you love. Whatever it is, it made me look at my parents in a completely different light.

It made me understand that parents are people, too. And once that becomes real to you, you can never look at your parents in the same way again.

Some Cheese to Go with Your Whine, Mademoiselle?

I do not think of myself as a whiner. I don’t particularly like whiners—even if they’re little kids. Whining is unattractive, annoying and unimaginative. It isn’t clever or thoughtful or insightful.

But after yesterday, all I can say is, “Bring in the brie, havarti, cheddar, mozzarella, maytag and parmesan, Baby!” I had enough whine in me to handle all that, plus more!

I think what I did (because I am still not absolutely sure) was completely wipe the hard drive in my father’s computer. Pictures, e-mails, copies of letters, investment thing-a-ma-jiggas are all gone. Lost forever in the deep, dark, morass known as cyberspace.

It all began when my dad’s computer froze on me. No amount of creative threats, mouse shimmying or pressing ctrl+alt+del made an iota of difference. So I did the only thing I knew to do: I unplugged the computer. I waited 30 seconds. Then I plugged it in again. As the computer was re-booting (or whatever it is called, yes, I’m one step away from being a Luddite), I saw on the screen: “F10 = System Recovery.” I thought to myself, “Yes, I would like to recover whatever I may have lost when I unplugged the computer.” I proceed to press F10.

BIG mistake. After it goes through the “recovery” process, I am left with having to set up this computer like I just took it out of the box! All the user names are gone. I even have to go through the process of setting up the internet connection. Now why in the name of all that is logical and not misleading would the computer equate “recovery” with “wiping your hard drive clean”?!? That is not “recovery,” that is erasing. Starting over. Clean slate. According to the dictionary, “recover” means: (1) to get back or regain; (2) to make up for; make good the loss or damage of; (3) to salvage.

Pressing F10 did the exact opposite of all that! I lost, damaged and wiped clean so as to begin from scratch.

I felt awful. Still do. So what did I do in this moment of crisis? Was I stoic? Did I begin reparations? No. I started to whine. (Yes, it helped as much as one would imagine, that is to say, not at all to negatively…refer above to the irritating/annoyingness of whining).

I whined to my brother-in-law who happens to be our family’s computer go-to guy (Whaaaat do I dooooo?). I whined to my parents in apology for losing all their stuff (I’m soooooo sorrrryyyy!)

My mom said: “It’s only computer stuff.” Of course, my mom only uses the computer to play spider solitaire. My dad uses the computer to e-mail, manage his investments, keep copies of business letters and to store pictures taken on vacations and other important picture-worthy events.

At best my whining made me feel better in the short-term…like an indulgence. But then I started getting annoyed and irritated with myself for being such an annoying, irritating whiner. Plus I was feeling weak for having indulged myself in such a wallowing pastime.

Seriously, why could I not have left well enough alone? If I had not pressed that idiotic F10 button, everything would have been fine. But for that F10 button, I would not be loathing myself so entirely right now. For being an idiot. For being a whiner. For indulging in my whininess. For being an indulgent idiotic whiner. Bleh.

I am all for equality and not showing favoritism, but I must say, I will never be able to look at the F10 key in quite the same way again. A part of me will always loathe the F10 key.

I’m sorry, Dad! Deceived by the F10’s siren call of “recovery,” I led your computer into cruel rocks and taunting waves only to be torn asunder. Waaaaahhhhh!

Now, gimme some cheese!

Japanese Mind Meld

I’ve been brainwashed (well, at least I’m pretty sure).

At some point in my life, unbeknownst to me, I learned stuff I did not even know I was learning (though I guess that is true for many things, but I am just realizing it now . . . yeah, no wise remarks, after all it was slow and steady that won the race, baby). I do not remember my parents (or any of my family for that matter) verbalizing any of this. I do not recollect discussing this with my friends. I know I did not learn this in school or at church. But somehow I know:

• That when I step out into the world, my actions do not only represent myself, but my family and (to some extent) all those who share my ethnicity;

• That just as my actions reflect on others, my family and other members of my ethnicity reflect on me and how I am perceived by the world; and

• That my ethnicity means Asian in general, and Japanese in particular.

When I look back, I know all this was somehow ingrained at a young age. It manifests itself in the following ways, which explains why:

• I cheer for the Asian person in most contests (Top Chef, etc.) Though I have also been known to cheer for the female (especially if it is in a male dominated field);

• I felt inordinately proud of Michael Chang when he won the French Open (and it’s not just because I have a crush on him that continues to this day…and no matter what you may have heard, I did not stalk him at the U.S. Open in 1999…);

• My heart fell(even more) when it was released that the Virginia Tech shooter was Asian, was slightly relieved that he was not Japanese, then went back down again wondering if people would even know the difference (which is shameful, I know. I’m not proud that these thoughts even crossed my mind.)

This indoctrination is very subtle; because in the ordinary course of my life, I do not feel the weight of my ancestors upon me. I do not feel the shame/disappointment/joy of my family. If my parents/siblings accomplish or excel in something, I do not feel the residual brightness fall upon my head. I do not think any thing I have done adds to anyone’s cache except my own (and to a smaller extent, perhaps to my parents).

I was born and raised in the United States. Raised in Christian church. I did not grow up hearing about ancestors or the “old” ways (except I knew my mom thought it was important to visit my grandparents’ graves. I just thought it was a respectful thing, but I see now it is also a cultural thing for her). I cheer for the U.S. during the Olympics, know next to nothing about Japan, can’t speak the language, don’t know the culture and am definitely more Euro-centric than Asian-centric in my thoughts and preferences (to this day my sister insists I should have been born into an Italian family; and there is some Italian family out there with some changeling that likes rice more than pasta, fish more than red meat and sushi more than antipasti).

The traces of these connections to my ethnicity and to group mores and ideals are faint, yet surprisingly tenacious. What on its surface looks almost wispily ethereal is anchored into a substantive foundation. And the reason why this came to the forefront of my thoughts? Because I read some guy’s blog.

He wrote about a particularly awkward and upsetting interaction with two men in Japan, seemingly yakuza types. Their exchange, which was written with humor, nonetheless embarrassed me because these men who acted so beyond the scope of appropriate behavior were Japanese. I do not know any of these people. Yet I felt responsible . . . so responsible that I actually apologized to this stranger (replied to his blog entry) about the behavior of two other strangers. That is not normal.

It’s surprising how deep-rooted these feelings of responsibility and ethnic representation are – that they do not even have to be articulated to take hold. Perhaps it is a secret government project using shame to control the masses: Japanese Mind Meld.

Plantation Nostalgia

Today I took my mom and my aunt to Hawaii's Plantation Village in Waipahu. There is a 20-minute video about some of the basics about sugar plantation life in Hawai'i and there is a small, but packed museum. A volunteer takes you through the museum as well as the "Village." It is not a typical Village, which would generally only have been made up of one ethnic group (i.e., only Japanese or only Korean, etc.), but a sampling of each type of house that could be found between 1900 and the late 1930s. They also show the Portuguese outdoor oven to make bread, a Japanese tofu-ya to make tofu, the Plantation Store and even a little replica of a Saimin Stand.

It was a long tour (about 2 hours). Our guide was a really nice man, but he was kind of slow talking and so the tempo of the tour tended to drag. It was really interesting, though. I did not realize that most of the Korean immigrants came to escape religious persecution; they wanted to practice Christianity. The Japanese came to make their fortune and planned (originally) to return back to Japan. The Portuguese on the other hand, came with their families planning to settle and raise the next generation in Hawai'i. The Japanese bachelors here were apparently a rowdy bunch that would drink and fight a lot. In order to "control" them, the Plantation owners got them to bring women over...in the form of picture brides. The Chinese were the first to come over (about 16 years before the next group, the Japanese). Again, mostly men came, so they started marrying the Hawaiian women. No wonder the Hawaiian and Chinese combination is so prevalent.

It was nice spending time with my mom and my aunt. It was also a little sad, too. They're getting old. Slowing down. In fact, another aunt was supposed to come out with us today, but she decided not to because she was not feeling up to it. My mom said that aunt (who is older than them) would not have lasted during that 2-hour walking tour anyway. My mom is still really mobile and active, but my aunt is losing her sight and has a more difficult time getting around.

I love tagging along with my mom and my aunties. I enjoy hearing their stories, hearing them laugh...and of course, they would always pay for everything. Heh. It was an endless source of amusement for me when my mom and aunties would go out. Those little asian ladies would have ninja-fast reflexes any time a bill would come. They're all talking, then the waiter would bring the bill to the table. Woosh! Hands would just start flying, seeing who could pick up the bill first. After establishing physical prowess, the "winner" would have to withstand the psychological and verbal assault that would immediately ensue.

"It's my turn! You paid last time."
"No, I didn't. It is my turn now, remember?"
"No, no, no! We always go through this. It is my turn, because..."

Only the strong would survive.

Now, they are a little slower physically, but they make up for it in craftiness. I noticed the planning occurred even before the day of our outing. My mom gave me money before we got to the Plantation Village to pay for our entrance fees, feeling my youth gave me an advantage to whip out my wallet and pay before my aunt would know what was going on. It worked. But somehow during the tour, my aunt convinced my mom she was going to pay for lunch, and it was all decided before we even chose at which restaurant we would dine. Older means craftier and working more through diplomatic channels.

Sigh. To my mom and aunty: Thanks for letting me hang out with you guys again. It was a wonderful way to spend my vacation day. I hope there are many more days we can spend together and I can listen to you tell stories, laugh and scold each other.

Volunteering (kicking and screaming)

About ten years ago, my entire immediate family (parents, siblings and their spouses and kids) vacationed in California. There were 13 of us all together. One of the stops, of course, was Disneyland. My nieces and nephews were ages 3 through 13 years old at the time. It was a great trip, but by the end of the two weeks, I think we were all ready to come home...to our separate homes. There definitely is such a thing as too much family togetherness. We all had about reached our limits (some of us exceeded our limits, but not in any irreparable way, as we all still choose to be in each other's presence).

Anyway, I bring this up because at the time, my sister's youngest boy was 8. She wanted to take him on the Matterhorn (a roller coaster-ish ride), which looked pretty scary to his 8 year old eyes. She told him, "you'll have fun...you'll like it." To which he replied, "Noooooooo, Mommy, pleeeeaaaassseee! Don't make me gooooooo!" as he cried and tried to dig his little sneakered feet in while my sister was dragging him by his arm to stand in line.

At this point we were attracting some attention from the other visitors to the "happiest place on earth" (aka the most heavily sugared place on earth). Back then, I cared more about what people thought than I do now and was noticing them noticing our little scene. But more importantly, I seriously thought she was going to psychologically scar this poor kid for life. He really seemed freaked out about it all.

I ask my sister if she really thinks it is worth it to drag him on this ride when it will probably result in a huge expense for her down the road when she has to pay for his therapy bills. She seems blithely unconcerned and continues dragging her son (who is literally crying and begging as only an 8 year old in full dramatic mode can) to stand in line for the Matterhorn. I make another attempt upon my poor nephew's behalf and my sister throws over her shoulder, "Don't worry. He'll love it once he tries it."

Skeptical, I stand in line with them (my nephew has been reduced to whimpering at this point, since he realized volume was not getting him anywhere, so he, as most children, quickly learned to cut his losses and try another tact). I forgot who I sat next to (probably not my brother, since he complains my screaming makes him lose his upper decibel hearing), but my sister sat next to my nephew. I hear them screaming and laughing through the ride. Once we get to the end, my nephew (whom I have been championing), looks at my sister and says, "Mommy! Can we go again?" My sister give me that vastly smug, superior look that only an older sister can give her younger sister and says, "See?"

Now why did I share this slightly entertaining yet seemingly meaningless anecdote? Because this week I had my volunteer work and I did not want to go. It is only a couple of hours each month and I often find myself hunting for excuses not to go. I am performing the same acts my nephew did, but just in my own mind.

And I don't know why. Because once I get there, I am totally into it, have a great time and at the end am glad that I went. I know this from prior experience. Yet for some bizarre reason, each month when I am scheduled to be there, I feel an illness coming on / am extremely tired / need to stay late at the office / am supposed to meet a friend / etc.

I recently had a conversation with a co-worker who volunteers once a week to help adults learn to read. She said she has the same problem. She has to drag herself to the session, but once she is there, it is a great experience and she is glad she did it. Plus, she has a great relationship with the person she tutors.

At least my nephew had a good excuse. He did not know how much fun he was going to have on the Matterhorn. A few hours each month to help out a worthy program is very little. Why am I so reluctant when I probably get more out of being there and interacting with the kids than they do? Perhaps the obvious answer is that I am selfish. But is it that simple? Perhaps it is.