tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-58106649663969681472024-03-05T12:42:13.309-08:00Musings of a Musical Midwestern MamaBlogging about motherhood, family, Interfaith life, Asian-American life, artist life, and whatever else I find a-mus-ing.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06430366457754481393noreply@blogger.comBlogger23125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5810664966396968147.post-83901388256509474752017-08-13T07:12:00.001-07:002017-08-13T08:23:07.752-07:00A Letter to Help with this Hate<p dir="ltr">Earlier this year, I performed in a devised theatre piece, Self-Evident, directed and curated by Melissa McNamara, and created in response to the 2016 presidential election. </p>
<p dir="ltr">As part of that piece, I performed a letter I wrote to my 4-year-old daughter, Lena. In it, I tried to explain to her what's going on in the world post-election. I looked at it again today, sure that my words would be far too simple and easy to describe what happened in Charlottesville, what's happening everywhere. But I still believe what I wrote a few months back, I still think that it's our collective aversion to fear that fuels the anger and hate. I look into the vengeful, self-righteous white faces of all those tiki-torch toting men, and <u>I</u> see the little boys they used to be. Little boys who were taught that it wasn't ok to be afraid. Little kids who had to swallow their fear and put in its place pride, and anger, and rage.</p>
<p dir="ltr">So I'm offering this simple letter, written to my 4-year-old, as a way to think about how to talk to our children, and as a way to think about our own fear today. It's not THE answer, but it's<i> a</i><i>n </i>answer. It's a framework, a lens, a little piece of something to <u>help</u> us get started.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Dear Lena,</p>
<p dir="ltr">I love you. I know that ever since Jonah was born, you've had to share that love. But I think you know that I love you. I hope you always know that. I hope you always feel it. Sometimes I think my love will be enough for you to live in this world, but I'm afraid it might not be.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Do you feel afraid sometimes? I wish I could tell you that someday that'll go away, but the truth is, everyone feels afraid sometimes. Not just little kids like you. Big kids feel afraid too. And grown ups, even me.</p>
<p dir="ltr">When we feel afraid we have a choice about what we do. Some people, when they are afraid, they pretend they are not, and they talk with a louder voice, and they become mean, and they become angry.</p>
<p dir="ltr">You asked me why I don't like our new president. Let me explain it this way. I don't like our new president because he's one of these people who, when he's afraid, pretends he's not, and then he uses a louder voice, and he becomes mean, and he becomes angry. And when a person is angry, it's hard to listen, and when a person doesn't listen, it's hard to learn and it's hard to understand why he's afraid. When we don't understand why we're afraid, we're stuck feeling afraid. When we're afraid, it's hard to be kind. </p>
<p dir="ltr">And I believe that the only way all people can really live in this world together, is for us to be kind to one another.</p>
<p dir="ltr">So there's another choice we can make when we're afraid. It's what I try to do when I'm feeling afraid. I reach out for those people who love me, like Dada, or Aunt Erin, or Aunt Sarah, and I tell them, I'm afraid right now. And then we talk about it, and I do my best to listen, and understand. And the more I understand about why I'm afraid, the less afraid I feel. And when I feel less afraid, it's easier for me to be kind. I really wish that everyone would make this second choice.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Lena, when I first told you that I didn't like our new president, do you remember what you said to me? You said, maybe he just needs more time, mama. If he is new, maybe he just needs some time to work on being nicer.</p>
<p dir="ltr">I hope you're right, honey. I hope you're right. Your hope, that he can be better, your hope that people can be better, it makes me think that we're going to be okay.</p>
<p dir="ltr">And you know what? I think I change my mind about what I said before, I think that our love... Our love IS enough for us to live in this world. </p>
<p dir="ltr">I love you so much.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Always always, <br>
Your Mama</p>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06430366457754481393noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5810664966396968147.post-71882993985496397502017-07-01T06:27:00.001-07:002017-07-01T06:27:45.829-07:00Dirty Drawers: Musing on Clutter, Tampons, and My Son's Awesome Mind<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 13.5pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I am his mother. That is my preface. I am prone to thinking the world of him, to being amazed by his brain, those empty pockets quickly filling and swelling with new ideas and information, bulging with delightful discoveries, emptying out, sorting and pouring back in.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 13.5pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 13.5pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">I do not apologize for my amazement, and I encourage other parents to stop apologizing as well. The fear of raising a spoiled child weighs heavily on our shoulders, passed on to us from previous generations. Can we rethink the means of spoiling? Did a child ever truly suffer because his parents were too proud, too supportive, too amazed? It’s possible. But it’s a risk I’d like to take.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 13.5pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 13.5pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">My son is two years old and he is special. I encourage every parent to see her children this way. I want to build us up against the eye-rolls, the judgments of others. In our efforts to avoid over-parenting, hovering, helicoptering, micro-managing, let’s not miss out on basking in the brilliance of our children’s brains.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 13.5pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My son is two years old and every morning, he opens the drawers in my bathroom, pulls them out repeatedly - open close open close - making the contents shift forwards and backwards, crashing against the inside of the drawer. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 13.5pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">If my dad were in the room with us, he’d likely yelp out, </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Be careful! You will hurt your fingers! You will pinch them! You will bump your head!</span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Often, in an effort to protect our children, we tell them that the bad thing will certainly happen. In reality we have little idea if it will. </span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRqQGr_hKcLSFHx6jfIyCpiCM-HCZ9vdsTlM_3z1W4OiZjIRQSy2eoUsOsf0VhPyQ0GLVKEQykLu_ldQk5-dt3HwX4QTLizLh7tqbh-OxWwfuY97a_meYYOu98C3refVEnS3H0IZNJWdr4/s1600/drawers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="color: black;"><img border="0" data-original-height="966" data-original-width="1600" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRqQGr_hKcLSFHx6jfIyCpiCM-HCZ9vdsTlM_3z1W4OiZjIRQSy2eoUsOsf0VhPyQ0GLVKEQykLu_ldQk5-dt3HwX4QTLizLh7tqbh-OxWwfuY97a_meYYOu98C3refVEnS3H0IZNJWdr4/s400/drawers.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Would a photo of my real-life drawers be too embarrassing? Too late!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 13.5pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">If Marie Kondo (is it obvious I didn't read her book?) were in the room with us, she might be horrified by the disarray and the sheer volume of contents in the drawers. Housed inside are all my short-lived and long-term obsessions: essential oils, handmade jewelry, make up brushes, lip glosses, nail polishes, and skincare products. </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Do these items “spark joy” in you? </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">she might ask. My son pulls q-tips out of a box one by one. To him they are magic wands, invented one morning during a game he and his four-year-old big sister played. The wands lose their powers after the fluff has been pulled off, or drenched by water, or dropped into the shower drain. </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I need more wands</span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">, he insists as I try to close the drawer, </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I only have six wands! </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Perhaps this is what joy feels like.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 13.5pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">If my mother were in the room with us, she might be concerned about the colorfully wrapped tampons tumbling onto the floor.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 13.5pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">What are dees?</span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> my son asks in his one-volume (loud) voice.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 13.5pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Mama needs them for her vagina. That’s a hole in her vulva where blood comes out sometimes because she’s a grown up girl, </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">my daughter explains. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 13.5pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Oh I see</span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">, he says, lining up the tampons from biggest to smallest.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 13.5pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">A brief history of my relationship with tampons: I was 12 years old when I first got my period, and at the time my mother was against using tampons. She did not use them herself. And it was not just fear of toxic shock syndrome, which is what will scare me if my daughter chooses to use them one day. She was worried about the affect they would have on my virginity. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 13.5pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Half a year into my period, I lost my virginity to a tampon. I smuggled them from a friend. I used my first one because I really wanted to go to a pool party during the summer between 7th and 8th grade. I put one foot up on the side of the toilet seat and relaxed my vaginal muscles like the box instructions said I should do. It was easy, maybe because I was determined. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 13.5pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I didn’t want to hide them. I didn’t like how it felt to be dishonest. When I started to use them regularly, I tossed the wrappers out in the garbage right next to the toilet that our whole family shared.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 13.5pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Don’t leave these out in the garbage, Lyn!</span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> my mother scolded, </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">your little brother will see.</span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> My brother was seven years old at the time, and he was asking questions.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 13.5pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Maybe I wanted to show my mother that I was the boss of my body? Eh, or more likely, like the messy drawers my son empties onto the floor, I’m just kind of a cluttered person. Was it intention or carelessness that led me to leave used tampons in the toilet bowl, losing patience to make sure the water flushed it all the way down before rushing off to something else? </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Now, I have to tell him what it is,</span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> my mother was flustered. I like to think that my actions reflected my early rumblings of railing against the idea that menstruation should be mysterious to men … or to anyone.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 13.5pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But enough about periods (for now). Every morning my son pulls open our drawers and out come the contents - cotton balls, toothpaste, spare change, contact lens cases, vitamin bottles, nail clippers, face cream, hair spray, dental floss, bracelets, lonely earrings, single mismatched socks. I mean to throw the empty bottles away, I mean to organize the products, I mean to. I will. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 13.5pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">All the heads are shaking at me. My husband’s head too, though he is relieved that my stuff stays, for the most part, on my side of the sink. Twelve years ago, after meeting with us for our pre-marital conversations, our marriage officiant had looked my husband directly in the eye and said, </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">You cannot change Lynnette. She will not transform into a tidy person one day, this is something you’ll need to accept about her.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 13.5pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Lately, he might be starting to believe her. Some days, I still want to prove her wrong. But I haven’t yet. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 13.5pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Honestly, most mornings when my son is going through my drawers, I heave and sigh in exasperation. The thoughts running through my mind are of genuine resolve to organize better, to purge, to buy child locks for the drawers that will keep him out for a couple years. Rubbing my eyes, I position my body in between him and my drawers. Yawning, I tell him that I don’t want him to make a mess of my things, I ask him to help me clean up.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 13.5pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But this morning ritual also pulls me inside his beautiful brain. And I take a mental step back to marvel as he pulls my chaotic drawers open one by one. I forgive myself for the clutter today. I think instead, that this is the child I want to raise. A child who will not leave a door closed because someone has told him not to open it.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 13.5pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">A child who will open the same drawers over and over again, noting what is familiar, finding what is new, asking question after question, curious about what has changed. Identifying, filing, categorizing, editing, revising.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 13.5pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">A child who is not satisfied with just one answer, who will continue digging, unearthing, wanting to know what is inside, wanting to look behind, to discover how it opens, how it closes, unafraid of getting hurt, knowing he might get hurt, getting hurt.</span></div>
<span id="docs-internal-guid-a335dfa7-fc4f-519f-8061-a6c61d052b24"></span><br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 13.5pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I want to raise a person who will get hurt and still choose to come back again tomorrow to uncover something new.</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06430366457754481393noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5810664966396968147.post-8071833548181757312017-01-26T06:05:00.000-08:002017-01-26T07:23:19.567-08:00Curiosity Above Incredulity<div class="p1"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Why did you do that?" I ask my daughter, through a clenched jaw. </span><span style="font-size: small;">One minute ago my son erupted in a sea of tears and I approached my children, as calmly as possible.</span></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">They'd been playing together quietly until now and so I ask the pair of them, "what happened?" adding a lilt to my voice that I hope sounds direct but nonchalant.</span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">"I got mad, and I bit him," my daughter says.</span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I examine my two-year-old son, on whose round cheek emerges an equally round circle of bright red teeth marks. It will continue to darken and raise for the next hour, the mark will linger for days. </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">One look at the tooth circle and my eyes dart toward my daughter. Still trying to be calm, I ask, "Why did you do that?" The words ooze out from between my lips, "why did you bite him?"</span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">She looks at me, and at four years old, she can sense the difference between curiosity and incredulity. She knows what she has done is wrong, she knew before she did it. But past that, she also knows that I think it was so wrong that I can't even begin to understand her. She is ashamed, but she's old enough to mask her shame in defense. "I don't know," she nearly sings with a shrug.</span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">"Think about it for a moment," I hiss, because I am trying to help her process her feelings, to gain an understanding of her perspective, to bridge a gap. My words attempt patience and curiosity, but the hissing in my tone suggests that there is nothing she could possibly be feeling that could warrant a bite on her brother's cheek. The sub-text, reads clearly, <i>what is wrong with you</i>? My incredulity builds a wall between us. We are separated, now going through our own personal struggles alone.</span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Incredulity is not curiosity. I</span><span style="font-size: small;">ncredulity</span><span style="font-size: small;"> puts up walls. Curiosity can tear them down. But curiosity, true curiosity, is really hard.</span></span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">In the days since November 8, or, let me be more honest, ever since our current president first received the Republican nomination, I have been wallowing through life, feeling incredulous.</span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Incredulity feels good when paired with a shout and a fist in the air. Incredulity feels good when you're surrounded by like-minded people, who are also shouting, chanting, and punching their fists in the air. My months of incredulity have been accompanied by anger, by rage, by sharp impatience. Incredulity doesn't just feel good, we need it, it forces us to sound the battle cry.</span></span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">But in the moment when two people look each other in the eye and aim to connect, incredulity is a slap in the face. I've been replaying the words from a conversation I had with my father after I'd learned he voted for Donald Trump. My intention was to understand him, to know his key issues, to empathize. I have transcribed the conversation from memory, written it down, typed it on a screen. I have recounted the dialogue over and over again. The transcript is blameless, pristine; there is no malice in my chosen words.</span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">"I'd like to understand why you chose to vote for Donald Trump. Will you tell me why?" I'd asked, calmly, with a deferential tone. So why did the conversation that followed, even after two attempts on two different days, fail?</span><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">In the days and weeks and months that followed, I found myself moping around in incredulous victim-land, <i>how could he? Why does he hate me, why is he so cruel to me? Why did he attack me? Why did he attack my parenting, my choice of faith? Why doesn't he want to connect with me?</i></span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">This week as I've trudged through daily life during a dreary, albeit unseasonably warm period on the south side of Chicago, I felt overwhelmed by it, my incredulity. I felt it toward my father, toward our new president, toward all the women denouncing the women's march, toward the anonymous commenters on the internet. I felt it toward the aggression my kids display toward one another.</span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><i><br />
</i></span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><i>What is wrong with all of you?</i> I want to scream. </span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">But in the midst of the overwhelming incredulity, I had an epiphany about that conversation with my dad. Despite all my best intentions, my calm tone, and the genuine desire to understand my dad, my questions to him smelled of the incredulity I'd been steeping in for months. My best acting couldn't cover it up. And like my daughter, my father felt a wall go up, but unlike my daughter, he is not just four, and so his experience in 67 years of "being a man" thrust him into a fight with me.</span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">I also realize I know exactly what it's like to be on the other side. It's decades of my parents' incredulity that keeps them from seeing me. My father does not mask his, "I don't understand why you left the faith," he hurls accusingly at me during our conversation. For 20 years I have been telling him why. I have been sharing my entire journey of traveling away and eventually detaching from evangelical Christianity. I've provided no shortage of explanation, but my parents don't understand me. This is not because they don't love me, or don't want to understand me, but because they are not truly curious to hear my answer. They can't imagine, out of their fear, that grew out of their protectiveness, that grew out of their genuine love for me, a possible answer that could warrant my decision.</span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Curiosity above incredulity.</span><i style="font-size: medium;"> </i><span style="font-size: small;">Incredulity disguises itself as a question, but it has no desire for an answer. </span><span style="font-size: small;">Curiosity wants to know. Curiosity heals, curiosity sees. </span></span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">"Honey, why did you bite your brother?" I'd been so focused on sounding calm, but I hadn't been truly curious. I ask again with true curiosity, and then, as the wall tumbles down, I already know the answer. Because how many faces have I wanted to bite? How many faces have I chewed through in my mind? I know what anger, frustration, and helplessness lead me to envision.</span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">"Why did you bite him, honey?"</span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">"I was just so frustrated, mama. He wouldn't listen to me," and I understand.</span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">My father does not fit the Trump-supporter profile that Trump opponents have created. He's an immigrant and, with a double PhD, he is more educated than all of his children. He's an engineer, someone who used science for a living, who worked for years in Ford Motor Company's science lab to reduce vehicle emissions. He doesn't need more education to understand me. Our incredulity blinds us to one other. No matter how calm my delivery, he'd have sensed the incredulity, because its not just mine here, he'd have sensed the incredulity his media presents, of a swarm of angry people who already believe that there is nothing he could possibly say that would warrant his views.</span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><a href="https://www.womensmarch.com/100/" target="_blank">10 actions, 100 days</a>. After participating in this past weekend's Women's March on Chicago, I am inspired. I'm on board. I'm grateful for the incredulity that brought me here. Let's get to work, write postcards, call our representatives, sign petitions, hold up signs, rally, publish blog posts, make truth-telling art, fight, forward emails, share Facebook posts, hang Black Lives Matter posters in our windows, write our senators, submit op-eds. But all this work will do nothing to help me connect when I'm sitting across the table from my dad once again. It will not help anyone connect with anyone on the other side of the wall. Not without curiosity.<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span></span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Curiosity above incredulity. Curiosity helped me understand my daughter in a moment of conflict. Incredulity has kept me and my dad from understanding one another for years. </span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Curiosity above incredulity. I propose practicing this, starting now. Let's thank incredulity for its vital role, and then practice being curious.</span></div><style type="text/css">
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</span></div><div class="p1"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Don't mistake my curiosity for weakness, a white flag, or an apology. I'm ready to get to work. I'm thinking big. My intention is to heal the world, starting by mending our broken relationships. And so with deep curiosity, I'll start by asking, </span><i style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">why did my dad vote for Donald Trump</i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">? What will you be curious about?</span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06430366457754481393noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5810664966396968147.post-48985940229312570212016-12-28T06:53:00.003-08:002016-12-28T08:51:10.306-08:00Invisible Invincible<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "" "arial" "" , "serif"; font-size: 13.5pt;">Invisible is so close to invincible. In
my sloppy cursive, they almost look the same.</span><span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "" "arial" "" , "serif"; font-size: 13.5pt;">I was taught to be invisible. Not just
me. But my whole people. This whole people that I seldom yet constantly claim.
Even after 40 years of China's one-child policy, this whole people are one
fifth of the world's population. Han Chinese (that's me) are the largest ethnic
group in the world. Only a people taught to be invisible can be the largest
ethnic group in the world and still seem like a minority. Our faces blur, not
only to western society, but also to ourselves.</span><span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "" "arial" "" , "serif"; font-size: 13.5pt;">Ourselves. For me, “ourselves” is culturally
American and Chinese. In the classrooms where I teach, when Chinese families
show up with their children, I eavesdrop on mainland accents of a language so
old and familiar, yet foreign. When I try out my broken Mandarin, there’s an
excited chatter of acknowledgement. "Ah! Ta hui shuo pu tong hua!" A
bit of pride showing. And my westernized ego can't help but suspect that they
are proud because "this Chinese language of ours is so great that this
American-born woman can speak it."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "" "arial" "" , "serif"; font-size: 13.5pt;">Invisible. This not being able to tell
our faces apart is caused by systemic racism, by unfamiliarity, by lack of
understanding, isn't it? Is it also because we're taught to be invisible? </span><span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "" "arial" "" , "serif"; font-size: 13.5pt;">On a train traveling north from Guilin
to Beijing, there is a couple from a small nameless town. She is pregnant. She
is also ill. Though Chinese couples show little physical affection in public,
he has a hand on her elbow, she's rocking, and not only with the rhythms of the
train car or the hard seats beneath them. She's rocking for her baby. She's
rocking to the sound of an unknown voice calling. Were it years before, she
might have heard the voice of Buddha, or heard the voice of her grandmother's
grandmother, or God. Maybe God. But because it is today, she hears and rocks,
but has no name for the voice. If she'd heard God, or her
great-great-grandmother, she might have told her husband. She'd have told him
where she was going.</span><span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "" "arial" "" , "serif"; font-size: 13.5pt;">In the hard-seat train car, the
cheapest of the four classes of seats, the chickens are more at home than the
bodies of people. Yet quietly, the people sit upright, or they squat on the
floor. Cigarette smoke floats, instant noodle bowls trash the tracks, and a
pregnant woman rocks. If she had known the voice, she might have told her
husband. Maybe. Then he might have known, at a train station near Wuhan, to get
off, to find some water. To ask for a doctor.</span><span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "" "arial" "" , "serif"; font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "" "arial" "" , "serif"; font-size: 13.5pt;">She rocks and rocks and rocks to sleep.
A forever kind of sleep, the kind that forces her husband to grasp her body,
more than just her elbow, her waist, her neck, her head as they swing low
toward the ground. Her belly compressed and flattened in a way no pregnant
woman folds. He wails. A cry for help? No. No one hears you, invisible one. We
cannot see you, and we cannot hear you either. We cannot smell you or the urine
in your wife's dress. We cannot feel your bodies even as they splay across your
neighbors' laps, and across our own.</span><span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "" "arial" "" , "serif"; font-size: 13.5pt;">The man wails, not to God, not to his
ancestors, they are no longer here. He wails. Not to his wife, she is no longer
here. Not to the fellow passengers, who don't look his way, who shift and
compress more tightly to adjoining train cars, sitting among the chickens. Not
to anyone, just the small fetus, its sex still unknown. He wails to that fetus,
who is still fighting the way all life fights.</span><span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "" "arial" "" , "serif"; font-size: 13.5pt;">If they were in a different country, if
they had more money, if she had told him where she was going, maybe he would
have held that almost-baby. It would be a girl. Conflicted though he might be,
he'd still love her. And he'd raise her to be invisible, like her mother.
Invincible. If you cannot see me, you cannot hurt me either. Invincible?</span><span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "" "arial" "" , "serif"; font-size: 13.5pt;">One in five people is Chinese, even
more are Asian. But we cannot imagine one of these people could carry a major
Hollywood film. That's why, we say, we found the best actor for the role,
regardless of race, we say. </span><span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "" "arial" "" , "serif"; font-size: 13.5pt;">My four-year-old daughter is hilarious,
curious, imaginative, and talks circles around kids two years older. And she
has not a performative bone in her body. She could care less if you know her
powers. She's happy to hold them quietly and let the dumb kid sitting next to
her get wowed and oohed for his hammy over-the-top participation.</span><span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "" "arial" "" , "serif"; font-size: 13.5pt;">My almost-two-year-old son is equal
parts goofy and serious. He understands jokes. He is protective of his sister
and mother. He also talks circles around some kids twice his age. If he doesn't
feel like doing something, he doesn't do it. He doesn't care if the anonymous
grown-up claps and laughs.</span><span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "" "arial" "" , "serif"; font-size: 13.5pt;">For their mother, this is a difficult
thing to watch. Because the dark secret behind years of invisibility is wanting
nothing more than to be praised for accomplishments. My culture values keeping
the embarrassing parts invisible at all costs, and showing only the
praiseworthy parts.</span><span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "" "arial" "" , "serif"; font-size: 13.5pt;">Look at how good I am, and tell me, and
then I will shake my head, no. It's nothing, I am nothing. Compliment my
children, and I will say, He is nothing. She is nothing.</span><span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "" "arial" "" , "serif"; font-size: 13.5pt;">I promised I would not let my children
hear me say these things. She will know when I'm proud of her. He will hear me
say it aloud. And I'll be curious about what things make them feel proud of
themselves.</span><span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "" "arial" "" , "serif"; font-size: 13.5pt;">They are little tiny balls of truth.
All babies and toddlers are, aren't they? Everything they do and feel is real
and unfiltered. Can I get out of her way? Can I just observe him grow? Can I
hold my tongue, my impulses for long enough to let them be invincible their
way?</span><span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgun2AR_OmHuN-C7mDE_iiH7sAdm8po1KD4qjlaig_5zHMTakPj8Y1q1e9XKkpLeqruTY2GVlXnfYsGcz_AmIPhfihhLAho1i0k5IJee5i2qB_cZPOmqZnZ4sHtUYuWZZl59bov7x_hc7qd/s1600/IMG_20161021_172241.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="color: #f3f3f3;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgun2AR_OmHuN-C7mDE_iiH7sAdm8po1KD4qjlaig_5zHMTakPj8Y1q1e9XKkpLeqruTY2GVlXnfYsGcz_AmIPhfihhLAho1i0k5IJee5i2qB_cZPOmqZnZ4sHtUYuWZZl59bov7x_hc7qd/s320/IMG_20161021_172241.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #f3f3f3;">Hyde Park, Chicago</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "" "arial" "" , "serif"; font-size: 13.5pt;">She's doing a tiny dance with her feet
under the table, Dance for us! I don't want to right now, she says. He's
singing to himself, Sing for us! I no want to sing, he says. The three-year-old
me is dancing and singing, but for whom? She is smiling, but for whom?</span><span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "" "arial" "" , "serif"; font-size: 13.5pt;">For God? The voice of my
great-great-grandmother? For swarms of adoring fans?</span><span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "" "arial" "" , "serif"; font-size: 13.5pt;">For grown-ups, husbands, boyfriends,
cool kids, poor kids, unpopular kids, for boys and girls, who might like me
more, if they only knew the praiseworthy me? I dance for everyone but me. Was
there a time when it was only for me?</span><span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "" "arial" "" , "serif"; font-size: 13.5pt;">Do it for you, my daughter. Little,
big, powerful you. Do it for you, my son. Little, big, powerful you. And I'll
try to do it too. As long as you can see you. Invincible you. You will never be
invisible.</span><span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment--><br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
</div>
<span style="color: #f3f3f3;"><span style="color: #f3f3f3; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="text-align: center; white-space: normal;"><br /></span></span></span></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06430366457754481393noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5810664966396968147.post-51246689935066997892016-11-06T09:23:00.001-08:002016-11-06T09:23:31.242-08:00I Belong HereI woke this morning in the dark; I wish my kids understood the beauty of "falling back" for daylight savings time. My body left warmth on the sheets of my bed, my lungs breathed in some autumn chill, and I thought to myself, I belong here. It's the same autumn morning I woke to as a child, when my father, wearing a tie, would kiss me goodbye before going to work at Ford Motor Company, his silhouette appearing and the hallway light drawing a long bright triangle into my dark room. This morning, my children ran through the hallway, creaking the 100-year-old floors, their feet bap-bap-bapping, echoing in our dear neighbor's hallway on the floor below. Our neighbor was still in bed, where she would remain for a couple more hours. She smiled sleepily at the bap-bap-bapping, in the way only an 89-year-old woman who misses her own great-grandchildren can. She heard my children's tiny feet, and I thought, I belong here.<br />
<br />
My son and I took a walk to Lake Michigan, just 2 blocks from our home. The water sprayed against the large rocks as we made a loop along Promontory Point. It shot high into the air making a sparkling wall. "I see water!" my son said. It's the same water I swam in as a child, camping in Michigan state parks along the Great Lakes. It's the same water my college friends and I dipped our feet into, as we watched the sun set late on summer nights in Western Michigan. My son and I scrunched our noses as the lake misted our faces. I belong here.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFzFEkgfpSxjSVratxM9jxOwkc1fmpqJ9r8nayrtrQ2LlFPhc0y7OFBJxEaiJ-chcTqH7GyufzT_yeE6pHVnEOeVGFxEcAUGP5gESBNgxdokY-17Gof1zAXaFXyNx1k40Yyi6KLZU6zX64/s1600/IMG_20161106_095718.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="243" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFzFEkgfpSxjSVratxM9jxOwkc1fmpqJ9r8nayrtrQ2LlFPhc0y7OFBJxEaiJ-chcTqH7GyufzT_yeE6pHVnEOeVGFxEcAUGP5gESBNgxdokY-17Gof1zAXaFXyNx1k40Yyi6KLZU6zX64/s320/IMG_20161106_095718.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Promontory Point, Hyde Park, Chicago</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Earlier this year, in the summer, I spent a few hours on a warm day with my children on the beaches of St. Joseph, meeting a dear friend who was visiting her family in Grand Rapids. The sun kissed my skin the way it kissed the skin of those around me, it left it pink and warm and tender to touch. The fresh water splashed and wrapped around my daughter and me, and we squealed. I belonged here then. I belonged in the sun, the way the sand belongs between our toes, the way it settles in and remains in your pockets for days, in the rug of your car as seasons come and go. I belonged that way.<br />
<br />
Late last Wednesday night, I held my breath and my heart beat faster with millions of fans in my city and around the world as the Chicago Cubs opened the 10th inning and it started to rain in Cleveland. When they won game 7, clinching the World Series, something inside me erupted with joy, just as the car horns, hooting, and singing outside our windows erupted with joy. And I felt, I belong here.<br />
<br />
Recently, I walked down Michigan Avenue, leaving a voice lesson in the Fine Arts Building, the oldest place for musical study in the City of Chicago. I rode the rickety elevators. I belonged as I shook back and forth, watching the different floors go by quickly.<br />
<br />
I walked down Michigan Avenue and watched as every person in front of me dodged the pamphleters and signature gatherers and petitioners and election ballot-ers and grassroots movement-ers. I watched them sway away, pretend to be on their phones, shake their heads sorry, I don't have time right now.<br />
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I slowed my walk, attempted to make eye contact with three different eager grassroots millennials ready to change the world. I smiled their way, I welcomed them with my body language.<br />
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"Do you have time for equal rights?"<br />
"I do!" I practiced my cheery response.<br />
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But they don't talk to me. They raise their gazes above my head, to some potentially supportive ally behind me. I slow, I wait a moment. They don't talk to me. I didn't feel like I belonged then.<br />
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We went to our neighborhood farmers' market. I sat at a table eating a pizza. I wasn't looking at my phone, I'd left it in the car. My husband had brought our kids down the row to another stand for ice cream with sprinkles.<br />
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I was surrounded by tables of people, a young white college couple, a group of elderly black women, a black man and a white woman with their two children, and a lone white man in his twenties, dressed in black with painted nails, and me, an Asian-American woman, eating a pizza with an empty double stroller parked next to me.<br />
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A woman approached each table, with a flyer advertising her art show. "It's for art and social justice," she said; "there will be live jazz music," she said; "activities for kids," she said; "it's a free event," she said. She approached every table, to every person, to every single table, except mine. My best phone free-ing, pizza eating, eye contacting, didn't convince her that I was worth a flyer. The empty double stroller next to me didn't signal to her that I belonged here.<br />
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My face, like the faces of <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2016/10/10/nyregion/to-the-woman-who-told-my-family-to-go-back-to-china.html" target="_blank">Michael Luo</a>, <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/entry/latina-college-student-plagiarism_us_58139daae4b0390e69d0113d" target="_blank">Tiffany Martínez</a>, <a href="http://www.npr.org/sections/thetwo-way/2016/10/27/499573378/south-korean-adopted-at-age-3-is-to-be-deported-37-years-later" target="_blank">Adam Crapser</a>, and <a href="https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/powerpost/wp/2016/10/27/sen-mark-kirk-questions-opponents-american-heritage-in-illinois-debate/" target="_blank">Tammy Duckworth</a>, signals to some that I don't belong.<br />
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Where do I belong?<br />
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Not in Beijing, Shanghai, Guangzhou, or Xiamen, where I trip over words, where my sun-tanned skin signals that I must be poor or uneducated. Not on the streets of Chicago's Chinatown, where, hugging my elbows into my body, grasping the broken handles of a shopping basket, I am jostled by Chinese folks both young and old. I hold my breath in the smaller circles of personal space, and the American in me feels violated by the jabs and nudges. I can't bring myself to offer a lower price than the one advertised. I say over and over in my mediocre Mandarin, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I use the phrase in an American way, like "excuse me, pardon me." But it doesn't translate. There is nothing to say in Mandarin when you bump into people in public. I don't belong here.<br />
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Do I belong in California, where I lived for seven years, where there are "more people like me"? More Asian Americans, both children of immigrants and those whose families have been here for three, four, five generations. They would ask about growing up in the Midwest. Were there other Asians in your town? Did you feel alone? I thought back to that first day in my freshman year in Kalamazoo, MI, when I walked into a vocal jazz ensemble rehearsal. I remember when someone giggled nervously because she thought I'd sing with an accent. I remember when I was told that singing might not be for me because wasn't it true that my parents would prefer I study something more academic. I remember when a music director said to me, "hey stand up, and open your eyes!" when I was already standing and my eyes were already open. And when I didn't laugh, "Lighten up, Lynnette, it's a joke." I remember a high school boyfriend's grandmother who thought I was "just ugly." And another boyfriend's dad who joked he should have ordered egg rolls before having me over.<br />
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I remember the people who said things that hurt and made me feel like I don't belong here. There are more than I could ever count or completely recall. Sometimes they were mentors, classmates, colleagues, friends that became like family. People say things that hurt me in California too. Where do I belong?<br />
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I belong here. I belong here in the Midwest, where my mother birthed me, where I grew up to be me. I belong in the Great Lakes that bathed me and that now bathe my children. I belong in the parks where my family went camping, in the rivers where we went canoeing. I belong in the cities where we helped build some houses, where we watched fireworks glowing over the water, where we helped served soup on Thanksgiving morning. I belong in the grass where we played soccer, where we burst water balloons, on the hills where we sledded, in the yards where we built snowmen and igloos, on the streets where we learned to ride our bikes. I belong here, my children belong here.<br />
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I will continue smiling as I walk down the street, as we American Midwesterners do. I will say good morning. I will thank those who tell me my English is good. If I have time, I will explain why my English is good. I was born in Dearborn. I will kindly respond in English to men who try to flirt by saying "konichiwa" or "ni hao." I will attempt to talk in mediocre Mandarin when I encounter a person who feels more comfortable speaking in Chinese. I'll continue planting my feet in this earth, stomping around, leaving parts of me where I go, because I belong here.<br />
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On Tuesday, I'm going to cast my ballot for the next President of the United States. I will vote because I belong here. My vote is one small step toward making this a place where fewer Americans have to feel like they do not belong. I belong here today, I will belong here tomorrow.<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06430366457754481393noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5810664966396968147.post-51155328914546598202016-06-10T14:47:00.001-07:002017-01-25T20:58:50.781-08:00My Daughter Might Call You Fat. Please Remain Calm.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span id="docs-internal-guid-9e3de30a-37f1-0a54-7bb9-97c9ad8daa85"><span style="font-family: "arial"; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">She's three and a half, and really into using adjectives lately. She likes to stop and touch flowers, twigs, rocks, on the side of the street. She tells me they are soft, bumpy, wet, dry, or slippery. She likes to touch my hair, my hands, the mole on my right cheek. They are smooth, rough, shiny. </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br class="kix-line-break" /></span><span style="font-family: "arial"; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br class="kix-line-break" /></span><span style="font-family: "arial"; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Then, the other day, she said, while thinking about a good friend of ours, "Mama, Donna* is very fat." Now, I have the reaction that I think most American women have upon hearing these words. The first responses in my head are "Don't say that." "That's not nice." Or "people don't like it when you call them fat, honey." But I don't say any of those things to her. I look at my daughter's face, at its pleasant, relaxed, happy, and curious expression. To my daughter, there is nothing negative, nothing unpleasant, about "fat." In fact, she likely has very positive associations with the word. Other things she describes as fat include but are not limited to: the very hungry caterpillar just before his metamorphosis, her belly after a big meal or when she puts a "pretend baby" inside her dress, her baby brother's cheeks, the dinosaur on page 17 of “Oh My Oh My Oh Dinosaurs,” and the fluffy black dog that lives on our street.</span></span><br />
<span id="docs-internal-guid-9e3de30a-37f1-0a54-7bb9-97c9ad8daa85"><span style="font-family: "arial"; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br class="kix-line-break" /></span><span style="font-family: "arial"; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Sometimes she uses negative adjectives, like icky, stinky, yucky, scary. When she uses these words, her brow crinkles, and her nose bunches up, her lips turn down at the edges, o</span></span><img alt="Displaying IMG_20160610_102230.jpg" aria-hidden="true" class="aLF-aPX-J1-J3 aLF-aPX-aLK-ayr-auR" src="blob:https%3A//mail.google.com/132dd285-e6df-4222-ac56-c11ac575d76e" /><span style="font-family: "arial"; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">r her eyes widen an</span><img alt="Displaying IMG_20160610_102230.jpg" aria-hidden="true" class="aLF-aPX-J1-J3 aLF-aPX-aLK-ayr-auR" src="blob:https%3A//mail.google.com/132dd285-e6df-4222-ac56-c11ac575d76e" /><span style="font-family: "arial"; white-space: pre-wrap;">d water. She makes none of these faces when she uses the word fat. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial"; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br class="kix-line-break" /></span><span style="font-family: "arial"; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I hate the power this word has in our culture. I hate how women struggle with the implications of this word for most of our lives. When did it start? When did fat become bad? We weren't born with this idea. </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br class="kix-line-break" /></span><span style="font-family: "arial"; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br class="kix-line-break" /></span><span style="font-family: "arial"; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">When my daughter was born, my parents were quick to joyously proclaim how fat she was. “Look at her fat thighs!” my mother said. “Look at her fat cheeks and her fat butt!” she cooed. Like in many cultures, a fat baby is a good thing in Chinese culture. These were wholly loving statements. My husband's side of the family was a little taken aback--"never call a lady fat!" they joked.</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br class="kix-line-break" /></span><span style="font-family: "arial"; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br class="kix-line-break" /></span><span style="font-family: "arial"; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">There's a HuffPost blog post that began circulating when my daughter was a baby. It's titled "<a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/sarah-koppelkam/body-image_b_3678534.html" target="_blank">How to Talk to Your Daughter About Her Body</a>." I love it. I shared it on Facebook, I circulated it among friends, I forwarded it to my family. The piece begins, “How to talk to your daughter about her body, step one: Don't talk to your daughter about her body, except to teach her how it works.” The piece also says, “don't comment on other women's bodies either... Not a single comment, not a nice one or a mean one. And don't you dare talk about how much you hate your body in front of your daughter.”</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br class="kix-line-break" /></span><span style="font-family: "arial"; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br class="kix-line-break" /></span><span style="font-family: "arial"; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My husband and I were on board. For the record, I believe it applies to the way we talk to boys as well as girls. We avoided all talk about bodies. We taught our daughter about bodies and how they work. By two she would talk about her vulva, about how mama has one too, but dada has a penis, her baby brother has a penis too. Penises make her laugh. We all have nipples, but only mama's have milk behind them. Someday, maybe hers will too, if she has a baby. When she was inside mama's belly, she started as a tiny egg, then she grew and grew and grew. Inside her face are bones, and blood, and muscle, and fat. </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br class="kix-line-break" /></span><span style="font-family: "arial"; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br class="kix-line-break" /></span><span style="font-family: "arial"; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">We were feeling very proud of our little talker and all the words she was learning. It felt good to know that she could identify parts of her body, and it helped tremendously when she hurt herself. </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br class="kix-line-break" /></span><span style="font-family: "arial"; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br class="kix-line-break" /></span><span style="font-family: "arial"; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But as she grows, I'm finding that simply "not talking about bodies" is not enough. Not talking about appearances doesn't prevent my daughter from observing people's appearances. Just because I don't say anything about her body, or mine, or others' will not make it so that she will not notice. And especially during a period of time in which she's very interested in describing things, acting as though there are no adjectives that apply to bodies is not helpful. </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaMM39oRU__DhMpBgSr3hZt-dcOWfzyOTjWw-QCjzFq8cmmDRXkcBQx3CcBY1fklayXfJGaljN4aqDElxqFH521xU93MEOwXCofv74n9DSqitgVCcqZzc_exgIt5v_TBtgMIQ4lVDIlWSs/s1600/Fat+Belly.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="254" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaMM39oRU__DhMpBgSr3hZt-dcOWfzyOTjWw-QCjzFq8cmmDRXkcBQx3CcBY1fklayXfJGaljN4aqDElxqFH521xU93MEOwXCofv74n9DSqitgVCcqZzc_exgIt5v_TBtgMIQ4lVDIlWSs/s320/Fat+Belly.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"My fat belly"</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">So the other day when she said, "Mama, Donna is very fat," I lost a little breath. It's not something we say so nonchalantly. But my daughter's face held no judgement, no loathing, or hate, or disgust. It held none of the things that we as adults have learned to attach to certain adjectives. Here's the thing: without hate for our bodies, none of these words has any power. Think about that. If I love myself, then the adjectives used to describe me, are just words, just descriptors. Words only mean as much as we feel they mean. And for my daughter, a word like fat has only neutral to positive associations right now.</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br class="kix-line-break" /></span><span style="font-family: "arial"; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br class="kix-line-break" /></span><span style="font-family: "arial"; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">When I was in the eighth grade, the awkward barrier between boys and girls was tumbling down, and I was memorizing lots of boys' phone numbers. My mother started fielding calls not only from Christine, Jennifer, and Sarah; now she was passing the phone to me after hearing from people named Jon, Nate, Nick, and Marc. I think this must have been a tough time for my mom, watching her first child grow up. </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br class="kix-line-break" /></span><span style="font-family: "arial"; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br class="kix-line-break" /></span><span style="font-family: "arial"; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Neither my sister nor my mother remembers saying what I'm about to share, but then it's not the kind of thing that you remember unless it is said to you. My sister told me one day something my mother had said to her in private, I can't remember exactly when it was, but I'd guess it was during the summer between middle and high school: "I don't know why all those boys like Lynnette, she's not even pretty." I'm not sure what inspired my mother to say that, and since she doesn't remember saying it, I don't think I'll ever know. But over the past 20-some years I've been thinking about those words. Before you conclude that this was a terrible thing to say, I want to tell you, these words were one of the greatest gifts to me in my life.</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br class="kix-line-break" /></span><span style="font-family: "arial"; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br class="kix-line-break" /></span><span style="font-family: "arial"; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I can still remember how it felt to hear the words. There was a slight sting, and a fogginess around my ears, making me feel like for a moment, I was in my own fuzzy world. The truth was, I didn't really view myself as pretty. I was up to my nose in the awkwardness of my early teens. I wore very thick glasses, my teeth were covered in braces, my skin was experiencing puberty at its finest. My mother's words left me curious, deeply curious. Something in her upbringing, and in her experience of the world, led her to believe that boys liked you if you were pretty. Yet, here I was, unpretty, yet still in the midst of developing exciting friendships and relationships with boys. I was forced to draw a different conclusion from the one my mother drew. Boys like me for something besides being pretty. </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br class="kix-line-break" /></span><span style="font-family: "arial"; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br class="kix-line-break" /></span><span style="font-family: "arial"; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Some day later, I received another gift, when a boy told me (bless the honesty of adolescents), "I've got a crush on two girls, you and Susie*, I like Susie because she is hot, and I like you because you have a good personality." How many coming-of-age rom coms would paint that as a burn? "Ouch! That sucks!" But even back in the eighth grade, it taught me something about physical appearances. Maybe they don't matter that much. Maybe people like me because they like the kind of person I am, the way I treat people, and the experience of hanging out with me.</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br class="kix-line-break" /></span><span style="font-family: "arial"; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br class="kix-line-break" /></span><span style="font-family: "arial"; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Please don't let me mislead you. I have certainly lost many hours of life stressing about my body and my appearance. Later boys and girls, many of whom I called friends, would describe me with other words, like "bitch," "desperate," "poser," "flat-chested," and "Neanderthal." Yeah, those words stick around in your memory for decades, because they hurt and shock. But those words also lost their sting over time, and even then I think I already believed they had nothing to do with who I am.</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br class="kix-line-break" /></span><span style="font-family: "arial"; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br class="kix-line-break" /></span><span style="font-family: "arial"; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Hearing our bodies described as fat only has power over us if we believe that being described as fat has anything to do with who we are, what we can do, and our worth as human beings. Can we stop believing that? </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br class="kix-line-break" /></span><span style="font-family: "arial"; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br class="kix-line-break" /></span><span style="font-family: "arial"; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I am learning something about writing blog posts. I set off to write about one thing and I learn that it's really about something else. I thought I was writing about fat, about not shaming my daughter for the words she uses. But this is about more than that.</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br class="kix-line-break" /></span><span style="font-family: "arial"; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br class="kix-line-break" /></span><span style="font-family: "arial"; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Someday my daughter will hear words describing her appearance. They will run the gamut. Someone will tell her she is too fat, too skinny, that she is ugly. It will probably hurt her feelings. I will not be there to say anything, or maybe I will. I hope she will be able to hear these words and know that they have nothing to do with her worth, her person, her capabilities, or her potential. Because that is true. That is true of everyone. The words used to describe our appearance have nothing to do with who we are. Nothing to do with our compassion, or our will. They do not reflect the goodness or badness of our thoughts or inner drives. This is true for all of us. So can we all stop responding like they do?</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br class="kix-line-break" /></span><span style="font-family: "arial"; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br class="kix-line-break" /></span><span style="font-family: "arial"; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">If my daughter calls you fat, please stay calm. Don't scold her. Don't act offended. Please consider that these words, whether spoken by a three-year-old or an 80-year-old, have nothing to do with who you are. </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br class="kix-line-break" /></span><span style="font-family: "arial"; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br class="kix-line-break" /></span><span style="font-family: "arial"; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">A lot of our cultures value appearances, some speak it out right, others think it, or imply it. I wish I could change all these cultures, persuade everyone to stop talking about appearances, like that HuffPost blog does.</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br class="kix-line-break" /></span><span style="font-family: "arial"; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br class="kix-line-break" /></span><span style="font-family: "arial"; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But it's hard to control other people. I suspect it'll take more than my lifetime and my children's lifetimes for the world to stop talking about physical appearances. So for now, the culture I'm interested in changing is how we receive these words and descriptors. I'm interested in helping my children believe that the words other people use to describe bodies, that the words they use to describe their own bodies, have nothing to do with who they are.</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br class="kix-line-break" /></span><span style="font-family: "arial"; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br class="kix-line-break" /></span><span style="font-family: "arial"; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I'm not totally sure how to do this. But I have an instinct that it starts with remaining calm when my daughter calls someone fat. I invite you to do the same.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">*the names aren't the real names</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06430366457754481393noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5810664966396968147.post-21399879271234453272016-04-29T06:19:00.001-07:002016-04-29T06:19:44.955-07:00Parenting, Like Art, is a Revolt<div class="p1">
I recently read Kim Brooks’ piece <i><a href="http://nymag.com/thecut/2016/04/portrait-motherhood-creativity-c-v-r.html" target="_blank">A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Mom</a></i> in New York Magazine. And I have some thoughts about it. I tried to be legit and I sent a "letter to the editor" to NYMag, but while I wait for them to discover the genius of my thoughts, I'll share them here. </div>
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Several of my mom-artist friends had re-shared the piece on Facebook. The responses were positive; most friends agreed with Brooks. Brutally honest, someone commented. I clicked on the link, my heart fluttering faster at this chance for emotional camaraderie. But the truth is, while I did mutter a couple of internal "amens," I was largely nose-scrunching, and eye-squinting, and squirming at the core. My disagreement crept in like a slow burn; the reason for it was not obvious to me. I needed to read the piece at least five times, printed out on paper, with a highlighter, to get to the center of why I was feeling so crummy. The heart of her argument is that the qualities that make for good artists make for bad parents, and vice versa. I couldn’t disagree more. </div>
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Brooks writes that having children changed her view on the value of suffering, “Pain is constructive. And misery can be useful. I believed that like I believe the sun rises in the east. Then I had children, and I slowly began to disbelieve and disavow it.” In her view, she must become a boring, conventional, cautious person so that her children will suffer and struggle less. I share Brooks' beliefs on suffering, but I unlike Brooks, having children did not change my position. Regardless of our efforts as parents to keep them safe, our children will suffer, they will struggle, and they will also overcome adversity. There is nothing we can do as parents to prevent it. Hopefully as they grow, they will come to find that their pain and misery can be constructive and useful. What if, instead of resisting our children’s suffering, we artists held fast to it, and with deep curiosity sought to understand its roots? Psychology and art both lead me to believe that our lifelong fears and pain are rooted in the first moments of life, at a time when we don't yet have words to describe our feelings, while we are figuring out whether our needs in life will be met. As parents we are closer than ever to the source of suffering. Parenting a child gives us a way to understand suffering at large, which helps us make better art. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj75gyPdJlD5Hzw667-C20k5k7XueZeCQquPsZsIl8319n6lsp9Lrkf0LEBI0fwkexInA21XiXZXvsQ4gyreXaku4FJw8AOenLOaDqOvIy3CSAsy1tad549w8vx5_xWAHZAWYzC0_U0S5iX/s1600/IMG_20160429_081336.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="176" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj75gyPdJlD5Hzw667-C20k5k7XueZeCQquPsZsIl8319n6lsp9Lrkf0LEBI0fwkexInA21XiXZXvsQ4gyreXaku4FJw8AOenLOaDqOvIy3CSAsy1tad549w8vx5_xWAHZAWYzC0_U0S5iX/s320/IMG_20160429_081336.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What's the point?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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When it comes to the point of art (and there are so many opinions out there), I agree with Brooks. Quoting her friend, she writes, “the point of art is to unsettle, to question, to disturb what is comfortable and safe." But, she adds, "that shouldn’t be anyone’s goal as a parent.” Shouldn't it be? I have a problem with her take on the point of parenting, especially her assertion that people make families for the opposite reason they make art.</div>
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What if all artists approached parenthood the way they do their art? Brooks quotes one of her first writing teachers, "Art, itself is inherently subversive. It’s destabilizing. It undermines, rather than reinforces, what you already know and what you already think." Are our inherited methods of parenting so stable and so reliable that we don't need to undermine them, or destabilize them, as an artist would? Brooks points out, Hippocrates says, “Art is a revolt.” I say, parenting is a revolt too, or it should be. For the first time in history, we get to choose whether we will, when we will, and how we will make families. And maybe our reasons for making a family should be changing too. My husband and I married outside our family and cultural backgrounds. In some ways, our relationship is a revolt. Why should starting our family be different? What if, like artists, we see our task as critically examining the way we were raised, saving what served us well, and aggressively tossing away the rest? I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but maybe I do mean to be subversive. </div>
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Brooks thinks that our parenting suffers when our artist brains are at work. I think all parents would benefit from thinking more like artists. We don't have to just rely on the status quo of parenting. In my opinion, there are major problems with the current parenting culture. So many of us engage in it with whole hearts and minds and guts, and yet, there is this sort of unspoken agreement we won't really talk in depth about what we think or feel or discover within parenting. Out of respect, we do things exactly the way they've always been done, because "we turned out fine," as the previous generation tells us. Or out of respect, we do things differently, but quietly. Outspoken parents who share their convictions are shamed, or blamed for starting a "mommy-war."</div>
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We don't have to settle for the way our families did it. Why should we? Do we think that humanity has reached its peak potential? Is the world as wonderful and thriving as it could be? If not, then we should be doing everything we can to raise children who will grow into adults who will make it better. </div>
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I’m art-making and family-making for the same reasons right now. I do both in my corner to heal my piece of the world. I’m challenging what’s already here. I do think it is lovely and fine and great that my experiences as a parent feed my art, as Brooks shares of her friend’s experience at the end of her piece. But I think the more powerful realization is that the artist in me feeds my parenting. </div>
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I’m not talking about how art makes for creative moms, who can throw Pinterest parties, craft up a storm, and improvise twenty verses of Twinkle, Twinkle (though I do love those things). I’m talking about how, as artists, we have the potential to be uniquely excellent parents. Parenting well is not about raising the most well-behaved, socially acceptable, highest-salaried, or even happiest child; but neither is it about creating a protected utopia for our children, free of pain, suffering, or struggle. As artists, we have a deep and obsessive desire to understand relationships, to hold our children’s tears, to dwell with them in the pure pain of childhood, and to feel life's suffering more fully. We challenge what's here, we struggle with the status quo. Maybe we do this, selfishly, to be better artists. But I think it's our selfishness and our deep empathy for the people we love, that will grow our children into people who will also question, undermine, and force this world towards a place we’d rather inhabit.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06430366457754481393noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5810664966396968147.post-83796074410313821982016-03-02T07:05:00.003-08:002016-03-02T21:37:42.373-08:00Chris Rock Made an Asian Joke: A Confession, and My Thoughts<div class="p1">
On Monday morning my husband and I were very romantically hovering over the bathroom sink, sonicare-ing our teeth, and simultaneously scrolling through Facebook on our phones. He paused the vibration of his toothbrush to say, "looks like people are pretty upset over <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2016/03/01/movies/chris-rocks-asian-joke-at-oscars-provokes-backlash.html" target="_blank">Chris Rock's Asian joke</a>?" He was asking me, because while he was busy prepping for a week of classes on Sunday evening, I will confess that I was watching the #OscarsSoWhite with a dear friend. I admit this sheepishly, as despite my quiet outrage at the fact that no actors of color had been nominated, I looked forward to passive night of viewing awards for movies I haven't seen with a glass of wine and the treat of female friendship post-children-in-bed time.</div>
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I'll admit something else. I wasn't paying enough attention at that point during the show to recall what the bad Asian joke was. So, I had no answer for my husband as his toothbrush resumed buzzing.</div>
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But I wanted to have an answer. I wanted to have an Asian American answer. I immediately started to ask myself if I had been a bad Asian. Where was my outrage? How did I miss that moment? Am I offended? Should I be? I am an Asian artist. I am a writer. I should have an opinion. This is precisely the moment I need to chime in.</div>
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I went back and watched the <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gdtNu9UFrDM" target="_blank">clip of the joke.</a> If you know me well, it won't surprise you to hear that I have been Asian my entire life. I have encountered racism in various forms over the course of 36 years. Sometimes the form was a joke. Some made me laugh, some did not. Sometimes it was a comment, a situation, a declaration. Sometimes I felt angry, blood-boiling, fire-in-my-face mad in the moment. Sometimes it took years for me to realize the sting. Sometimes it came from a dear and close friend. Sometimes from a stranger on a bus. Sometimes the form was flirtation. Sometimes it came from the parent or grandparent of a friend, of a boyfriend. Sometimes it came from a superior, a teacher, a director.</div>
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I watched Chris Rock's joke again. And in the midst of trying to formulate my perfect Asian answer to what I ultimately consider a poor choice that hurt rather than furthered the cause for actors of color, it hit me what I was feeling. And what I was feeling wasn't anger at a racist joke. What I was feeling can more accurately be classified as protective mama-bear horror as I witnessed the faces of three young children, who I have a strong sense did not understand why they were on stage.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgghReh8Mn8L_kjelSsJAs0uTNQF4w_vdAXDx6kvj-daa5csnPR3Mtdctph2iB2NJ8WgNpewjypZz3TSxiKCyY0M1ZWL3D5Jde5cAXMbDqfwHtbhUdYrwc5WlgGFUynNy_JJPvBx-vd5iIA/s1600/Asian+Joke.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="235" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgghReh8Mn8L_kjelSsJAs0uTNQF4w_vdAXDx6kvj-daa5csnPR3Mtdctph2iB2NJ8WgNpewjypZz3TSxiKCyY0M1ZWL3D5Jde5cAXMbDqfwHtbhUdYrwc5WlgGFUynNy_JJPvBx-vd5iIA/s400/Asian+Joke.png" width="400"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Do you think they know why the grown ups are laughing?</td></tr>
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<div class="p1">
I imagined my daughter in their shoes, dressing up, being quiet, hitting her mark (or missing it in the case of the little boy in the middle), and standing still in a Dolby-Theatre-sized room as the laughter of grown-ups creeps up from the audience. My heart is saddened, and there's anger behind my eyes. In addition to seeing and hearing our children, I believe it's our job to protect them, not only from physical harm, but from the psychological and emotional harm that being the butt of a joke they don’t understand can harness. </div>
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I’m saddened and angry because we live in a society where the lure of 15 seconds of fame is stronger than parents' protective instinct against exploiting our kids. And laughing at kids' expense, when they have no agency in the matter, while their brains think concretely and they don't yet perceive the difference between the nuance of a joke and real life, that's exploitation. While we're asking how such a joke got past so many people, based on its racist content, I'd also like to ask how it got past so many parents, how it got past these kids' own parents, based on its exploitation of children.</div>
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Those are my thoughts. Today I'm furthering the cause of artists of color by giving myself not just the (per)mission, but "the mission" to use my voice. I am an artist. That I am also "of color" is an added descriptor due to where and when I happen to exist in history (a predominantly white country in the 21st century). Today I contribute to the conversation, which I'll argue is the only way to combat any “fill-in-the-blank so white" situation. I join the conversation even though today I was moved more by my mother identity than by my Asian identity. Alternatively, I don’t need to wait until something happens that involves Asian Americans, to lend my voice. I can lend it anytime, whenever I have something to say. Maybe the more I, and other people like me, join the conversation, and wake up our quiet outrage, the less likely our society will be to allow, or even imagine a joke that relies on the cooperation of silent, obedient, Asian kids. Let's make it so that <i>silent Asians</i> aren't even "a thing."</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06430366457754481393noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5810664966396968147.post-53876260601548303512016-02-22T11:37:00.000-08:002016-02-22T12:21:11.838-08:00I Thought I Was Better Than You <div class="p1">
I'll chalk it up to a healthy dose of self confidence, of positive thinking, maybe some arrogance. I really thought that I was going to be a fantastic stay-at-home-mother, and I thought I was going to make it look effortless. When you were posting Facebook updates of the crazy things your kids were doing, and how exhausted, and drained, and at your wit's end you were, I felt bad. I sympathized. But I secretly thought that I would never be you. I am Asian American after all. Overachieving is part of my culture. </div>
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It was possible, wasn't it, that I would be the exception? Some people think running a marathon is crazy, that performing on stage is terrifying. Hadn't I done those things? You guys, I like a challenge! I enjoy trying to do it myself, to figure it out myself, to make it from scratch. It feels good to me. This might be an annoying thing about me to some, but I think it might bring a certain charm too?</div>
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Anyway, hopefully it's obvious where this is going. Maybe I don't need to tell you that my visions of cooking with my daughter, singing with my son, endless cuddling, painting and sculpting art projects, spontaneous dancing, and dramatic storytelling, got tossed out the window. Maybe I shouldn't even mention that I was going to do all this while looking incredibly fashionable, and having a super connected, passionate, compassionate relationship with my husband. Out the third-story window too.</div>
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In the fall, I was rehearsing for my neighborhood's community theatre production in the evenings, and I was teaching music classes during the day for families and children. These felt like reasonable pieces of creative work and life that would make my life better, that would help give me enough of this sense of professional identity I was craving outside of being a mother. We were hiring a sitter when I was working and rehearsing. She was working about 20 hours a week. But it wasn't enough, it wasn't even close.</div>
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Here was our reality. On a typical day I would get up, and not shower, not wash my face, and not put on any make up. I would MAYBE brush my teeth, and I would very likely pop my contacts in. I would <a href="http://musicalmidwesternmama.blogspot.com/2015/10/theres-monster-in-my-house-and-it.html" target="_blank">struggle with 3 monsters</a> before 8 am, and send my daughter off to daycare with my husband without giving either a kiss. I would forget to eat breakfast and hand a wailing baby to the babysitter, rushing out to teach a class where I would muster lots of energy to be an engaging and fun music teacher. I'd roll though a fast food drive thru, and sit in my car parked outside my apartment, enjoying the precious 20 minutes of "me time" while my boobs filled with milk. Upon coming in the door, my son would crawl-cry toward me, and I'd pull my shoes off and my shirt up so I could breastfeed him. My stomach would gurgle because of the very fast not very healthy lunch, and I'd feel guilty that my daughter was in full day daycare that day. On the days she was not in daycare, I'd come home to that same crawl-crying baby, and another laugh-crying daughter. Mama milk mama milk! And I'd pull my shoes off and my shirt up so I could <a href="http://musicalmidwesternmama.blogspot.com/2015/09/national-breastfeeding-awareness-month.html" target="_blank">nurse both of them</a>. My stomach would gurgle from lunch, and I would ask myself why I didn't just send my daughter to full days of day care every day.</div>
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I wasn't enjoying motherhood. By the time my husband got home, I was angry and resentful. I felt dirty, and unappreciated. I was mad at my son for being so needy. I couldn't give my daughter the attention she received before he was born. I was mad at my daughter, for regressing, for wanting more from me when I didn't have any more me to give. I couldn't give my son the kind of undivided attention she received when she was born. Nothing felt fair. I made dinner while my son screamed from inside a pack n play, and while my daughter screamed for chocolate. I wasn't smiling very much. I was ornery, all the time. </div>
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I left for rehearsal at night feeling more loads of guilt for leaving two children under 3 with my husband. I think I spent 80% of the day feeling angry, resentful, and/or guilty. Hopefully, for the other 20%, I was sleeping.</div>
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If you're a parent of young children, maybe this all seems completely normal. I was having the same small-talk conversation over and over again about how hard this time is, but how I'll miss it so much once they are older. And I knew it was true! All the while, I knew that so many mothers do this, that so many mothers have done this. My mom and my husband's mom each had three children, my friend Kelly has four, I know someone else who has five! Why can't I do it? I should be able to do it! And more guilt and disappointment would set in. My experience was such a far cry from the original expectations I had for myself. </div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDkYnAy0wD6sJARzYBE5aDEceL43uypSmYDaDa6Ge0VtzVvD0jJcPFdSrKd5UAeYkYwlyZUUXVEkJRUCqyJr9swRThvy4cYqogyC0zcjM3bAyWslyaw3tbwcxzDv9VOwxk9PJP06J5dnu5/s1600/IMG_20160222_134202.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="172" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDkYnAy0wD6sJARzYBE5aDEceL43uypSmYDaDa6Ge0VtzVvD0jJcPFdSrKd5UAeYkYwlyZUUXVEkJRUCqyJr9swRThvy4cYqogyC0zcjM3bAyWslyaw3tbwcxzDv9VOwxk9PJP06J5dnu5/s400/IMG_20160222_134202.jpg" width="400"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Trip to L.A. in December</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
If you're in suspense as to how this chapter concludes, I'll fill you in quickly. We started hosting an au pair, and our lives have completely changed. <i>Au pair</i>. it's a French term which literally means "on par" or "equal to." Practically, it refers to a young person from a country different from ours, who helps with childcare in exchange for a cross-cultural experience, and room and board. She's someone who is an "equal" in our family. Her name is Julia, she is from the southern part of France, and she's our new family member. </div>
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Prior to making this fairly impulsive decision, we had all sorts of knee-jerk oppositional reactions to the idea. I think this could, in part, be a result of our Midwestern upbringing. We feel like we not only can, but should do everything on our own. I believe we link some amount of shame to employing help. Having "help" is upper-crusty, and something only "fancy" people have. But I think that hosting an au pair might be an underutilized solution frequently dismissed without honest thought by families all because we think of ourselves as down-to-earth. I think it's possible that we allow our cultural norms to make decisions for us. And while it is true that not everyone has the means, space, or the interest to make this decision, I think that more families might find enormous benefit from this kind of childcare. After running numbers, and if we’re just talking about money (but I’d argue that this conversation is more than about “money”) I can tell you, this solution is less expensive than a full-time nanny, or full time daycare, for a single child here in Chicago. Maybe I’ll talk about that more in a future blogpost. </div>
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Right now, I want to talk about what's changed. </div>
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This morning my daughter got up earlier than usual, but my son was half nursing half sleeping in our bed. My husband had an early morning meeting at work. But this morning, instead of sacrificing the baby's and my sleep, we got an extra half hour. My husband got to get ready for his meeting on time without rushing. And my daughter got to play with Julia, the kind of playing I always want for her, where a variety of hilarious voices in multiple timbres ring down the hallway. And the dolls are having a dance party. And they bake chocolate cheese broccoli cookies out of blocks. </div>
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This morning I can take a shower, and I have time to write a blogpost and a scene of a play. I can read a chapter from a book. I can drink a cup of tea. I can teach a class. And then after lunch I'll pick my daughter up from half-day daycare, so she can spend the rest of her day with me and her brother. I'll get to be with them, the way I always wanted to, because I'm not as tired, I'm not as angry, I'm not resentful. I don't have this feeling that I’ve given up every part of myself for them. </div>
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Tonight, I can make dinner, and my daughter can help me (one of her favorite things ever). Julia can hold my son up so he watch, or sing songs with him in another room. Tomorrow night, Julia can make dinner, we'll all learn a new recipe and my daughter can help cook again. I can play with my son, we can roll around on the floor making funny faces and sounds, we can read books together. We can all laugh a lot. We have time and energy to laugh. We can cry too. I have the energy to be with my kids when they cry.</div>
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We still have lots of whining, crying, frustration, and jealousy. The beds still get wet, and I still don't "sleep through the night." I think these are normal parts of being a growing family with young children, and I'm not sure I want to trade those things in anyway. But we have something else now too, we have a little extra time and with that extra time comes extra energy. Energy to be a lot more like the mom I always wanted to be. We also have a new friend. A new friend who tapes collaborative multi-media art projects on our walls, and helps us with the dishes. Life is full, and much better. </div>
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I’m becoming a little less concerned about what “kind” of a mom I am these days. Maybe I don’t fit into the “stay-at-home-mom” box, or the “working mom” box, or the “work-from-home-mom” box, or the “part-time working mom” box. I am learning to care less about those boxes. They mean less and less to me everyday. I am a mom, and I’m a lot of other things too, and maybe that’s okay.</div>
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A part of me is terrified that I've lost you, and that your eyes are rolling at my privilege and at this "too easy” solution. I know that we are tremendously privileged, and I am grateful for this. But I'm hoping very much that you've stayed with me and that you can hear what it is I'm trying to say. Maybe it's okay to look for help if we need it. Maybe it's okay for us to think about what it is we need. Maybe our cultural norms don't have to tell us how to be parents. Maybe there's another way. </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06430366457754481393noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5810664966396968147.post-60995696177166770832015-10-09T05:59:00.001-07:002015-10-09T06:08:17.756-07:00There's a Monster in My House, and It Doesn't Live Under the Bed<div class="p1">
Currently, my son is 8 months old, and my daughter is almost 3 years old ("on November 13th" she'll tell you). Before having kids, I expected that taking care of a baby would be difficult, but in my experience, having a toddler in my house is much much harder. </div>
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If you have, have had, or have ever taken care of a toddler, then maybe you know how I feel. You're probably familiar with this scenario. I know that what we're experiencing is not out of the ordinary, that it is in fact, to be expected.</div>
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L is my daughter, M is me.</div>
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M: Sweetheart, how about you try sitting on the potty before we head out?</div>
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L: No!</div>
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M: I'd really like you to just give it a try, really quick.</div>
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L: Um, I'm sorry, I don't want to.</div>
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M: Why not?</div>
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L: Um, because I don't want to!</div>
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M: Okay, well, you need to try before we head out, so I'll ask you again in three minutes.</div>
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(some times goes by)</div>
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M: Alright sweetheart, I'd like for you to try sitting on the potty now.</div>
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L: Okay </div>
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(starts walking to the bathroom, gets to the door, turns around, suddenly furious)</div>
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L: But I told you I don't want to go!</div>
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M: I need you to try, otherwise we can't go to the playground.</div>
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L: I don't want to go to the playground.</div>
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M: You don't?</div>
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L: I want to go to the playground!</div>
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M: Hon, if we're going to the playground, I need you to try sitting on the potty before we go.</div>
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L: No!</div>
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M: Okay, then I'm sorry, but we have to stay in.</div>
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L: (more furiousness, some crying, some screaming, some stomping, some throwing of objects, some hitting the air, some attempted swings at her brother, before going back into the playroom and reading a book) </div>
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M: (starting to get ruffled, I don't even care about going to the playground, this was her idea to begin with, so whatever, let's just stay home, meanwhile Baby J is whining, he's been strapped to me this whole time, maybe getting a little warm)</div>
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L: (playing, standing near the bookshelf, pees, everywhere, all over her clothes, all over the rug on the floor, and stomps in it, flinging wet clothes on our new sofa, it's on the toys, it's on some books)</div>
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And this is when the monster comes out. It's quick, a flash, a hot feeling that creeps up behind my eyes, a gurgling in my throat, a hard and sharp pit in my stomach. I feel the monster spread to my hands, they shake, it's in my neck and head, they shake. And in this moment I understand how it is that some parents physically hurt their children. I understand how bruises develop on little bodies and how tiny bones are broken. I am so angry. As angry as I have ever been at anybody. </div>
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Wow, that escalated quickly, Lynnette, you might think. Or, come on, Lynnette, aren't you exaggerating? But here's a bit of dark truth. If anything, I'm underplaying it. I've chosen a scenario that I think might draw some sympathy from you. In reality, there are many scenarios that are far more innocuous, more universally understandable, and that same monster shows up, just as quickly, just as angry, just as dangerous.</div>
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It's a monster I keep hidden well from the world. Even my closest friends, people who know me very well, over many years, have not met my monster. Maybe my husband has seen it; maybe a few times in our lives. Maybe. I reserve this terrible creature for my tiny, innocent daughter, who I love more than life itself. She's heard it in my voice; seen it in my eyes. </div>
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Here's what I actually believe about my toddler. I believe she's developmentally in a stage where her job is to test her boundaries. I believe that her saying "no," and "I don't want to," are signs of strong and normal development. It means she is a bright kid, who is asserting her independence. </div>
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I don't believe a child this age is capable of being a jerk - she may be acting like one, yes, but she doesn't have malicious intent. I believe she's at a stage where she wants to try things on her own, but also needs badly to feel safe and protected. I don't believe she's a bad kid. I don't think she can be bad. I believe these moments of "rebellion" and "defiance" are her way of asking me, "am I safe here?" "will you have my back no matter what?" and "do you love me?" She needs me to endure the meltdowns, to make my expectations clear, but to find at the end that I am still here, not withholding love from her, and not punishing her for having completely age-appropriate feelings and impulses. Despite all these beliefs, and how much I want to say, "Yes! Yes, my darling, you are my treasure, and I love you, no matter what," I encounter this monster, over and over again.<br />
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<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
I've seen this monster before. It's the same one that I glimpsed behind my dad's eyes when we were kids. It's the same monster that spanked me for reasons I can't remember. It whipped out my dad's belt and slammed it against the kitchen table. It banged a chair against the floor, a head against a wall. It lived in the raised red hand print shaped mark on my thigh; it lingered while I watched and waited for the mark to flatten and fade. It's the same monster that I heard in my grandpa's voice, yelling at my grandma, it seemed nightly, shaking the walls and floor beneath my sister's and my bedrooms, waking us up after we'd already gone to bed. And while this monster has not driven me to repeat history, I certainly recognize its growl, and the feeling of uncontrollable anger.</div>
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<br /></div>
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This is an incredibly "un-saving face" kind of blog post to write. Not the kind of thing a good Chinese daughter writes about her family, shining a light on unsavory family details, calling out a grandpa on his abuse, years after he's already left the earth. Why bring that up? Just take responsibility for your own monster, Lynnette, stop trying to blame it on your father, and your father's father. </div>
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I think it's a common thing, to follow in your family's footsteps. It's why we have idioms about apples falling from trees. And so often we do the thing our family has done, in the name of respect, and honor. We default, as parents, to parenting the way our parents did. Sometimes we consciously choose to do what they did, saying, We turned out fine, didn't we?</div>
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<br /></div>
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I think this monster has been speaking to my family for many generations, and that the parents who have come before me have also heard what I'm hearing, a warning, "watch out, you've got to control this kid, make her listen to you, or else." Or else... or else you'll end up with a spoiled kid, or else she'll take advantage of you and others, or else she won't know wrong from right. We listen to this monster and do what it tells us, in an effort to protect, to teach. That's our job as parents isn't it? </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
But I'm interested in saving a new face. The beautiful faces of my toddler daughter and my baby son. Lots of things get passed on through the generations of a family: the appearance of our hair and eyes, the tendency toward having bad vision, a talent for music, diabetes, alcoholism, and I also believe, monsters. I don't have much control over whether my kids end up receiving a lot of those things, but if there's anything I can do to stop this monster, I'd like to try. I'd like to save my children's faces from having to feel this monster creep up behind their eyes and ears. I'd like to save their faces from wearing any of this monster's scars.</div>
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<br /></div>
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So I think I'd like to swallow this monster. Better yet, I'd like to demolish it, drown it, burn it, make it small and powerless. I want to do to it, all the things it makes me want to do to my daughter when it appears. I'd like to wipe it off the face of this earth, end its relationship with me and my family, forget it completely. </div>
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<br /></div>
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But I can't give my children a monster-less world. This world is full of monsters, and these feelings are real. Perhaps there's even a way to honor the old things passed onto me by my family, both the seemingly good, and the seemingly bad.</div>
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<br /></div>
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So I'd like to say thank you, dear monster, for your urgency, your passion, and your rage. I hope that I and my children will spring to action when we're needed, will find things worthy of our passion, and will know which things deserve our rage. I see you, dear monster, and I thank you for your warning, but you may go now, because I am not afraid of you or what you have to say.<br />
<br />
----------<br />
I've been reading <a href="http://www.amazon.com/No-Bad-Kids-Toddler-Discipline/dp/1499351119" target="_blank">No Bad Kids: Toddler Discipline Without Shame</a> by Janet Lansbury. It's helping me keep the monster at bay.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06430366457754481393noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5810664966396968147.post-79704785151621005822015-09-01T07:33:00.000-07:002015-09-01T07:59:39.364-07:00National Breastfeeding Awareness Month is Over. All last month I read blogposts and articles about breastfeeding and have wanted to get in on the conversation. I have pages of handwritten thoughts on the matter. But the month has come and gone, and I've struggled to edit those thoughts.<br />
<br />
I've been wanting to write about my boobs for quite some time. I wouldn't have guessed I would ever feel this way. Before having children, I'd have put my money on me being the kind of mom who would want to nurse privately, discreetly, out of sight, who would go to great lengths to make other people feel comfortable. But here I am, wanting to write about boobs. Breasts.<br />
Breasts?<br />
Breasts.<br />
Breasts?<br />
Breasts.<br />
<br />
This is a conversation I have with my daughter. We have a book aimed at preparing older siblings for the arrival of a new baby. The book talks about how the younger baby sibling is going to be drinking milk from mom's breasts. And every time we get to that part, she asks me again, "Breasts?" "Breasts." "Breasts?" Like, "am I saying that right?" She laughs, "Okay, but I call them mama milks!" She'll be 3 years old in November, and she is familiar with breastfeeding because it is something she does everyday.<br />
<br />
I've been stressing about what to write about breastfeeding, because I have felt some sort of pressure to "make a case." When I flip through those handwritten pages, I find defenses, apologies, explanations, and proof.<br />
<br />
Last December, when I was quite pregnant with my son and my daughter had recently turned two, I found <a href="http://www.mirror.co.uk/news/uk-news/mum-still-breastfeeds-daughter-aged-4881835" target="_blank">this article</a> circulating in some of my circles about a woman who was nursing her six and a half year old daughter. Despite the article's many examples of positive results from her full-term nursing, her story garnered only a bit of support. It felt to me that the whole of the online public was appalled with her choice, calling her lots of things from "extreme" or "disgusting" to "completely insane" and "sexually abusive."<br />
<br />
A few weeks later, an NPR piece came out called <a href="http://www.npr.org/sections/13.7/2015/01/15/377384587/what-s-right-about-a-six-year-old-who-breastfeeds" target="_blank">What's Right About a Six-year-old Who Breastfeeds</a>. The story included scientific and anthropological evidence for why "extended breastfeeding" is beneficial and quite normal throughout much of the world. An anthropologist interviewed for this piece, who breastfed her own children until they were 3 and 5.5, acknowledges that the information can be hard for people to stomach in the moment, and thus encourages others like herself to “shout it from the rooftops once their children are grown.” After this article came out, I found silent solace in the fact that I could one day, decades from now, shout from the rooftops that I had nursed my child into toddlerhood (and beyond?).<br />
<br />
But a couple decades is a long time to wait to talk about something that is such a big part of my current everyday.<br />
<br />
I don't share my story in order to convince, or persuade. I am not interested in judging anyone's choices as a parent. I am honored, and incredibly fortunate, to have the opportunity and ability to do what we do. I'll put these thoughts on the page, relieving myself of the pressure to find the most important or compelling things to say. <a href="http://thehonestbodyproject.com/?p=859" target="_blank">My story is not unique</a>. I am joined by mothers in my local community, and by thousands of mothers in online communities who do what I do. My simple goals are to contribute to the conversation and to come out of the tandem nursing closet.<br />
<br />
I've hardly been completely secretive about nursing both my kids simultaneously. But in those moments when I have shared it, I have felt myself apologizing for it. And I hate that tensing in my neck, and the way my voice gets high, like I'm embarrassed or ashamed. I hate hearing myself joke, "Ha-ha, I'm sorry! I guess, I've turned into one of those weirdo hippie moms!" I'd like to stop prefacing my story with "I'm sorry," because I am not sorry.<br />
<br />
I used to joke with a dear friend about how the time to stop nursing was when your child could start asking for it in his own voice with his own words. It seemed reasonable at the time, from where I stood, childless and very unaware of my breasts.<br />
<br />
My daughter started to ask for "mama milk" a little past her first birthday. A few months later she started to say "other side milk." She was just learning to walk, and it felt like a bad time to stop. I think both she and I were excited that we could so clearly understand one another. Around that time, we found that we were expecting her younger sibling.<br />
<br />
It's the case that many mothers lose their milk supply when they are pregnant, and that many babies self-wean because they lose interest due to the decrease in milk, or the changing taste. I thought it was likely that would happen to my daughter.<br />
<br />
That was over a year and a half ago. My son was born a couple months after she turned two. I'm sure there were changes in my milk, but they didn't affect my daughter's interest in nursing.<br />
These days, there are certainly many times (i.e. in the middle of the night, when we're out in public) that feel inopportune to nurse. I ask her, more than a little exasperatedly, "Why do you need mama milk, right now?"<br />
<br />
And I can see her gearing up to answer; thinking carefully about her words. She doesn't want to mess it up for herself. Her voice is steady and slow, but quickens a little, the way mine does when I'm nervous I won't get something I really really want.<br />
<br />
"But mama!" her voice and face are bright. Then, "mama," low and calm. "Because I really really love mamamilk sooooooo much!"<br />
<br />
"Why do you love it so much?"<br />
<br />
"Because!" Brightly again and a little incredulous. "It makes me so so happy! It makes me feel very happy!"<br />
<br />
Nursing my toddler daughter is taxing at times. When I'm full, nursing her feels like a wonderful and great relief: the world's gentlest and most effective breast pump. When I'm tired, or depleted, nursing her feels like an icky skin crawling chore. But then I ask myself how many times I have been able to identify so precisely and verbalize so clearly, that something I love brings me happiness. It doesn't feel right to me to respond to her pure and straightforward desire and request, with termination. It doesn't make sense to me to stop now either.<br />
<br />
Nursing my seven-month-old son is sometimes like offering a warm and soft coconut to a tiny, hungry, very soft, and squishy chipmunk. It's like curling up in the softest, coziest hammock, and letting the barely-there breeze swing you to sleep. And other times I am being sucked up by a baby beast, who yanks at my hair or tries to remove my lips from my face with his very strong tiny fists as he drinks. I remember hearing about how breastfeeding is a special way to "bond" with your baby. Yes, I think that is true. But never did a word feel so inadequate to describe the experience. Nursing, feels to me, like the closest I can get to my kids while still remaining a separate person.<br />
<br />
When I was pregnant with my son, we talked about how "Baby Junior" (his in utero nickname) would come out someday and would want to have mama milk too. My daughter would cup my opposite breast while she was nursing, then take a break to tell me, "this one is for Baby Junior." My husband and I wondered how much she was understanding about my pregnancy. The idea that she'd be joined by a new tiny person, who would one day take her toys, and share her milk, seemed to us a very abstract idea for a two-year-old to grasp.<br />
<br />
I'll never know how much she truly understood, but on the day she met her baby brother, she demonstrated that there was some part of what we'd been saying for the past nine months that stuck with her. When she heard him cry for the first time, she jumped up next to me and patted one of my breasts. "Maybe he wants mama milk," she said. She stood by my side as we urged a 36-hour-old Baby Junior to latch. She actually took hold of my boob and pressed it toward his mouth, offering it to him while he cried. When he had latched, she sat down on one half of my lap and joined us, nursing on the other side, like it was something she'd done a million times.<br />
<br />
I don't nurse them at the same time everyday, it's something that happens from time to time. Often times my daughter wants to join, when she sees me nursing her brother. And lately, my son wants to join when he sees me nursing his sister, especially in the afternoons on the days she's at daycare. It's a way we get to all say to one another, "Hello, it's nice to see you again. I missed you today"<br />
<br />
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Nursing them at the same time is like being in on a sibling secret. They lock eyes, and from the very moment my son was home with us, the two of them have had this opportunity to communicate intimately. When he was days old, she would reach out and touch his head, or stroke his back. As he got older, he would eventually start to reach out and touch her face, or tug on her hair. She laughs at this, which makes him laugh, which in turn makes me laugh. There is no possible way to not laugh when you have two giggling children latched onto your breasts. They hold hands. It is not something I taught them to do. They reach for each other and laugh, and their little hands are saying "I'm here."<br />
<br />
Breastfeeding awareness. I am so aware, so so aware of my breasts these days. They are so presently a part of my life, They have a big job to do.<br />
<br />
I've been asked, "but aren't you looking forward to having your body back?"<br />
<br />
And this is what I think. Nobody took my body from me. I never did lose it. I love this awesome body, that birthed two babies like a champ, with breasts that fill with milk and make my children feel so so happy, that have the power to make two screaming children cuddle, coo, and sometimes fall asleep within seconds. I love my breasts that never let me forget that my kids are here, even when I'm not with them. They tell me when my kids need me, or when I need them. Right now, this body can squelch loneliness, soothe "owies", calm tantrums, ease upset stomachs, silence monsters, and ward off sickness. This magic body is mine, all mine.<br />
<br />
National Breastfeeding Awareness Month may be over, but I don't see why we can't keep the Breastfeeding Awareness spirit alive, all year long.<br />
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<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06430366457754481393noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5810664966396968147.post-65240022915506388862013-12-18T09:01:00.003-08:002013-12-18T09:12:04.748-08:00Why December Makes Me SadMusing on why December makes me sad...<br />
<br />
I wrote a blog post for Kveller.com this week, and I'd like to link to it here. Perhaps, despite the melancholy tone of the piece, you'll feel hopeful like I do?<br />
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Hello, <a href="http://www.kveller.com/parent/Interfaith_Families/the-december-dilemma.shtml">December</a>.
It’s that time of year here in America. A time for good tidings of
comfort and joy. A time for happy family memories and meaningful
traditions. But for me and my <a href="http://www.kveller.com/parent/Interfaith_Families/Avoiding_Conflict.shtml">interfaith</a> marriage, December now comes packaged with a new tradition–an annual holiday cry (or if I’m really being honest…cries. Plural.)<br />
Now I know a lot of people cry during the holidays. The pressure of
stressful travel plans and forced family gatherings is enough to make
many people crack. But for the interfaith family, December is a
particularly lonely time.<br />
I go online to order holiday cards. (I am a little behind this year.)
I skip over the red and green ones, the ones with Christmas trees or
holly or <a href="http://www.kveller.com/blog/parenting/the-jewish-mothers-guide-to-surviving-santa/" target="_blank">Santa Claus</a>, the ones that say “Merry Christmas,” the ones that say “Happy <a href="http://www.kveller.com/activities/Holidays/Hanukkah_Activities/Hanukkah_Activities_2.shtml">Hanukkah</a>,”
and I’m left to choose from lots of cards with “Seasons Greetings” or
“Happy Holidays” written generically on the front. After much much
agonizing, I pick, “Peace, Joy, and Love.” Those are things that people
from all faiths want, right? <a href="http://www.kveller.com/blog/parenting/why-december-makes-me-sad/">Continue reading --> </a>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06430366457754481393noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5810664966396968147.post-63272765485569566672013-11-13T08:21:00.000-08:002013-11-13T08:22:43.739-08:00One (or Five Hundred Twenty Five Thousand Six Hundred Minutes)Musing on one year… and a letter to my baby girl.<br />
<br />
It’s crept up on me - our daughter’s first birthday. And alongside the anniversary of the day of her birth comes my official realization of exactly how fast one year of life can pass. It’s nearly daily, as we watch her play, that my husband tells me with a tinge of dread in his voice, she’s going to college soon. And as seasoned parents tell me, he’s right. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Seeing the world from a new point of view</td></tr>
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This year has been filled with beautiful memories: endless amounts of shameless gushing over everything she does, of the secretly held belief in our biased hearts that even as she embarks on the same milestones as every other single baby in the world throughout time, she’s the best baby that ever lived. But even as I fill with pride and joy, I am also growing ever more familiar with the haunting feeling that we are going to mess it all up. Gazing into my baby’s happy, soulful eyes, I know that not everyday ahead will be blissful and full of light. <br />
<br />
There’s something I used to do when I was pregnant. Those haunting feelings were familiar back then. I’d often lay awake at night worrying about whether the baby growing inside me was getting everything she needed, and hoping she was healthy, strong, comfortable, and well. And so whenever I encountered that paralyzing worry, I'd get up and out of bed, and would pull out a notebook and write her a letter. I made the decision not only to “journal,” but to actually write words directly to my baby. I wanted to get a head start on what I hope will be a lifetime of open and direct communication - of not sacrificing what’s really going on for the sake of appearing like we’ve got everything together, or saving face.<br />
<br />
Today is a perfect day for another letter.<br />
<br />
Dear Baby Girl,<br />
<br />
You are one year old today! It’s been one year since you and I worked together, along with Dada and <a href="http://www.doulabyheart.com/">Kate</a>, to bring you from inside my uterus out into the world. You came into the world with your eyes wide open. From the very first moments, you were already looking around, alert and awake. <br />
<br />
<b>You are strong.</b> Just minutes after you were born, we placed you on top of me, belly to belly, and you inched and wiggled, all by yourself, up to my chest. Once you were up there, you picked up your head, threw it over to one side, and began nursing for the very first time, all on your own. I was there to make sure you didn’t fall, and to offer a bit of support and guidance. But you knew what to do already. Every time you come across a new challenge in life, or a big task, look inside yourself first, you might already have an idea as to how to begin. But also don’t be afraid to look for help; we are here to support you.<br />
<br />
<b>You are small.</b> Yes, you are smaller than most other babies your age. You have tiny hands and tiny feet. But we are all small. In comparison to this big, big world around us, we are just a very small piece. Always look around you with wonder and remember that you are part of something bigger than yourself. But also know that our physical size doesn’t have anything to do with our capacity to love, give, and make a big difference. You can do big, big things, no matter how small you are.<br />
<br />
<b>The world is both good and bad.</b> People will try to tell you that it's all one or all the other, but I don’t believe it. When I look around, I see and experience that both are true. In this past year of your life, there has been unspeakable badness and sadness. A month after you were born, there was a horrible shooting at Sandy Hook Elementary, and then a few months later there was a bombing at the Boston Marathon, and just this week a typhoon hit the central Philippines, the country my family is from. Someday you might ask me why these bad things happen, and I will tell you honestly that I don’t know. I will tell you that I still ask that same question. Don’t ever stop asking that question. Trying to find the answer can lead you toward a deeper understanding of people, give you a greater sense of empathy, and inspire you to fight for what you believe in. <br />
<br />
To find the good in this past year, I don’t have to look too far. I only have to see you smile, which is something you do freely and frequently. I only have to feel your Dada squeeze my hand as we watch you play, and discover, and learn. I only have to watch the way complete strangers light up when they meet you. You are already, even at your very young age, spreading good cheer everywhere we go.<br />
<br />
<b>I love you.</b> Unconditionally. There's nothing you need to do or not do
to earn my love. People often warn me that someday you'll do things
that will make it difficult for me to love you. That as a teenager
you'll roll your eyes at me and want nothing to do with me. And I know
we may hurt each other, sometimes unintentionally, and other times on
purpose. But I’m holding out hope that even through tough times, we'll
keep talking. I’m hoping that ours will be a home where we talk about
how we feel and what we're afraid of, where we say we're sorry and take responsibility for our mistakes. That ours will be a home where
you hear and feel how much we love you, everyday.<br />
<br />
<b>Happy Birthday, my darling.</b> Thank you for this amazing year. <br />
I am so incredibly honored to be your mama. <br />
<br />
Love always,<br />
<br />
Me <br />
<br />
-----<br />
<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tyZeGOsR9IA">One</a> - is the finale from <i>A Chorus Line. </i>When I listen to this song, I swear they are singing about my baby. :)<br />
<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hj7LRuusFqo">Seasons of Love</a> - sometimes unofficially called "Five Hundred Twenty Five Thousand Six Hundred Minutes." I've listened to this song from <i>Rent</i> since I was in high school, this year it has completely refreshed meaning to me. Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06430366457754481393noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5810664966396968147.post-54492732738460388752013-10-21T10:34:00.000-07:002013-10-21T10:35:06.788-07:00Autumn LeavesMusing on Autumn…<br />
<br />
It’s getting colder outside. And it’s happening much faster than I anticipated. I knew that this day would come. But having just moved from Los Angeles, I know that I was incredibly and hopelessly spoiled by mild daily weather. I’d forgotten what a year with aggressive, churning seasons feels like. <br />
<br />
Hello, Autumn. <br />
<br />
It’s been a while. Seven years to be exact. Hello again, season of nostalgia, season of change. Season of warmer clothing, marching band, and high school musical rehearsals. Season of pumpkin heads, pumpkin beer, and pumpkin lattes. Season of apple picking, apple cider, and cider donuts. Season of crunching leaves, seeing your breath, rosy noses and cheeks, of orange, yellow, brown, and red. Season of growing older, and going to sleep. Season of letting go. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhldWYiMvC2UNhBza05hqPOF8V92g7NX2b9FyAJHJTC8PnRRmjBCwVYyw4QC_ki0Rh63jeOMziUzzhQhAj5A-eGIKayHXVwt85m3ARDHYctilQxm0g63zR1LsoWP5RgND8k61778AXJzhMu/s1600/First+Cider+Donut.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="197" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhldWYiMvC2UNhBza05hqPOF8V92g7NX2b9FyAJHJTC8PnRRmjBCwVYyw4QC_ki0Rh63jeOMziUzzhQhAj5A-eGIKayHXVwt85m3ARDHYctilQxm0g63zR1LsoWP5RgND8k61778AXJzhMu/s320/First+Cider+Donut.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">First Cider Donut Ever</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
When I first moved to Los Angeles, I used to say the thing I missed most about the Midwest was autumn. After a few years of living, I would continue to say it, but to be honest, I think I forgot what I was missing. <br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxISGj8_G1tORJmcsBXh-NnD878lofZj-CeGx7NhfAAFmjHt4fbRmA6Iuok5iositD_wTf7C-7u8FYaIEeYyxNl3lJmClkq5jMhVEVlrlXzGw8qpiw02kzOSKOKI5AoPtZ3s9Mthlt-76y/s1600/Baby+and+Leaves.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxISGj8_G1tORJmcsBXh-NnD878lofZj-CeGx7NhfAAFmjHt4fbRmA6Iuok5iositD_wTf7C-7u8FYaIEeYyxNl3lJmClkq5jMhVEVlrlXzGw8qpiw02kzOSKOKI5AoPtZ3s9Mthlt-76y/s320/Baby+and+Leaves.jpg" width="290" /></a>Most everything about autumn this year is familiar… the way the air smells and feels. There’s a little bite in the air that comes from the kind of damp cold you find here in the Midwest. I can immediately recall those days when as kids, my siblings and I would play in piles of fallen leaves. The bits of leaves would get trapped in our hair, catching in the cracks around our sleeves and collars, and stuck to the bottoms of our shoes. I’m struggling to find a perfect way to describe the smell of autumn leaves, actually, I can’t even find a mediocre way, but if you have smelled them, they are stamped in your olfactory memory forever. It was cold outside, but that’s not the kind of thing you make note of as a child. You only realized it was cold out there when you came inside and the ends of your fingers and toes turned red hot as they start to warm up.<br />
<br />
During autumn, the leaves of trees turn into some of the most vibrant colors you can find in nature. You breathe in this beauty, hear the loud silences between the crunching beneath your feet… forgetting for one moment, or never even realizing to begin with, that what you’re witnessing is death. Breathtaking, perfect, fragrant, crisp, clear death. As life drains from the leaves, they show us jewel-bright colors, they reflect the glow of the sun with radiant warmth. <br />
<br />
Imagine we could see human life in the same way. Imagine if we made a special trip to visit the dying, not in the tentative, fearful and sad way we do, but with anticipation, wonder, and awe. Imagine we embraced our own “leaving” the way we embrace the leaves of autumn. <br />
<br />
People have been asking me whether I’m ready for winter this year. And my answer is “no, not yet.” I’m actually a little embarrassed to admit how hard I’m taking this autumn chill. But as I wrote a couple weeks ago, I’m really trying to live <a href="http://musicalmidwesternmama.blogspot.com/2013/10/here-right-now.html">here right now</a>, so instead of worrying about the inevitable frozen days ahead, I’m trying to let my favorite season hang around while keeping my eyes wide open.<br />
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<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XSXYu-3r1S8">Autumn Leaves</a> is a popular oft-recorded standard which was originally a 1945 French song <i>"Les feuilles mortes"</i> (literally "The Dead Leaves"). Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06430366457754481393noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5810664966396968147.post-10517794613184409602013-10-17T21:51:00.000-07:002013-10-18T14:57:24.285-07:00Why My Marriage Isn't Trendy<p dir=ltr>Musing on why my marriage isn't trendy...</p>
<p dir=ltr>I missed writing a post this week, but in its place I had the opportunity to blog for Kveller.com, a website devoted to "parenting with a Jewish twist."  I have the honor of bringing an interfaith perspective to the conversation.  </p>
<p dir=ltr>So I decided to start at the very beginning (a very good place to start), and blog about my relationship with my husband.  I think some people might feel saddened to read this, while others may relate, and yet others will not understand why it its a difficult story for me to share.  Regardless of which kind of reader you are, I hope that what I have to say creates opportunities for empathetic conversation.</p>
<p dir=ltr>Here is my post...</p>
<p dir=ltr><a href="http://www.kveller.com/blog/parenting/im-a-chinese-american-married-to-a-jew-but-our-marriage-isnt-trendy/">I'm a Chinese American Married to a Jew, But Our Marriage Isn't Trendy</a></p>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06430366457754481393noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5810664966396968147.post-30370366065330029942013-10-08T09:23:00.002-07:002013-10-08T09:23:47.975-07:00Here Right NowMusing on making each moment count... <br />
<br />
I found out this week that a good friend is sick... very sick. The bewildering, "shaking my fist at God" kind of sick that no one should be, ever. And especially not when you're in your mid-thirties. I admit, I feel like I have no business writing about anything this week. I've been wading through life these past few days feeling like most of my thoughts are petty, and searching for deep meaning in every moment. I found myself looking at my beautiful 10-month-old little girl in this too short, too fast life, and thinking, How do I make each moment count?<br />
<br />
But after a few days of asking myself that cliche question, and becoming frustrated with the cliche answers, I went back to the drawing board. And I came up with a new question... How do I live <i>right now</i>?<br />
<br />
We Americans live in an overwhelmingly performance-based culture. And the Chinese culture my family comes from might be even more performance-based. So it's no surprise that I began by focusing on the "make" and the "count" in my original question. Growing up, we are asked, What are you going to be? What are you going to do? Are you working really hard now so that you can be this really great thing later on in life? Are you going to be a doctor, a lawyer, an engineer? Did you practice the piano, so that you'll play well in the recital? Did you study so you'll achieve good grades? <br />
<br />
We do the same thing with our babies. We ask, What can your baby <i>do</i> now? Is he rolling over? Is she pulling up? Is she crawling yet? Can he walk? Can he say Mama? Can she wave? Is she sleeping through the night? I think I have asked and been on the receiving end of every single one of these questions of other parents. They are the questions we think we're supposed to ask, they have become almost second nature conversation starters when we run into a parent with a baby. And because these are the questions we absentmindedly ask, we also absentmindedly live to answer them.<br />
<br />
When I'm playing with my baby, I keep finding myself working toward making "yes" the answer to all those questions. I try to teach her how to wave... try to make her crawl toward the toy with which I'd be particularly tickled to see her play... try to capture her standing on camera. The first time I tried to do this, she was not completely ready to stand on her own yet. I propped her up next to an ottoman, then stood fumbling with my camera phone, while her big beautiful head hit the ground. <br />
<br />
It's difficult to stop this habit of always aiming for the next thing, of planning for the next moment, of looking for the next milestone. But yesterday I made an attempt to squelch every instinct I had to "shape" and "teach" my daughter, and instead I followed her cues throughout the day. Instead of trying to make her sit and read a whole book through with me, I put the book down and followed her when she started to crawl away. I watched the wide-eyed delight on her face as she laughed at the shadow the cat's tail was making on the wall. I loved seeing the way her lips jut forward, and listening to how her breath gets heavy as she tries stacking bowls inside one another. When a siren began howling outside, I watched her head perk up, her eyes bright and searching for the origin of the sound.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbLNqLOCRdqNkGRI5XCLI8ZzdiIrHbA2hh3bWtQU5XQ3BzjcM4ibeGWFje433n624IyQWOCQGIgtUB5V3k19GxEgH7CkcYRVHZGjk79571R5QY0d6rPEFwFBKHQFQZgkEUvBunQTCXM39o/s1600/Discovering+the+World.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbLNqLOCRdqNkGRI5XCLI8ZzdiIrHbA2hh3bWtQU5XQ3BzjcM4ibeGWFje433n624IyQWOCQGIgtUB5V3k19GxEgH7CkcYRVHZGjk79571R5QY0d6rPEFwFBKHQFQZgkEUvBunQTCXM39o/s400/Discovering+the+World.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hello, World</td></tr>
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I realize that for me, there is no better inspiration of how to live <i>right now</i>, than to watch my baby, closely, avoiding all my impulses to "make meaning" out of her play. She lets herself cry when she's sad, or scared, or hurt. She laughs freely when something is new, and delightful. She's not self conscious about whether she's good enough at something to do it, she just does it. She looks at the world with a wonderment I've long forgotten.<br />
<br />
I suppose we have to keep thinking about the future. I know that it's responsible to plan ahead, and to work toward goals. I know that we will continue to be evaluated based on our achievements and performance. I know that's how our world works.<br />
<br />
But as I think about my friend today, I'd like to propose that we make a shift in how we think about living our lives. Maybe the way to "make each moment count," is to stop doing so much counting, measuring, and evaluating. Maybe we need to stop deciding what's worthwhile based on how much money we'll make, how much time we'll save, how far ahead we'll get, what rewards we'll receive. Maybe we need to take a cue from the babies we once were, and try living here right now. I'm starting right now. Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06430366457754481393noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5810664966396968147.post-13616432408952021092013-10-01T07:52:00.002-07:002013-10-02T09:52:02.474-07:00The Impossible DreamMusing on following your dreams...<br />
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There's only so long after you've "moved in" that you can keep saying "we just moved here." Today marks the 3-month anniversary of our Chicago Move-in Day, so I think I may have used up my "just moved here" time. Three months ago I stood in our empty living room, directing traffic as the talented and persevering Allied Van Lines moving crew dispersed our belongings throughout our new home. The moving supervisor had invited his local 15-year-old nephew along, offering him a few bucks to help with some heavy lifting. <br />
<br />
I was impressed with young Pedro. His conversational skills far exceeded those of many adults my age. He made good eye contact, asked follow up questions. He skipped past petty small talk to ask questions of substance. After sharing with him that I had been working as an actor in Los Angeles before having a baby and moving here to Chicago, he asked, nonchalantly, with what I <i>swear</i> was a cocked eyebrow,<br />
<br />
"So was that, like, your dream?" I felt a stutter creep up my throat, and then a little bit of heat behind my cheeks. <i>Even precocious Pedro wonders what you're doing with your life! </i>the devilish angel on my shoulder whispered in my ear. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0BiJ8P4zs51eQNL5b8CBhNHSRvcxrn5H8hpIpBUScDeyZzuPv071Nqv8LTqc_TU9OPBD1s9OVHX1dcCmgYBjs7G3I3kyXdH6gfJy44Q6UAaC2VvjOnk7EVRNxr6YvR_33AY4-rdB13NeW/s1600/D+is+for+Dream.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="204" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0BiJ8P4zs51eQNL5b8CBhNHSRvcxrn5H8hpIpBUScDeyZzuPv071Nqv8LTqc_TU9OPBD1s9OVHX1dcCmgYBjs7G3I3kyXdH6gfJy44Q6UAaC2VvjOnk7EVRNxr6YvR_33AY4-rdB13NeW/s320/D+is+for+Dream.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">D is for Dream</td></tr>
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I picture the bright-eyed me of my childhood, dreaming of all the things she wanted to do someday - sing on a Broadway stage, star in a Hollywood film, become a best-selling novelist - and I see her disappointment as she looks up at me, a stay-at-home, wanna-be creative-type, not-currently-contributing-financially-to-the-family mama. <br />
<br />
I went on an audition recently. I know I did it in part so that I could tell "childhood me" that I was still living the dream. A local Chicago theatre was holding its season general auditions. I stapled a headshot to a resume, drove in the rain, and waited (nearly an hour and half) to present my monologue and song. <br />
<br />
It was one of those auditions where there's just a thin curtain separating the space where the auditions are taking place from all the actors waiting to audition. So you can hear everything, and you know that when it's your turn, everyone will hear you. The director was asking everyone a question, "so, what are you working on now?" Historically, that's an anxiety-inducing question for me. The answer is a well rehearsed (but totally natural sounding, because, you know, I'm an <i>actor!</i>) "elevator pitch" that makes it seem like I'm busy, I've got a lot going on, I've got options, but I'm also "totally available" if this theatre wants to cast me. If I was working on something, I'd have to find a way to make it sound really cool. And if I wasn't... well, it's amazing how many ways there are to say I'm "in between projects."<br />
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But today, a calm comes over me. No, I haven't been working on anything in a while... but wait... yes, actually, yes, I <i>have</i> been working on something. I've been improvising characters, working on my voice, writing alternate lyrics, exercising my storytelling chops. I am a dancer, a singer, a contortionist, a dramatic reader, a comedian, a chef. I create the world, present it, to the most wonderful, eager, hopeful, fulfilling audience member of my life. There is no rehearsal for this performance, I have to make it up as I go. She is going to see every stumble, every flub. She'll see when I'm having an off-night, will be able to tell when I'm "phoning it in." And she'll witness some real moments of vulnerability and truth. Those moments during a performance when you realize for as much as you're giving to your audience, nothing compares to what you receive in return. They are moments that will stick with both of us for the rest of our lives.<br />
<br />
There's a dream you didn't even know to dream because it was simply impossible for you to imagine how much you wanted it. There was nothing any parent could have ever told me about parenthood that could have prepared me for how much love I would feel, or how much more I could grow.<br />
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Maybe "being a mom" isn't everyone's dream, but I'll tell my little girl someday... Dream big, dream about the thing that is the greatest thing you can imagine, and then do it, make it happen! But save a little room for dreaming of the thing that is so great, that makes you so full, so rich, that's even better than anything you could have ever pictured. Be open to that dream too.<br />
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So the answer to your question, Pedro, is yes. It was my dream to be an actor. And all those childhood dreams, sure, I still want them to come true. But that was long before I knew there could be something even better. To live only for that old dream would be settling. Right now, I'm a mama. And I'm living the dream. <br />
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<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YGzqbEeVWhs">The Impossible Dream</a> - today's blogpost title is a song sung by Don Quixote at the end of the first act in <i>Man of La Mancha.</i><br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06430366457754481393noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5810664966396968147.post-24687750982826111462013-09-23T13:30:00.004-07:002013-09-23T13:37:07.050-07:00Food, Glorious FoodMusing on why I didn't find that Whole Foods blog funny...<br />
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Last week I read a satirical blog in the Huffington Post Comedy section entitled "<a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/kelly-maclean/surviving-whole-foods_b_3895583.html">Surviving Whole Foods</a>." I found the link in my facebook feed via numerous friends that day. I eagerly clicked on the link. As someone who enjoys a monthly shopping trip to Whole Foods, I got ready to laugh knowingly, maybe even at myself. <br />
<br />
But I did not laugh. So I reread the blog, twice... then again. I thought I must be missing something. But I just wasn't laughing. So I slept on it. But when I woke up, I felt even less like laughing. Had I become humorless? Could I no longer take a joke?<br />
<br />
So I'll try to put what's bugging me into words. I think that good satire is rooted in a healthy dose of truth. But reading this blog just felt like a blow by blow of one over-the-top misguided observation after another. I cringe when the author casually states that "poor people" don't have "special diet needs." I disagree. Diabetes immediately comes to mind... it actually affects people below the poverty line at a higher rate. Here is Dr. Mark Hyman's <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/dr-mark-hyman/not-having-enough-food-ca_b_721344.html">thoughtful blog</a> from a few years back that addresses the link between poverty and diabetes. I suspect that poor people likely have just as many, if not more, special diet needs when compared to society at large. These special diet needs were likely caused by the fact that they didn't have access to good, real, whole food in the first place. Maybe they were deterred by the high costs, or more likely because a place that offers quality food doesn't even exist in the neighborhood. This does not make me laugh. <br />
<br />
The author continues to ridicule Whole Foods as she makes her way through the beauty and vitamin aisles. Somehow she is "tricked" into buying things she doesn't need, including hundred dollar face cream. To use her own phrase, talk about "rich white people problems." Talk about finding a way to factor personal responsibility out of the equation, and to let Whole Foods take the blame for <i>you</i> spending too much money, <i>you</i> having no self control,<i> you</i> being too preoccupied with the size of your pores to make the choice to not max out your credit card. Maxing out credit cards is still responsible for having ruined the financial lives of countless Americans and <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/arianna-huffington/the-credit-card-debt-cris_b_169657.html">played no small role in the economic downturn</a> we so often like to blame on the government. This also does not make me laugh.<br />
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Unlike the author of "Surviving Whole Foods," I didn't grow up shopping there, as she states in an on camera interview. In fact, I'm pretty sure my parents never step foot in the place because they've also heard that you'll spend your "whole paycheck" there. Maybe they are intimidated because they've heard of the snooty, unfriendly, pretentious staff members. This has not been my experience.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_ekEwwqMd_j-Lom4al9elgEqwPz6yAoWbMwH5ksJUpJzgoA4O05qfPUKY7C-zlYKdVq-_Hk-GygFlH-oeTDWxeJrqGXVYvoQy7vb-dy8Ur_ZYDH6AZyhzwlRGSRf9uXJ5MK0FmAnunBYx/s1600/Avocado.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="152" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_ekEwwqMd_j-Lom4al9elgEqwPz6yAoWbMwH5ksJUpJzgoA4O05qfPUKY7C-zlYKdVq-_Hk-GygFlH-oeTDWxeJrqGXVYvoQy7vb-dy8Ur_ZYDH6AZyhzwlRGSRf9uXJ5MK0FmAnunBYx/s320/Avocado.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Avocado - Natural Whole Baby Food</td></tr>
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The parking lot at the Chicago South Loop store has great big parking spaces (it's a perk to living in the mid-west I suppose!). I'm wearing my baby as I cross the walk, and a nice lady smiles and waves me through. I have a lovely conversation with the butcher behind the counter, he helps me decide what the best cut of meat would be for a recipe I'd like to try. He's knowledgeable, friendly, and talks with me about how to get the most for my money here. I sample delicious cheese; I learn where it's from. The whole wheat bread is in the bread aisle along with all the other bread; I am empowered to choose a loaf that's in my budget. The signs in the produce section help to highlight what's in season, so if I want, I can make the decision to provide my family with food that's growing optimally and nearby. I learn about a local farm I didn't know about before. I buy an organic avocado from California, it makes us think fondly of Los Angeles. I try a sample for a bath scrub, I smell amazing for the rest of the day. I decide not to buy any, because it's out of my budget right now, but the scent on my wrist makes me smile. I check out, providing my re-useable bags, which I now store in the car. I used to forget them all the time, and sometimes I still do. But I'm glad that this store is trying to help me remember to use them. <br />
<br />
It is not my intention to be a spokesperson for Whole Foods. I can't deny that prices are high there. And maybe on occasion you'll run into a grumpy staff member, but who doesn't have grumpy days? The truth is, good quality food simply costs more than food that's bad for us and bad for our country. It's a problem that we've made highly processed, sugary, empty calorie-d food so cheap that we expect all food should be cheap. And the cheaper bad food is, the more it costs to provide healthy options, such as fresh grass-fed meat, a
wider variety of whole grains, and support for small local farms. Whole Foods is not here to solve all our problems, but they are a forerunner among national supermarkets when it comes to providing customers with with good, healthy whole options. I would like to argue that an occasional, well thought out trip to Whole Foods can be a really enjoyable experience, that does not need to result in breaking the bank. <br />
<br />
If we're ever going to make a dent in our country's food problem, we need to demand better
food from better quality sources. We can ask this of our local farmers' markets, or grocery stores. I'm lucky to have this opportunity. Unfortunately, not everyone has
the access or the means to do this. But if people with relative privilege, like the
author of "Surviving Whole Foods," spent a little more time making smart
choices in the food aisles, and a little less time maxing out her credit card
on ridiculously priced beauty products, we might have a chance at
changing the status quo. <br />
I promise, I'm the same fun-loving gal I've always been. I haven't lost my sense of humor or my appetite. I just spend my laughs on stuff that's funny, and my money on food that's good for my family.<br />
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<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hEQDllvuy1I">Food, Glorious Food</a> - this week's blogpost title is the opening song from <i>Oliver!</i> in which the orphan workhouse boys fantasize of food while collecting their daily gruel. I hope I see the day when the dream for all Americans to have access to good, whole food, becomes a reality. Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06430366457754481393noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5810664966396968147.post-69854915034432424222013-09-16T21:23:00.003-07:002013-09-17T08:22:19.471-07:00[Miss] AmericaMusing on how to combat the hateful ignorant tweets... <br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_QcLTN3MELq-chjmqf-Ueu5SemqWmkrItBRgFO930CCNVd-h_hVFfSCm1arRG23DKwuwCLZFvCcFzdZeCQ8LIwir9fEKjDRnbpbPiybK8XCSKvoB9h9PuwO057zWPKL6gR72os-DqJ4Dr/s1600/large_statue-of-liberty-crown-reopens.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_QcLTN3MELq-chjmqf-Ueu5SemqWmkrItBRgFO930CCNVd-h_hVFfSCm1arRG23DKwuwCLZFvCcFzdZeCQ8LIwir9fEKjDRnbpbPiybK8XCSKvoB9h9PuwO057zWPKL6gR72os-DqJ4Dr/s320/large_statue-of-liberty-crown-reopens.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Uh, you guys, why is Miss America green??? </b></td></tr>
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Today's news stories were filled with reports on Nina Davuluri's Miss America win, as well as the aftermath explosion of <a href="http://www.buzzfeed.com/ryanhatesthis/a-lot-of-people-are-very-upset-that-an-indian-american-woman">unspeakably hateful and embarrassingly grammatically incorrect, ignorant tweets</a>. I am mad. I am sad. I want to meet one of these tweeters, and then I want to punch him/her in the face. I have had a lot of dark thoughts in response to these tweets, not the least of which was imagining a beautiful day in the future, on which the last of these hateful, stupid people dies out. <br />
<div>
<br />
I let myself go to that comfy dark place, where I vigorously spew out equally hateful energy back at the tweeters, for a good 10 minutes. But then, I stop. Because if any of this is ever going to stop, it has to stop with me. <br />
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And I’m inviting you to join me, all you people like me - all you loving, thoughtful, open-minded, progressive citizens of this beautiful country we call the United States of America. I'm inviting you to first spend whatever time you need to punch a pillow, scream atop a mountain, stab a few needles into an ignorant racist doll... and then I'm inviting you to stop, lose the hatred, let go of the anger, and instead use all the energy to fuel something better. Because if it is even possible for a time to come when a good day for a non-white American doesn’t result in an explosion of hateful tweets, it has to begin with us. We have to change the way we think and act in reaction to this kind of ignorance and hatred.<br />
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I don't blame the news for reporting on the tweets. I'm grateful that they are shining a light upon the darkness, and I'm glad it’s given me the opportunity to see how there are so many people who are infuriated just like I am. <br />
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But I believe for every sad story, there’s a happy one. For every hateful ignorant tweeter, there is another kind of person. A person who after watching Miss America may have chosen not to tweet his/her thoughts, but who came to see America in a new light. Maybe it was a little white girl who saw for the first time that beautiful American women come in all different colors from all different backgrounds. Maybe it was a little Asian American girl who got to see an American who looks like her on television. <br />
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If this story has a happy ending, it has to start with us, and our children. The only way to reduce the number of ignorant hateful people, is to increase the number of well-informed loving people. It means we don't just pass on this anger we feel to our kids, we pass on our love for all people. It means we share our history, good and bad, and we talk about how we're a country made up of people from all over the world. It means we have a globe or a map in our homes, and our families grow up knowing the names of different countries, but seeing that we’re all a part of the same world. It means that we choose not to only surround ourselves with people who look just like us. We stop using words like "us and them." We stop calling people who are not like us “weird.” We stop rolling our eyes when we talk about the importance of diversity, and we seek it out. We seek out people who are unlike ourselves; we acknowledge and celebrate our differences, and allow beautiful friendships to grow out of our commonalities. <br />
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We stop the people we love when they say things that are fueled by hatred or ignorance, and we lovingly correct them, we let them know humbly, that we don’t have room for statements of ill will in our homes. We stop laughing at hateful jokes; we clarify misunderstandings.<br />
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And I'm not just talking to my white friends right now. I'm calling upon my friends of color to stop the cycle. I'm calling on you, my Asian American friends, because you know that our parents are culprits. I’m picking on you because I can only speak from my own experience. Let’s not sacrifice our children and the future of our country by allowing hatred to perpetuate, for the sake of “saving face” and “respecting elders.” <br />
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I am going to put these hurtful tweets behind me, and I am going to move forward firmly in love. If my daughter has any chance of growing up in an America<span class="st"> where "our children will not be judged by the color of their skin, but by the content of their character</span>" (thank you Dr. King, I realized that what I was trying to say, you had already said perfectly), then it has to begin again with me. I hope you'll join me.<br />
-----<br />
<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NPlcE3GcoFc">America</a> - today's blogpost title is a song from the musical <i>West Side Story</i>, the lyrics of which may be apropos.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06430366457754481393noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5810664966396968147.post-70478454645705844362013-09-10T09:08:00.000-07:002013-10-01T08:00:38.026-07:00Climb Ev'ry MountainMusing on why my minority family loves the great outdoors...<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-qHxWnkQxDCNbvWY6oy_zYmQYjK5_TPLmvnKY0vU3GOKH49q0eSBYJMoYARqyvKtZTrk48Wp-ogToGw0rr8dqDUgIhrPhdgsyid36aOrOZGbQ4LIwUI2NTBST03S6slTOAQcoTYmbirue/s1600/Glacier+National+Park.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-qHxWnkQxDCNbvWY6oy_zYmQYjK5_TPLmvnKY0vU3GOKH49q0eSBYJMoYARqyvKtZTrk48Wp-ogToGw0rr8dqDUgIhrPhdgsyid36aOrOZGbQ4LIwUI2NTBST03S6slTOAQcoTYmbirue/s400/Glacier+National+Park.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Glacier National Park - from our trip there in 2010</td></tr>
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<br />
Last week, I read about how <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2013/09/06/us/national-parks-try-to-appeal-to-minorities.html?hp&_r=1&">The National Parks Service is trying to make themselves more appealing to non-white Americans</a>. And I thought to myself "Hm, for as long as I (non-white American) can remember, I have found National Parks to be quite appealing."<br />
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Then a couple days after that I read about <a href="http://www.newrepublic.com/article/114621/national-parks-popular-white-people-not-minorities-why">why outdoor activities are appealing to white people and not to minorities</a>. And I thought to myself, "Hm, why are outdoor activities appealing to me?<br />
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And so today I find myself reflecting on the circumstances that lead my own family to become the nature-loving, yearly-camping, National Park visiting, mountain hiking, despite being non-white Americans that we are today.<br />
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My family is ethnically Chinese, but my parents immigrated here to the United States via the Philippines. Ethnically Chinese people make up about 1.6% of the Philippine population, and about 15% if you include people of mixed Chinese/Filipino decent. I didn't know that before, I just learned it from a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chinese_Filipino">wikipedia page</a> about Chinese Filipinos. I have more to say about being Chinese from the Philippines, but maybe I'll save some of it for another blog on another day. For now, I'll just muse on how I think it played a part in how my family came to love the great outdoors.<br />
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I think it began with my dad, who moved Iowa to begin grad school in 1972. He was 23 years old. The thing about Iowa in the early 70s is... there were not a lot of Chinese guys from the Philippines. Actually, there probably still aren't very many. But back then, my early-20s-dad landed in Iowa and was immediately surrounded by people unlike himself. <br />
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I note this because it seems like basic human nature to notice when you feel out of place. If you're used to being around people who look like you, you notice when you're surrounded by people who do not. The NYT article opens with this implication, that few minorities choose to visit National Parks because they don't perceive it as something that minorities do. <br />
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But what happens when you aren't used to being surrounded by people who look like you in your daily life? What if, like my dad in 1972, you're the "only one," the only person from where you're from, who speaks your native language? At first, I think you start to find the similarities you have with the people around you, similarities beyond your background and language. And second, I think you begin to acclimate to a new status quo. You no longer need to be surrounded by people who look like you in order to feel comfortable. And so, I think it was this ability of my dad's, to find comfort in
uncomfortable situations, that led him, and the rest of my family into
the mountains.<br />
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And it didn't stop with our nuclear family. When my grandparents came to live with us in the mid 80s, we acquired an additional tent, and an air mattress to accommodate their elderly backs. When our aunts and uncles and cousins visited from the Philippines, we borrowed a family friend's <a href="http://www.cartype.com/pics/9021/full/dodge_ram_wagon_83.jpg">Dodge Ram Van</a>, piled in, and hit the State Parks of Michigan. And in the following years, we acquired a canoe, a kerosine lamp, a bug zapping lantern, a portable stove top, better flashlights. We figured out how to put tarps underneath our tents so we didn't get wet during the night.<br />
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And it's this quality in my dad that kept us going back each year. He's genuinely curious to try new things, and stubbornly patient when trying to figure something out. There might have been times when a tent was unruly, or was missing an important piece. There were times when it rained the entire day and he had to set up our tents and start a fire while getting completely drenched. He never got discouraged; never hinted that something couldn't be done. He looked at each problem and calmly found a solution. And we kids internalized that. We've all grown up to look for solutions, to never assume that something can't be done. I don't think this was even intentional on his part. He didn't create "teaching moments." He never sat us down and said, "when there's a problem, look for a solution." We just watched him figure out how to do stuff, and one day found ourselves doing the same thing. <br />
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We love National Parks. We've visited nearly 40 of the United States, as well as much of Canada, all by car. Traveling to our country's most beautiful spots, and standing and staring in wonder and awe, is something we've been doing for as long as I can remember. And there's no question in my mind, that it's something our family will continue to do, for generations to come. <br />
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So I guess if I were going to share my two cents with The National Parks service, I would say... try to appeal to people's innate curiosity and sense of adventure. This curiosity can be found in people of all colors and backgrounds, universally. Get kids (all-the-colors-of-the-rainbow kids) into a national park to witness something mind-blowing, and those kids, whatever race they are, will want to pass on the experience to their own families and friends. The truth is, there are also plenty of white people who are completely intimidated at first (my husband may or may not fall into this category) by traveling in the great outdoors. How do we make National Parks more appealing to them? I think if there's an answer to that question, it will likely increase the number of people, from majority <i>and </i>minority backgrounds, to climb mountains, ford streams, follow rainbows, 'til they find their dreams. ;-)<br />
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<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EoCPuhhE6dw">Climb Ev'ry Mountain</a> - today's blogpost title song encourages a young and curious Maria (pre-Von Trapp) to follow her dreams in <i>The Sound of Music</i>.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06430366457754481393noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5810664966396968147.post-70642865984693812032013-09-04T14:27:00.001-07:002013-09-05T12:25:01.560-07:00L'ChaimMusing on Rosh Hashanah (and the sweetness of life)…<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFJtstlJFiHIbsEyp165XYPWy5FVVA1b2M-ygxGcuvS1GzQDa_v_wQROaU4G4ytXM0XZsD7iT1KygYNvwTNQoKupf2389F_cMuQChP6GvcANhV9tMf48ehO3ywiaVCIR6ztdtaagi4vl9C/s1600/rosh+hashanah+apple.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="151" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFJtstlJFiHIbsEyp165XYPWy5FVVA1b2M-ygxGcuvS1GzQDa_v_wQROaU4G4ytXM0XZsD7iT1KygYNvwTNQoKupf2389F_cMuQChP6GvcANhV9tMf48ehO3ywiaVCIR6ztdtaagi4vl9C/s320/rosh+hashanah+apple.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
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I am not Jewish. But I married a man from a Jewish family.<br />
<br />
The thing about marrying someone from a different background, is you have an <strike>excuse</strike>, <strike>obligation</strike>, opportunity to become a part of something that you otherwise would not have explored. Instead of quietly watching as the Jewish High Holidays float by, and wondering what <i>they</i> are observing, and how <i>they</i> are celebrating, suddenly<i> I</i> am a part of <i>they</i>, and the questions become, what are <i>we</i> observing? How are <i>we </i>celebrating? <br />
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Having a baby makes people think about holidays. Some of the reason for that probably comes from within - our personal desire to “pass on” something worthwhile and meaningful to our child. But another part of the reason definitely comes from everywhere else. An interfaith union sometimes has the power to strike fear, concern, and bewilderment into the hearts of those who know the couple. “But what will she be!?” “How are you going to raise her?” “What if she is confused?” And my answers to those three questions are “Whatever she wants to be.” “With love and care.” And “She will absolutely, most definitely be confused.” Because childhood is confusing. Life is confusing.<br />
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I think all parents, and not just those in an interfaith relationship, are asking themselves the same questions too. And really, how many people are raising a child with someone who believes THE EXACT SAME THING that they believe? I don't think that exists. That’s kind of like marrying yourself. It might be easier, maybe, but it sounds boooooooring!<br />
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I know that there might be some people who will think to themselves (or sometimes not just to themselves) that my daughter is not Jewish because I, her mother, am not Jewish. But today I’m choosing not to focus on official labels, and instead I’ll be taking this opportunity to explore how this time can be meaningful to my family.<br />
<br />
So as I muse on Rosh Hashanah, I’m looking forward with hope, and good intention toward the year ahead. And I’m reflecting on the year that has passed. There’s a ritual that some Jews practice called <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tashlikh">tashlikh</a> (sorry about the wikipedia link, I know there's probably better info out there), where your sins from the previous year are symbolically cast off into the water (a river, stream, lake, etc.). Since we live just a couple blocks from the shore of Lake Michigan, I think it might be the perfect place to spend a little time in the next few days. I’ll be thinking of ways in which I can be more loving, more patient, more generous, and more kind in the coming year. And I’ll be reflecting on the times that I’ve been hurtful, impatient, selfish or ill willed… and casting them off into the water (I will likely dramatically mime this action, which will cause my husband to lovingly roll his eyes at my demonstrative nature). With my baby and husband by my side, and family and friends in my thoughts, I’ll make a little promise to the world to nurture the sweetness in life for the coming year. Then we will come home and will eat apples and honey (everyone except the baby! Don’t worry, we’ll wait on the honey 'til she’s at least <a href="http://www.babycenter.com/408_when-can-my-baby-eat-honey_1368490.bc">12 months</a>), I will make sweet raisin challah french toast for dinner, and we wish you all L’Shana Tovah (for a good year!)!<br />
-----<br />
<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vvr8AjT0aD0">L'Chaim</a> - today's blogpost title is a song from Fiddler on the Roof, it means "to life!" which is not what people say to each other on Rosh Hashanah, but is as close as I could get :)Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06430366457754481393noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5810664966396968147.post-41858059470587820892013-09-03T08:11:00.002-07:002013-09-04T14:55:48.316-07:00Nice Work If You Can Get It<div dir="ltr">
Musing on labor...<br />
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Yesterday was Labor Day, a day dedicated (the United States Department of Labor website informed me) to paying “tribute to the contributions workers have made to the strength, prosperity, and well-being of our country.”</div>
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<br />
I’d like to take this opportunity to muse on a special contribution of mine and my husband’s to our world. Going back nine and a half months, I recall a day that may never be recognized as a national holiday, but will forever be the day that first comes to mind when I hear the word “labor.” </div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br />
I’ve heard it said that no one gets a medal for having a baby without drugs. “You <i>know</i>," the triage nurse said to me in a ho hum tone while I breathed deeply through another intense and painful contraction (I found out later that I was likely in what some people describe as <a href="http://www.babycenter.com/stages-of-labor?page=3">transition</a> at the time), "you can have an epidural right up until the baby's here." We had just gotten through telling her I was going to try this without an epidural. "Please don't offer me an epidural unless we ask for one" I had handwritten in very friendly penmanship in my "birth plan." But even in the midst of labor, the look on her face was unmistakable to me, the sound of her voice was clear. She was annoyed that I was exerting energy, that I was experiencing pain. </div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br />
It felt kind of like if someone saw you biking up a hill on your way to work one morning (maybe this is a choice you'd made to get a little exercise, or because you liked the way you felt after a rigorous bike ride up a hill, or because you wanted to reduce your carbon footprint, or save gas money) and someone yelled at you out their window while driving by “You <i>know</i>, no one gets a medal for riding their bike to work!”</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br />
I've also seen the opposite happen... Someone says to an expecting mother, “You’re not going to use drugs during labor are you?” Revisiting the biking analogy, it’s as though you’re driving to work one morning and a person standing outside your car yells at you, “You really should walk to work you <u>insert judgmental adjective</u> (Lazy jerk! Fat ass loser! Wasteful scum!)” </div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br />
We don't tell people how to begin their work days. We don't make critical comments to people who make a different transportation choice from our own. We don’t make people feel bad for trying to do something they perceive as good. Or at least, we shouldn't. </div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br />
I would like to propose that we honor all the ways in which women labor babies into the world. And I’d like to do it without negative commenting. I’d like to allow women to celebrate their own experiences of labor without needing to put them down. </div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br />
I’d like to celebrate my own labor.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br />
No, I did not get a medal for laboring our daughter into the world without pain medication, but I didn't need one. Actually, I reject the notion that any person needs promise of a medal to motivate her to do something difficult. My labor was a rigorous, fast-paced, intense, and at times painful ride. With my loving husband by my side, as well the reassuring calm of my doula’s voice (see below), I felt every contraction, deep breathed and counted, moaned and shouted, and even “hee hee hoo-ed” just like in the movies. As I pushed, I asked for a mirror, and got to watch the most beautiful, perfect, glorious baby fly out of my body and into the world. It felt amazing. I felt accomplished. I felt proud. I didn’t need a medal. I would have chucked that thing through a window. It’s presence would have felt like a ridiculous belittling token next to the living, breathing, cuddly piece of love that we received instead. </div>
<div dir="ltr">
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In my view, that’s pretty “nice work, if you can get it.”<br />
-----<br />
If you're looking for a calm, cool, comforting doula with a lot of heart in the Los Angeles area, please look up <a href="http://www.doulabyheart.com/">Kate Zachary</a>. She's precisely the kind of marvelous, Midwestern, (someday) mama, we wanted right by our sides.<br />
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<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NVgKiadhVJk">Nice Work If You Can Get It</a> - today's blogpost title is a song by George and Ira Gershwin</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06430366457754481393noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5810664966396968147.post-44686450251905038142013-08-30T10:50:00.000-07:002013-09-03T20:30:40.405-07:00Me<div dir="ltr">
Nine and a half months ago I became mama to a beautiful baby girl. My husband and I didn't know she was going to be a girl. It was a secret to everyone, even our doctor. It was the sweetest, most fulfilling, surprise of our lives, and it's a surprise that keeps on giving.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
So, I'm a mama. That's the newest adjective in the list of adjectives in my blog title. So far, it's the best job I've ever had. </div>
<div dir="ltr">
I'm also Midwestern. I was born in metro-Detroit, grew up there, and did my undergraduate studies at Western Michigan University. After that I moved away from the Midwest for 10 years, but now I'm back! We live on the south side of Chicago, a city I'm just getting to know, but is already feeling like home. Maybe it's because of my Midwestern heart and soul.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
And I'm musical. I love to sing. I play the piano. Once upon a time I played the violin, and erhu. Sometimes I pretend to play guitar. I like acting in musicals, listening to jazz singers, and singing lullabies to my baby. Anything can be a lullaby, if you sing it lullaby-ishly.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
I'm a lot of other things too, I'll share them eventually, but I like alliterations, so musical, Midwestern, and mama, made the cut. In this blog, you will find my musings.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06430366457754481393noreply@blogger.com0