Geisha School Dropout

Sounds of Saturday: Donna Summer Edition

She was so beautiful, with a voice like a nightingale:

RIP, Ms. Summer

Houston, We Have a Problem...and a Confession

(My response this short article on self-harm and violence in the Korean American community.)

I know this seems like a big bummer to post this during the holiday season, but 'tis also the season for a spike in suicides, suicide attempts, and domestic violence.

Does this ring a bell for you at all?  It definitely did for me:

Grace Yoon, executive director of the Korean American Family Service Center in New York, told The Huffington Post that Koreans come to America with high hopes of acquiring wealth and providing a good education for their children. When their expectations are not met, some feel like they have let their families down. Yoon commented that the problem has gotten worse since the recession, "especially with Korean fathers and heads of households whose small businesses are not doing well."

The article goes on to say that the intergenerational language barrier as well as the cultural taboo against seeking mental health services may contribute to the higher-than-average suicide rate in Korean Americans.

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If this helps anyone at all, I'll just put myself out there as someone who did try to kill herself when she was in the throes of what she now recognizes as a major depressive episode.  

I was 21, feeling exhausted and beaten down, not doing well in school, but instead of seeking help, I just ignored my health and soldiered on, terrified of delaying my graduation by yet another quarter or year.  It got to the point where I stopped talking to my friends and stopped checking in with my parents, unable to keep up the lies when I claimed I was okay.  As I got more and more insular, my whole world consisted of my classes and my inability to attend them, my lack of focus, my inevitable failure.  So a few days before my first finals, hating myself for letting my parents down, they who worked so hard and sacrificed so much so that I could go to a top-notch school, and I couldn't even repay them with simply succeeding, I tried to take my own life.  I honestly thought I was doing them a favor, relieving a burden.

I was so, so lucky that my attempt was feeble at best, and my roommate was in the apartment.

After that, I was hospitalized for a week.  For some reason, I had this stereotype against psychiatry and didn't consider it a fully-valid field of medicine.  I could not have been more wrong.  Thanks to the medication, counseling, and support I received then and afterwards, I finally graduated from university.  My grade point average was barely enough to scrape past, and my department might or might not have overlooked a single missing requirement, but I did it.  And my life instantly became easier once I stepped foot outside that damn campus and moved on with my life.

Did I at 21 have even the tiniest correct inkling about how life after college would be like?  Absolutely not!  My instincts and intuition that I relied on so heavily turned out to be completely off; I think it was because I was completely biased to see only the negative.  That's what depression does; it skews your outlook on everything to just remember the negative and completely ignore the positive, and that small shift in perspective is what makes depression so dangerous.  It was actually quite a relief to discover that my "lenses" were off and needed readjusting.  

The turning point for me was my dad tearfully telling me that he would rather have a non-college-graduate daughter than no daughter at all.  That he would have let me crash at home for as long as I needed in order to get back on my feet again.  And that he was truly sorry that it had to come to this for him to tell me that, that this was completely uncharted territory for him, that we would get through this together.  My mom was too overcome with emotion to speak to me then, but as time went on, I came to realize that she felt the same way.  And believe me when I tell you that my parents made the Tiger Mom look like a kitten; that I was pushed very hard all my childhood; and if you had asked me before all this if I truly believed they loved me, I would have a hearty laugh at the mere notion.

But it turned out that my Korean parents, as stoic and strict and cruel and physically punitive as they were, were still parents.  And now they are very demonstrative, nurturing, giving, loving grandparents.  

And now, daily I think to myself, "I'm so relieved I'm not dead.  All the fun I would have missed out on!"

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If you at any point feel as hopeless as I did that summer, please know that you aren't "crazy," that you are struggling alongside countless others, that there are other solutions besides death, that people love you and are rooting for you, that honest-to-goodness there is light at the end of the tunnel.  Or at the very least, there are enough points of light inside the tunnel to make it worth sticking around to observe.  DO NOT MISS OUT ON THE REST OF YOUR LIFE.

Call a friend and tell them you need help, call 1-800-273-8255, go to the emergency room, connect with people online, just don't leave yourself alone with the thoughts you are thinking, the same way you would try to save your friend who is trapped in a house with someone who is trying to kill them.

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If you got this far, thanks so much for reading.  This was difficult to write.

Cross-posted on Kimchi Mamas

Questions from the Audience #1

Sonya writes: What would your 33 year-old self say to your 13 year-old self?

Okay, attempting to channel myself at 13...seventh grader at a 7-12th grade academic magnet school, falling in love with every junior and senior boy who walked passed me in the halls, all perms and bangs and glasses and braces and biker shorts.  I was on the chubby side and clumsy, but was very interested in current music, movies, and fashion.  Basically invisible to the popular people, especially the upperclassmen, but my friends and I were tight.  Our clique was known for being goodie two-shoes, and within that group I was already deemed a bit of a loose cannon with the loud laugh.

First and foremost, I wanted to be a cheerleader.  At the time, they represented all that was awesome about America.  I loved the uniforms, even in our school's colors of brown, gold, and white, and dreamed about one day being able to get a set of my own, putting my hair up in a ribboned high ponytail, and having a smiley sorority of friends.

To that end, I auditioned for the junior high pep squad early in the year.  It was my first time learning a choreographed routine, and my try-out was abysmal at best.  Needless to say, I didn't make it, but one of my best friends did, and although I was crushed, I was sincerely thrilled for her.  She actually went on to be a member of the pep squad every year, and was the varsity squad captain our senior year.  She even let me try on her uniform (didn't zip up, but still thrilling)!  And although I was sad, I knew I had a lot of specific skills to work on, so I wasn't too discouraged.

Life went on.  I didn't try out for cheer in 8th grade, recognizing that my body was getting even more uncoordinated as I was going through some uneven growth spurts.  But I did try out for junior varsity mascot, thoroughly convinced that my combination of goofiness and sassiness would be such a great asset to the noble field of Mascotry, but I still wasn't what they were looking for.  Then every following year, I auditioned for mascot again, giving it my best at the time, and every year my biology teacher would frown sympathetically and tell me the bad news.

Until junior year, that is.  I finally was able to dance convincingly enough and choreographed a hilarious routine with my audition partner.  Because I would be a senior the following year, that officially made me varsity mascot captain!  (Oh, the power and the glory!  Ha ha ha!)  But during mascot camp, something really clicked between me, my team, and my mascot instructor.  We were awesome!  I was even invited to audition to become an instructor myself.  I was on top of my little bitty world, and I was so grateful for every second of it.

Therefore, I don't know what I would tell that 7th grade girl.  She had more gumption and guts than I do now.  If I told her not to attempt the things that would absolutely break her heart, would she really benefit?  So much strength, courage, and humor came from that suffering.  

I would just hug her and tell her to just do her thing, but maybe tell her to not get so sad when things do start to get harder in the later teen years.  That people were and will be cruel to her, and to realize that it was their problem, not hers.  That Kurt Cobain is going to kill himself the next year, and from then on, the romanticism of suicide will crawl into her psyche and take residence there, seemingly harmless, until it really threatens her life in college.  Maybe just watch out for that, and don't let it cut her so deep.

Also, in college, keep her head up; keep going to class, no matter how dismally she performed on her first midterms.  There is so much glory in redemption, none in self-destruction.  Don't give up.  Channel the girl who tried out for pep squad every single year with the same optimism and spirit.

Oh, and if she want to dance with that boy, go up to him and ask.  Lots of dances wasted on waiting.

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Do you have a question for me? You can ask me anything, about motherhood, depression, not living up to your parents' expectations, my personal Top 5, hobbies, what I'm wearing, anything!  Please comment below or email me.

I Think I'm Allergic to Summer

What is it about summer that brings out the extremes in things?  

Take my garden, for instance: birds, butterflies, and bees flit and flutter past in pairs, reeling under the influence of nectar and hormones.  Every flowering plant is a-flower, every fruiting tree is a-fruiting, and if you stopped right there, you'd be able to write sonnets about how full of life summer is.

However, my eyes see danger and doom.  Our grass has browned, and our chickens miss nibbling on it.  The grapes and tomatoes can barely keep standing under the weight of all their leaves and not-quite-ripe-yet fruit.  Once the fruit ripens, the grapes' leaves will fall and the tomato plants will die.   Food spoils faster both inside and outside the house, thighs get burnt on car upholstery, sweat and oil clog pores and flatten hair.  And of course, the heat is inescapable: it is in the air, the ground, my skin, my eyes.  

The sun, giver of light and life, also doles out pain and disease.  I got sunburned on Monday playing in the pool with the kids, and now I feel flu-like symptoms as my skin starts to peel.  

I feel sorry for my kids: they love the outdoors and don't mind the heat.  Meanwhile, I feel like a BBQ pork bun about to burst. 

Maybe this is why I went through a goth phase, and why I enjoyed living in Seattle when I was 20.  Oy.

Where do you stand on summer?

Mixed Feelings

I first heard about the death of Osama bin Laden through Facebook.  I was able to live-stream President Obama's remarks and hear some of the analysis immediately afterwards.  I thought about my friends who lost loved ones on 9/11 and hoped that the news brought them some peace or closure.  I was awe-struck at the realization that while President Obama was pwning Donald Trump at the White House Correspondents Dinner the previous night, he knew all this was going on.  Man, our POTUS has a thing or two to teach us about zen mastery.

I really thought the tone of Obama's announcement to the world was spot-on.  It was appropriately sober and direct, the words were obviously carefully chosen to show deep respect for the victims of 9/11, our military, and the other nations who have lost so many of their own people in this war.  I was also amazed that the mission lasted just a couple hours and resulted in no American casualties.  My favorite part of the speech:

As we do, we must also reaffirm that the United States is not –- and never will be -– at war with Islam.  I’ve made clear, just as President Bush did shortly after 9/11, that our war is not against Islam.  Bin Laden was not a Muslim leader; he was a mass murderer of Muslims.  Indeed, al Qaeda has slaughtered scores of Muslims in many countries, including our own.  So his demise should be welcomed by all who believe in peace and human dignity.

But after I saw images of my own countrymen basically holding a frat party outside of the White House, hanging off of trees and singing "Nah nah nah nah, hey hey hey, goodbye," I didn't feel so good anymore.  I felt strangely panicky, in fact, and wanted to announce to the world that I was also an American and didn't feel celebratory at all, that we are not a hateful people.  After the initial shock, I now just feel empty by how quickly this has turned into a bit of a farce, our real world version of "1984," complete with the Two Minutes of Hate.

This morning, I read this statement from the Council on American Islamic Relations (this and other Muslim reactions can be found on Goat Milk):

We join our fellow citizens in welcoming the announcement that Osama bin Laden has been eliminated as a threat to our nation and the world through the actions of American military personnel. As we have stated repeatedly since the 9/11 terror attacks, bin Laden never represented Muslims or Islam. In fact, in addition to the killing of thousands of Americans, he and Al Qaeda caused the deaths of countless Muslims worldwide. We also reiterate President Obama’s clear statement tonight that the United States is not at war with Islam.

Although very tactfully worded, it reminded me of who was actually conducting the majority of the Muslim deaths worldwide: we are.   9/11 did not just kill over 3,000 people over the course of one day; over a million people died in Iraq alone, and those people had as much to do with the 9/11 terrorist attacks as I did.  Does the death of Osama bin Laden justify or bring closure to their deaths as well?  Does the fact that "he started it" make him the only person responsible for the millions of lives lost or displaced in these 10 years?  I'm not sure, and I don't know what to do about it.

Returning hate for hate multiplies hate, adding deeper darkness to a night already devoid of stars. Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that. Hate multiplies hate, violence multiplies violence, and toughness multiplies toughness in a descending spiral of destruction. So when Jesus says "Love your enemies," he is setting forth a profound and ultimately inescapable admonition. ... The chain reaction of evil — hate begetting hate, wars producing more wars — must be broken, or we shall be plunged into the dark abyss of annihilation.

- Martin Luther King, Jr.

Year in Review: 2010

2010 was a helluva year, one where our family spread out roots, having lived in our neighborhood for more than two years.  Isaac and Emi were finally invited to birthday parties, we got to know all the pho restaurants within a few miles from our house, and we didn't have to change any of our basic information on our tax return!  Isaac learned how to read, Emi learned how to talk like a human being, and we added two chickens to our family.  All in all, I think we all grew stronger and more confident.  Here is a list of the most notable stories from each month:

January: To think that this recent spate of rain was bad!  Our neighborhood floods and I find solace in, of all things, palm trees.

February: A little chihuahua enters and exits our lives, and I still regret sending him home!  Emi still asks where little Bito went.  Darn doing the right thing all to heck!

March: The world loses one of its brightest spirits.  Oh Renee, it still hurts each time I see something beautiful or funny, to not have you say something clever about it.

April: Emi earns her sassiness crown, and Isaac can't stop kissing a girl from his class.  This all makes for one crazy-ass Mama.

May: Depression, aka the Black Dog, scratched at my door, wanting back in.

June: Summer in our household = veggie porn, bonfires, sports camp, and World Cup-inspired jingoism.  Bossy little girls are always in season.

July: Flipping off airplanes while smoking a 2-year-old cigarette is an awesome hobby for a little ol' rebel like me.

August: I list my morning routine, where take care of all creatures, big and small, and seeing it all laid out that way helps me to realize I'm a freak.

September: Isaac and his literacy totally throw me off my game.  Killing cones!!!

October: One family's trip to their neighborhood Target, aka raw, unadulterated crazy-making.

November: Emi's verbal antics catch the eye of one member of Tears for Fears!

December: Isaac apparently took Feminism 101 in utero and lectures me on gender stereotypes and self-identity.  

I hope you and your loved ones have an awesome New Year's Eve, and I'll see you in 2011!

 

Dyin', Part Two

When I wrote yesterday's post, I didn't realize there would be a part two.  But such is life.

Yesterday, Tim worked from home so we could have a birthday lunch together.  After we picked Isaac up from school, I left the two boys at home so I could go grocery shopping.  The chickens were enjoying their afternoon free range time, trying to keep cool in the 90-degree heat by hanging out in their normal 3:00 bush.

I got back home and started putting the groceries away when I noticed Cheep Cheep poking her head out of a shelf!  She was actually sitting inside the Crock Pot, her golden eyes daring me to not allow her to stay there.  It was a strange moment.  I figured the heat brought her inside, but then again, it was odd that she overcame her fear of Maggie and Isaac to hang out there by herself.  

I knew it would freak her out if I tried to grab her then, so I knelt down to her level and offered her some chicken scratch, when suddenly Rosie waddles towards us from the direction of the living room!  I was simply flabbergasted.  Now that they were reunited, they both willingly went back outside.  I asked Tim if anything happened while I was gone and he said nothing seemed to be the matter.  But I figured something was really wrong when Rosie and Cheep Cheep scurried back to their bush without their usual conversation.  My heart sank when I noticed that Dr. Evil wasn't bringing the rear like she usually does.

It didn't take me long to find her.  Next to the bush fluttered some stray feathers and Dr. Evil's body, still mostly whole, just her head missing.  I did some quick Internet research and discovered that this was the modus operandi of raccoons and red tailed hawks, and since it wasn't nightfall and we've seen hawks around before, I knew our neighborhood lawnchair lurker finally attempted a kill after months of waiting.  

After Tim picked her up and placed her in a paper bag for safekeeping, I called for Isaac to tell him the news and to have him help me herd the other two into their coop.  He took it very calmly and asked to see her body, which we showed to him because it wasn't all that gruesome.  He grew quiet and said, "She was such a nice chicken.  I'm going to miss her.  Are we going to get a new one?"  I told him I doubted it, not until we could guarantee their safety.

But maybe we can never guarantee that.  I knew there was a risk of our girls getting sick or killed since they are pretty ideal prey animals, especially Dr. Evil, who was slower, smaller, and more docile than the other two.  But I always pictured predator and prey scenarios to be more noble than this.  Why did the hawk just take her head, and perhaps more importantly, which unlucky neighbor is going to find Dr. Evil's black puffball on their doorstep?  It just seemed so senseless and wasteful.

We told Emi the news after dinner.  She took the news well, and headed off to play with her dolls.  I overheard her telling her dolls that Dr. Evil was in a bag. 

We buried Dr. Evil in a corner of our backyard on a bed of woodchips, with some chicken scratch and a couple superworms.

I'm very sorry I let you down, Doctor.

Dyin'

Yesterday, the kids and I had to grab an early dinner, so we headed towards the nearest pho restaurant.  On the way home, Isaac asked me out of the blue, "Where is Riley now?  Where did he go when he died?"

I just couldn't tell him the truth: that he was in a ziploc bag inside a wooden box on top of the refrigerator.  It didn't seem poetic enough, and probably not the answer he was looking for.

I told him that after animals die, you can choose to bury or cremate them and we had Riley cremated, which meant his body turned into dust and ashes, not unlike sand.

Isaac wanted to know if he could see Riley's sand.  I told him someday he could, but I'm not sure if he's ready to see the sand yet.  He concurred, and said he'll remind me again when he's 10.

Emi was mostly silent during this exchange.  Occasionally she would interject, "But I have TWO dogs!" or "Riley is not Maggie's name!  Maggie's name is...uh....Maggie!"

However, once we moved on to another conversation completely, Emi suddenly shouted out, "I know where dogs go when they die!!!"

"Where?!??!" asked Isaac incredulously.

"They go to the ZOO!" 

 Hey, sure beats the top of the fridge.

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Today is my birthday!  To commemorate, here are 10 songs that define me:

To Serve and Protect

NaBloPoMo Lesson #1: Blogging daily is hard!  Here I sit on the ninth day of July, and I'm already stumped as to what to talk about today.  

The only thing on my mind, other than the din of normal daily activities, is the Johannes Mehserle verdict.  He was a BART policeman convicted of involuntary manslaughter for shooting a man named Oscar Grant during an arrest.  Grant was involved in a brawl inside one of the trains, was pulled out of the train at the Fruitvale BART station, ordered to lie face-down on the platform, and was in the process of getting handcuffed when Mehserle shot him in the back.  The officer claimed he only meant to Taser him, thinking Grant was reaching for his side pocket, but shot him with his gun instead.  The whole incident was caught on camera from several angles, but it was still up in the air whether Grant was actually handcuffed at the time.  However, he was definitely unarmed and to me at least, posed no threat to the officers in any way, being spread-eagled with multiple burly officers on top of him.

Although I agree that there is enough room for reasonable doubt for a murder conviction, the INvoluntary part bugs me.  If I accidentally hit someone with my car, that's involuntary manslaughter.  This situation seemed different; Mehserle was obviously worked up.  There were obvious racial undertones.  Witnesses even heard him say the N-word.  If Oscar Grant were of any other race, that officer would not have felt the pressing need to arrest him, let alone point-blank Taser him.  He would have been thrown into the drunk tank for bad-mouthing an officer.

I once had a friend who got into a drunken argument with a stranger on the BART in the wee hours of the morning.  Although I was afraid they would really start fighting, I never thought a possible ending to the story would involve the BART police punching him in the face, laying him down on the concrete platform, then fatally shooting him in the back.  But we were young, non-black college students.  The rules that govern our lives are inherently different.  Getting killed just is not on our list of possibilities at any given time.  I don't think that's the case if you're a black male in Oakland.  I think it's at all times a small possibility, although there are hundreds of intertwined reasons as to why that came to be.

Both Tim and I loved living in Oakland.  In our eyes, it was the only town in the Bay Area that was genuine.  But there definitely were two Oaklands; the alabaster houses on the hills looking down on the crowded flatlands below.  It was obvious the white neighborhoods had much better services than everyone else.  That was just the way things were.

When I taught in East Oakland, it was also obvious my students did not feel safe in their neighborhoods.  Their fathers, uncles, cousins, brothers were plucked away one by one, either to jail or to the grave.  These kids went to more funerals that school year than I had ever attended my whole life.  Obviously, not all the deaths (if any) were directly caused by the police, but the police were not there to stop the violence.  Is that not their job?  If not, is it okay for the neighborhood to be left alone to fend for itself in such a way? 

How will this chasm between this community's police department and its citizenry be bridged?  When will Oakland residents feel safe again, that their boys in blue are indeed there to "Serve and Protect"?

Advice, Part One: Marriage

 
Image from Stuff No One Told Me 

On two separate occasions recently, I was asked for relationship advice.  I'm actually not very good at giving advice, I can only tell you my story and hopefully you can glean something useful from it.  Keep in mind, though, that Tim and I are odd ducks.  I mean, hello, we got married 37 days after we met for the first time.  Who am I to give advice?  Don't answer that, just keep reading.  At the very least, you'll feel better about your own life.  :)

Tim and I fight a lot, ranging from bickering over the right way to wash the dishes to all-night scream-and-cry fests followed by two days of the silent treatment then two days of make-up sex.  We thought that was a problem, because couples all around us didn't seem to fight as much, if at all.  As a result, we went through a few marriage counselors.  Truthfully, they were mostly charlatans.  They didn't have the answers we were looking for because:

1. They do not individualize their advice to accommodate different personalities and cultural norms.  Or worse, they thought they had us figured out because we were Asian and Asian people acted a certain way.
2. For some odd reason, counselors do a lot of projecting of their own issues onto their clients.
3. There probably are no answers.  

If someone tells me one more time to express my frustration using "I statements" like "I feel hurt and scared when you come home drunk all the time" vs. "Stop coming home drunk all the time!" and somehow magically the first sentence will get me less of a beating, I will cut them.  Better yet, I will cut up their diploma.  Stop insulting my intelligence!

The only school of thought that was worth a damn in our experience was John Gottman.  He's the guy written up by Malcolm Gladwell in "Blink" who can observe a couple for 10 minutes and predict to 91% accuracy whether they will divorce in 10 years or not.  His main premise is, you don't have to communicate every little thing, and you don't have to resolve every point of contention.  Instead, you concentrate on living with these inevitable differences and remembering why you got married in the first place.  I wholeheartedly recommend his book; it looks cheesy, but it is fantastic. 

As for the couples around us who don't seem to fight, a few of them are now divorced.  I was only really close to one of them, and it turns out, for them at least, once they got really good at hiding their true feelings, reactions, and desires from each other (to appease or otherwise avoid conflict), they eventually got good at hiding a lot of things from each other.  They never fought, but they grew apart.

My friend Renee put it best, actually.  Before she passed away from cancer, she wrote down her thoughts on marriage, and they ring so true:

I have mostly been happy in my marriage; but is happiness the measure of a marriage? I ask that question because everyone always talks about how happy they are. How their marriage is and always has been fantastic. 

 I don’t believe that people themselves are happy all of the time, so how can they be happy in their marriage all of the time? Just because someone is not happy at some points in their marriage does not mean they have a bad marriage. 

I believe that when you are doing things in the marriage you have to stop thinking about how it could be better and enjoy it the way it is. Let your head be present in the experience and not outside of the experience criticizing it; thinking about how it could be better and how it is not good enough, when in fact, it is more than good enough. In my marriage, for me, there has been a real need to drop the fantasy and enjoy the reality.

I know that any problems we have had are small potatoes compares to what may be ahead of us as now we live in tornado conditions. I know that with Wahid in my life his support will help give me the strength I need to see myself through.

Hopefully if you are in a relationship where there is a lot of conflict but you still love each other, you now have a glimmer of hope.  Basically, even in the midst of a knock-down-drag-out fight, you can ask the other person, "Will you still hold my hand as I slip away from this mortal coil, as Wahid did Renee's?" and the other person has to say yes; then the fight doesn't seem so high stakes, and you can choose to continue anyway but with more love and caring, or just hug each other and thank the universe for another day together.

PS: Here is marriage advice from George Takei:

The Man's Guide To Love #127 from themansguidetolove on Vimeo