Geisha School Dropout

The Legacy of Bullying

Please watch this video!

 

"To This Day," by Shane Koyczan

Like most good poetry, this video made me realize that I had known this truth, "They were wrong," but didn't have words for it until the poet uttered them for me.  Instinctually, the other day when Emi came home in tears because a boy in her class said her pig drawing was ugly, the first thing I asked her was, "Do you believe him?  Do you think your drawing was ugly?"  And when she said no, her pig was fabulous, I knew deep down she would be fine, for now at least.

Three words form the key to taking all power away from a bully, to know in your gut that they're full of shit.  Or at the very least, to briefly entertain the notion: what if they were wrong?  What if they were lying just to make you feel bad, and make themselves feel better because of it?

I remember the what if, that infinitesimal possibility that maybe I wasn't a crybaby, or a freak, or a "retard," or a fat walrus (or was it elephant seal?).  Most of the time I definitely believed their words.  I remember walking on my tiptoes everywhere because a boy once told me I made the windows rattle with every step I took.  I remember the day my so-called friend printed and distributed a newsletter about me to everyone in my class, pointing out all of my imperfections, from my belly to my laugh.

But somehow, my soul must have asked at the right times, "Wouldn't it be totally funny if they were wrong?" because I survived all that.  

Talking to Isaac about Sandy Hook

I talked to Isaac about the school shooting at Sandy Hook Elementary on Friday evening.  I was in the middle of dropping the kids off at my parents' house so Tim and I could attend his office Christmas party, and my parents had the news blaring on the television.

I saw Isaac read the headline on the bottom of the screen, and his brow furrowed.  "What does this mean, 20 children are dead from school shooting?"

I sat on the ground and pulled him into my lap.  "Isaac, a crazy man with a bunch of guns went into an elementary school this morning and shot people.  He shot students and teachers, and they think about 27 people are dead.  20 of them are kids."

"Did they catch him?  Is he in jail?"

"He is dead too.  The police found him and he's dead.  He won't hurt anybody else."

"Okay, that's pretty good I guess."

"Emily, come over here now.  Isaac and  Emi, I'm going to tell you something that you have to promise never to forget.  If something terrible happens at school, if there is a fire or an earthquake or a burglar or a person who wants to hurt people, you need to listen to your teacher, okay?  If it's an intruder, your teacher will probably tell you to stay quiet and to hide somewhere, and if she tells you to hide somewhere, you stay hidden until the police come get you, okay?  Even if things are quiet."

They nodded.  And then I hugged them way too hard for their liking.

That night, Isaac had a pretty cool dream:

Last night I dreamed that in the future, when babies are still in the mama’s belly, that creatures that look like ticks and spiders try to attack the baby inside. But then in my dreams I invented a tiny machine, a tiny robot, that stood at the opening and attacked the ticks and spiders.

Also I wanted to make the babies safer even more, so I tried to make pills that would make a hole or ditch that the baby could hide in inside the mama’s belly, and the pills would put a cream on the baby so that anything that touched it until it was born would get a bruise and limp away. But at first the baby just fell into the hole and cried as it fell in because it was too deep. So I went back and fixed some things and tried again.  It took me four times to perfect it. Then when the baby *was* safe, I woke up.

Here are some of my more immediate thoughts during the weekend:

I understand that the US will remain a gun-toting nation for the conceivable future, and apparently yesterday's tragedy is the price the rest of us have to pay for other people's obsessions with them. I get it, and that is why I am choosing not to try to convince any pro-second-amendment folks to reconsider things. If they slept well yesterday, then they won't be convinced ever.

Perhaps I am stuck in the anger phase of mourning, but right now, if I see any of you talking about YOUR precious rights after 20 babies were taken from their families...I sneeze in your general direction and will make sure you have no influence on the minds and souls of my own children.

...

It's the tone that I object to most, I think. The pro-more-gun-control people are hand-wringing and navel-gazing and wondering about how we as a society can prevent another tragedy like this from occurring again. Meanwhile, some pro-NRA types are making jokes, being sarcastic, toting slogans. I fucking hate that. You are doing nothing for your cause.

Yes, still in anger stage of mourning.

It is now Tuesday, and not a half-hour goes by without thinking about those babies and the adults who tried to protect them.  These beautiful souls, whom I never met, yet love and miss as if they were friends, did not deserve to die that day, especially in such a violent way.  And I don't know if I handled things well with Isaac and Emi, although they do seem to be acting normally.  All tolled, I'm a mess.

My friend, WSJ columnist Jeff Yang, came up with this brilliant comic with his 9-year-old son Hudson, which got published on the NY Daily:

A Piece of Korean Romance

When people think of the world's greatest tragic romances, they may conjure up Romeo and Juliet, Rhett and Scarlet, or Cathy and Heathcliff.  However, I hope after this, people will also think of Eung-Tae Lee and his widow.

In 1998, South Korean archaeologists found the mummified remains of Eung-Tae Lee, who died in 1586, buried with one of the saddest, most romantic letters I have ever read, written by his widow.  Here's just a small snippet: (hat tip to Letters of Note yet again...seriously, folks, it is the best blog out there right now.)

How did you bring your heart to me and how did I bring my heart to you? Whenever we lay down together you always told me, "Dear, do other people cherish and love each other like we do? Are they really like us?" How could you leave all that behind and go ahead of me?

So long ago, and she was so distraught, she could easily have jumped off the nearest Lover's Leap to rejoin her love.  But she didn't!  She had to raise their son, and here's the dramatic twist...SHE WAS PREGNANT WITH THEIR SECOND!!!  So instead of completely succombing to her grief, she cut off her hair, weaved her locks into one last pair of sandals for her husband, and buried them with him!  Even Sophocles and Shakespeare couldn't come up with a gesture more poignant than that.  Le sigh.

Romance, it's in our blood, Kimchi brothers and sisters, and for much longer than "Winter Sonata" has been on syndication. Now go forth and woo.

Cross-posted on Kimchi Mamas.

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.