Fill Up Your Cup

My dad's never been one to give me long lectures or life lessons.  I can think of one time when he punished me, he was mad about something I said at the dinner table that was impolite and hit me with his chopsticks in anger.  It didn't even hurt, it had just startled me a bit.  My mom has always been the discipliner.  So when my dad gave me some advice on cups, I took it to heart and I'm always thinking about it whenever I'm working hard at something.

He told me everyone has cups.  Some are larger, some are smaller - but we have cups for everything we can do in this life.  Some of our cups come already filled, some a bit, some halfway, some all the way - but whatever the size of our cup or how much it's filled, we can do our best to fill it to the brim.  With hard work, diligence, practice, and consistent effort, we can have every cup full.

I'm not good at cooking.  I'm not good at sewing.  I'm not good at make-up.  Yet within the last five years of marriage, I've cooked everyday, I've forced myself to sew some simple projects (mostly hemming curtains), and I've learned the power of a blending brush.  I'm always amazed at how one can improve over time with earnest and consistent practice.  It makes me wonder if that's what all the Tiger Moms were getting at when they made their kids do every single sport, go to tutors at a young age, and do instruments so young.  They must have thought if they capitalized on the amount of time input from a young age, their kids would be at an advantage.  I've found, however, without interest, the effort is useless.

Over the last three years, I've used Photoshop to make prints, flyers, invitations, posters, and party tags.  I've gone from a slow turtle crawl googling every question I have to a quick layering maniac.  When I look back at how far I've come in just a few years with my own self-taught Photoshop skills, I wonder what else I could be self-improving and learning.  And then I remember I have to be interested in it too, and genuinely put forth the dedication.  I may not be a successful Etsy entrepreneur or a design mom, but I'm a little further than I was three years ago.  My cup, as small as it may be, is on its way to being full.

Thanks dad.  What have you been doing lately to filling your cups?

Also, I've learned in the past few weeks that if I don't want to put make-up on but want to look good in photos, there is an app for that.

Just Hand Me Some Sun-In Already

Obedient Chinese daughters shall...
1. Never used Sun-In in their hair

In middle school, I once asked my mom if I could put Sun-In, a spray in hair lightener, to turn my hair from black to brown.  “Why do you wanting to look more like American?” she asked me. Her voice hadn't gotten louder, but from the intent look in her stare, I knew she was furious and upset.  "Your black hair is beautiful!  Don't go ruining it with that artificial hurting your hair stuff!"  

I hadn’t really given it much thought.  All the Asian girls were doing it.  I liked the way it looked.  And, it would make me so much cooler.  Who didn't want their hair to turn brown?  

"Well, if you really want to do something that is natural, try using beer," she told me.  

"Beer?"  Was she serious?

"Yes, your Yi-Ma and I both did it when we were younger.  Making hair look beautiful.  Silky, healthy, beer good for hair, might turn it a little lighter naturally."  

"Would you get me some beer?" I couldn't believe I was asking my mom to buy me some beer, not to consume, but to wash my hair with.

"Yes, we'll get you some beer.  No Sunning-In"  

I'd never been one to go against my mom's wishes.  Sure, I talked back all the time.  But never anything too offensive, in my defense, I was just a curious child.  

How badly I wanted some brown hair against my tan too dark skin.  Beer it was.  Maybe I'd even try a sip of it.  

A few days later, we finally got some beer for my hair.  It smelled like expired pee.  How could anyone drink this stuff?  I poured it over my hair, stopping to take one small sip, then spitting it out before I could even consume it at the shock of the rancid bitter taste.  

I washed my hair with six cans of Budlight beer in the seventh grade.  My mom ooed and awwed that it was looking so healthy and lighter.  My closest friends just laughed and mocked me, asking me why I didn't just use some of their Sun-In and then explain that the beer was working!  

To be honest, I was too scared.  Luckily, in light of my cowardice, I withheld from rebelling and stuck with my dark black, now oozing of beer aroma Chinese hair.  As the sun actually set in, everyone's hair turned nice and auburn, but as time wore on it, the auburn turned to a shocking orange and it looked absolutely putrid.  As all my friends wished for their hair to return to its natural black, I secretly thanked my mom for her weird rules.  I guess my mom was right. 

Fashion...

I hate fashion.  It come and goes.  Regurgitates our mistakes from the past and calls it bold, new, refreshing, and hip.  There's only so much we can recycle and it keeps coming back, a blast from the past, more disgusting than it was the first time around.

Fashion mistakes.

Ugh.

Fashion always changes, but you know what doesn't?  Skincare.

Take care of your skin people!

First Excerpt from Chinese-American or Something Like That...

I'm so excited to share an excerpt from what I have been working on since 2004.  No joke, for my college senior thesis, I wrote about what it was like growing up ABC (American born Chinese).  It's changed a lot along the way and I haven't really focused on it until 2012... but this year, my goal is to actually finish it so here's one excerpt.  Enjoy!

Chinese-American.  Is that what I actually am?  I’ve always felt like a foreigner.  To the white man, I’m just an Asian girl.  To the true Asians abroad, I’m just an ABC (American-born Chinese).  I love the USA.  I also love my Chinese heritage.  I speak English.  I speak Mandarin.  I speak Chinglish.  I’m really just sort of lost somewhere between American and Chinese.

In reality, I am part of a small minority of immigrant children who think they can speak Chinese fluently and eat all the food from Taiwan or China, only to venture to Taiwan or China and find out I’m too dark, too thick, have an American accent, and my weak stomach can’t actually handle any authentic Taiwanese street food.  Lost somewhere between generations and cultures, learning along the way what it actually means to be American, my life has been filled with struggles to figure it out. 

I remember it took some time for me to fully realize we just didn’t celebrate American holidays the same.  I remember learning about how the Indians and Pilgrims would celebrate that first Thanksgiving together and how the tradition of elaborate Thanksgiving meals complete with corn, mashed potatoes, gravy, turkey, stuffing, and cranberry sauce would make everyone giddy with excitement.  I remember spending weeks on end during our designated craft time at school carefully using a pencil to stick brown tissue paper all over a newspaper filled paper bag to make a grand master turkey centerpiece.  I remember taking it home to my mom, telling her it was supposed to be a used for our Thanksgiving dinner, and then coming home one day and finding out she had thrown it away because it took up space.  I remember another elaborate craft project tying red and green tissue paper around a wire hanger that we had molded into a circle to make a red and green and very festive wreath for our front door.  I remember the excitement of bringing it home to my mom who told me our door didn’t have any means to hang anything on it.  I remember never writing letters to Santa Claus.   I remember opening one present from my parents on Christmas Eve because there was no such thing as waking up early on Christmas morning.  

Part of me vowed never to throw away my kids’ art projects, but mostly, it didn’t matter much.  We might not have celebrated Thanksgiving or Christmas the way white people did on the television, but we always had family, all our cousins, lots of mah-jong, and lots of Chinese food.

I think it’s funny to look back at the things I missed out on because my parents were immigrants but also fun to think about the unique experiences I did have because of that.

While American mothers were teaching their kids how to make chocolate chip cookies, I was rolling glutinous rice balls for our red bean soup.  While American mothers were making baked goods for the school fundraisers, we were taking a trip to the American super market (a rare occurrence) to buy some already baked goods to donate. While American mothers were taking their daughters to brownies and girl scout meetings and activities and AYSO soccer practice, my mother was scheduling my private tutoring sessions, speed reading classes, piano lessons, Chinese school, and dance lessons.  While American mothers were planning grand Thanksgiving dinners with stuffing inside the turkey, we were stuffing our turkeys with Chinese sticky rice (which btw is way better than stuffing).   

There were just a lot of things my mother didn’t care to adapt to when it came to the American culture.  She never said I couldn’t do what the white kids were doing, she just didn’t bring it up if I didn’t.  And because she didn’t really understand the American pop culture of the time, we were essentially fresh off the boat (“FOBs”).  I looked like I was a byproduct of Taiwan, not America.  My mom dressed me in shirts with awkward improper English phrases (I can being your friend too!), and blouses and skirts adorned with unfamiliar Chinese cartoon characters.  My mom put my hair in pigtails with big fluffy balls instead of neon shoelaces and anything of American trend in the 80’s.  I didn’t have big hair or big bangs, I had straight black hair that was flat, never crimped or curled.  And yet I had a fantastic childhood… one filled with Chinese expectations and American struggles, but fantastic nevertheless. 

 

Rules and Regulations

I don't think I'm alone when I say that immigrant children are usually not allowed to attend sleepovers.  I can count the number of times I was allowed to sleepover at a friend's house growing up.  Well, it's not really hard when it's counting to one.  Yes... one.  Once.  UNO.

My mom just always had this weird you never know if your friend's dad or brother or uncle might be some pedophile or something worse mentality.  Even when I thought she had let me sleep over once, she might let me do it again, I was wrong.  She had given me a pass, a one time only exception and she did not have any intention to allow me another go.  She just didn't trust other peoples' parents and she didn't like the idea of me being away from home at night.  If I asked, she would tell me I already got to go once, wasn't that good enough and then offer for everyone else to sleepover at our house instead.  But when most of your friends growing up also have immigrant parents, this meant most of the girls' moms had the same attitudes and fears of sleepovers and hence, ended up picking them up late at night anyway.

Well, even though my mom was really strict about sleepovers, she wasn't as strict about other things.  Like television.  Don't get me wrong, I could only watch TV from Friday after school until Sunday night, but in terms of what I watched on television?  No restrictions.  The entire concept of mature television appropriate for children was never a question for my parents.  They were all trying to consume American culture themselves, they didn't see anything wrong with it and never restricted us from anything on TV.  One of the first television shows I remember being obsessed about with my mom every Friday night... Dallas.  I can still hum the tune of the opening credits and remember being obsessed about JR (who was also from the old Genie tv show we also watched frequently on reruns).  When Beverly Hills 90210 began, despite it being on a weekday, I was able to record the pilot episode and watch it on the weekend.  When my cousin three years my senior came to live with our family for a few years in the midst of the Beverly Hills 90210 rage, we recorded every single episode and devoured it Friday night after TGIF and Sisters.  We watched some pretty mature content television for being 12 and under.. but we loved it and none of it bothered my mom.  I was eight or nine when Pretty Woman came out and I remember the adults talking about if it was okay for us to watch with them.  The discussion wasn't even a debate, just a quick .. should be okay, right?  If not, we'll cover their eyes kind of lackadaisical thought.  And so we watched it with the entire family and I still remember all us kids putting a blanket over our heads when the "sex scene" was coming - which was really just Richard Gere and Julia Roberts kissing and a fade out to darkness.  It wouldn't be until I was older and rewatching it, that I'd realize what exactly a prostitute was.  My take away was... "you work on commission?  Big mistake.  Big.  Huge!" ....

The same went for music.  Songs about sex and drugs?  Over our heads.  We just sang to the tunes and loved 'em all the same.  The radio was our best friend, and as long as no curse words were heard, my mom and dad never thought to restrict the music we listened to as we did our homework after school.  Books?  We read way too much Baby Sitters Club, Sweet Valley High, and V.C. Andrews.  Not exactly quality book reading, but all the same to my mom.  As long as we were reading, that was all she really cared about.

The thing is... when the culture and language is new to you, you just want what is best for your kids which means exposing them to whatever is out there without realizing there may be some boundaries to set.  On the flip side, with such strict rules about dating, going out with friends after 8 PM (not allowed unless it was a school function), slumber parties, and phone calls (three a day only)... it doesn't really matter what type of mature information you're exposed to.  And for me personally, it really was just watching, listening, or reading from afar.  The stories were all fiction and far from my own life of studying, playing the piano, and being a good Chinese daughter.  Just stories about American kids and the crazy things they do.  And me?  I wasn't American, definitely not.. I was Chinese American and in an entirely different world.

A world where I was sheltered and safe, and all thanks to my mom and the things she would and wouldn't let me do.

Love to the Chinese

Valentine's came and went by and I didn't get a chance to write some thoughts I had as I was helping my kids with their Valentine's.

Come back in time with me to the 90's for a brief moment.  In the 90's Trapper Keepers were all the rage and every girl wanted crimped hair, big bangs, and Lisa Frank accessories for school.  Lisa Frank was basically a brand of stickers and other paper and pencil gear that was infused with bright psychedelic rainbows, and random animals like dolphins, whales, dogs, unicorns, kittens, and swirls of overall awesomeness.  (Pretty sure Lisa Frank was on shrooms or high on Mary Jane all the time...) 

I'm not sure what the mass appeal of Lisa Frank was now that I look back and realize how insanely weird it all was, but I was indeed obsessed just like every other school aged girl in the 90s.  I was in the fifth grade when I found a pack of Lisa Frank Valentine's, I was stoked when I found ONE last pack of Lisa Frank Valentine's.  

But when I got home to put my classmates' names on the cards, I grew embarrassed about all the super lovey dovey phrases about loving you or having a huge crush on you.  I couldn't give these cards to ANY of the boys in my class!  I didn't have a crush on ANY (okay, maybe one) of them!  Part of the sheer mortification with all the loving phrases was that in our own home, love was more often expressed than verabalized and certainly never physically expressed.  I barely hugged my parents, definitely never kissed them, and love was never spoken of, only shown through obedience and filial piety.  I knew my parents loved me because we ate dinner together every night, we had dim sum with family every Saturday, they bought me clothes and paid for my piano lessons, speed reading classes, Chinese knotting classes, painting classes, reading comprehension classes, dance classes, etc., and they were my parents.  Didn't all parents love their kids anyway?  

I ended up tearing up all the Valentine's.  And then I was left with another dilemma.  It was no longer, what do I do about who receives which love infused Valentine (stupid Lisa Frank), but what do I bring to school?  I certainly could NEVER ask my parents for another box of Valentine's - I knew too well that our frugal ways would prohibit me from not only ripping the existing and perfectly fine (but overly cheesy love overwhelming) Valentine's and even thinking of asking for another box was completely out of the question.

I had to think of another way.  

My parents had a copy machine in their house.  I eventually decided to copy an image of Jasmine and Aladdin from my Aladdin soundtrack - it was loving, they were on the flying carpet together.  We only had white paper, so I copied and made use of the images by recopying ones already printed until I had thirty little paper Valentine's of Jasmine and Aladdin.  I then sat there and colored every single one and wrote Happy Valentine's Day on the top.  My life of being #notcraftyjustcheap officially began in 1993.  I attached a little piece of candy to each card and called it a day.  

Apparently, my cheap DIY paper cards made quite an impression.  Years later, friends who laugh as they recalled receiving the weirdest Valentine's that year from me.  I actually still remember receiving cards with phrases about love and being right for each other and suddenly I felt even more stupid for ripping up my initial Valentine's.  Oh well, live and learn.  I might have over thought it a bit too much, but love was just not something I was used to.  

As I was helping my sons write their Valentine's cards, I also couldn't help but notice none of their cards said anything about love - only friendship.  Maybe the times have changed?  Or maybe their very "manly" Planes and Mickey Mouse cards were not as gender specifically girly Valentine's.  Whatever the case, I chuckled a bit to myself as I remembered my fifth grade self at the copy machine, making my own cards because the ones I had were too love-ish.  I think I even remember my dad coming in and asking me what I was doing.  I couldn't tell him the truth so I just brushed it off as experimenting with the copy machine and my dad might have said something along the lines of don't waste too much paper or ink.  ha ha...  

Happy belated Valentine's Day everyone!  

What's Wrong With Napkins?

Whenever we were on our way out of a restaurant, I used to be really embarrassed when my grandma would stuff the unused napkins into her purse.  The whole Chinese people being cheap stereotype would suddenly ring tremendously loud and clear.  I always wished she would just leave them but more concerning was that nobody would see me.  If I ever did anything that let on I was a bit mortified, my grandma would make an even bigger deal about it.  The Chinese way is to be cheap but not to be ashamed of it, we hold our heads up high and boast of all the money we saved (even if it's not really that much).

I always wondered why my Chinese grandma was so adamant about taking those napkins.  It's not like we couldn't afford napkins on our own.  We had plenty of napkins.  

Buffets were another thing.  Despite the signs saying we were forbidden to take food out, big purses and napkins spoke otherwise.  

In fact, I used to be really ashamed.  I also used to think cheapness was a Chinese thing.  And then I grew up and I realized, my grandma wasn't always being cheap.  She was being frugal, smart, and green (okay, maybe not with the buffets so much but the restaurants would just throw the unused napkins away anyway).  I also now recognize that cheapness doesn't discriminate.  On top of that, I myself have inherited quite a bit of those habits that used to drive me crazy.  Am I cheap?  Or am I Chinese?  It's debatable... 

Plus, we really love our napkins.  Though we weren't wealthy by any means, we also weren't poor.. and yet, growing up, the bathrooms in our house would more often than not, run out of toilet paper and my mom would always forget to buy more.  So most of the time, a pile of napkins would be the only solution.  My brother and I used to bug my mom about it, and whenever we did.. she'd reply with, "What's wrong with napkins?!"  

A good Chinese daughter would say nothing.  But I'm not always a good Chinese daughter...