My Buddhist Culture

When we were in Hong Kong visiting the many Buddhist temples there, I had a flashback of my childhood.  Not because we were Buddhists, but because as a Chinese immigrant child, you experience a lot of the cultural Buddhist stuff that is hard to distinguish between religion and tradition.  As we walked up the steps in one Buddhist temple, we saw different Chinese Buddhist believers in the middle of the temple grounds on their knees, praying, shaking a cylinder can of incense sticks, holding incense sticks and ke-tou-ing or bowing reverently with their heads touching the ground.  These are all things I mostly knew of, because of my Chinese upbringing.

I remember when I was about 6 or 7, my mom told me a God was coming to live in our home.  She kept talking about this Shen (Chinese word for God!) who was going to come and bless our lives, bless my Dad's business dealings, and help us to be happier.  We would be able to pray to him daily, and pray for our ancestors too.  Our entire home had to be clean for when this God would arrive, including our dump room which usually had big black gardening trash bags of clean clothes and paperwork stashed away so the rest of our home appeared completely neat and orderly while this room housed all the junk.  It was a big feat to get ready for the God to come.  Only when he came, I realized, for the first time, He was just an acrylic figure of a Chinese God that is everywhere.  He has a long beard, looks like Confucius, and stands with two fingers held propped up, and wears an elaborate long teal robe with red accents.

When he first got to our house, there was a shelf my dad had created for him to go on top of.  The incense pot would also go there.  It took some trial and error for our family to figure out we needed to line the ceiling above with foil since the burning incense would create a big black hole on the ceiling above it.

My mom burned incense for the God morning and night.  Sometimes, she would offer me three sticks of incense to pray for my ancestors, my family, and bow three times while standing, before being able to insert the incense sticks.  I don't know why the tradition exists, only that I obliged and followed along when needed.

The same went for when we visited grandparents at the grave site.  In fact, I remember when my maternal grandfather passed, we met religiously every weekend at his grave.  There were different ritualistic stuff we did, like bowing on our knees, touching our arms to the floor, burning incense, bringing food offerings (that we could consume later, once the incense was done burning), and then as the weeks passed, the rituals always changed and added more. We burned gold, or gold paper folded to look like gold bars, a constructed home, which would be wai-gong's house up above, and paper money which always confused me as it said Bank of Hell.  Lost in translation?  I sure hope so.  We had these black bracelets that all the grand kids wore, and we were encouraged to wear them to school everyday for weeks.  My mom finally told me I could take it off and just keep it close by and treasured, but I still never figured out the reason for it.  I thought it was all just a Chinese thing.  But then when my dad's father died years later, it was completely different.  We wore white, people came and chanted some songs, and it was entirely different. We didn't have to go back to the grave site for seven consecutive weekends, but we did the same things with burning symbolic goods, incense, bowing, and bringing food offerings. 

I never thought much of any of this.  It was just what I was used to.  About as normal as chicken feet on Saturday dim sum.  Which I suppose isn't that normal at all.  But now as a mom, I'm very particular about which Chinese traditions I want to make sure my kids understand.  They know the Chinese Zodiac better than you.  Definitely.  They might even know the order better than you.  I was consumed with which animal each of my family members was, and my kids are the same now.  Even though language is lost among them, I am doing my best now to immerse them this summer, and make sure they at least have the tones down so when they want to learn more later. I have made very conscious efforts to introduce my kids to boba, seaweed, squid, Chinese candies, Chinese bakery bread, pig ears, and stomach lining.  It actually tickles me excited that my daughter loves these as much as me.  When she had tripe for the first time, she exclaimed, "it tastes just like noodles! Yum Mom!"  My pickiest eater won't touch boba balls and even has a slight disdain for Chinese food in general, but he loves seaweed and ube ice cream.  I guess I can compromise a bit. 

As I navigate living in white Utah, I hope I can remember to continually shed light on the Chinese culture and traditions for my kids. 

Different Childhoods

Sometimes, when my husband's family play with my kids, I chuckle a bit.  Him and I have very different childhoods.  I only remember one uncle playing with us as kid, and I can recall that he was our favorite because of that.  The rest of the family, they just fed us.  Actually I lie, one other occasion, the Christmas all my cousins and I will remember, is when my uncle and his then girlfriend, now my aunt, played a game of Monopoly with us.  We know now he was just trying to impress her, because he refused to play ever again, and she also wasn't excited to play again, but that has remained a part of my good memory pile from then on.  It also sprouted my love for board games, and even though the only ones we played growing up were Monopoly and LIFE, both games I kind of sorta hate now, I also was exposed to some other games through school and friends, and in my adult life, have come unto actually legit games!  HAHA I digress.  So..., most of my family... they were all immigrants who had come from Taiwan to find the American dream in LA.  And I'm not sure why but they just knew how to work hard and shower us with gifts and food, but they didn't really know how to interact with kids.  Not much has changed in respect to my uncles and aunts.  They're still really good at feeding them.  Like constantly shoving food into their mouths, bringing bread and desserts and snacks for them, and then giving them a ton of fruit when they're stuffed.  My dad will provide them with big architect planning paper and tons of pens to draw something with.  I remember doing this as a kid a lot too.  I guess you could say they're really good at encouraging me to grow my creative side also.  Don't get me wrong, my parents love LOVE my kids, but they struggle to know how to be with them if they are not providing for them.  It is oddly reminiscent of my own childhood.  Even now as a grown up, my parents still aren't sure how to be my friend, and are still my parents. They still are in charge of me, provide me with food and shelter, and help me out financially whenever I visit.  In fact, my dad has been known to "sponsor" our trips to Disneyland everytime we visit, but both my parents would not want to go to an actual amusement park with us, which is a stark contrast from my husband's more American family, where both his parents and his aunt and uncle have been to numerous amusement parks with us.  My parents also freak out when we dine in an actual restaurant and the kid start acting up.  You know, because they have to wait for food and are bored and want to get up and walk around.  We prefer buy and sit to dine type of places, but my parents have taken us to many a fancy Chinese restaurants and then been mortified by my kids' very normal childlike behavior, which was completely appalling and unacceptable by my parents' standards (and made for a really boring childhood spent every weekend at dim sum).  But I respect the differences and it doesn't bug me.  I just find it interesting to note the differences.  

Public Displays of Affection

Physical affection was not part of my life growing up.  But I have never felt less loved because of it.  Love was just translated into other forms for our family.  Like financial support.  Rides for all your friends.  Activities after school.  Demands to practice piano daily.  Family dinners.  Concern over grades less than As.  ... you know, the regular asian immigrant child stuff. 

I remember pouring over my parents' wedding album when I was younger.  Slowly moving my hands over the images that did not seem like people I knew.  I never witnessed kissing or hugging or hand holding between my parents in real life.  Well, maybe when I was 16, they would jokingly hold hands, but it was never a common occurrence in our family.  To see them in a close embrace was almost an awkward confrontation of strangers that were once my parents.  But the photos were a thousand unspoken words of confused awe to me.  Mostly I admired and wondered as I carefully observed these two people from another life. 

Over the years, we would become more American, and as a mom now, I would see my parents hug and kiss their grandkids, but even when I hug them now to say farewell after spending some vacation time back home, it seems unnatural, a little bit forced, and sometimes awkward.  And it makes me wonder if I'll ever find it weird to hug my kids because I'm not by nature, a physical person.  When my older kids run to embrace me and just want to cuddle, I often find it uncomfortable and force myself to give them some love.  But I need my space.  And I don't like being smothered by my kids' physical affection.  I find myself wondering why they don't love me because they aren't cleaning up on demand, aren't doing their homework as quickly as I like, and then I have to stop because I realize my mentality is very much built on my own upbringing and it's becoming increasingly harder to deliberately break away from it. 

But my parents were immigrants, and I'm not.  I was born in America.  So I'm different.... right?  Odd enough, I still feel stifled when friends tried to hug me and I didn't know quite how to respond.  A pat on the back seemed more normal to me.  Or bones.  I was really good at that.  And high fives.  And yet, hugs seemed to be the common spoken language in America that I was still struggling to learn.  A second language to me. 

And then one day I kissed my husband in front of our kids, and they gasped.  And then they were embarrassed.  Shocked too.  What just happened?!  I guess a quick reality check would report that husband and I don't hold hands in public.  Or hug.  Or kiss.  Hmmm.  Maybe we were more Chinese than we initially thought?  We've never been big on PDA though.  Yet, while dating, it seemed more normal to show affection by holding hands and hugging, probably because we didn't live together and see each other all the time.  And though I never felt deprived of physical affection growing up, I certainly didn't want my kids to wonder who those people were kissing in their wedding photos from years ago. 

So now we are trying hard to not only give our own kids more embraces throughout the day, randomly, not just the morning kiss good-bye and welcome home hug, but random acts of physical affection.  And husband and I are trying more to hug for no reason (because apparently hugs don't have to be intentionally distributed all the time...), hold hands randomly, and kiss occasionally in front of the kids. 

What It Means To Be ABC

Have you ever heard the term "ABC" outside of the context in teaching your kids their alphabet?  "ABC" is a term I grew up with, one that was used so much, I often forget I might have to stop and define the acronym before continuing as if everyone around me understands it.  Having grown up in a predominately Asian area, where all of my closest friends were Korean or Chinese, and all of my friends had parents who had come to the States in the 80s, I was unaccustomed to the obligatory pre-definition of the phrase, "ABC" for any of my friends.  It was just understood.  There were white people around.  Ones with blonde hair, blue eyes, brown hair, hazel eyes, you know the like.. but none of these white people surrounded my life.  None of them were close friends to me.  Sure, they were in some of my classes, but to be honest, as soon as there was an advanced math class that separated most of us Asian students, we quickly found all our similar looking friends with similar parents with broken English and strict house rules and demands, and we clung to them. They understood the food we ate, rice every single night at home.  They understood our no sleepover rules because they had the same ones.  They understood the objective of school to get into a good college and a good job (defined as doctor, lawyer, or business - yes, that generally speaking).  I cannot honestly say I had any truly American friends, the few I did encounter, I could count on my hands.  I of course knew a handful on my dance team, that was still dominated by the American girls when I was on the team, but I always felt defined by how I looked.  I now know, I let myself be defined.  But it's hard when you can't exactly change the way you look, and you don't want to be classified as a banana (yellow on the outside, white on the inside), because in your group of like minded, similar looking Asian pride gang of friends, that is deemed wrong, offensive, and laughable.

ABC is a term we use to describe the fact that I am "American born Chinese."  It's weird, because it doesn't actually make sense.  I'm actually a Chinese born American.  But in execution, it makes a lot o sense. I was always expected to maintain my Chinese culture, my look obviously could not be abandoned no matter how "American" I became, no matter the clothes I wore, or the crimped hair my mom would not let me get, or the big bangs I did not sport, or the push down socks I did have (yes!!! score one for being more American).  One uttered Chinese word, and everyone would know I was ABC from my awkward American accent.  One glance at my dark sun kissed skin, and one would know I was ABC and not using enough sun tan lotion (sunblock but for some reason every Asian person I know calls it suntan even when it's SUNBLOCK, it drives me insane EVERY SINGLE TIME).  One eavesdropped loud guffaw of a chuckle, and one would know I was ABC because really Chinese girls don't laugh like that, they just submissively giggle.  Tall, loud, proud.... and definitely ABC.

What I failed to understand was ABC is a shared experience across generations.  When I married my half Chinese-half white husband, I became related to a bunch of his married Asian uncles, all who are  second or third generation, but also "ABC" kids.  This was shocking to me!  They spoke perfect English, just like me.  They spoke broken Chinese, just like me.  They looked completely Asian, just like me.  And yet they were so much older than me.  They had lived in San Francisco in the 60s.  They had lived in Utah in the 70s.  But like me, they had eaten you fan for holidays.  They had been taught to respect their elders in that strict Chinese filial piety way.  They had to find their own voice in preserving their Chinese culture that was somewhat lost between their parents who were more Asian and them, who were less.  And I guess this realization is what made me realize the immigrant experience of being ABC or ABK or ABJ or ABT, whatever.... is one that so many of us experience or our ancestors experience, and we need to talk about it, write about it, and share about it!

My thoughts are all over the place, but basically as a bunch of stories are coming out about the Chinese Exclusion Act, I've had all these conversations with my Uncle Jeffrey about this part of history that is finally being retold more accurately even though it's sad and infuriating at times, it's just a true story of the times, which indeed were different than now.  But as I'm listening to these stories, I'm realizing not only that I have to share them with my kids, but that I have to, HAVE TO, write down my own before I forget or get old or die.

So here are a few of the stories that prompted my reawakening to my own Asian pride, so to speak.  Not in the hate all the other races kind of way, but more in the proud of those who have come before me, who have dealt with similar struggles, common experiences, you get the idea.

Untold America: Part One

Untold America: Part Two
Chinese Exclusion Act Documentary
Cool article about Uncle Jeffrey's family finding their lost media

Why I'm Overly Paranoid

We're deep into Spring Cleaning (for the first time.. but that's another story on its own), and yesterday, for the first time ever, we cleaned our living room windows.  I am quite proud to say we did a pretty good job, and you can actually see through the windows, there's even a lot more light than normal.

While we were in the middle of cleaning, I decided to call my mom via FaceTime.  She had called earlier saying she hadn't seen the kids lately, but we've been busy with sickness that it didn't even cross my mind.  Jordan was outside on the other side of the windows, using my mop, to scrub down the windows.  Dagny, Cooper, and I were on the inside spraying the windows, using a microfiber towel to wipe it down.  Bubba was sick and taking a nap downstairs during all of this.  I thought it would be a cute image for my mom to see her grandson helping out around the house.

Her first reaction was, "Be careful leaving Jordan out there like that, he could get kidnapped."

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Do we live in a dangerous area?  Do kidnappers just roam the streets, waiting for every possible moment a child is outside, mind you completely supervised by his mom on the OTHER SIDE OF THE WINDOW, so they can snag them away?  I get that there are kids who get kidnapped outside of the home, or even from their homes, but I'm quite positive those are the exception, not the rule.  It's not like Jordan was outside playing by himself, without me being nearby for a long time, he was within 2 feet of me, only separated by a window.  I couldn't even believe the comment.  I mean, I get that she was probably thinking of moments when I might leave Jordan alone...

"I'm right here Mom," I replied.

"Still, you never know, someone could come and take him."

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Let me tell you, this is an entirely common reaction from my mom.  And in thinking about it, I think that's why I'm as paranoid and distrusting of everyone as I am.

I knew before I was 16 to NEVER TAKE A DRINK FROM A STRANGER.  To NEVER LEAVE MY DRINK ALONE AND THEN COME BACK TO IT.

I was not even in college when my mom told me this.

I walk to my car alone LOOKING OVER MY BACK, CLUTCHING ONTO MY PEPPER SPRAY, and my keys are always ready to go before I get to the parking lot.

I once watched a Dateline about a husband who poisoned his wife slowly with blue gatorade laced with antifreeze, and I won't go near Gatorade.  

I once watched a movie about a girl who got raped on the racetrack when she was working out, and I won't go near a racetrack, or anywhere at night, by myself, to avoid putting myself in any dangerous situation.

My eyes are always darting around making observations like I'm Sherlock Holmes whenever I'm with my kids, how tall is that person that has been near us for a while, why is it so peculiar that this stranger keeps showing up at the same aisles as us?  Does he really need the SAME grocery items as us?  Is that a coincidence or is he stalking us?

A few times, my paranoia has come in handy, when some creepy guy kept following me at a somewhat sketchy mall appeared to go into EVERY SINGLE RANDOM store I went into (I started to go into random ones to test if he was following me), and I finally ended up telling a Victoria's Secret saleslady someone was following me (I had been in the store already, went back, and he followed me back, and after talking to her, I noticed he backed off at which point I boogied to the closest exit and into my car, never looking back).

And I wonder if my mom had anything to do with that.  So I guess there's the good and the bad...and that's why I'm overly paranoid.  

Grade Stuff Only Immigrant Kids Understand

I once hid in my closet after school, afraid of what would happen when my mom saw my report card.  On it, I had a C next to physical education. 

I got spanked that night.  With a rubber slipper that hurt SO BAD.  But inside, I knew it was my fault.  It was my fault I couldn't physically finish four laps (that's a mile... a very long mile).  It was my fault my PE teacher hated me.  It was all my stinking fault. 

Never mind my parents never took me out to run around a field.  Never mind my only form of physical exercise was a weekly jazz dance class.  Never mind that I didn't do any other sports.  Never mind that I had never done a jumping jack until I was in PE at school.  Never mind any of that. 

Growing up, I always knew that grades were important, but somewhere along the way, I didn't really think physical education would matter.  In the back of my mind, I thought my mom would forgive me for a bad grade because we weren't very active in our family.  I barely learned how to ride a bike when I was 8, not because anyone taught me, but because my dad came home from a garage sale with two bikes, one for my cousin who was 3 years older and living with us at the time, and one for me.  We both didn't know how to ride a bike, so my dad took us to the elementary school where with much trial and error and some physical scars from falling, we learned how to ride a bike.  My brother, six years younger, wouldn't learn how to ride a bike until he was in his early 20's.  I was shocked when i found out, but by the time he was of age to learn how to ride a bike, our bikes had disappeared into the backyard where dust and obscurity conquered them.  My brother would never learn how to ride a bike while living at home. 

It was really physically hard for me to run a lap.  My lungs ached for air, my body hurt with its lack of use, and my mind didn't care to try. 

That was, until after I got beat for my grade.  I didn't just fear for a sore thigh, I feared that my mom would do something unthinkable.  Like throw me out.  Or stop feeding me.  Because in the Chinese culture, those are the things love translate as.  A roof over your head, and food in your belly.  I feared I would be a disappointment.  I feared I would be mocked and ridiculed forever.  I felt so little.  So weak.  So sad.  So meaningless.  So dumb.  So incapable.  I cried for minutes in my small dark closet, wondering if anyone else in the world understood me and what I was going through.  Times like these were when I wished for a sibling the most.  My brother six years younger would not understand.  My cousins who lived with us had already moved (because they couldn't stand my mom's strict rules, even though years later they would admit it was her rules and regulation that got my cousin acceptance into UCLA).  It was just me and the darkness in my closet, answering me with an unapologetic silence, as if telling me to just woman up, and get over it. 

And yet, I came back determined and committed, and I ran those four laps even if it meant I was dying for air, gasping for life, and desperate for a better grade than just passing.  I had to be excellent or good, there was no option to be mediocre, even if I was.  By means of being a Chinese student, I needed to have good grades, even if that meant physical education.  And once I accomplished it, I seemed to have forgotten the pain and anguish that came with being alone and lost.  I rejected those feelings of inadequacy and told myself to shape up.  I aligned with the Chinese culture my mom had beat into me.  And I obeyed.  And I succeeded.  And I thanked my mom for making me a stronger person who was able to pass physical education. 

But now when my kids get bad grades, I inherently gasp inside before realizing I need to lead with love, be patient, hear his side, and then try to teach.  It's an additional step immigrants didn't have the time for, but with all that I've been given, this is the least I can do for my own kids. 

Yellow Is A Color Too

So.. this is a bit freaky.. cuz I'm putting myself out there, but I dunno how to find a publisher, and so many of you have said, "you should get this stuff published!" and while I think it's the same story as every other immigrant child growing up in the U.S., I guess it is new to some people.. so if you so fancy a podcast, feel free to search for it under podcasts via iTunes or Stitcher, and you should find it!  Free download, I have up to 5 hours before I have to pay to do this.  HA!