State of the Union

Discharging his duty under Article II, Section 3 of the Consitution, President Bush delivered his State of the Union message this evening. Although I had to tutor, I was able to hear the speech (almost in its entirety) while driving to Torrance.

The most heartening part of the message was his recognition of America's need to purge foreign petrol from her diet:

Keeping America competitive requires affordable energy. Here we have a serious problem: America is addicted to oil, which is often imported from unstable parts of the world. The best way to break this addiction is through technology...So tonight, I announce the Advanced Energy Initiative -- a 22 percent increase in clean-energy research at the Department of Energy, to push for breakthroughs in two vital areas.

To change how we power our homes and offices, we will invest more in zero-emission coal-fired plants; revolutionary solar and wind technologies; and clean, safe nuclear energy.

We must also change how we power our automobiles. We will increase our research in better batteries for hybrid and electric cars, and in pollution-free cars that run on hydrogen...Breakthroughs on this and other new technologies will help us reach another great goal: to replace more than 75 percent of our oil imports from the Middle East by 2025.

By applying the talent and technology of America, this country can dramatically improve our environment, move beyond a petroleum-based economy and make our dependence on Middle Eastern oil a thing of the past.

That I am absolutely against sending more money to the Middle East, and against the evironmental damage caused by our "petroleum-based economy" should not come as any great revelation to my close friends. Even I was startled, however, at just how deep-seated and primal my disapprobation runs; this little discovery came upon me while I was listening to NPR.

A political scientists of sorts commented that with oil around $60/barrel, Iran feels free to act with impunity [with regard to its nuclear program], because sanctions against it would result in $100/barrel oil. He concluded that as long as America and other countries depend on Middle Eastern petrol, we cannot move against Iran. "Damn our thirst for foreign oil! DAMN YOU, OIL!!!" I found myself shrieking at the top of my livid lungs. How fortunate there was no one else in the oil-efficient Prius to observe this unseemly outburst. Perhaps therapy would work to treat my oil-averse condition.

Honestly

Tonight we went to Roy's a Hawaiian fusion restaurant downtown (fusion = expensive) for Auntie Janice's surprise retirement dinner.

I had the distinct pleasure of being seated between my two youngest cousins, Anne (pronounced "Annie") and her older sister, Nina. As I presided over the festivities that constitute five- and three-year-old dining, I was privy to some interesting conversations. I can't remember the funniest, and without access to my black blogging notepad, I was at the mercy of my fickle memory. Here's a short discussion on the perils of prepubescent make-up use:

Nina: Anne had lipstick all over her face today; she looked like she had a rash on her face.
JT: Really? Who did that to her?
Nina: She did it to herself.
JT: So you watched her put lipstick all over? Why didn't you stop her?
Nina: Because I wanted to see Mommy yell at her.

Oscar Wilde once observed that "a little sincerity is a dangerous thing, and a great deal of it is absolutely fatal."

Nina (age 5) on the left, and Anne (3) on the right.

Mother on Fire

Yes, that is the visage of one Ms. Sandra Tsing Loh you see to the left. And yes, that selfsame Ms. Sandra Tsing Loh is pointing to ME! Yes, I finally realized my dream of meeting Sandra (haha, now that I've met her, you see, we're on a first name basis, haha).

JT and the Gang of Five (Alex, Alvin, Doris, Eddie and Pam) saw Sandra's newest creation, Mother on Fire, a one woman show detailing the problems and perils of being a mom in the greater Los Angeles area. The Gang and I laughed hard when Sandra, lamenting the trend toward child obesity, observed that McDonald's has developed new technology to suck the transfats out of all its foods, and slathered them all over elementary school students; this practice has attracted mountain lions, who prey on the burgeoning kiddies. It was also funny when Sandra said that her father wanted revenge because she pursued a career in the liberal arts, which, to Asian parents, is the equivalent of pole dancing. (I heard her say "the equivalent of ballroom dancing," which did not strike me as particularly funny. Pam set me straight after the show when we discussed our favorite parts.) (Pam actually came in a little late, and wasn't seated with our group. She was sitting opposite side of the audience; I wondered who the little Asian girl with the interesting jewelry was across from me!)

There was an inadvertently funny moment in the middle of the show when Sandra asked for a show of hands from all the Republicans. Flashing conservative credentials is generally ill-advised in a such blue state, and there I was trapped in a theater full of them. I looked around sheepishly and prepared to apologize for my existence, when a wonderfully brave man in the second row raised his hand. (Whew!) When asked where he was from, he said "Orange County: Newport Beach," and plenty of laughs ensued. Thank you, Newport Man, for taking the heat! (P.S. Donkeys, stop taking your anger out on us! It's not my fault you lost the White House, Congress, and the Court.)

Here's a jpg of the book I had Sandra sign for me. Doris says that only a genius is up to the challenge of deciphering the handwriting of another genius, so for all you less fortunate beings, allow me to transcribe: "For JT -- With hopes that the next book 2B published is YOURS! Best, STL"

Eddie did a lot of schmoozing while I waited for my photo and autograph; he and Sandra really hit it off. There was a lot of small talk about the USC writing program in which Eddie is currently enrolled (she was a grad student in the same program, but didn't finish it); he mentioned a professor who told diverting anecdotes about Sandra as a student. Naturally Sandra turns to me and says, "So, are you in the USC writing program, too?"

Filled the most horror since I was asked to confess myself a Republican in a theater full of liberal Democrats, I was forced to admit that I in fact was not enrolled in any writing program. As she prepared to engrave my edition of her book, Sandra asked the seemingly benign question, "Are you a writer?"

Again, my bowels churn within me. I do write (alright, I blog, but let's just agree that it's writing and move on), but I wouldn't consider myself a writer. I can't say I'm a writer by profession, because that requires payment in exchange for my writing. Not only could I not claim writership by profession, but even I couldn't muster up enough hubris to pretend to be "undiscovered" or a "writer in waiting." The best answer I could proffer was "No, I'm not a writer; I'm a person who writes."

So there I was playing semantic games with one Ms. Sandra Tsing Loh (at that point I was reduced to addressing her by her full name again), empress of southern California writer-quasi-celebrity-comedian-radio personalities. In her infinite magnanimity, she just started scribbling her something in her cryptic, genius script, but I could feel--just feel--that she struggling to refrain from rolling her eyes around in their quasi-celebrity sockets.

To top off the very pleasant evening we had Zankou chicken, which has been recommended no less than twice by Sandra Tsing Loh in her weekly segment, the Loh Life (isn't that clever? "the Loh [low] life") on southern California public radio, KPCC. It was a feast! Those Armenians sure know their chicken. And the garlic spread is amazing. Pam shuttered to think what kinds of fats (trans and otherwise) were jammed into it, but it is wonderful. Get some Zankou if the opportunity (Doris saw Keifer Southerland at the West L.A. Zankou!)

Mint Condition

Over the years, many of the herbs I planted in my '92-'95 gardening jubilee have "died and withered away" [yes, a nod to Sinead O'Conner] due to adverse reaction to my not-so-salutary neglect. One of the notable exceptions was the spearmint planted in the east. I planted it in the little flower bed on the side of the house to fill space and provide a refreshing, minty aroma near the trash bins.

Anyone who has grown mint himself, or even read about mint cultivation, knows that they are tenacious multipliers. Although these perennials don't propagate by seed, they sent out "runners," basically long, specialized branches that run underground, grow roots, and send up new mint plants at every node. All of my herbal companions advise against planting mint in any area where you might want to pull it out in the future; it is exceedingly prolific, and finding all the underground runners can prove exceedingly difficult. If you miss one, the mint will reappear, even after it appears to have been eradicated.

During the early 90s jubilee, the eastern bed would provide an everlasting home for Mentha spicata, but this month my mother expressed a desire for the crop previously grown in that plot, sweet peas. In all honesty, not-so-salutary neglect has left the mint looking rather raggedy, so I decided to uproot it and put in some sweet peas (though it is at the very tail of the season).

Over ten years time, the mint has managed to foster a veritable ecosystem of its own. While removing the spearmint, I uncovered a dozen fuzzy, black caterpillars, one green caterpillar, several species of spider, earthworms, pincher bugs, roly-polies (pillbugs), leaf hopper, ants, a couple grubs, and a few unidentified arthropods. My savage deforestation and the subsequent homelessness incurred by all those insects provided me a twinge of guilt. It seemed almost an act of betrayal to purge that plot of land of a crop originally intended as the inheritor eternal.

Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.
--Robert Frost

I Had a Dream

Yesterday was Martin Luther King (MLK) Jr. Day, so teachers and students across our fair nation received a reprieve from school. [Hey! Read the part of that sentence after that comma: it's an Alexandrine! Totally unintended!] In his famous "I Have a Dream" speech, MLK said,

"I have a dream that one day, down in Alabama, with its vicious racists, with its governor having his lips dripping with the words of 'interposition' and 'nullification' -- one day right there in Alabama little black boys and black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls as sisters and brothers.
I have a dream today!
I have a dream that one day every valley shall be exalted, and every hill and mountain shall be made low, the rough places will be made plain, and the crooked places will be made straight; 'and the glory of the Lord shall be revealed and all flesh shall see it together.' "

Last night I too had a dream, albeit less egalitarian and less inspirational than Dr. King's:

It's Saturday, and, for reason's I've forgotten, my usual SAT class has been cancelled. "What better than to take the Concord to Japan for a day trip?" I ask myself. So I hop on the plane, and because dream travel can be instantaneous, I'm there in less than the four hours I had expected aboard the Concord.

The only problem is that one when arrives at "Tokyo Airport," he's really in Narita, a city about one hour outside of Tokyo proper by Shinkansen, or the bullet train. [Reality note: when I missed my flight out of Japan last year, I spent 24 hours living at Tokyo-Narita International Airport. I lived off a waffle and a small salad, since that was all I could afford at the airport. I slept on top of my luggage to prevent theft, and wached CNN Headline News for all of my waking hours.] Narita of my dreams is a bustling city that has styled itself as a destination in itself, not a stop on the way to Tokyo. Its economy has developed around the tourism industry, and most shops and restaurants reflect this. There is a whole street devoted to soveigneirs, and peddlers hawk their goods from cute little wooden streetside stands.

For reasons I can't explain, Narita has only one public restroom, and since it is the only one in town, it's famous. Because it's right next to the airport, I decide to use it; I risk having to come all the way back here from some other part of the city if I tempt fate and pass up this opportunity. The public restroom is huge! There is a foray, one large room filled with sinks and mirrors, then a door that leads into a long hallway. Flanking the hallway are toilet stalls, and at the end is another door that leads to the urinals, more sinks, and some lockers. Although most men availing themselves of the lavatory appear local, there is a fair share for foreign (aka white) men relieving themselves as well.

I step outside and decide I must get to the Shinkansen, which will take me directly to Tokyo proper. [Reality note: The Shinkansen station actually lies directly under Tokyo-Narita Airport; one needn't search for it.] Due to the impromptu nature of my trip, I have failed to pack my trusty "Frommer's Guide to Japan," and thus have no maps to forestall the inevitable event that occurs whenever I'm in a foreign city (and often in domestic ones as well): my getting lost. So now I'm lost in Narita, and time's a-wasting.

I must take the bullet train, which I finally find, only to discover that I'm traveling in the wrong direction. I am somehow able to change directions mid-trip without getting off and reboarding. I must make a transfer before arriving in Tokyo, and the transfer station is actually an old, WWII-era Japanese battleship, still out in the water. That it's counter-productive to send the train out over the water and return for no reason does not occur to me in my slumbering state.

I am suddenly overtaken by an urge for manjuu (Japanese confections). [Reality note: I really did get the *best* manjuu from this manjuu house that also does a traditional tea ceremony. The majuu was so fresh, delicate and sweet.] Alas, my plans are again thwarted for want of a map. So I wander around, and finally end up in a toy store, in which MUN classes are also held. I run into Mr. Zilkowski, who reeks of smoke. He askes if I do; I respond "No, but I can smell that you do," and commense berating him for smoking and being a bad example. [Reality note: Mr. Zilkowski was my 10th grade chemistry teacher; he did not, to my knowledge, have a tobacco addiction.]

In the same toy store I discover Mr. Neville, who is training mun students for an international competition. He quizzes the students; they are savagely castigated for incorrect answers. [Reality note: Mr. Neville was our (strict if not occationally abrasive) MUN advisor who is now deceased. He periodically makes cameos in my dreams. Sometimes it occurs to me that he should be dead, and his resurrection is a thing of wonder; other times this does not occur to me.]

In the toy store I begin playing an arcade game, the goal of which is to lay railroad tracks fast enough for an approaching freight traveling on them. The game is actually fairly complex and requires special buttons to change camera angles frequently so that you can see the best way to place the tracks.

Here I run into Carissa and Jonathan (sans baby Isabelle). [Reality note: I saw Carissa and Jonathan at TGI Friday's in Cerritos recently without Isabelle. When asked "Where's the baby?" Carissa turned to Jonathan with a look of sheer horror and exclaimed, "My God! We've forgotten her again!"] Soon I see Shui, who said he also felt like taking a day trip to japan on his private jet [Reality note: Shui does not own a private jet, or any sort of private aviation transpo.] He is very candid about the purpose of his expedition: he is seeking a special type of "threading" hair removal process--available only in Japan--to treat his armpit hairs. Shui has heard that the Japanese have mastered this particular art, and will give him a very natural-looking result. [Reality note: His armpit hairs are somewhat prodigious.]

Shui announces that he is leaving on his jet, and offers me a ride. Jonathan and Carissa are going with him, and since I haven't bought my return ticket, going on his jet will be a great way to avoid getting stuck at the airport again. I accept his invitation, but regret having gotten lost, and missing some good shopping.

Student Profiles 2 & 3

Admittedly, my postings have been less than consistent of late--perhaps some explanation is in order. It is no secret that my social calendar has been relatively empty recently, but I teach six days a week, and a myriad of conundrums have kept my teeming brain even more so than usual.

Oddly enough, instead of providing a rich, diverting array of subject matter for les blog, performing these mental acrobatics has sapped my cerebral cortex of the energy requisite for writing. That I am penning my entries several weeks after they occur only compounds the difficulty since: a) many of the quirky, fresh details that give my entries vitality and realism have been blanched by the relentless, unforgiving rays of time; and b) sometimes I sit to type a "funny" entry on a day that I am suffering from melancholia, or vice versa--this does not work out so well. Apologies.

The two month gap since the last Student Profile is the not result of a lack of amusing, engaging activities in the classroom; indeed, few things could be further from the truth. Rather, other, more "important" and/or funny issues have occupied my mind, but another installment of this series dedicated to the midgets with whom I spend my days seems apropos.

Kevin, like Anthony, is not one of my students proper, but is a member of the homework time I used to monitor. Kevin is the only student of homework time whom I ever sent to detention; when I wrote his name on the board, that only made him object more vociferously than he was already talking. Kevn cuts his finger nails into pointy claw-like wedges to resemble those of the characters of his favorite anime, InuYasha:

Kevin peaks through my class window to see his sister, Connie; because Kevin can't see through the window without jumping, we periodically see his head springing up and down. Kevin has the MOST ENORMOUS EARLOBES EVER! If Chinese superstition proves correct, he will grow up to be to be rich enough to pay for the US current account deficit, take over WalMart and Microsoft, and still have enough left over to buy a ridiculously over-priced dinner in West L.A.




Take a look at Kevin's earlobes. STUPENDOUS!

Like her younger brother, Connie Hsu uses a very particular voice inflection. It is, among all people I have met, distinct to them--so distinct is it, that people confuse their voices over the phone. At the end of every sentence, their words become drawn out and emerge slowly; their pitch drops carefully before making an equally unhurried ascent. After tedious deliberation, I dedicided that the closest thing to which I could liken it is...have you seen the movie American Pie? Actually, I haven't, but television promotion for that film abounds, so I know there is a female character who uses the lines "One time...at band camp..." That provides a fairly reasonable approximation to the drawl of the Hsu sibblings.

Before class one day, Sam wanted directions to Walnut High School; Connie proffered her services as an instruction giver since her residence is not far from the school. Here is (a fairly faithful) reprint of her directions: "Go straight. [We are inside the classroom; she indicates a forward direction with her arm.] Then, you have to turn right on a street somewhere. [She waves her right arm, bending vigorously at the elbow.] Then, when you get to another street, make a left. [Bends left arm at elbow.] You'll come to some railroad tracks, and you need to cross them. There will be some trees and a sign. Walnut high school is just beyond the trees and sign." Upon questioning from Connie the following week, Sam confessed that he (wonder of wonders, miracle of miracles) did indeed reach his destination.

One Man's Trash Part II: Resurrection

As I have been commissioned to begin teaching not until 3pm, the morning and early afternoon hours of each day are left to be spent largely at my discretion. To avoid the suffocating guilt brought on my lounging around, I have begun cleaning the house, starting with my own room, which, unfortunately, is the cleanest in the house. ("Unfortunately" because, although not free from clutter, it certainly most merits praise in terms of tidiness.)

While sorting through the possessions I have amassed, I unearthed a few found items of interest in my closet. Below are some of the more colorful threads that constitute the tapestry of my past.

A postcard from Linda's European Adventures. Even after discovering this reminder, I could barely remember Linda's taking a holiday through the western countries. Why did she send the post card in an envelope?







A Christmas card from Annie Chiu (2000).

Out comes the Azn Gangsta' in me, Angel, and Brian.

My baptism.

Tetzlaff Junior High Promotion Dance (1994). (From left to right) Front row: Joanna Solis, Shera Son. Back row: Mihir Upadhyaya, me, Sam Choi, Robert Wyman. See? Joanna and I didn't always hate each other!

Certainly the best item was this program from my pre-school, Lumbini, Child Development Center. To my horror, I discovered that "Anthony Banaag" (whom I do not remember) wore the very same Izod shirt in his Lumbini school photo!

One man's trash can indeed become his treasure with the passage of time.

Oil & Water

Despite the dregs of evening television (like Conan O'Brian), some late night programming is actually pretty good. At my house, the cable channels include goodies like the the Discovery Channel, Food Network, National Geographic Channel, the Style Channel, and Bravo.

Recently the History Channel aired a special entitled "Rome: Engineering an Empire," which "chronicles the spectacular and sordid history of the Roman Empire from the rise of Julius Caesar in 55 BC to its eventual fall around 537 AD." It covers the most significant building projects of the Roman emporers, and also discusses the social, political, and economic impetuses behind and consequences of those architectural masterpieces.

The segment details the of the engineering challenges of structures such as Hadrian's Wall, the Colosseum, the Pantheon, and the Baths of Caracalla. Particular attention is given to one of the Romans' most astonishing achievements: the aqueducts. The narrator mentions that when the Visigoths sacked Rome, they were able to capture it with relative ease by cutting off the water supply upon which the Romans had become so dependent.

Fast-forward about about 1,600 years. Another empire has emerged to establish its own hedgemony. Like the Romans, it is the wealthiest, and most militarilly dominant civilization of its day. And like the Romans, its citizens are reliant on a special liquid, but one much more viscious, one much darker, one much more toxic. The supply chain of this atramental brew is tenuous: Nigeria and Venezuela are politically unstable; Iranian sanctions are just around the corner; the House of Saud is producing at full capacity. Will they wean themselves off this crude habit in time?

Adoption

Ever since I moved back home, I've been trying to get the house in order. My parents' belongings scattered about have left the inside of the house in a rather unfortunate state, so my efforts have been focused on yard work: pulling weeds, cutting back unruly bushes, tilling soil, and the like.

I went to Home Depot recently and bought some shade-loving plants for the walkway, which rarely sees the sun. Not to be left out of the low-hanging fruit made possible by consumer research psychology, the garden department of Home Depot has a few botanically oriented "impulse buy" items near the cash register, one of which caught my eye: daffodil bulbs.

"How Wordsworthian!" I thought to myself. A bag of 40 bulbs regularly retails for the modest price of $6.95, but they reduced to $4.50! The little bulbs were like mini brown onions, their tiny blanched tips just peaking through in search of the sun. Knowing a bargain when I see one, I couldn't pass up what was clearly the destiny of my household,

"A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze."

We also have a very large, bare mound of dirt that for 20 years we have never planted; this would be the perfect spot. The tag indicated that one bag would plant six square feet. Without calculating the "daffodil-per-square-foot" density, I assumed that three bags would be enough for me to begin decorating the mound with bulbs; once those bulbs were secured, I could return and buy more bags to finish the job. I put the daffodil babies into my cart for adoption, and brought them to their new home.

In reality, the daffodil bulb bag says nothing of how many square feet one bag will plant, and the mound might not receive enough sunlight to provide the optimal environment for the daffodils. So there I was, with over 120 bulbs (many of the bulbs had divided inside the bag). The sun-soaked front flower bed is completely saturated with daffodils, and a full two-thirds of the original brood are awaiting homes. Unable to bring myself to throw away those precious (yet relatively inexpensive) bulbs, I have decided I will plant them in the front and back yards of Uncle Bill's house.

All this reminded me of one of my favorite segments on NPR, which I heard on Christmas Day while driving from Brentwood to La Palma. It was titled "Finding Home: Fifty Years of International Adoption". As Christians, we often refer to our being adopted by God, but I'm not sure how familiar many of us are with the realities of adoption, in either the modern or biblical worlds.

This segment was phenomenal, and if you have 20 minutes to an hour, you will only be pleased at having invested the time to hear the stories therein contained. As a listener with a perspective informed by my status as God's adopted, I found many striking parallels with the way I perceive adoption, but one needn't be Christian to appreciate the narratives.

If you have an hour, the link to the full story is here. [Choose a story, and then you can listen via RealPlayer or maybe Windows Media.]
If you only have about 19 minutes, I found the portion titled "Korean Adoptees Remember" the most interesting.

Below are some excerpts from "Korean Adoptees Remember".

Jane Jeong Trenka is a Korean woman who was adopted by a white family in America. She was very bitter about having been taken from her culture and mother tongue, and no longer has contact with her adoptive parents. "Adoption is the only sort of practice in the world where you get separated from your parents, there's a permanent rupture between yourself and your culture, and you're suppose to be grateful."

Most of the adoptees, however, had sentiments very different from Trenka's. Susan Cox, another Korean adopted by an American family, recalls her first visit back to Korea, at the age of 24. She went to the Holt orphanage, from which she had been adopted. "It was filled with children who were waiting to be adopted. I also had the opportuniy to meet people who were my age, that for whatever reason had not been adopted--and they were still at the orphanage--and how different our lives were! And not because I had gone to America, but because I had gone to a family. I had married; I've had children; I've had work that is meaningful to me, and I know with certainty that those people who were not adopted would want to have been in a family."

She was curious about her birth family, and found her biological brothers. "My youngest brother, who was with our mother when she died said, 'The last words that she ever spoke were, "You have and older sister and she went to America." ' Now to know that I was the last thing my mother ever spoke of--or thought of--before she died is a gift beyond measure. And yet at the same time, the sadness of that is also overwhelming: to know that for her whole life, I was her secret, that she worried about me, that she thought about me..."

You Know You're Japanese-American if...

*Note: this isn't my list; I'm only cutting and pasting.

Although I don't know of any Japanese-Americans who read my blog, for the one or two such creatures who may be lurking out there under the anonmity of the internet, enjoy! Embrace the quirks that constitute our ethnicity. :)

For everyone else, this may just seem like a random collection of things that probably won't prove particularly amusing.

[Things with which I can identify are in blue.]

You Know You're Japanese-American if:
You know that Camp doesn’t mean a cabin in the woods.
The men in your family were gardeners, farmers or produce workers.
The women in your family were seamstresses, domestic workers or farm laborers.
Your Issei grandparents had an arranged marriage.
One of your relatives was a "picture bride."
You have Nisei relatives named Tak, Tad, George, Harry or Shig.
You have Nisei relatives named Keiko, Aiko, Sumi or Mary.
You’re Sansei and your name is Janice, Glen, Brian, Bill or Kenji.
You’re thinking of naming your Yonsei child, Brittany, Jenny, Lauren,Garett or Brett, with a Japanese middle name.
All of your cousins are having hapa kids.
You have relatives who live in Hawaii.
You belong to a Japanese credit union.
Wherever you live now, you always come home to the Obon festival.
The bushes in your front yard are trimmed into balls. [We used to!]
You have a kaki tree in the backyard.
You have at least one bag of sembei in the house at all times.
You have a Japanese doll in a glass case in your living room.
You have a nekko cat in your house for good luck.
You have large Japanese platters in your china cabinet.
You have the family mon and Japanese needlepoint on the wall.
You own a multicolored lime green polyester patchwork quilt.
Your grandma used to crochet all your blankets, potholders and dishtowels.
You check to see if you need to take off your shoes at your JA friends’ houses.
When you visit other JAs, you give or receive a bag of fruits or vegetables.
When you visit other JAs, you know that you should bring omiage.
When you leave a JA house, you take leftover food home on a paper plate or a Styrofoam meat tray.
You keep a supply of rubber bands, twist ties, butter and tofu containers in the kitchen.
You have an air pump thermos covered with lilacs.
You know that Pat Morita doesn’t really speak like Mr. Miyagi.
You’re mad because Kristi Yamaguchi should have gotten more commercial endorsements than Nancy Kerrigan.
You know someone who has run for the Nisei Queen Pageant.
When your back is sore, you use Tiger Balm or that flexi-stick with the rubber ball on the end that goes, "katonk," "katonk."
After funerals, you go for Chinameshi.
After giving koden, you get stamps in the mail.
You fight fiercely for the check after dinner.
You’ve hidden money in the pocket of the person who paid for dinner.
You don’t need to read the instructions on the proper use of hashi.
You know that Benihana’s isn’t real Japanese food.
You eat soba on New Year’s Eve.
You start off the new year with a bowl of ozoni for good luck and the mochi sticks to the roof of your mouth.
You know not to eat the tangerine on the top of the mochi at New Year’s.
You have a 12-pack of mochi in your freezer—that you still refuse to throw away in July.
You pack bento for road trips.
Your grandma made the best sushi in town.
You cut all your carrots and hot dogs at an angle.
You know the virtues of SPAM.
You were eating Chinese chicken salad, years before everyone else.
You know what it means to eat "footballs."
You grew up eating ambrosia, wontons and finger Jell-O at family potlucks.
You always use Best Foods mayonnaise and like to mix it with shoyu to dip broccoli.
You use the "finger method" to measure the water for your rice cooker.
You grew up on rice: bacon fried rice, chili rice, curry rice or red rice.
You like to eat rice with your spaghetti.
You can’t start eating until you have a bowl of rice.
You use plastic Cool Whip containers to hold day-old rice.
You like to eat your rice in a chawan, not on a plate.
Along with salt and pepper, you have a shoyu dispenser at your table.
You have a jar of takuan in your fridge.
You buy rice 25 pounds at a time and shoyu a gallon at a time.
Natto: you either love it or hate it.
As a kid, you used to eat Botan rice candy.
You know the story of Momotaro.
You have a pet named Chibi or Shiro.
Someone you know, owns an Akita or Shiba dog.
You went to J-school and your best subject was recess.
At school, you had those Hello Kitty pencil boxes and sweet smelling erasers.
When you’re sick, you eat okayu.
Milk makes you queasy and alcohol turns your face red.
Your dad owns a Member’s Only jacket.
Someone you know drives an Acura Integra, Honda Accord or Toyota Camry.
You used to own one of those miniature zori keychains.
You have a kaeru frog or good luck charm hanging in your car.
Your parents compare you to their friends’ kids.
You hang on to the illusion that you are superior to other Asians.
Your dentist, doctor and optometrist are Japanese American.
You socialize with groups of eight or more people.
Whenever you’re with more than three people, it takes an hour to decide where to eat.
You and your friends call yourselves "Buddaheads," but don’t like it when white people do. [Ok, not me, but my dad's family is like this.]
You’ve heard your name pronounced a half-dozen different ways.
You know that E.O. 9066 isn’t a zip code.
You’re not superstitious but you believe in bachi.
You never take the last piece of food on a plate—but will cut it into smaller pieces.
As much as you want it, never ever take the last—anything. Enryo, enryo, enryo.

May in January

When I was an undergraduate, someone forwarded me a "You know you're Japanese-American if..." list. Habits that I had once thought peculiar to my family were suddenly revealed as characteristic of my entire demographic. For example, we all save Kool-Whip containers and use them as tupperware and containers for office supplies, like rubber bands or paper clips. Who knew?!? And why does it have to be Kool-Whip? I'm not sure, but I thought this was an idiosyncrasy practiced only by my family.

I also discovered that our family is not alone in mixing mayonnaise and soy sauce to make a dip for broccoli, asparagus, artichoke, and other firm green vegetables. And in making this concoction, Japanese-Americans only use "Best Foods Real Mayonnaise" [known as Hellmann's east of the Rockies]. We all pack obento for any car trip of more than an hour. And our doctors, dentists, optometrists, and orthodontists are all Japanese-American. (Note: this one is so, SO sadly true. Unable to find another Japanese physician at Kaiser, my mother sent me to Dr. Kawaoka, a pediatrician, through my first year of college. Waiting for the nurse to call me in, I sat among kindergarteners and crying infants with ear infections. I was the only patient in the waiting room old enough to vote. In fact, we needed special permission to make appointments with Dr. Kawaoka, since, ostensibly, he accepted patients only under 16.)

So today I drove out to Gardena (a Japanese-American ghetto) to see the optometrist. My Auntie May and Uncle Hodge (the same uncle whom Jennifer nearly razed to the ground with her highfalutin ideas) live only a few miles from the eye doctor, so I thought it would be nice to take them some Rascal's Chinese chicken salad and teriyaki chicken for lunch.

To help him recuperate from his stroke, Uncle Hodge has physical therapy several times a week, so he was out when I arrived, but Auntie May was there to welcome me. I don't get many chances to visit with her, so I decided to stay and chat a spell.

After an exchange of the usual pleasantries, we delved into more interesting topics.

"Most of our friends are in their 70s--or 80s!--so they're dropping like flies," she began. That was the very expression she used: dropping like flies. No sweet chuckle or wry smile to temper such a morose thought with a little humor. No, indeed, she said it in a most matter-of-fact tone, the same way I'd say "this casserole tastes terrible," or "I hear green is the new color of the season." Dropping like flies. "Well, that's what happens when you get to be our age," she continued, without a trace of melancholy in her voice. She was relaying pure fact without injecting any subjective analysis.

We then discussed my trip to China, and my current job as an SAT instructor. Uncle Hodge has accused Auntie May of becoming increasing forgetful, an allegation which, during my visit, proved true. Whereas Alvin is loath to hear any of my stories more than once, Auntie May seemed more than pleased to listen to my antics in Beijing in multiple tellings. She invited me to tell her no less than three times with a hearty, "So what was China like?" with each solicitation with the same alacrity as the one it followed. I love telling my stories from China, and if I repeat them all to the same person, so much the better. :)

We moved on from my adventures to Auntie May's. She had been to China in the 1970s, right after Richard Nixon opened up the PRC to foreign tourists. After comparing her experience of China with mine, I asked her about her trip through the Brazilian rainforests. Auntie told me about one of Uncle Hodge's school friends from Japan who tracked him down here in America. The man was on a navy boat that was stopping by a port in California before reaching its final destination.

"Hodge hasn't heard from him since then; maybe he's expired in the interim."

All this talk of expiration and dropping flies reminded me of the impending extinction of a whole Japanese generation--Auntie May's generation. Within the last 18 months, both my great-uncle and grandmother have passed away. While ruminating on this on the drive home, a new idea ALIGHTED in my mind: record an audio history of the experience of Japanese-Americans forced into the internment camps. We have a very small window to capture their experiences, before this living part of history is lost.

One Man's Trash

Yesterday was New Year's Day. Happy belated New Year! Our friends had a small gathering at Pam's house: we had Thai food and Martinelli's; there was mango mousse cake from Diamond Bakery--yum! Doris (of Dating Dorkus) made a cameo before going off to what, I can only imagine, was a much less exciting, much less intellectually stimulating gathering with her Whitney H.S. friends.

And Doris brought a treat: a copy of our elementary school newspaper, the Carver Cub Courier (the alliteration is impressive for a grade school publication, right?) This was no ordinary Carver Cub Courier, however. On the front page--above the fold--of this edition of this particular Carver Cub Courier was an article on Kids for Saving the Earth. Ok, so there was never any true "fold" in our school newspaper, but had we such a bisection, I'm sure that articles on KSE would have appeared on the more distinguished upper side.

Doris exhumed the paper from the catacombs of personal material she has managed to amass over the years. I'm not sure exactly what else is in this veritable museum of natural (and unnatural) history, but after seeing this invaluable nugget, I am eager to go spelunking through it to discover what other goodies lie waiting for me.

You see, I am a discarder. My family members are all packrats, so, as a coping mechanism, I have developed a discarder's mentality. Anything that doesn't seem immediately valuable is hurtled into the trash. Old birthday cards, tickets to movies I have long forgotten, old homework assignments, school projects--everything must go. Why make room to store something that I will likely never take out and view again? At one time in my life, I preserved such items for their sentimental value, but I saw the diminishing returns they brought me, and decided it was best just to send them off the landfill. They seemed valuable for a few weeks (or even months) after I acquired them, but a few years later, when I unearthed them while cleaning my room, I discovered they were just meaningless junk.

But that was my mistake. I just didn't keep them long enough. You see, little mementos like these are a lot like stocks: you acquire them, their value decreases after a couple years, and the unwise man will sell, sell, sell to remove their deadweight from the ledger of his life. Doris, packrat that she is, judiciously saves such trinkets. She knows that over long periods of time (20 to 40 years), the market invariably yields handsome returns for those patient enough to wait it out. And so it is with delectable treasures such as these: if you wait it out, they will bring back long-forgotten memories of times 15, 20, or 25 years ago.

Here is a copy of the first page:
(You'll notice that I was an editor, and that my sister was some sort of contributing writer.)

And just for fun, here's a certificate Doris saved from our Kids for Saving the Earth days:

I'm glad Doris saved these tidbits of her past; I wished I hadn't so hastily discarded my old memories. One man's trash is another man's treasure...and eventually it becomes the first man's treasure, too.