H. Hsu Word Salad

In Sickness and in Health

Just got back from 8 days of nonstop action/recreation. Yes, life is so difficult, I know. I have a reputation for needing vacations from my vacations since I like to be on the go constantly rather than lie in the sun and chill.
Another post can describe the awesome fun times on the good ship "Carnival Paradise" as we partied for K and YM's pre-wedding festivities.
What sticks in my head (and craw) in the present moment, is the unfortunate viral attack AND pink eye infection that attacked me in tandem as the cruise ended. 

One suspects the pink eye comes from my most adorable little nephew who has an endearing habit of clapping his hands on my cheeks. (and saying I am/was a "Princess" based upon how I look in my wedding photo.)  My respiratory distress came as the inevitable result of:
3/4 of my travel companions coughing in my vicinity as if they had TB for 8 days
karaoke
being away from my careful, healthy, home diet
yelling in club rex
little sleep
fire air pollution
fireworks air pollution
mexico air pollution
alcohol (what can I say, it was a fiesta)
and kayaking upon the ocean in a bikini whilst battling this plague.
I became near mute for like 2 days which made for great practice in my pantomime/improvised sign language skills. A fun test to see who understood me without words, P and my sweetheart faired fairly well.  My sister in law joked that I should tell people I am deaf too, esp. since I could feign ignorance of any mother in law complaints about me...

But MIL tried to help, brewing me a pot full of chrysanthemum tea from dried flowers.  No tea bags here, I know they sell these blooms in big bags like pillowcases in Chinatown, and I sadly recall my former supervisee B buying this for her father when he was dying of Cancer.  The layer of boiled flowers was 4 inches thick, and she strained them through a little metal grill over a mug.  I took a hot sip, I had been wishing for some damn good natural Chinese remedies for days but on that boat at sea there had been no way to get some.  The thickness was like yoda-swamp pond sludge. Bitter and sweet. MIL offered honey, I gratefully accepted. Memories of weird Chinese herbal brews throughout my life floated through my head.

The moment that stands out most, as I realized I was desperately losing this immunity battle, is early morn like 2 am last Saturday. After a day with the in laws and the adorable yet exhausting nephew/niece, the house was finally dark and quiet.

But I was hacking away in the night and absolutely miserable. My eye hurt. My throat was killing me and I was convinced I had strep. My head hurt. I never have sleep problems and now I was unable to sleep. "If I was a different kind of person," I said to P,"I would SO just cry right now."  I squeezed lemon edges by the trio into my water glass and lime wedges all over my Thai food hoping the citrus would aid my battered immunity. Had fantasies of sticking the lemon wedges on my reddening eyeball. "Mmmm. Don't think that would help," said P.  I was desperate with exhaustion and wanting to get home, 400 miles away, where my meds ,mom, vitamins, bed, and doctor could be accessed.

P went to rummage amongst the cabinets, and came back bearing a hot mug of Theraflu-ish potion.  So there we sat. Middle of the night like a baby he had to comfort, P kept me company while I sucked down the not-quite-as-revolting-as-I-had imagined-brew.   He told me stories and pulled childhood items off the shelves.

The battered and scratched white frisbee he got on his very 1st day in the United States.  His Thai 1st and 2nd grade study workbooks, the ornate Thai script illegible to me, but gorgeous.  Thai graphic and pulp novels with mysterious, monsters, scantily clad women, and men in 70's attire. Still mute, I just listened as P walked down memory lane.  There was an impressive home made board game on a sheet of plywood, red and black squares drawn with markers. I had to smile at the innovative kid who created that.

Before I knew it, my breathing was back to normal. The acetominophen kicked in.
"Sorry I didn't help sooner," he said. "So many distractions with the family...and it's really hard to tell with you how bad it is with you."

We went to bed. He put away the comic books. I pointed at the white frisbee, rasped that we should take it home and keep it. Told P I loved him, and drifted off to sleep reflecting upon my simple fortune.

Ladies, this is what you must seek. Someone who lays beside your germy, infectious eye-balled, ugly self,patient and comforting, and brings medicine and tells you stories.

I am a Mermaid

Race day June 14. As I grumble around (not, not, not, never a morning person am I) at dawn, I remind myself to be grateful that the Mermaid race is in

Fremont

, not far from home base. The Pleasanton Tri had us setting out at 5:30 a.m. P racks my bike onto the car as I review gear and pack race food. Clif Blox now come in versions with extra sodium (Margarita flavor) or added caffeine (Black cherry, my favorite). Mojo bars with pretzel/peanut. Mom gave me a genetically modified behemoth of a giant

Fuji

apple yesterday, and I bring half of that with me too. Add some green tea in my Russian Starbucks mug, Propel, and I’m off.

 At the registration table, they easily find my name of the list. I am handed the race number for my shirt, as well as the 318 sticker for my bike helmet, and a 318 double sided number to affix to the bike.

“ Go down the tables for everything else.” What else is there, I wonder?

I’m handed a timing chip attached to a Velcro band to wear around my ankle. Then the organic Mermaid T-shirt, then there is a table with a rainbow of little ovals on it.

“Hi, which swim wave are you?”

Apparently we are all being color-coded by swim caps. What a nice organizational notion. In my first Tri, I was informed that one does not, should not, race with a black swim cap in case you start to drown- it makes it difficult for them to spot you.
Oh. Great. That explained the obnoxious yellow and neon green caps out there. Since then I have swum in a bright blue cap. Today she looks up my age and hands me a lovely green one.

I always love the atmosphere at these races. Everyone is health conscious, not a cigarette or a soda anywhere despite the sold out 700 mermaids here and their families/friends. Dad pushing strollers and little kids holding “Go Mom!” signs abound. Volunteers mark our hands, and arm with a black sharpie. 318. They then ask my age, and write it on my let calf for the world to see. Funny. I will find myself looking at everyone’s leg age number throughout the race as I notice 24 years old and 45 years old passing me on the bicycle course.

It’s a full hour until my swim wave, we are second to last. I walk over to the lake beach to cheer on the current wave of 45- 49 year olds. A blonde woman dressed in a sequined mermaid gown is the announcer, describing the course, warning people to stay out of the way, reading off names of each woman who emerges from the water. I clap and cheer for these older women whom I so admire. I hope so badly I will be that healthy in my 48^th year! They look exhausted already, yet strong. I munch my apple and make smiling small talk with the women next to me. 

My heart starts to pound and in my head that old question arises, “WHY do you do these things?!” 

The globular orange buoys that mark the swim distance seem unfathomably, dangerously far. The latexed swim capped heads of the women swimming out there look teeny, tiny, far away. I think back to my practice swims, all the cheating rest breaks I would take, and wonder if I am ready for this.  We see a few swimmers go toward a lifeguard to take a rest upon one of the surfboards being offered. I notice a swimmer or two getting towed into shore. To make matters worse, after the quarter mile swim, each woman has to come up the rocky beach and run UP a grassy hill to reach the transition area where our bikes await. 

Mom shows up. I get into my shortie wetsuit, fetch the goggles, and we take some pics. I notice that emblazoned on the side of my cap it reads “I am a Mermaid.”   

Suddenly the tripped out Beatles tune “I am a Walrus” starts in my head:
“I am a Mermaid, Coo coo kachoo, coo coo Cachoo….”

I am a Walrus - Beatles

I tell my mom this swim looks like it’s gonna take me 20- 30 minutes. She begins to look nervous in spite of herself. “Half an hour? That sounds tiring to death!”

The lake is relatively warm today, and once I am afloat my inner panic subsides. The waters are opaque, dark green and brown. The teenaged lifeguards sitting on kayaks watch us carefully. Songs drift through my head ranging from my new version of “I am a Mermaid” to Dorie the fish from Finding Nemo “Just keep swimming, just keep swimming…”

 

Just keep swimming...

The faraway buoys are gigantic orange balls once one is up close. A lifeguard calls out to us in warning when a big wave heads our way. Another cheerily talks us through it, “you look great mermaids, great job, just think of it as a swim in a pool, a very, very, very big pool…but just a pool.”

I come out of the water near last in my age group,(which seems about right since next year I will be in the next age group up!). As I charge out of the water, I hear mom yell, “Not bad- 14 minutes!” 
Many of the mermaids come out of the water short of breath, grimacing, but I am a grinning fool. Hahaha, I didn’t drown, the swim is done, the rest is fool proof!

The rest of the Tri is as usual, I covet other people’s sleek road bikes that weigh about as much as shoe. But I chug along on my heavy ass mountain bike and enjoy the 3 laps. P shows up at this point as I pass him in the street while he drives in. I wind up losing minutes by taking a necessary bathroom run between the bike and run transition (darn green tea!). 

The run is along Quarry lake trails, and here I finally begin to pass people. I don’t know what masochist designed this course, but the last 150 yards or so of the run is in SAND. It’s like running in slow mo on top of pudding to the finish line, where Mom and P are now joined by my sweetheart and her hubby to be.

In hindsight, I realize I could have pushed myself harder. I was so afraid of bonking out in my 1^st Tri of the year, that I paced it a bit too conservatively. The next day, I was not as sore as I had expected at all. I came in at 1:44. Not a good time really, but not bad considering my insufficient training schedule and lame gear.  I’m happy to have started out my weekend with a challenge…and am already plotting the next race. Of course if I don’t lay off of that Korean fried chicken and the Haagen Daz (shopping at Costco while starving results in things like 15 ice cream bars in the freezer…) the next race could be a problem!  

Ukelele sounds

Somewhere over the Rainbow/Wonderful World

Israel Kamakawiwo'ole, oft referred to as IZ, sings this song which strangely penetrates the head with it's haunting sweet sadness. One reviewer on Amazon (where I ordered the CD) described hearing bits of it played in a commercial and always feeling..."misty."

I'm the kind of stoic gal who didn't cry as a little girl when I toenail was torn off by a door or when my mom left me at pre-school for the first time .  And have had a reportedly irritating history of failing to shed appropriate tears at important relationship junctures with past loves.  But when this song wafts by I also feel  uncharacteristically "misty".  Mom loves, loves, loves the Louis Armstrong song Wonderful World.  And the wistful hopefullness and innocence of over the rainbow with those simple string tunes just somehow sends me over the edge.

Saturday morning pre-Mermaid Triathalon I was trying hard, and failing, to contain my anxiety.  Setting up my transition area I could not help but feel intimidated by the beautiful, sleek racing bikes of other women, and my heart just about dropped out of my chest when I saw the actual swim lake marked off with distant buoys. (more on the entire Tri later)
But they played this song over the intercom, and I became lost in a reverie of ukelele sounds, which calmed me sufficiently to stop wasting energy fretting that I would be needing for swimming.
More about IZ
Israel died in 1997, a young man (not even 40), a fiercely loved artist. 
For god's sake I can't help but wish he had done some triathaloning as well to have taken better care of his health.  But we all have our different outlets, strengths, gifts, and weaknesses.
Someone referred to Iz as "the Bob Marley of Hawai'i"
I hear that this song was recently performed on American Idol, who therefore has introduced it to a whole new generation of fans.
Folks chatting on youtube have reported playing this at everything from their graduation ceremonies to funerals.

OB Chicken Town

Now let's talk about cultural fusion food/settings. Not the fancy schmancy, artfully arranged thimble sized entree with drizzle of lychee infused balsamic stuff.
I mean, the good grub of the common man.
Won't you take me to....Chicken Town?!  (Break into Funky town song now...)

Following every triathalon, I develop severe fried chicken cravings.  All those lost calories, all that sodium secreted away..who needs Accelerade or Gatorade when some good Southern Fried Chicken will do the trick so nicely? 
Today, my sweetheart and I sat at the kitchen table handcrafting her beautiful one of a kind wedding invitations.  I lamented that Louisiana Fried Chicken was closed today.  They suggested "Korean fried Chicken."
Her fiance said "Ooh! That sounds good."
That did sound good.
"Where do you go for Korean Fried Chicken?" I asked,
"On Telegraph. OB Chicken Palace"
"Chicken Palace?! Palace. Are you serious?"
He looks it up on line, "actually it's Oriental BBQ Chicken Town."
Dude, that name is so bad on so many levels it sounds made up...
Who even uses the word Oriental anymore?
What in hell is a chicken town?
Is it a BBQ or a fried establishment? 
I wanna go see for myself.  When mom used to work in a Chinese restaurant, I remember the owner would always fry up little drummettes when my bro and I visited. SO good. 
Sweetheart recalls her folks frying up Chinese Georgia wings, "the best."

We arrive in the parking lot behind a car full of fashionable young Korean guys who come in and holler at the Laker's game.  A staff person is in the parking lot practicing his gold swing as we walk in.

This is fusion for the casual weekend evening when you wanna have a flashback to college days filled with Hite beer and Korean pop music.  Iced beer steins come out with a liter plus sized plastic jug of Hite that sends me into peals of laughter. It's like a Korean 40 on steroids.  A little bowl comes out, at first I think it's white rice...then...marshmallows? Upon inspection, they are little cubes of pickled daikon, the daikon healthy-bitter subdued with a crapload of sugar and vinegar.
The young waiter also brings shredded cabbage with thousand island dressing. Then, a small dish of tortilla chips.
I don't think anyone's ever served me tortillas in a Korean joint before.  And these, my friends, are pretty much the extent of the vegetation portion of tonight's meal.

I admit that I actually like chicken gizzards. Kev and sweetheart say they like 'em too.  We order stir fried gizzards but alas, they are sold out!  We go with Fried Chicken regular #1, and Soy Garlic fried chicken, and a skillet combo featuring grilled onions, chicken and thick, tubular dok Poki rice noodles all drowned in both cheese and a spicy 'til your lips hurt paste. (This is the mild version we asked for.)
Chicken is perfecto. Crispy, yet moist. Cooked through, evenly breaded, delish.  One of them comes with honey mustard sauce as well.  We chow down happily while watching basketball, drinking Hite, giggling about the oft-corny Korean pop music while holed up in a dark Corona-bar looking booth.  It's all odd, yet it works.
We go through reams of napkins, not from fried chicken grease-but from the sinus challenging, tongue scorching sauce.
Four well fed, perhaps, OVERfed peeps con cervezas ran under 45 bucks.
I hate the name. Decor is garish. Neighborhood is not very neighborly. Menu lacks a single unpickled vegetable. To say the least of any coherent theme or reason. Our white rice never showed up. Probably totally unhealthy overall.
But I Love it!
Fried chicken, icy beer steins, speedy service, daikon/cabbage refills, and open 'til 1:00 a.m. all the time- what a great place to eat and drink as if we were back in college again...

New York Times on Korean Fried Chicken

Asian America Rocks

How random are the things and peeps one hears on public radio?
By god, even my sweetheart and I have been on the air. It makes for some educational commuting time.  Recently I heard The Slants on air, an Asian American rock band which got its big break by playing at anime conventions:
The Slants
It was a hoot to hear them talk about how much they appreciated all these wild n' crazy kids dressed up like Sailor Moon or DragonBall Z dancing and partying.

"Sakura Sakura" is one song written by taking the childhood singsong taunt "Chinese, Japanese, Dirty Knees, Look at these!"  Typically that last line would be punctuated by a bunch of bullies pulling their eyes back to look slanty.   In an interview,  one band member said he remembers not really understanding what the taunt was about, but feeling scared and knowing it was hostile.  He also notes the lame "ching chong chinaman" BS and being called a Jap, which "was just confusing, since I'm Vietnamese."
(Even more confusing, some of my own Asian American friends would sing the "Chinese, Japanese, Dirty knees, look at these" thing but instead of slanty eyes they'd pull up the front of their shirts like boobage. I didn't get it. They made the ditty sound chipper, not hostile, and no one had breast yet-LEAST of all us Asians. Go figure.)
Of course, just as important as the message is the music-which is fun and creative.

Mike Shinoda (most known for rapping and multi-instruments in Linkin Park) utilized interviews with his own family to write Kenji's song, (with Fort Minor) about the utterly unconstitutional, grossly inhumane and racist internment of Japanese Americans (which was so conveniently not taught to most of us when we took "American History" in school.

Kenji's Song

Why were no German-Americans interned? As history has shown, no Japanese Americans were ever convicted of being spies despite all the hubbub, and Japanese Americans served the U.S. Military. In fact the 442nd became the MOST decorated with honors unit in U.S History.  These men gave their lives in droves to defend the United States, even as their beloved country was locking their families up in horse stalls and barbed wire camps and destroying their communities and businesses.
They liberated Bruyeres, France (where there is now reportedly a 'Rue de 442' in their honor.)

Kenji (lyrics) - Fort Minor
My father came from Japan in 1905
He was 15 when he immigrated from Japan
He, he... he worked until he was able to buy this patch,And build a store

Let me tell you the story in the form of a dream,
I don't know why I have to tell it but I know what it means,
Close your eyes, just picture the scene,
As I paint it for you, it was

World War II,
When this man named Kenji woke up,
Ken was not a soldier,
He was just a man with a family who owned a store in LA,
That day, he crawled out of bed like he always did,
Bacon and eggs with wife and kids,
He lived on the second floor of a little store he ran,
He moved to LA from Japan,
They called him 'Immigrant,'
In Japanese, he'd say he was called "Issei,"
That meant 'First Generation In The United States,'
When everyone was afraid of the Germans, afraid of the Japs,
But most of all afraid of a homeland attack,
And that morning when Ken went out on the doormat,
His world went black 'cause,
Right there; front page news,
Three weeks before 1942,
"Pearl Harbour's Been Bombed And The Japs Are Comin',"
Pictures of soldiers dyin' and runnin',
Ken knew what it would lead to,
Just like he guessed, the President said,
"The evil Japanese in our home country will be locked away,"
They gave Ken, a couple of days,
To get his whole life packed in two bags,
Just two bags, couldn't even pack his clothes,
Some folks didn't even have a suitcase, to pack anything in,
So two trash bags was all they gave them,
When the kids asked mum "Where are we goin'?"
Nobody even knew what to say to them,
Ken didn't wanna lie, he said "The US is lookin' for spies,
So we have to live in a place called Manzanar,
Where a lot of Japanese people are,"
Stop it don't look at the gunmen,
You don't wanna get the soldiers wonderin',
If you gonna run or not,
'Cause if you run then you might get shot,
Other than that try not to think about it,
Try not to worry 'bout it; bein' so crowded,
Someday we'll get out, someday, someday.

As soon as war broke out
The G.I came and they just come to the house and
"You have to come"
"All the Japanese have to go"
They took Mr. Lee
People didn't understand
Why did they have to take him?
Because he's an innocent labourer

So now they're in a town with soldiers surroundin' them,
Every day, every night look down at them,
From watch towers up on the wall,
Ken couldn't really hate them at all;
They were just doin' their job and,
He wasn't gonna make any problems,
He had a little garden with vegetables and fruits that,
He gave to the troops in a basket his wife made,
But in the back of his mind, he wanted his families life saved,
Prisoners of war in their own damn country,
What for?
Time passed in the prison town,
He wanted them to live it down when they were free,
The only way out was joinin' the army,
And supposedly, some men went out for the army, signed on,
And ended up flyin' to Japan with a bomb,
That 15 kiloton blast, put an end to the war pretty fast,
Two cities were blown to bits; the end of the war came quick,
Ken got out, big hopes of a normal life, with his kids and his wife,
But, when they got back to their home,
What they saw made them feel so alone,
These people had trashed every room,
Smashed in the windows and bashed in the doors,
Written on the walls and the floor,
"Japs not welcome anymore."
And Kenji dropped both of his bags at his sides and just stood outside,
He, looked at his wife without words to say,
She looked back at him wiped the tears away,
And, said "Someday we'll be okay, someday,"
Now the names have been changed, but the story's true,
My family was locked up back in '42,
My family was there it was dark and damp,
And they called it an internment camp

When we first got back from camp... uhh
It was... pretty... pretty bad
I, I remember my husband said
"Are we gonna stay 'til last?"
Then my husband died before they close the camp.

Rock on. Rage on your experience. And learn something too. Such is the purpose of artistic expression.

Runs with Kenyans

In this past month my lap runs around the lake have been a rather grim little affair.  Without B's cheery company, I run while bogged down in ruminations about all the places my foot hurts, how slow-ass I am etc.
It does not help that conditions have varied from scorching heat and literal clouds of nostril-invading gnats to gusty, chilling winds. 
My memorial day weekend hike (#1) took place in Marin amidst drizzle that became rain that leached body heat out when stuck by accompanying wind. 
Fort Cronkite Hike
It made for atmospheric ambiance, particularly around the haunting old WWII ruins, but not such a lovely day out.  By Memorial day hike #2, it was sunny, dusty, sweaty business, at the aforementioned/blogged Rancho San Antonio.
This morning I went plodding along, bargaining with myself mentally.
"We can do 6 miles."
"well...how about 4?"
"We're gonna die on triathlon day if you keep slacking like this..."
"It's been a long week, tomorrow's yoga and I promise we'll swim and maybe run again monday..."
"Just find a good run playlist and get a move on."

My stomach growls, I am aching for a green tea/Peets coffee fix, (and a nice pastry to boot.)  Not promising.  Then on lap two, I notice two high-stepping young lads up ahead.  Ok, I thought, I can pace myself by following those guys, keep them in sight, just don't get too far behind them.
So I followed, and began to wonder what their story was. They both wore the same plain white tees and black and white striped basketball shorts. Perhaps they were on a high school track team around here.  At intervals they'd pick up their steps higher, and one would lace his hands behind his head as he ran.
Mysteriously, I started to catch up.
I think they're getting a bit winded.  I wind up passing them. 
A quarter mile later I hear them running up behind me.
They pass.  I catch up.
Am on the verge of passing yet again.  Geez, this is really starting to remind me of precisely how I met beloved B, trying to ditch one another.
"I'm pacing myself on you guys!"
They smile and tell me "you're very good." 
I think that's quite I stretch but I am happy for running company.  I fall in beside them as we run.  They say they are at the lake "For fun. Exercise."
I detect an accent and wonder even more what their story is.
I tell them a bit about the races I am training for, and they seem fascinated.
They ask if I "win things", to which I laugh like a maniac.
"Hahaha, oh NO. Not me. I go slow, just for fun.  Some of the races have prizes for the winners.  I think always the winners are Kenyan."

Suddenly they both exclaim, "We are from Kenya!!" 
They seem delighted.  They ask about my  home country, and about whether there are great runners from Taiwan too. Er, sadly, I think the answer to that is a pretty clear NO.   Especially compared to Kenya. 
(Although our current President is a mighty fine runner)President Ma, swimmer and jogger
At the end of 4 miles, one of the young men directs us to "go ahead without me!"
So S and I chat for another loop.  He's only been in Fremont for 7 months. 
"I think my brother and I are very lucky, we both got Rotary Club scholarships to come and go to school."  He's 25. Ah. To be 25 again...(but less of an idiot second time 'round.) 
He mentions that he used to run "8, maybe 10, can also be 20 miles".  I raise an eyebrow and encourage him to  sign up for some races.   He asks more about how I came to be in Fremont, and whether I will do all the races.  I find myself explaining that I am not so fast these days, and at one point mention that my family has been in California for more than 30 years now.
He looks stunned. "What?!"
"S, I'm almost 35 years old."
He goes on a flattering litany that no one who sees me would think I am 35, because I am "looking so fit, very young." 
I have to laugh, "yeah sure, of COURSE compared to White Americans maybe, Chinese look young."
He notes that people in Kenya "are not so fat, eat too much, like here."
I note that that is probably one of the greatest understatements I've heard in awhile.
Gave him my e-mail, and hopes he does follow up on e-mailing me because I've quite a list of races to send his way.
   

Loving for All

My teeming handful of readers are aware 
of my deep affection for my mum. But 
I just about had to bite her head off last 
week when she was commenting her 
disapproval of the CA gay rights decision.  
Dear mum was spouting off the 
usual trite and ignorant arguments:

"Well, it's not good for their poor kids."

Exasperated, I reminded her that I work 
every day with children whose hetero 
parents are not exactly doing a stellar job 
of parenting (to put it mildly).  At least 
the majority of gay parents have had to 
put a lot of thought, effort, and prep into 
becoming parents, which is WAY 
more than I can say for most straight 
folks & their oopsy kids 
& babymamma/babydaddy drama.

“It’s not…natural.” 

Look, if it were SO dysfunctional, gayness 
would have evolved right outta the 
population ages ago. But the traits 
persists in some 10% of the population, 
and exists in the more intelligent of our 
animal friends (dolphins.) 

And don’t get me started on what 
“God said” because any mortal man who 
claims to know what God dictated has 
a serious problem with scientific facts. 
The “almighty” has been invoked to justify 
all sorts of dubious personal,
political,  and all too human agendas.

Believe what you want in your own home. 
I respect that. But your faith does not 
Give you the right to impair the
Civil rights of others.

I asked her if she actually knew any gay 
couples (Uh, that would be a NO), 
because I do, and many of them share 
a loyalty and commitment that would 
put most of my rapidly-divorcing 
straight friends' unions to shame.  

Finally I reminded her of two points 
she grudgingly admitted were true:
1) Homosexual citizens pay all the same 
taxes and should have all the same 
benefits as other law abiding citizens.

 More importantly, 2) It once was also 
illegal for those of different ethnic 
groups to marry. Which now seems 
criminally ignorant and cruel.  In 
the Bay area, we are surrounded by 
beautiful mixed race, mixed culture families.  
I certainly comprehend that gayness creeps 
a lot of people out.  We always tend to 
fear, laugh at, or 
cringe from what we do not know.  
But look upon your beloved friends 
and neighbors of mixed ethnicity 
families. The Keanu Reeves of the 
world, if you will.  And remember 
that just a few short decades 
ago, that love was treated as an 
illegal crime against nature.  I 
hope one day soon we will recall 
the illogical, knee jerk
anti-gay sentiments as similarly 
ridiculous.  

Heteros have done just fine demeaning 
marriage, allowing gay couples the 
opportunity to take a potshot 
at this lotto in life we call LOVE, 
is a human right.  Below is an essay from 
Mrs. Loving, whose landmark case 
changed the future for thousands of 
loving families in this country. 

Loving for All
By Mildred Loving

Prepared for Delivery on June 12, 2007,

The 40th Anniversary of the Loving vs. 
Virginia Announcement

When my late husband, Richard, and I 
got married in Washington, DC in 
1958, it wasn't to make a 
political statement or start 
a fight. We were in love, 
and we wanted to be married.

We didn't get married in Washington 
because we wanted to marry there. We
did it there because the government 
wouldn't allow us to marry back home
in Virginia where we grew up, where 
we met, where we fell in love, and
where we wanted to be together 
and build our family. 
You see, I am a
woman of color and Richard was white, 
and at that time people believed it
was okay to keep us from marrying 
because of their ideas of who should
marry whom.

When Richard and I came back to 
our home in Virginia, happily 
married, we had no intention of 
battling over the law. We made 
a commitment to each other in 
our love and lives, and now 
had the legal commitment, called
marriage, to match. 
Isn't that what marriage is?

Not long after our wedding, we 
were awakened in the middle of 
the night in our own bedroom 
by deputy sheriffs and actually 
arrested for the
"crime" of marrying the wrong 
kind of person. Our marriage 
certificate was hanging on the 
wall above the bed. 
The state prosecuted Richard 
and me, and after we were 
found guilty, the judge 
declared: "Almighty God
created the races white, black, 
yellow, malay and red, and he 
placed them on separate 
continents. And but for the 
interference with his arrangement
there would be no cause for such 
marriages. The fact that he 
separated the races shows that he 
did not intend for the races to mix." 
He sentenced us to a year in prison, 
but offered to suspend the sentence if
we left our home in Virginia for 
25 years exile.
We left, and got a lawyer. 
Richard and I had to fight, 
but still were not
fighting for a cause. 
We were fighting for our love.

Though it turned out we had to fight, 
happily Richard and I didn't have
to fight alone. Thanks to groups 
like the ACLU and the NAACP Legal
Defense & Education Fund, and so 
many good people around the country
willing to speak up, we took our 
case for the freedom to marry all the
way to the U.S. Supreme Court. 
And on June 12, 1967, the Supreme Court
ruled unanimously that, 
"The freedom to marry has long been 
recognized as
one of the vital personal rights 
essential to the orderly pursuit of
happiness by free men,
" a "basic civil right."

My generation was bitterly divided 
over something that should have been
so clear and right. The majority 
believed that what the judge said, that
it was God's plan to keep people apart, 
and that government should
discriminate against people in love. 
But I have lived long enough now to
see big changes. The older generation's 
fears and prejudices have given
way, and today's young people 
realize that if someone loves someone they
have a right to marry.

Surrounded as I am now by wonderful 
children and grandchildren, not a day
goes by that I don't think of Richard 
and our love, our right to marry,
and how much it meant to me to have 
that freedom to marry the person
precious to me, even if others thought 
he was the "wrong kind of person"
for me to marry. I believe all 
Americans, no matter their race, no 
matter their sex, no matter their 
sexual orientation, should have that 
same freedom to marry. 
government has no business imposing 
some people's religious beliefs 
over others. Especially if it 
denies people's civil rights.

I am still not a political person, 
but I am proud that Richard's and my
name is on a court case that can 
help reinforce the love, the commitment,
the fairness, and the family that 
so many people, black or white, young
or old, gay or straight seek in life. 
I support the freedom to marry for
all. 
That's what Loving, and loving, are all about.

Mountain View Art & Wine

So I get to be my friend Nathiya's "neck model".  If you see her lovely booth at one of the many art and wine festivals this summer, you may see a Pineapple Seed booth of her fabulously elegant and clean line jewelry.  We went to visit at Mtn. View last weekend and we thought it might be sort of funny to "take a picture, in front of your picture."

Me and my neckline representin' Pineappleseed

The endless knot & my fave blue dress as it appears on the Pineapple Seed banner

Although in these shots you can't see the beautiful endless knot pendant in the banner, nor the botanical I wore with my green dress in that sweltering heat. 
The festival was fun. People dressed up as giant plush Blackberry phones embraced as we all cracked up at the "phone sex."  A random man with a stylish hat and Cuban shirt bought me a roasted corn on the cob...which actually made me much happier than all those occasions when guys would buy me alcoholic drinks (that I needed about as much as a hole in the head). The show was rife with fabulous photography, jewelry, food.  Music was pretty darn good too.  We tried not to titter too much at some of the more inane questions from visitors to her booth.  ("Oh, these are made of Pinepple Seeds??" Sheesh. Some people are just very literal, concrete thinkers...)
We wound up the evening with an impromptu Party of 8 dinner at Chocolate Sushi in Sunnyvale.
Nathiya, BTW, also has blessed us with our Christmas card photo, family photos with the in laws and cutie pies, and my sweethearts' engagement pics.

My neice looking SO adorable squeezy hug cute (even though she was a tad cranky that day)

A good eye and a good lens are a killer combo!

Props to Moms

"Mother Love is the fuel that enables a normal human being to do the impossible."
-Marrion C. Garretty

Mom's day, Mothering Sunday, Mother's Day, Dia de las madres...however you slice it, it's a Hallmark gimmick for an appreciation that we oughta be throwing parades for on a weekly basis.
The flower ads and gag-me, overly smooshy, sentimental cards just don't interest me.  But it's a wonderful opportunity to cook for the moms, and offer props for all they do.  Not just my own mom and grandma(s), but the aunties, godmom, and all the friends' moms, as well as the cousin and friends who are now impressing me with their parenting stamina as well.
All my friends joke that their children will require huge therapy bills one day...but it is precisely the kind of parents who think about such things that do not cause that kind of dysfunction!

The quote I chose at the beginning of this, is sadly, only true for some of us.  Not everyone is graced with the type of mother love that believes in you so blindly, that you keep on runnin' even when things seem impossible.  Did my mom ever doubt me? Heck, yes!  Doubted my fashion choices, boyfriend choices, career choice...my room decor, hairstyle, phone bills, sobriety, social skills...frankly, even my intelligence during some choice moments.  But I'm Ok with that.  Because she let me try.  She often didn't tell me of her doubts until years after the fact. 
I never became one of those Asian geeks obsessed with their 4.0's. Hell, I doubt I ever, ever had straight A's!  Much more importantly, she helped make me a compassionate, creative, and hard working person.  School was important, but so was the zoo, and museums, making pancakes, raising pets, dancing, gardening, traveling, reading trips to the library, and helping others.  No doubt she questioned her judgment during my leather-clad, chain smoking, narcissist-dating, binge drinking years.  But that weird girl went on to her dream school in L.A. Earned a doctorate, traveled to a dozen countries,  and donated hundreds of hours of volunteer work.   
B and I have spent many a run chatting about how amazing our moms are, and how we just kinda lucked out on the lotto of life in that category. 

Sometimes doing psychotherapy feels like re-parenting someone who never grew up with that unconditional positive regard, that smiling face is the crowd.  I feel sad to think of the moms who aren't with us, about how I don't buy grandma cards or gifts anymore... because one has passed from this life and the other is no longer cognizant of it.  But I will always remember the grandma hugs, their laughs, the delicate looking hands that knitted blankets and sweaters or braided my hair.   
The life I live seemed impossible not long ago, and probably would have sounded impossible to mom when she was my age. 

Mom just came over to pick something up (which never occurs  without a simultaneous drop-off), and brought me a fascinating concoction.  Apparently mom is having fun with her new mega-blender.

"This has 10 things in it! Blackberries, strawberries, lemon, papaya, yogurt, broccoli, cucumber, banana..."  Honestly I can't even recall the entire list because I probably stopped listening when she said "broccoli."  I'm no hater of cruciferous vegetables, had broccoli at lunch today in fact. But in my smoothie? I pour the glass into my mug and the thing is anti-gravity thick. But hey, it's pretty good!

Adidas ain't got anything on moms- "Impossible is Nothing."

Rancho San Antonio, Los Altos

Just had post PRK post op appointment #2. Next visit is in 2 months. Thus far I am one satisfied customer. Since Dr. Hyver is in Santa Clara, I took this South bay appointment as a reason to get some exercise at my beloved Rancho San Antonio
Park in Los Altos. W and I used to go there all the time, including holidays like Thanksgiving, to talk and hike and look at the creatures, bunnies, deer, birds of all kinds. It’s one of the things I miss most about the Cupertino home-Rancho San Antonio. Most of my friends no longer live in our old hood, save the one who is buried at rest near the park gates at Gates of Heaven cemetery.

Rancho San Antonio

Today’s primary motivation? The fact that I already registered and forked over some $$ for the first sprint Triathlon of the season. Now I seriously have to get consistent about training. Despite my many years of visiting this park, I have never, ever run in it. Too hilly. Strenuous enough just to walk it. But today, I figure a long hike with some short burst runs would do me good.

In HerSports magazine, one competitive athlete mentioned the boost to her performance once she hired a professional trainer. She shared that the key piece of advice was: her trainer said the human mind can only focus on 3 things at a time, max. So to stay concentrated on just a few actions when you train. She wrote about focusing her mind on say, “keep your arms in the right position”, or “go for speed.”

In that case, those with sub-clinical, or full blown attention deficit problems such as my own, are pretty screwed. Focus. OK. I start out focusing on the breath. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Feel it move deep into the very base of the lungs. Ahhhh.
Now focus on the muscles warming up in your legs. Calves are going, thighs engaging, hips opening up, keep the ankles supple yet strong…
And then my mind takes off into its own galloping tour.

I did hike. And I ran at least halfway as well. But here’s a tour of the free-associating, non-diligent training mind:

Rancho San Antonio…It’s green, the plant leaves are tender new shoots, stream is running what a peaceful sound. In a month or two it will be dry as heck, dusty, this is perfect. Shadows and light, natural EMDR. Wonder if Nathiya would tolerate the long ass hike to come up here and take photos of this.  There is a little farm here, piglets and sheep, a garden featuring "lambs ears" fuzzy leaves I can't resist stroking

If one encounters a mountain lion “appear as large as possible” W and I thought that as so funny. What could we do? Spread out our jackets and do jumping jacks?
Listening for mountain lions, try to stop imagining the giant cat bounding out of the bushes. Remember the size of that paw we saw on the Puma in Salinas
I wonder if I totally ruined these trail runners already in Nicaragua? Probably gonna pay for this manana. I read its healthiest to go barefoot anyways
Check out that older man who is fit as all get out. Dang. Could kick anyone’s ass, I hope I am a fraction like that in my 50’s. Hmm. I guess chest hair starts to go gray eventually too.
Remember the day W and I hiked in winter and each blade of grass glistened with frost like a magical wonderland. It was like something from Pan’s labyrinth. Or the time we saw a real wildcat- muscular creature stalking the shore of the little stream, it was like a speel that such a creature was here with us,we feel silent, enthralled
Listening for rattlesnakes, remember W, how that man waving a branch and yelling was actually scarier than the snake he was freaking out about?!
Every potential boyfriend has been dragged up and down this trail, W always laughed at the one who complained practically the whole time. This place in my mind is always about W, and is maybe a rite of passage for the boys in our lives. Jo and I always come too every time she comes back from Taipei. We take photos at the top of Wildcat loop. Look- there’s Shoreline ampitheatre, over there the giant jello- mold looking hangars of Moffett.  A reddish haired man I once cared for lived near here, he had a bit of a breakdown, I wonder how his mind is these days, and his  kind mom.

Quail.  How did we come up with such a totally dorky state bird?  One can understand the Bald eagle, but quail? They are truly adorable, and dang loud for such a tiny thing. Bravely standing watch and screaming to the others who are foraging. 
I can’t help but smile at that little dark bobble thing on their heads.
Doing, doing, doing.
How can anyone take seriously this teardrop shaped dingly thing at the top of its head…then again perhaps it does suit

California well. Beautiful and odd.   Wow, that dude is pushing his kid up the trail in a race stroller-I've pushed run strollers before but that thing is like a 4 wheel drive buggy of a stroller, she is CUTE, Dad is straining up the path. Trying not to step on lizards remembering Siggy from

Germany, she was SO fascinated with the common lizard, told me she’d never seen such a thing for it was far too cold in

Germany. Hope my knee holds up with all this pounding, going downhill now and imagine rolling uncontrollably if I trip
Thinking about Nathiya’s photo of a squirrel, and my own photo of a bushy tailed birdfeeder raider-and then as if I am hallucinating, I see something shaped like a squirrel a the side of the trail – but the SIZE of a lizard.
Stop running and stare. Oh! It’s the bittiest stripey chipmunk I have ever seen! Less than a third of the size of the insane robber chipmunks atop

Lassen peak.
Now an observation of a fellow hiker…how does one get a huge spare tire yet still have no ass? Must be some kind of white thing...
The time W and I hiked so late it was pitch dark, and a creature prowling across the path scared the crap out of us.

 I stretch out on the steel bars at the end of trail. A Latino man who said “hola!hola!” to me on the trail notes “you are very elastic.” We chat a bit, his calf muscle has cramped up, I recommend yoga and more stretching to him.

My next stop? The infamous Coffee Society where I tease the barista about their frequent whipped cream shortages. “I need full fat,” I say “does the owner lock up the cream chargers because you guys abuse them?!” Remember learning that one can get high as a kite of the N2O in a professional grade whipped cream canister. “We don’t abuse drugs at Coffee Society, we just Use them, not abuse them” he responds with a smirk.