Doctor A. looked at me with pity and condescension.
“It’s very important to breathe. Ok?” He put on his pediatrician tone and sat down facing me. “Let’s do it together. Take a long deep breath...”
He inhaled; I inhaled.
“Keep going. All the way in. Now let it all the way out. Do that a few times.”
A medical doctor was teaching me how to inhale and exhale. Something about the lesson and the instructor made me wish I specialized in medical malpractice. But it helped to have someone walk me through it. I felt my lungs fill and (perhaps only in my imagination) my brain relax. I felt my body relax. I wanted to stay in that exam room and just breathe for a few hours.
“Nice, right? People forget to breathe deeply all the time. They forget how nice it feels.”
* * *
The day before I last defended a deposition, I wrote 5-6 standard objections on a post-it note as a reminder. Objections don’t stop the questions or obviate my client’s obligation to answer them, but it’s important to preserve them for the record. (Or so we lawyers tell ourselves; else it becomes another item on an already long list of meaningless exercises for which we bill in increments of 6 minutes. But I digress.) When the time came, I half-listened to the questions posed to my client and rattled off objections without much conscious effort, as though on auto-pilot. I didn’t once refer to my note.
Yet there I was, sitting in front of Dr. A., getting a refresher course on breathing.
* * *
The next day, an EKG ruled out heart attack as the cause of the chest pains that lead me to Dr. A.'s exam room; there's some speculation that stress is to blame and rest is in order. Five days after that, I booked a ticket to Hawai'i. Five days after that, I touched down in Hilo. A day later, I'm driving a convertible with the top down and breathing deeply without much conscious effort, as though on auto-pilot.
11 July 2012
24 April 2012
note to my royal quiet deluxe
I changed your ribbon tonight. Now you type dark and clear, and with less effort on my part. This is how it should be: my fingers flying across your keys, your letters flying across my page.
It was no small undertaking to fit you with a new, fresh ribbon. Turns out, you see, the cartridges I had didn't quite fit your carriage. The spools were too big for you, though the ribbon was the right width. What to do? I bought these replacement units over a decade ago, and I have three sets of them. I could go on with the old ribbon, but that won't last forever. You need to be changed sooner or later.
This takes us to the part I love most: the old-fashioned me figuring out the old-school you. The ribbon is attached to the spools like fabric to a protruding nail. Quite ruffian, to be honest. So I stripped the old ribbon from your perfectly-sized spools, stripped the new ribbon from the new spools, and wound the new ribbon around the old spools. Voila! Now the retired ribbon sits with the too-large spools at the bottom of the trash heap, while you and I churn and hum along like we had never been interrupted.
Had you been a computer, had you been a machine made too sophisticated by folk who had never known the small pleasures of pressing the keys of a mechanical wonder, our separation would have been extended. I would have had to hand you over to a stranger to toy with you, to handle and "fix" when all along, there was nothing wrong with you, nothing to fix. What if the "expert" had been a brute and resorted to forcing those big spools into you? Perish the thought. Not to my baby.
But you are the way you are -- plain, functional, sensible -- so much so that even a dolt like me can figure you out. So I had the pleasure of tinkering with ink-smudged fingers and rejoicing in your simplicity. Now I know you a little better than before, delight in you in a new way. You are perfect. And with you, I feel just right.
It was no small undertaking to fit you with a new, fresh ribbon. Turns out, you see, the cartridges I had didn't quite fit your carriage. The spools were too big for you, though the ribbon was the right width. What to do? I bought these replacement units over a decade ago, and I have three sets of them. I could go on with the old ribbon, but that won't last forever. You need to be changed sooner or later.
This takes us to the part I love most: the old-fashioned me figuring out the old-school you. The ribbon is attached to the spools like fabric to a protruding nail. Quite ruffian, to be honest. So I stripped the old ribbon from your perfectly-sized spools, stripped the new ribbon from the new spools, and wound the new ribbon around the old spools. Voila! Now the retired ribbon sits with the too-large spools at the bottom of the trash heap, while you and I churn and hum along like we had never been interrupted.
Had you been a computer, had you been a machine made too sophisticated by folk who had never known the small pleasures of pressing the keys of a mechanical wonder, our separation would have been extended. I would have had to hand you over to a stranger to toy with you, to handle and "fix" when all along, there was nothing wrong with you, nothing to fix. What if the "expert" had been a brute and resorted to forcing those big spools into you? Perish the thought. Not to my baby.
But you are the way you are -- plain, functional, sensible -- so much so that even a dolt like me can figure you out. So I had the pleasure of tinkering with ink-smudged fingers and rejoicing in your simplicity. Now I know you a little better than before, delight in you in a new way. You are perfect. And with you, I feel just right.
23 April 2011
saturday in the upper room
We hadn't designated this room as a meeting place in case of an emergency; we weren't expecting any. But this was where we last gathered before... Calvary. One by one we appeared, ghosts of our former selves. All except two.
The one who hung himself was just like us. We were together nearly everyday for three years. Three years! Some of us are livid and curse his name. How could he? How dare he? Others of us stew in silent disbelief and shock. When did he turn? Why? Were we ever really friends?
The one who was hung gave us warning. We just didn't pay attention. The cryptic things he said now seem plain, things too horrible to accept even now that they're realized. For three years we trailed him; we left the lives we've known. We thought we were lost before we met him, but we're worse off now. The things we've seen and experienced with him - wonders and marvels beyond our imaginations as ordinary men, at times by our own hands - have ruined us forever. We can hardly imagine going back to our old lives, though most of us will try.
But the small moments haunt us also. The meals and conversations. The long, hot treks through Galilee. Even the bickering and mischief. We were a family and he our big brother, who could both correct and laugh with us, lead and serve us. Slowly but surely, he'd stirred into us a certainty that we are loved with a love beyond our comprehension as ordinary men.
Our guilt taunts us. Though we huddle in common fear, our common shame erects walls between us. We cannot lift our heads or meet our eyes. Oh, the promises we made! How eagerly we jostled for position, how easily we pledged fidelity, how quickly we fled. We didn't even try; we just stood and watched from distant shadows.
Yet here we are, a collection of cowards hiding... and waiting. Because he said other cryptic things, too glorious to consider but too wonderful to ignore. What if? What if! Our exhaustion pants for the sun to set, but something burns inside us for the sun to rise. Perhaps the rooster's crow may yet be redeemed.
The one who hung himself was just like us. We were together nearly everyday for three years. Three years! Some of us are livid and curse his name. How could he? How dare he? Others of us stew in silent disbelief and shock. When did he turn? Why? Were we ever really friends?
The one who was hung gave us warning. We just didn't pay attention. The cryptic things he said now seem plain, things too horrible to accept even now that they're realized. For three years we trailed him; we left the lives we've known. We thought we were lost before we met him, but we're worse off now. The things we've seen and experienced with him - wonders and marvels beyond our imaginations as ordinary men, at times by our own hands - have ruined us forever. We can hardly imagine going back to our old lives, though most of us will try.
But the small moments haunt us also. The meals and conversations. The long, hot treks through Galilee. Even the bickering and mischief. We were a family and he our big brother, who could both correct and laugh with us, lead and serve us. Slowly but surely, he'd stirred into us a certainty that we are loved with a love beyond our comprehension as ordinary men.
Our guilt taunts us. Though we huddle in common fear, our common shame erects walls between us. We cannot lift our heads or meet our eyes. Oh, the promises we made! How eagerly we jostled for position, how easily we pledged fidelity, how quickly we fled. We didn't even try; we just stood and watched from distant shadows.
Yet here we are, a collection of cowards hiding... and waiting. Because he said other cryptic things, too glorious to consider but too wonderful to ignore. What if? What if! Our exhaustion pants for the sun to set, but something burns inside us for the sun to rise. Perhaps the rooster's crow may yet be redeemed.
02 February 2011
(un)happy anniversary
I've never been one to make sentimental promises. I was never one to say or scribble in yearbooks "we'll be friends forever" because I could never say such things without feeling deceitful.
But in my last weeks in Uganda, I freely spoke of returning, of visiting, of not forgetting. When I uttered those words, I did mean them. I did want and intend to go back sooner than later, certainly within a year or two. As of yesterday, it has been three full years since I left Uganda. I still have no immediate plans to return.
Come to think of it, I made and have yet to keep similar promises to return to and visit friends in Congo. Those good intentions have been unrealized for well over five years.
Can I blame Africa for this? For seducing me and causing me to lose my head, to declare devotion and make vain promises? Though of this I'm certain: it woos many others who do keep their word; I miss it more than it misses me.
But in my last weeks in Uganda, I freely spoke of returning, of visiting, of not forgetting. When I uttered those words, I did mean them. I did want and intend to go back sooner than later, certainly within a year or two. As of yesterday, it has been three full years since I left Uganda. I still have no immediate plans to return.
Come to think of it, I made and have yet to keep similar promises to return to and visit friends in Congo. Those good intentions have been unrealized for well over five years.
Can I blame Africa for this? For seducing me and causing me to lose my head, to declare devotion and make vain promises? Though of this I'm certain: it woos many others who do keep their word; I miss it more than it misses me.
20 January 2011
feel the fear; do it anyway
I was afraid of heights, of the dark, of insects. I'm nervous around dogs, cats and small children. In high school, I watched "In the Mouth of Madness" with some friends, got spooked, and spent the night in my sister's twin sized bed. I'm afraid of speed. I'm a bad swimmer so I'm afraid of water (or is that of drowning?). I am really afraid of causing someone else to suffer, be it a client who loses because I neglected a detail, or an unpregnant woman who receives my unwelcome congratulations. I am afraid of public speaking. I dread conflict.
But I've made lemonade of my lemons. Fear is now a very familiar emotion, such that if I don't feel it (even just a little), I know I'm being reckless. Fear is not a wall anymore. It's been reduced to a shadow: present without keeping me from moving forward, from learning, trying, failing. Fear is no longer an enemy that tells me that I cannot; it is a reminder that "I'm scared" is not the same as "it's impossible."
I've watched friends raft the Nile, bungee jump, fight with strangers without pause, fear or hesitation. That will never be me. I will always take a deep breath and take a moment to mentally uncurl myself from the fetal position. My heart will pound and half burst out of my chest. My palms will sweat. But then I jumped out of the plane. I swung from a rope. I rafted the Nile. I snorkeled the Great Barrier Reef. I killed insects with my bare hands. I tackled the difficult but necessary conversations. I got used to pitch blackness during regular power outages. I argue in court and address conflict for a living.
I still feel the fear, but I keep going. And then... exhilaration. Not merely the thrill of the task at hand, but also the ecstasy of freedom, of moving items from "cannot" to "been there, done that."
But I've made lemonade of my lemons. Fear is now a very familiar emotion, such that if I don't feel it (even just a little), I know I'm being reckless. Fear is not a wall anymore. It's been reduced to a shadow: present without keeping me from moving forward, from learning, trying, failing. Fear is no longer an enemy that tells me that I cannot; it is a reminder that "I'm scared" is not the same as "it's impossible."
I've watched friends raft the Nile, bungee jump, fight with strangers without pause, fear or hesitation. That will never be me. I will always take a deep breath and take a moment to mentally uncurl myself from the fetal position. My heart will pound and half burst out of my chest. My palms will sweat. But then I jumped out of the plane. I swung from a rope. I rafted the Nile. I snorkeled the Great Barrier Reef. I killed insects with my bare hands. I tackled the difficult but necessary conversations. I got used to pitch blackness during regular power outages. I argue in court and address conflict for a living.
I still feel the fear, but I keep going. And then... exhilaration. Not merely the thrill of the task at hand, but also the ecstasy of freedom, of moving items from "cannot" to "been there, done that."
05 August 2010
q&a
After too long a hiatus, some newcomers finally made their way into my passport.
I had missed travel. But my last venture out of the country (in April 2008!) had become such a distant memory, I had forgotten what I was really missing. The longing was theoretical.
It didn't take much to refresh my memory. I had barely alighted from the shuttle van onto the departure curb at Terminal 2 of LAX when the nervous excitement welled up. The hustle of the airport at 5am. The coiled queues for passengers checking luggage. The non-existent queue for those not checking luggage. The x-ray machines. The security checkpoints. The screens flashing departures. Polite smiles and greetings of total and relative strangers, some of whom will be by my side for the next several hours, some of whom will share most of my waking moments for the next two weeks.
Will the airline personnel approve my backpack as a carry-on, or will it turn out to be overweight? Will I get an aisle seat? Will I get any special attention at the security checkpoint? Will the flight leave on time? Will I sleep? What movies will I watch? Will I catch the connecting flight? What will it be like at the next stage, and the one after that? What about 20 hours from now, when at last I arrive at the final destination? And of the 10 days thereafter - what awaits me there? Will I meet anyone interesting? Will I meet God? What will I see and smell and touch? What will I eat?!
In my everyday life, most sentences end at a period or full stop, and I rarely look forward with any enthusiasm to the answers to the occasional question. But when I'm on the road, the map is littered with questions, and unraveling the answers is the whole adventure.
I had missed travel. But my last venture out of the country (in April 2008!) had become such a distant memory, I had forgotten what I was really missing. The longing was theoretical.
It didn't take much to refresh my memory. I had barely alighted from the shuttle van onto the departure curb at Terminal 2 of LAX when the nervous excitement welled up. The hustle of the airport at 5am. The coiled queues for passengers checking luggage. The non-existent queue for those not checking luggage. The x-ray machines. The security checkpoints. The screens flashing departures. Polite smiles and greetings of total and relative strangers, some of whom will be by my side for the next several hours, some of whom will share most of my waking moments for the next two weeks.
Will the airline personnel approve my backpack as a carry-on, or will it turn out to be overweight? Will I get an aisle seat? Will I get any special attention at the security checkpoint? Will the flight leave on time? Will I sleep? What movies will I watch? Will I catch the connecting flight? What will it be like at the next stage, and the one after that? What about 20 hours from now, when at last I arrive at the final destination? And of the 10 days thereafter - what awaits me there? Will I meet anyone interesting? Will I meet God? What will I see and smell and touch? What will I eat?!
In my everyday life, most sentences end at a period or full stop, and I rarely look forward with any enthusiasm to the answers to the occasional question. But when I'm on the road, the map is littered with questions, and unraveling the answers is the whole adventure.
09 May 2010
being Hur
Near ten years ago, I was asked to share with a group of InterVarsity alumni about financial partnership with IV staff. As I prayed and prepared to share, God brought to mind the battle against the Amalekites in Exodus 17.
Staff and missionaries are like Joshua and the able men of Israel, on the front lines of battle, fighting to advance the Kingdom of God. Behind them, however, are people who are equally crucial to victory. I did not think myself comparable to Moses, but I did see a role for financial supporters. We are Hur; we hold up the arms of Moses and keep them lifted up toward the throne of the Lord. Removed as we may be from the action, we are part of the fight.
Today, I listened as Glen Chapman, a missionary who I met on my first trip to Africa in 2005, shared about the challenging and exhilarating work he and his wife are doing in a remote village in the Democratic Republic of Congo. Mixed in with feelings of awe and inspiration was gratitude. Even as I struggle (on a virtually daily basis) to find meaning in my work, I was reminded that my job enables me to financially support folks like Glen, to provide some of the practical means they need to be where they are and do what they do. And for that, I feel so grateful and privileged, to be able to take some small part in what God is doing halfway across the world, to be a part of the fight, to be a part of the victory.
Staff and missionaries are like Joshua and the able men of Israel, on the front lines of battle, fighting to advance the Kingdom of God. Behind them, however, are people who are equally crucial to victory. I did not think myself comparable to Moses, but I did see a role for financial supporters. We are Hur; we hold up the arms of Moses and keep them lifted up toward the throne of the Lord. Removed as we may be from the action, we are part of the fight.
Today, I listened as Glen Chapman, a missionary who I met on my first trip to Africa in 2005, shared about the challenging and exhilarating work he and his wife are doing in a remote village in the Democratic Republic of Congo. Mixed in with feelings of awe and inspiration was gratitude. Even as I struggle (on a virtually daily basis) to find meaning in my work, I was reminded that my job enables me to financially support folks like Glen, to provide some of the practical means they need to be where they are and do what they do. And for that, I feel so grateful and privileged, to be able to take some small part in what God is doing halfway across the world, to be a part of the fight, to be a part of the victory.
28 February 2010
had i tweeted
4:27pm Just got to PATH. Lil already in kitchen w/ mountain of tomatoes, mushrooms and onions. Chopping ahead!
4:30pm Found a sharp knife in a haystack of dull ones - score!
4:37pm Going to town on onions. They're the ones doing the crying.
4:40pm Benne's here. He's killing tomatoes.
4:45pm Watch out, 'shrooms! You're next.
4:47pm FUUUUUUUdgesicles! I'm bleeding.
4:51pm Sliced off tip of left ring finger. Better dump those mushrooms.
4:53pm Oozing blood. Applying pressure. Lil refuses my offer to resume cutting.
4:57pm Applying bandages. Slapping on latex glove. Back to work.
5:07pm Manning the stove. Love the smell of grilled onions.
5:23pm Grilling red bells. I feel my heartbeat in my fingertip.
5:32pm While I was busy messing with my finger, Lil and Benne chopped everything in sight. Assembling quesadillas.
5:47pm Putting out juices and plates and desserts.
6:03pm Serving dinner. Beef tacos with quesadillas and plenty of frills - lettuce, tomato, grilled onion, guac, sour cream, cheese. Residents seem pleased.
6:37pm Sneaking a quesadilla in the kitchen. Mmmm... que bueno.
6:57pm Packing leftovers for lunch tomorrow.
7:12pm Picking up groceries at Trader Joe's. Really into lemon cookies this week. Still feel my heartbeat in my fingertip.
7:42pm Home. PJs. Contacts out. Glasses on.
7:48pm FUUUUUUUUzzy navel! Tried to replace bandage but reopened wound. Bleeding resumes.
7:53pm Squirting wound with contact solution. Neosporin + fresh bandage = good enough.
7:58pm Google "cut off fingertip." Infection... nerve damage... AMPUTATION!
7:59pm Googling Kaiser Urgent Care. Closes at 9pm on Sundays.
8:02pm Out of PJs, into car, onto Kaiser Urgent Care.
8:11pm Wrong parking lot. Freaking out.
8:12pm Praying. Freaking out. Praying.
8:17pm Urgent care doesn't do lacerations. Per nurse's instructions, walking down dark alley toward ER. Anticipating mayhem, gunshot victims and crying babies.
8:29pm Checked in and waiting to be called. It's surprisingly quiet. Reading "pray" section of "Eat, Pray, Love."
8:37pm Now waiting in a different waiting area. Doesn't smell like a hospital. Resume reading.
8:52pm Now waiting in an exam room. Lots of machinery and equipment on the walls. I feel like I'm on the set of Grey's Anatomy.
9:07pm Doctor looks like Jesse Williams. His ring finger is occupied. (Yes, I checked.) My glasses are fogging up.
9:09pm Hot Doc examines my wound. There's not much to be done... because it's so minor. He offers to put a big bandage on it. I accept. It'll be good for sympathy.
9:11pm Feeling sheepish about coming to the ER for a cut on my finger.
9:12pm Hot Doc claims to have treated patient with even lesser injuries. Claims someone came in with a paper cut. I feel better.
9:14pm Hot Doc offers tetanus shot. Why not. He begs off to treat someone with an actual injury. Starting to wonder about my copay for ER visits.
9:17pm Friendly nurse comes to shoot and bandage me. She's been working since 11am. She's been a nurse for 2 years. She loves her job.
9:19pm Wearing a ridiculously large bandage. I ask for extras to take home. Gotta make that copay count.
9:23pm Waiting at the "check out" line with my discharge papers. How much is this overreaction going to cost me?
9:26pm $100??!! FUUUUUUUUUUUUckleberry Hinn!
9:29pm Stupid google search results.
9:56pm Back in PJs. Having tea and lemon cookies. Arm sore from tetanus shot. Heartbeat in finger tip.
4:30pm Found a sharp knife in a haystack of dull ones - score!
4:37pm Going to town on onions. They're the ones doing the crying.
4:40pm Benne's here. He's killing tomatoes.
4:45pm Watch out, 'shrooms! You're next.
4:47pm FUUUUUUUdgesicles! I'm bleeding.
4:51pm Sliced off tip of left ring finger. Better dump those mushrooms.
4:53pm Oozing blood. Applying pressure. Lil refuses my offer to resume cutting.
4:57pm Applying bandages. Slapping on latex glove. Back to work.
5:07pm Manning the stove. Love the smell of grilled onions.
5:23pm Grilling red bells. I feel my heartbeat in my fingertip.
5:32pm While I was busy messing with my finger, Lil and Benne chopped everything in sight. Assembling quesadillas.
5:47pm Putting out juices and plates and desserts.
6:03pm Serving dinner. Beef tacos with quesadillas and plenty of frills - lettuce, tomato, grilled onion, guac, sour cream, cheese. Residents seem pleased.
6:37pm Sneaking a quesadilla in the kitchen. Mmmm... que bueno.
6:57pm Packing leftovers for lunch tomorrow.
7:12pm Picking up groceries at Trader Joe's. Really into lemon cookies this week. Still feel my heartbeat in my fingertip.
7:42pm Home. PJs. Contacts out. Glasses on.
7:48pm FUUUUUUUUzzy navel! Tried to replace bandage but reopened wound. Bleeding resumes.
7:53pm Squirting wound with contact solution. Neosporin + fresh bandage = good enough.
7:58pm Google "cut off fingertip." Infection... nerve damage... AMPUTATION!
7:59pm Googling Kaiser Urgent Care. Closes at 9pm on Sundays.
8:02pm Out of PJs, into car, onto Kaiser Urgent Care.
8:11pm Wrong parking lot. Freaking out.
8:12pm Praying. Freaking out. Praying.
8:17pm Urgent care doesn't do lacerations. Per nurse's instructions, walking down dark alley toward ER. Anticipating mayhem, gunshot victims and crying babies.
8:29pm Checked in and waiting to be called. It's surprisingly quiet. Reading "pray" section of "Eat, Pray, Love."
8:37pm Now waiting in a different waiting area. Doesn't smell like a hospital. Resume reading.
8:52pm Now waiting in an exam room. Lots of machinery and equipment on the walls. I feel like I'm on the set of Grey's Anatomy.
9:07pm Doctor looks like Jesse Williams. His ring finger is occupied. (Yes, I checked.) My glasses are fogging up.
9:09pm Hot Doc examines my wound. There's not much to be done... because it's so minor. He offers to put a big bandage on it. I accept. It'll be good for sympathy.
9:11pm Feeling sheepish about coming to the ER for a cut on my finger.
9:12pm Hot Doc claims to have treated patient with even lesser injuries. Claims someone came in with a paper cut. I feel better.
9:14pm Hot Doc offers tetanus shot. Why not. He begs off to treat someone with an actual injury. Starting to wonder about my copay for ER visits.
9:17pm Friendly nurse comes to shoot and bandage me. She's been working since 11am. She's been a nurse for 2 years. She loves her job.
9:19pm Wearing a ridiculously large bandage. I ask for extras to take home. Gotta make that copay count.
9:23pm Waiting at the "check out" line with my discharge papers. How much is this overreaction going to cost me?
9:26pm $100??!! FUUUUUUUUUUUUckleberry Hinn!
9:29pm Stupid google search results.
9:56pm Back in PJs. Having tea and lemon cookies. Arm sore from tetanus shot. Heartbeat in finger tip.
26 January 2010
snail mail
A couple of weeks ago, I received a hand-written letter from my 96-year old grandfather in Taiwan. His handwriting was shaky, as is my Chinese reading comprehension, but I was able to make out that the Christmas card I sent was one of the first he received this year, and that he went into some detail about his foot infection. At the end of the letter, he wrote "Now I really hope that you..." I couldn't make out what it was that he'd hoped that I'd do, but I knew it was important because he emphasized it with red lines. I scanned the letter and emailed it to my brother for a better translation. My brother confirmed the parts about the foot infection. My brother also explained that my grandfather's hope was that I would have babies; not entirely surprising given his previous advice.
I thought about writing back. My Chinese writing skills are virtually non-existent, and the words I could manage without a script -- "happy birthday," "happy new year" -- did not fit the occasion. I thought about writing back in English. I thought about copying Psalms from my Chinese Bible just to have something to send in reply. I felt frustrated that I could not communicate with my grandfather, who I know to be smart and opinionated and to have lived through some very interesting times. I felt embarrassed that I had so willingly and carelessly permitted the atrophy of my first language. For all that I thought to do, I couldn't decide, and so I did nothing.
Sunday morning, I received an email from my brother. Grandfather had passed away. I went to condole with my parents; I showed them Grandfather's letter. They poured over the words, caressed the page indented by Grandfather's handwriting.
I wish I could properly eulogize him, but I leave that to people who knew him better. I'm sure there's so much more to him than I could even imagine, but for now, it is enough to know that he received my Christmas card, that he had a foot infection, that he wished for me a family of my own.
Thank you for the letter, Grandfather; rest in peace.
I thought about writing back. My Chinese writing skills are virtually non-existent, and the words I could manage without a script -- "happy birthday," "happy new year" -- did not fit the occasion. I thought about writing back in English. I thought about copying Psalms from my Chinese Bible just to have something to send in reply. I felt frustrated that I could not communicate with my grandfather, who I know to be smart and opinionated and to have lived through some very interesting times. I felt embarrassed that I had so willingly and carelessly permitted the atrophy of my first language. For all that I thought to do, I couldn't decide, and so I did nothing.
Sunday morning, I received an email from my brother. Grandfather had passed away. I went to condole with my parents; I showed them Grandfather's letter. They poured over the words, caressed the page indented by Grandfather's handwriting.
I wish I could properly eulogize him, but I leave that to people who knew him better. I'm sure there's so much more to him than I could even imagine, but for now, it is enough to know that he received my Christmas card, that he had a foot infection, that he wished for me a family of my own.
Thank you for the letter, Grandfather; rest in peace.
06 January 2010
going native
Someone recently used the phrase "go native" to describe the plot of the movie Avatar.
"Going native" is a phrase most commonly used to describe the following situation: a white person goes to a "primitive" location to scout out the "natives" and, rather than dutifully report back or disabuse the locals of their barbaric ways, the scout joins them - he learns their language, he adopts their practices, he discovers wisdom in their ways, he comes to love and live with them as one of their own.
I cannot adequately articulate my long-standing contempt for this phrase. I've always found it judgmental and presumptuous. It invariably implies inferiority of the "native" culture, so much so that the outsider's decision to join the native culture is equated with loss of sanity and abandonment of sense. The phrase is never used to describe the process by which immigrants adapt to a dominant culture. For example, if a Chinese immigrant moves to California, learns to speak English, abides by laws and societal norms and calls herself American, nobody would describe this experience as "going native," even if she adopts questionable norms such as living beyond her means or being excessively promiscuous. Rather, this would be characterized - nay, lauded - as assimilation. "Going native" is reserved for adaptation to cultures deemed inferior, underdeveloped, contemptible. Use "going native" near me and I'm likely to go ape-$@%# on you.
Then I went to Urbana 09, where the central theme was the idea that God, through Jesus Christ, "dwelt among us." That though he was God, he joined the human race, lived as the first-born of an unwed mother, as a refugee from a family of little means. He went through infancy dependent on the care of others, experienced puberty and young adulthood. He learned to read and write, he submitted to his parents, he worked. He talked our talk and walked our walk. Even as a man, he did not pull rank. Instead, he broke bread with tax collectors and prostitutes, reached out to Samaritans, touched and engaged with lepers. All that he did he could have done from a distance, but he chose not to.
This incarnation -- the very highest into the very lowest -- boggles my mind. And I would happily relegate it to an impossible standard but for friends and others who have followed Jesus' footsteps into some of direst regions of human need in the world. Rather than live in gated compounds, they make their homes in the slums, learning from and embracing cultures and lifestyles dismissed or forgotten by others. They don't see inferiority or superiority, only children of God equally loved by Him no matter what circumstances might suggest.
Call that what you will - love, assimilation, even the phrase that gets under my skin. A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.
"Going native" is a phrase most commonly used to describe the following situation: a white person goes to a "primitive" location to scout out the "natives" and, rather than dutifully report back or disabuse the locals of their barbaric ways, the scout joins them - he learns their language, he adopts their practices, he discovers wisdom in their ways, he comes to love and live with them as one of their own.
I cannot adequately articulate my long-standing contempt for this phrase. I've always found it judgmental and presumptuous. It invariably implies inferiority of the "native" culture, so much so that the outsider's decision to join the native culture is equated with loss of sanity and abandonment of sense. The phrase is never used to describe the process by which immigrants adapt to a dominant culture. For example, if a Chinese immigrant moves to California, learns to speak English, abides by laws and societal norms and calls herself American, nobody would describe this experience as "going native," even if she adopts questionable norms such as living beyond her means or being excessively promiscuous. Rather, this would be characterized - nay, lauded - as assimilation. "Going native" is reserved for adaptation to cultures deemed inferior, underdeveloped, contemptible. Use "going native" near me and I'm likely to go ape-$@%# on you.
Then I went to Urbana 09, where the central theme was the idea that God, through Jesus Christ, "dwelt among us." That though he was God, he joined the human race, lived as the first-born of an unwed mother, as a refugee from a family of little means. He went through infancy dependent on the care of others, experienced puberty and young adulthood. He learned to read and write, he submitted to his parents, he worked. He talked our talk and walked our walk. Even as a man, he did not pull rank. Instead, he broke bread with tax collectors and prostitutes, reached out to Samaritans, touched and engaged with lepers. All that he did he could have done from a distance, but he chose not to.
This incarnation -- the very highest into the very lowest -- boggles my mind. And I would happily relegate it to an impossible standard but for friends and others who have followed Jesus' footsteps into some of direst regions of human need in the world. Rather than live in gated compounds, they make their homes in the slums, learning from and embracing cultures and lifestyles dismissed or forgotten by others. They don't see inferiority or superiority, only children of God equally loved by Him no matter what circumstances might suggest.
Call that what you will - love, assimilation, even the phrase that gets under my skin. A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.
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