Lest I forget what I look like between then and now, I was once again reminded. At LAX.
I went to the airport to meet a friend arriving from Uganda (via the Netherlands). While checking the arrival screens, a woman wearing a LAX information vest approached me and asked, "You have a question about China Airlines?"
27 February 2008
23 February 2008
family (dys)function
One of my counsin recently married. She and her new husband live in Singapore but came to California on holiday, so a dinner was scheduled for them to meet their relatives in America. I last saw my cousin in 1986. I was 10; she was 6. As for the other relatives... Well, year-end holiday gatherings had become so toxic and unpleasant that 10 years ago, we'd stopped gathering.
As it turned out, dinner was not altogether horrible. There was a mountain of magnificent Chinese food; it's really difficult to fight with your mouth full. There was also the advantage of very low expectations. I expected tension, followed by the inevitable implosion of old wounds and grievances. Instead, there was merely harmless awkwardness.
I was asked only one of the Big Two: (1) What are you doing with your life; and (2) When are you getting married. I actually enjoyed fielding the first, proudly proclaiming my unemployed status, giddily quashing some relatives' hopes of free legal services. The second one fell to my favorite uncle, who had been in a long-term relationship ever since his divorce some years back. His answer was terrific: he will marry when McCain is elected President of the United States.
For most of the night, my uncle unabashedly rallied for McCain, while my aunt did the same for Clinton, and I for Obama. The time was filled with gossip and speculation about the election and so many politically incorrect comments. Since none of it was personal, things were said and taken with a good and needed measure of humor.
During breaks from giving and taking jabs, I surveyed the scene with great amusement and satisfaction. We are one screwy bunch; we always have been. But for the first time in a long time, we weren't trying to correct, vent frustration or make accusations about each other's brokenness simply because it happens to be a different variety than our own. Sure, we focused all of that critical energy on politicians - they're people, too! - but I can live with that.
As it turned out, dinner was not altogether horrible. There was a mountain of magnificent Chinese food; it's really difficult to fight with your mouth full. There was also the advantage of very low expectations. I expected tension, followed by the inevitable implosion of old wounds and grievances. Instead, there was merely harmless awkwardness.
I was asked only one of the Big Two: (1) What are you doing with your life; and (2) When are you getting married. I actually enjoyed fielding the first, proudly proclaiming my unemployed status, giddily quashing some relatives' hopes of free legal services. The second one fell to my favorite uncle, who had been in a long-term relationship ever since his divorce some years back. His answer was terrific: he will marry when McCain is elected President of the United States.
For most of the night, my uncle unabashedly rallied for McCain, while my aunt did the same for Clinton, and I for Obama. The time was filled with gossip and speculation about the election and so many politically incorrect comments. Since none of it was personal, things were said and taken with a good and needed measure of humor.
During breaks from giving and taking jabs, I surveyed the scene with great amusement and satisfaction. We are one screwy bunch; we always have been. But for the first time in a long time, we weren't trying to correct, vent frustration or make accusations about each other's brokenness simply because it happens to be a different variety than our own. Sure, we focused all of that critical energy on politicians - they're people, too! - but I can live with that.
17 February 2008
jet lag
For the first two days after my arrival in California, I went to sleep at 9pm and woke up at 6am. The next few days, I went to sleep at midnight and woke up at 8am. That was that for temporal jet lag.
The bigger challenge is the emotional and relational jet lag. I'd been living on the opposite side of the world from the people once woven into my daily life. I'd been awake when they'd been sleeping and vice versa. I forget what topics are favored. Even worse, I forget what subjects are sensitive - until after the words are well out of my mouth and the reactions have set in. My points of reference have changed. My mind is a tangle of compare-and-contrast that, for the most part, defies coherent articulation. What I do manage to verbalize does not seem to engender the same level of interest in the listeners as in the speaker.
A year is not very long, but lots of little things happen in that span of time. People change. People move; they move on. This is all perfectly normal: the same would've happened regardless of where I'd spent the past dozen months. Absence simply magnifies the difference, the same way a child's growth or an elder's aging seems much more dramatic to those who see them but rarely. I suspect some of this lag will dissipate with time, but some is permanent and there's no sleeping it off.
The bigger challenge is the emotional and relational jet lag. I'd been living on the opposite side of the world from the people once woven into my daily life. I'd been awake when they'd been sleeping and vice versa. I forget what topics are favored. Even worse, I forget what subjects are sensitive - until after the words are well out of my mouth and the reactions have set in. My points of reference have changed. My mind is a tangle of compare-and-contrast that, for the most part, defies coherent articulation. What I do manage to verbalize does not seem to engender the same level of interest in the listeners as in the speaker.
A year is not very long, but lots of little things happen in that span of time. People change. People move; they move on. This is all perfectly normal: the same would've happened regardless of where I'd spent the past dozen months. Absence simply magnifies the difference, the same way a child's growth or an elder's aging seems much more dramatic to those who see them but rarely. I suspect some of this lag will dissipate with time, but some is permanent and there's no sleeping it off.
15 February 2008
clothes call
After holing up for a couple of days, I finally ventured outdoors. Actually, "outdoors" is misleading. I went to the mall.
Shopping is such a different experience in the West. Highly impersonal transactions with minimal human interaction: little chit-chat and no haggling. The plastic does all the talking. When buying on credit, the unpleasant reality that money is being spent - normally triggered by the act of counting and handing over money - is all but obliterated. At least for 28 days.
I tried on about 20 pairs of jeans before finding a pair that fits perfectly. I'm not sure why I focused on jeans. I did give away one of the two pairs that I took with me to Uganda, so perhaps that act of selfless charity left some sort of emptiness in me, a feeling that I'm down 50% in the denim department of my inner being.
Anyhow, finding jeans that fit (especially after trying on 20 pairs) creates an intoxicating euphoria that virtually carries a woman to the cash register. But I resisted the urge. The price tag helped. But more importantly, back in the far recesses of my mind, a small voice whispered. "Pssst... You don't need them!"
As it turned out, that small voice was not the voice of frugality; it was the voice of memory. When I got back to my parents' place, I rummaged through boxes crammed into various closets and crawl spaces and discovered... many pairs of jeans, most of which still fit, a stockpile from days when it seemed absolutely essential to have different pairs of jeans for daytime vs. evening outings, for coordinating with high- vs. mid- vs. low-heeled shoes, for accommodating pre-breakfast vs. post-5-course-meal waistlines, for accentuating vs. minimizing the junk in my trunk. Holy crap! How could I have even considered buying yet another pair of jeans?
Relief washed over me. I felt... saved from that purchase, from my own excess. Mostly, in the aftermath of that near-miss of a purchase, I felt delivered from my own forgetfulness - about what I do and don't need, about all that I already have, about a former life as an active and yet unthinking consumer.
Shopping is such a different experience in the West. Highly impersonal transactions with minimal human interaction: little chit-chat and no haggling. The plastic does all the talking. When buying on credit, the unpleasant reality that money is being spent - normally triggered by the act of counting and handing over money - is all but obliterated. At least for 28 days.
I tried on about 20 pairs of jeans before finding a pair that fits perfectly. I'm not sure why I focused on jeans. I did give away one of the two pairs that I took with me to Uganda, so perhaps that act of selfless charity left some sort of emptiness in me, a feeling that I'm down 50% in the denim department of my inner being.
Anyhow, finding jeans that fit (especially after trying on 20 pairs) creates an intoxicating euphoria that virtually carries a woman to the cash register. But I resisted the urge. The price tag helped. But more importantly, back in the far recesses of my mind, a small voice whispered. "Pssst... You don't need them!"
As it turned out, that small voice was not the voice of frugality; it was the voice of memory. When I got back to my parents' place, I rummaged through boxes crammed into various closets and crawl spaces and discovered... many pairs of jeans, most of which still fit, a stockpile from days when it seemed absolutely essential to have different pairs of jeans for daytime vs. evening outings, for coordinating with high- vs. mid- vs. low-heeled shoes, for accommodating pre-breakfast vs. post-5-course-meal waistlines, for accentuating vs. minimizing the junk in my trunk. Holy crap! How could I have even considered buying yet another pair of jeans?
Relief washed over me. I felt... saved from that purchase, from my own excess. Mostly, in the aftermath of that near-miss of a purchase, I felt delivered from my own forgetfulness - about what I do and don't need, about all that I already have, about a former life as an active and yet unthinking consumer.
13 February 2008
ai-ya sisterhood
In a span of two weeks, I've gone from Africa (Uganda) to Europe (U.K.) to the Americas (U.S./LAX) to... Asia (Rowland Heights, California).
My parents live in an area with a sizable number of Chinese immigrants. All of their friends are Chinese. They shop at Chinese stores, eat at Chinese restaurants, attend a Chinese church. But for a couple of telephone conversations with my siblings, I have not spoken more than three sentences of English to any one person since my arrival 4 days ago.
Earlier today, my mom hosted a class with four of her friends. Being quite skilled in Chinese calligraphy and water color, my mom teaches her friends over tea and conversation. I joined them for a potluck lunch after class. The food was amazing, a smorgasbord of Chinese and Taiwanese cuisine. The conversation was hilarious and interesting, touching on families, Taiwanese elections, stories from travels and everyday lives. My mom's affection and regard for these women have always been obvious in how she speaks of them in their absence; in their presence, I could see the feelings were mutual. Although they meet as a group but once a week, they have supported one another through separation and death of a child and some of the roughest torrents of life.
I shared some stories of Uganda, then some beaded tokens. They thanked me profusely for the souvenirs, which they thought extravagant and unwarranted. But the gifts were meant as ones of appreciation and quite meager and inadequate for that purpose. In my various stints away from home, I've always had the luxury of knowing that these ladies will take care of and watch out for my mom, that they are willing and able to help and support her in ways that I'm not, whether near or far. Their friendship with my mom makes possible - or at least less heart-rending - the adventures of a daughter who loves her mom, but not enough to stay put.
My parents live in an area with a sizable number of Chinese immigrants. All of their friends are Chinese. They shop at Chinese stores, eat at Chinese restaurants, attend a Chinese church. But for a couple of telephone conversations with my siblings, I have not spoken more than three sentences of English to any one person since my arrival 4 days ago.
Earlier today, my mom hosted a class with four of her friends. Being quite skilled in Chinese calligraphy and water color, my mom teaches her friends over tea and conversation. I joined them for a potluck lunch after class. The food was amazing, a smorgasbord of Chinese and Taiwanese cuisine. The conversation was hilarious and interesting, touching on families, Taiwanese elections, stories from travels and everyday lives. My mom's affection and regard for these women have always been obvious in how she speaks of them in their absence; in their presence, I could see the feelings were mutual. Although they meet as a group but once a week, they have supported one another through separation and death of a child and some of the roughest torrents of life.
I shared some stories of Uganda, then some beaded tokens. They thanked me profusely for the souvenirs, which they thought extravagant and unwarranted. But the gifts were meant as ones of appreciation and quite meager and inadequate for that purpose. In my various stints away from home, I've always had the luxury of knowing that these ladies will take care of and watch out for my mom, that they are willing and able to help and support her in ways that I'm not, whether near or far. Their friendship with my mom makes possible - or at least less heart-rending - the adventures of a daughter who loves her mom, but not enough to stay put.
11 February 2008
welcome to America
The 12-hour flight from London and Los Angeles felt like nothing at all. I watched 4 movies, took a nap, had 2 meals.
The fun started after we landed at LAX. For 30 minutes, we sat and waited for a small vehicle to tow the plane to the gate, in some apparent homage to dinghy towing a large ship to harbor. Then the plane door connecting to the gate jammed. More waiting, but by this time, all of the passengers in the full flight were standing in the aisles.
When the door finally opened, people poured out in a scene from the evacuation of Saigon, dashing madly for the visa check-points. As I made my way to the substantially shorter queues for American citizens, an employee of the U.S. government moved towards me.
"Visitors to line 6," he said as he extended his arms, blocking my progress and pointing toward the very long lines for people holding foreign passports. "VISITORS TO LINE 6!"
I held up my passport. "American citizen."
"Oh," he lowered his arms. "This way, please."
I went to the first open counter and greeted the uniformed official.
"How long were you in China?" He asked, before he even opened my passport. He jerked slightly and caught himself, a split second too late. He shifted in his chair and sat up straight. "Uh... I mean, did you... were you in China? Where did you go?"
"Africa."
"Africa? What were you doing in Africa?" He riffled through the pages of my passport, bearing stamps for Uganda, Rwanda, Kenya, Tanzania, England, Greece and Turkey (but none for any Asian countries).
"Volunteering."
"Oh. Ok. Go ahead."
"Thanks."
"Welcome back."
The fun started after we landed at LAX. For 30 minutes, we sat and waited for a small vehicle to tow the plane to the gate, in some apparent homage to dinghy towing a large ship to harbor. Then the plane door connecting to the gate jammed. More waiting, but by this time, all of the passengers in the full flight were standing in the aisles.
When the door finally opened, people poured out in a scene from the evacuation of Saigon, dashing madly for the visa check-points. As I made my way to the substantially shorter queues for American citizens, an employee of the U.S. government moved towards me.
"Visitors to line 6," he said as he extended his arms, blocking my progress and pointing toward the very long lines for people holding foreign passports. "VISITORS TO LINE 6!"
I held up my passport. "American citizen."
"Oh," he lowered his arms. "This way, please."
I went to the first open counter and greeted the uniformed official.
"How long were you in China?" He asked, before he even opened my passport. He jerked slightly and caught himself, a split second too late. He shifted in his chair and sat up straight. "Uh... I mean, did you... were you in China? Where did you go?"
"Africa."
"Africa? What were you doing in Africa?" He riffled through the pages of my passport, bearing stamps for Uganda, Rwanda, Kenya, Tanzania, England, Greece and Turkey (but none for any Asian countries).
"Volunteering."
"Oh. Ok. Go ahead."
"Thanks."
"Welcome back."
10 February 2008
mind the gap
My friend who joined me in London walks with a limp and at noticeably reduced speed. Had I spent the week alone or with another friend, I probably would not have noticed how unaccommodating a place the city can be for people with disabilities. Few places - tube stations, restaurants, tourist sites - are equipped with ramps or elevators. Even boarding or alighting trains required one to "mind the gap" between the train and the platform - something that can be more challenging for some than for others.
Even more striking was how some people seemed unable or unwilling to make allowances for someone who walked slower and made a point to express their impatience. I was reminded of the same agitation I've often felt and openly expressed when caught behind people minding small children. What utter and utterly foolish frustration that others' circumstances should infringe upon my comfort and convenience!
I doubt my friend noticed every triviality; I probably just felt more (perhaps over-) protective. To be sure, she got around fine and was not deterred from enjoying all that the city had to offer. But traveling with her made me more mindful of challenges that generally confront people who have physical limitations; it gave me greater appreciation for how atypically accommodating American cities (under the mandate of the American Disabilities Act) are for people with disabilities.
It's not always possible to walk in other people's shoes, but you sure learn a lot by walking alongside them.
Even more striking was how some people seemed unable or unwilling to make allowances for someone who walked slower and made a point to express their impatience. I was reminded of the same agitation I've often felt and openly expressed when caught behind people minding small children. What utter and utterly foolish frustration that others' circumstances should infringe upon my comfort and convenience!
I doubt my friend noticed every triviality; I probably just felt more (perhaps over-) protective. To be sure, she got around fine and was not deterred from enjoying all that the city had to offer. But traveling with her made me more mindful of challenges that generally confront people who have physical limitations; it gave me greater appreciation for how atypically accommodating American cities (under the mandate of the American Disabilities Act) are for people with disabilities.
It's not always possible to walk in other people's shoes, but you sure learn a lot by walking alongside them.
09 February 2008
weather report
The weather in London has been surprisingly pleasant. It's plenty cold, but there's been nothing but blue skies for the past five days. THANK. GOD. I'm glad I'm not spending my pricey holiday freezing my bollocks off.
08 February 2008
turn around
It started in the Tube this morning, with Hottie McHott standing with his back to me. Wishful thinking ("turn around, bright eyes") turned into active attempts at musical telepathy via Total Eclipse of the Heart.
The tune soon evolved into the day's musical theme, surprisingly befitting yet another round of getting-on-then-off-the-train-going-in-the-opposite-direction, aptly instructing when the elevator doors behind us opened instead of the set before us. Soon enough, my friend and I were bursting into song as the Tower of Londn Beefeaters told tales of characters who found themselves friends and wives and queens one day, then quite literally falling apart - quartered, drawn, beheaded - the next.
I wonder how it'll come into play on my last day here.
The tune soon evolved into the day's musical theme, surprisingly befitting yet another round of getting-on-then-off-the-train-going-in-the-opposite-direction, aptly instructing when the elevator doors behind us opened instead of the set before us. Soon enough, my friend and I were bursting into song as the Tower of Londn Beefeaters told tales of characters who found themselves friends and wives and queens one day, then quite literally falling apart - quartered, drawn, beheaded - the next.
I wonder how it'll come into play on my last day here.
05 February 2008
London calling
After a year in Uganda, a brief stint in London is reentry into the West cannon-ball style.
I walk around the city with the joy and awe of a country bumpkin. What nice, wide roads! What big busses! Look at all the white people in big coats! The museums are full of beautiful things; the stores are fully-stocked and they're open at all hours of the day. Armed with a piece of plastic, I can get whatever I want, whenever I want it.
Then moments hit when I feel the grief of paradise lost. The fruits at breakfast are canned peaches and pears. The climate is not the only source of chill: people avoid eye contact and take other measures to maintain their solitude in crowded places. Everything is available but costs an arm and a leg; I fear I'll run out of limbs.
But my spirits are high because I'm on holiday, because I won't get the bill until March. I don't need to make sense of things... yet.
I walk around the city with the joy and awe of a country bumpkin. What nice, wide roads! What big busses! Look at all the white people in big coats! The museums are full of beautiful things; the stores are fully-stocked and they're open at all hours of the day. Armed with a piece of plastic, I can get whatever I want, whenever I want it.
Then moments hit when I feel the grief of paradise lost. The fruits at breakfast are canned peaches and pears. The climate is not the only source of chill: people avoid eye contact and take other measures to maintain their solitude in crowded places. Everything is available but costs an arm and a leg; I fear I'll run out of limbs.
But my spirits are high because I'm on holiday, because I won't get the bill until March. I don't need to make sense of things... yet.
01 February 2008
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