Peace in the Process

Last week, my son got a D- progress report that I received via e-mail with no warning.

If you know me (and/or my son) in real life, you might imagine that this was an incredibly shocking moment for me.  My son rarely gets a B in his academic classes and since the beginning of this calendar year, we’ve been closer, not more distant, so I was sure he would tell me if he was struggling.  In fact, we had just had a conversation about the class he got the D- in (English, which I used to teach) because he’s reading The Outsiders which I used to teach regularly. He hadn’t reported any issues, in fact, he commented that it was way easier that Twelfth Night, which he read at the end of the last quarter.  This is a class in which he got an A- in the first semester.

Given all this, my first reaction was understandably denial.  This seemed so out of the realm of possibility that I thought it was in error.  Then I was angry, at the teacher and my son for not informing me of the situation before being hit with the progress report.  I texted my son, logged onto powerschool, saw the culprit grades (a poor notebook check where he had a D in classwork and low F in homework) and texted him more to find out more information. I also e-mailed his teacher.

Then, I had to calm down.  I had an interview to conduct for my current research study and I had out-of-town family coming that afternoon, ironically to celebrate my son, whose birthday was at the end of the week.

My son arrived home and our relatives were at the house already.  I could tell that he was trying hard to keep it together and be pleasant while also looking sideways at me like, “How much trouble am I actually in once they leave?”

But, something miraculous happened, dear reader.

Once our relatives left, I talked to my son (sternly, but without yelling at him).  I had him take out the notebook rubric. He explained to me that one of the sheets was in his binder (not his notebook) but that he had lost one of the sheets and gotten half credit on a bunch of his homework because he had misunderstood the directions. Upon further probing, he said that the substitute had told them to take reading notes instead of annotations for one chapter and he had assumed (despite the fact that the prompt said “annotations” and he knows what annotations are) that he just needed to take notes for all the homework.  We walked through the other assignments that he got half or no credit for, found a few errors, but he acknowledged that the bulk of the responsibility was his.

I sighed. Honestly, I was pretty disappointed in him, and maybe a little in myself, but, I mean, what was there to do about what was done? Nothing. So, what could we do moving forward, working with the situation we had.

We reviewed the teacher’s policy on late work, and came up with a plan.  He would go in the next morning, apologize for the poor quality of his notebook (which was not his best effort), show his teacher the assignment that was in the notebook that hadn’t been checked off, ask if he could use a late pass for the assignment he did have but didn’t turn in, advocate for the miscalculated half credit on the homework, then he would do better.

He would not ask for an exception to any of the teacher’s policies, nor was I going to go and do it for him.  We talked about how this was an important lesson to figure out in 7th grade and how he had put himself in the tough position of having to pull his second semester grade up from a low start, a position he wasn’t at all used to.  We also talked about how this situation meant he needed to go beyond the minimum if he wanted to show that he wanted to improve.

His teacher was lovely.  Although she hadn’t contacted me prior to the progress report, she was responsive to my e-mail and generous (more than I expected) in terms of her willingness to let him turn in the entire notebook assignment in late (counting it as a single assignment rather than a conglomeration of smaller assignments) to be regraded.  I know my son, so her other offerings to help him work on organization and to help him focus in class by changing his seat were appreciated, but not necessary at this point.  The goal wasn’t to punish my son, but to do the things that would help him to best succeed in the future.

This is probably the biggest parenting win I have ever had.  That D- was an opportunity for me to prove to my son that what mattered more than a grade was who we needed to be in response to the disappointments in life, even and especially when we have some responsibility for them and can take action to address them.

It was not all a week of wins, but this was a big one, and it showed me that peace is possible in the process of parenting, even when you hit major bumps in the road, and there are always bumps with a toddler and a teenager in the house.

Rest(oration)

I have historically been very poor at resting and allowing myself time to recover when I am ill, injured, or just not at my best.

Yesterday, I ran the Surf City Half Marathon.

I started the race injured.  I had some nagging quad soreness that would not go away, and had trained through it (instead of resting it) because I was so close to race day.  I finally took most of last week off because I knew I couldn’t start the race in that much pain.

When I got to the line, I didn’t feel great, but I felt okay…ish…or, at least, I told myself I did (Did you see the Beach City Challenges medal though?! I mean, I had to run for the whale!).

The back half of the race was a surreal experience. Before I learned to fuel during races, the back half was HORRIBLE for me. I would hit a wall of exhaustion at mile 11 and struggle to make it through the finish line.

Yesterday, I didn’t feel tired (in terms of breathing or energy) but my legs felt tight, leaden and in deep pain, for the last 4 miles of the race.  It wasn’t under training. It was overtraining, for sure.  I pushed myself through the finish with a time that was a couple minutes slower than the year before (the first time I haven’t at least course PR’ed since I began running) and 8-minutes slower (on a flatter course with pretty ideal running conditions) than the time I ran in October.

I was bummed.

I’m still in pain.

I am physically burnt out.

It takes critical and acute pain for me to take the time to rest and allow for contribution.

Which seems to be a theme lately.

If you’ve been following my blog for the last week, it’s been a challenging one.  I’ve been through worse, but this week hasn’t been easy for our family. The generosity and encouragement of our community has been not only our saving grace, but also our hope for the future.

Last night, after a long day and a longer 72 hours, I talked with my daughter, Asha.  It was like talking to a different person than the daughter I spoke to on Friday afternoon. The weight lifted off of her shoulders from the support we’ve been given and the love she’s been shown has been incredible.  The ability to take a breath and focus on her health after numerous small setbacks and managing a chronic condition is like a new lease on life.  We were able to talk as we haven’t been able to in months, with her letting me know the details of her situation that she had kept from me so that I wouldn’t worry or be upset at those around her, upset at things that I could not control.  Thankfully, she’s working with a primary care doctor (another woman of color) who listens to and supports her, as well as doing the work to figure out her condition.  She is, for the most part, stable (which I hadn’t been sure of–was no news good news or “I don’t want you to worry, mom” news?), although this last series of setbacks had left her incredibly discouraged. I don’t think we could have connected in this way without the love and support of our community.

In my pain, I am being made more whole. Usually on February 3, I go to my mother’s gravesite to lay flowers for her, my grandmother and my aunt, to honor who these amazing women have been in my life.  Yesterday, I couldn’t do so because of the rain.  Instead, as I lay in bed after the race–icing, resting, elevating, and foam rolling, I realized that the best way to honor my mother (and my maternal line who helped raise me), who sacrificed so much for me to be who I am today, was to be the best mother I could be, to take the time needed to rest and recover, to help my daughter know that she also deserved just a little space to breathe, that people saw and acknowledged her struggle, our struggle, and were here for her, for us, for me.

Sometimes growing is acutely painful.  But, if we hold on to and support one another, I believe in the promise of restoration.

 

What Do You Do?

One of my older daughters called me today.  She needed to vent. This is a child (well, she’s actually an adult, and only 11 years younger than me, but she’s my child) who has been through hell and back, and now has a chronic, progressive illness that no one can figure out.  She’s been told by multiple doctors that her illness is “all in her head” and that she should calm down.

She cannot work steadily because of her condition but is trying to live independently in one of the highest cost of living places in the US (the SF-Bay Area). We have been helping her out as much as we can each month, but it is barely enough to keep the roof over her head and pay for food & transportation to medical appointments.

Last week, she apparently got a terrible virus that has been going around the area, had an infestation of biting insects in her place of residence which necessitated getting rid of half of her things which had been infested (she didn’t have that much to begin with), and had a bout of food poisoning.

She didn’t know what to do.

I didn’t know what to do either.

I still don’t know what to do.

I don’t even know if it’s okay to share this post because I am not trying to engage in trauma porn of my adoptive children.

But it is all so much.

The discrimination that low-income, Black women face in the medical industrial complex is real.  I know this intellectually, but it is different when it is my own child.  I imagine things would be different if I wasn’t so close in age to her, if we lived closer, if I was walking into appointments with her, if I could more actively advocate for her.  But, she is an adult, we don’t look like mother and daughter, I’m not close enough to go to appointments for her, she’s aged out of our insurance and has to rely on MediCAL.

The housing market in the Bay Area that is increasingly pricing out people of color (particularly the historically Black community) that makes people like my daughter hesitant to report anything that might be going on with her apartment and has her scrambling to pay rent so that she doesn’t get priced out of the only home area she’s ever known is a structural issue, but it is different when it is my own child.  Do I keep insisting that she take in another person when this is the only time in her life she’s ever had privacy? What if they were to get their name on the lease then try to take over and “evict” her if her condition got too severe?

I am squarely in the middle class with two, at-home, young children. How much do I help and sacrifice to keep my daughter afloat knowing that her condition is ongoing and chronic? Knowing her situation? And knowing that, in the past, I’ve sacrificed so much of myself that I was literally on the brink of death myself.

And, of course, this happens today, during the hardest period of the year for me, personally, during a challenging financial month (January always is), during a busy workday.

What do you do? What do I do? What do we do?

I just don’t know.

Coming of Age

We made a quick trip up to the Bay Area (like, literally less than 36 hours -14 hours of driving) to celebrate the Bar Mitzvah of my nephew.

A Bar Mitzvah is a wonderful, sacred, coming of age service that, as an outsider, I can’t fully understand the meaning of, but as an observer, I can appreciate, in many ways.

What I really loved about being at the Bar Mitzvah was the sense of tradition, of honor, the rite-of-passage, and the sacred space of passing down understandings from generation to generation, coming into adulthood, being grounded in faith and family, being surrounded by community. We were in a temple full of love and full of hope and full of possibility.

Being at the Bar Mitzvah service had me reflect on coming of age in my own life, and in that of my own children’s lives.  I contrast the months of preparation to become a Bar Mitzvah with the sometimes abrupt and traumatic transitions to adulthood that some of us, in our family, have faced.  I think about the beauty of the ceremony and the acknowledgment of the responsibilities and honor of adulthood with the contrast of increasing expectations of maturity without explicit opportunities to acknowledge (at least in front of community) my own pride at the transition of my children into adulthood.  I think about the ways in which knowledge, values, and beliefs get passed down, explicitly and implicitly from parent to child, and about what children choose to adopt and adapt as they become adults themselves.

There’s no tidy ending to this blog as I’m thinking of all these things, and on a bit of a tight timeline this morning (as we have to return the rental minivan we used to haul up the convertible crib that will now go to my baby niece, as my 3.5 year old transitions to her big girl bed, another rite of passage), but I’ll end by saying how grateful I am for family and community — by blood, marriage, chosen, and destined — who witness our family’s coming of age, and walk alongside us in this journey.  They are the greatest blessings and reminders of who we are.

Blogging on a Mobile Device

This morning, after a long drive up I-5, through the afternoon and evening, I am blogging, on a mobile device from a hotel room in the Bay Area, a few hours away from my nephew’s Bar Mitzvah and a long reverse trip home.

This trip is a bit of a breakthrough for me, as I left my laptop at home for the 30 hours or so that  we’ll be away. I thought about this blog post and figured that I would either do it at home (after a Bar Mitzvah and a 7-hour drive) or do it on my phone, which is what I’m actually doing.

I am impressed with my friends, Wes and Darlene, who have done previous blogs on mobile devices. I find it odd to type with my thumbs. I find it interesting to navigate through a slightly different lay out. I find it challenging to adjust to the small differences in settings (physical, mobile, internet) that require me to think faster before I need to move something that’s in someone’s way (in a closer, new shared space), before my screen puts itself to sleep or before I lose in-room connectivity.

Ah, for the breaks in routine that throw us off. Travel blogging on a mobile device; last minute Target runs for the gift, card and dress socks you meant to bring; forgetting a pencil in the car when you need to do Chinese homework; needing a portable charger for car entertainment. They are a part of the journey, actual and metaphorical. They are a part of this crazy life.

Reflections on Christmas

Christmas background decoration image courtesy of Pixabay

Christmas time is here.

I scrolled through my Facebook feed this morning and saw wonderful images of friends and family and their Christmas celebrations. It was lovely.

In years past, these images spur the guilt I have of not having it all together, particularly given the proximity of the winter holidays with the end of the semester.

Of course, for my kids and my family, we exchange gifts and celebrate together, often with conversation and laughter.  Usually, I’ll go to a church candlelight service (as I did this year) and eat delicious food, texting friends and family with holiday greetings.  But, often this is tainted with a sense that I didn’t quite do enough, that I should have more adorable holiday traditions, that I should do or be more.

And in those feelings of inadequacy, I miss being present to the very best people and things in my life.

What I am appreciating most about this season this year is that I didn’t really push myself to get everything done and make it all perfect. My husband picked out gifts for his family (mostly off their Amazon wishlists). I didn’t get my family (of origin) anything (sorry, Family).  I had collected some small gifts for the kids throughout the year, but honestly, didn’t even wrap them. We didn’t host a dinner or attend many holiday parties.

And you know what? That was fine. In fact, it was liberating.

Instead, I spent most of today with my in-laws, my husband, toddler & teenager, and just relaxed. I ate delicious food, spent some time in nature, by the water, slept, and after this blog post, I’ll probably binge on some more junk television.

And that has made all the difference.

My Boy

Our temporary “pet”: Sir Ma’am Sparky Swift snacking on an apple slice

Leave it to my son to recognize gender ambiguity in a snail (collected from our neighborhood during a dog walk to bring to school for “snail races” in science) and acknowledge it, along with ideas from his mother and father, in a 4-part name: “Sir Ma’am Sparky Swift.”

This encapsulates the charm of my boy.

12 years of an old soul in a young person, awkward and quirky, funny, mature, with selective hearing but ever-present love.

It’s such an honor to be my son’s mother.

He is the best of both his parents: loyal and loving, brilliant, responsible, creative, driven and fun.

But, he is also all of our insecurities and some of our faults, which somehow seemed to miss his sister: unsure of his place in the boy world of adolescence & middle school, worried about his present and future (except when he’s not), driven by the fear of disappointing those he loves, forgetful whenever things aren’t according to routine (ahem, forgetting to turn in fundraiser money, forgetting binder on bus, forgetting his trombone at school over Thanksgiving break).

As I watch him transition from child to teenager, and see the glimpses of the adult he’ll be, I tear up at the thought.

How did my little newborn become almost as tall as I am in the blink of an eye?  When I blink again, will it be to blink away tears at his high graduation? At his wedding? When he is holding his own newborn?

I don’t know the future, but I am glad for this present, to hang out with my son and talk about our favorite Food Network shows, drink milk tea with boba, eat lots of great food (and instagram it), and go to musicals.  While I probably will never quite be able to share in bonding over video games in the same way as he can with his dad, I am grateful for Nate’s appreciation of who each one of us in the family is, and I am grateful for who he is.

He is extraordinary. He’s a keeper.

(Unlike Sir Ma’am Sparky Swift, who will be returned to a non-plastic, natural habitat soon…)

My Girl

Artist: Johana P (with aid from her father)

“Mommy, I made you a rainbow, all in my favorite color (orange) and then I put a heart because I love you, Mommy.  And then, see, Papa helped me write, ‘I love you, Mommy!” I made it for you”

“Sweetheart, it’s beautiful! Thank you so much. Mommy is going to hang it in her office.”

“Mommy, that’s a good idea.  That way, when you miss me, you can look at my painting and remember that I love you.”

My girl is 3 and a half.

She sometimes throws inexplicable tantrums, tells me, “I don’t like that plan,” and refuses every meal option we give her at dinner time.  She is disappointed when she has to go to school, and excited for home days. She is sad when I have to leave for a work trip or a choir practice. She tells me that I pick the best presents and clothes for her.  She loves arts and crafts, reading on the couch, and children’s programming (at the moment, her favorites are Nature Cat, Phil the Cat, Daniel Tiger, and a few Puppy Dog Pals and Doc McStuffins episodes for good measure). She sings and runs and tumbles and talks.

She is frustrated then she is happy. She is terribly upset then made better with a hug.

She is my mini-me. She is my heart. She is my inspiration.

I love you, Jojo. I’m so grateful to be your mommy.

On Meeting My Mom (Again) at 40

My mom and me, less than a year before she died at one of my HS cross-country races

For my 40th birthday, I asked friends and family to help me find my mom again.

If you follow this blog with any regularity or if you know me in real life, you will know that it has been almost 25 years since my mom passed away, suddenly, in a car accident.  It is the single event that has most shaped my life and defined who I am as a person.

I was 16 when my mom died.

In the last 10 years of her life, I was arguably the closest person to her on a consistent basis.  My mom was a single mom.  My brother left for college when I was 7 and although we lived close by to my aunt and her family, it was really the two of us, most of the time (except for school and work, of course) for many years.

But, I was 16 when she died.  And the memories of a 6-16 year old about her mom (and who my mom had to be for me during those years) are different than those who knew my mom before there was a me, or as someone other than mom, or even, in the case of my brother, as a mom in very different circumstances.

Several friends and family members shared memories of my mom with me — photos, small stories, longer letters.  Some of my favorites were memories of my mom climbing on the roof of our house to fix something on our roof (instead of calling a repairman) because she thought she could just figure it out and do it for cheaper (and this was pre-internet days where she could look up how to fix it).  I also loved the memory of my mom caring for my brother who got a very serious case of the chicken pox as an adult.  I remembered driving down with my mom and her bringing down thick Chinese loquat syrup to help sooth my brother’s throat and making a special savory egg custard (she did this when I was really sick too) because he couldn’t swallow much more.  I loved her entrepreneurial spirit, starting small businesses selling tiny “huggie bears” (clip on Pooh knock-off bears from China) until Disney put a cease and desist on those imports (the irony of now living down the street from the Mouse) and flavored popcorn that she used her chemistry background to make just perfectly, in small batches in our kitchen.  A friend shared with me that my mom’s smile always came out when she talked about me, and how proud she always seemed to be.

There were also stories from before I was born: My mom carrying my brother through snow in the driveway when the family lived in upstate New York after trying unsuccessfully to shovel the deep piles that had collected during the day.  My mom, as a young person, in Taiwan, raised by my grandmother, who was also a single mother (widowed when my mom was 75 days old), being a very good student, tutoring others to help earn extra money.  My mom always having a “famous grin” and a no-nonsense attitude. My mom always supporting my brother through every violin concert, play and award ceremony, “even when the budget said she couldn’t.”

Like any person, my mom wasn’t perfect.  She could be stubborn and angry. She could hold onto anger and be loud in that anger, fighting passionately when she believed she was right. But, as my brother said, she was also the first come to our rescue when we fell, and the first to comfort us when we didn’t succeed at something we tried.  She was the one who told us to stay true to ourselves, to marry for love and not for any other reason, to stand firm in our convictions.

In meeting my mom, as an adult, I see so much of myself.  Of course, I realized some of this before reading the memories shared with me, but, in reading them, I see it even more. My mom was fiercely independent and she wouldn’t back down when she believed she was right.  She was courageous, the first in her family to immigrate to this country, alone, as a graduate student.  She loved her children, her sometimes grumpy son and her headstrong daughter whom she sometimes failed to understand.  She could become super frustrated easily, but was incredibly loyal to those she loved. She had an unforgettable smile, an undeniable kindness, and a deep faith.

The best gift of my 40th birthday has been having my mom there to celebrate with me.  She is always with me, but now, more than ever, I realize that who I am is so much my mother, in big and small ways. And that gift is so incredibly precious.

Sometimes You Open Yourself Up & You Break

My grandmother (my a-ma, my mom’s mom), me, and my mom

I began this 40 day journey to my 40th birthday with reflections about my mother on Tuesday.  Then, yesterday, I went to see Crazy Rich Asians with my dear friend Tami (I know, not opening weekend like most respectable Asian Americans, but in homage to my immigrant upbringing and increasingly introverted self, at a mid-week, matinee showing with a gift card, sneaking in contraband milk-tea and Taiwanese pastries).  Honestly, I only went to see the movie because it’s such an important hallmark of representation for the Asian American community.  I had read the synopsis and spoilers and I really didn’t think I was that interested, but, you know, for the good of the people.

I saw it. I liked it. I laughed. I cried. I saw so much of my story on the screen.

I mean, I’m not married to someone who is crazy, rich or Asian, so not the central romantic plot of the story, but Constance Wu’s Rachel Chu was so familiar to me, an academic, raised by a single mom, who hadn’t ever been to Asia (so it seemed) until her adulthood, and who struggled with her Asian American identity.

Then, this morning, at 5am, with my 3-year old (who had crawled into bed at 4:22 am) lying on my chest, I began to cry.

By 5:10, it was a full-on shaking sob, loud enough to awaken my husband who, with some alarm, thought our daughter had smacked me a good one across the face in her sleep (this was a viable possibility as this has happened many a time in the past) and offered me an ice-pack.

Then, my daughter woke up, also thinking she had hit me, and wanted attention of her own because suddenly her hand hurt, perhaps from the impact of thinking she struck my face.

So, I took a few deep breaths and went from grieving daughter mode to competent mommy mode, and took care of her.  I told my husband why I was crying and he gave me a big hug. There were lots of hugs before the family left this morning, but also no more real tears because mornings are hectic when you’ve got to catch a 7am bus (my son) for school and it’s one drop-off for the Papa carpool of kids.

But now, it’s 7:17, which seems like a perfectly appropriate time for reflection before an 8am call and the start of a workday where I’ll need to be in competent academic mode. In those 10 minutes between 5-5:10 am when mist turned to sob, here’s what I was thinking.

The parts of Crazy Rich Asians that touched me the most, perhaps unsurprisingly, were the few scenes with Rachel and her mother.  [Note: If you haven’t yet seen the movie, you may want to skip to the next paragraph, although I’ll try not to put many plot spoilers here] In the first scene with the 2 of them, Rachel’s mother tells her that though she has a Chinese face and may speak Chinese, in her head and heart, she is different.  And in that moment, I felt named what I have experienced most of my life.  (Jenn Fang, of Reappropriate, writes about this beautifully in her Washington Post article) Later, just after the climax of the movie, Rachel asks her mother about her past life, and apologizes to her because of the impact she feels she’s had on her mother’s life direction. Her mom says to Rachel that she (Rachel) doesn’t need to be sorry about her (mom’s) past life because all of her past life led to her best thing–being Rachel’s mom. I don’t really know if those were the exact words, but that was the sentiment, that all the sacrifice, change, risks, trials that Rachel’s mom had gone through had been worth it because of how proud she was to be Rachel’s mom. And, that was my mom, too. I know that this is how she felt about me, and I have felt so many times (as a child and teenage, and as an adult) regret for the way that I shifted her life, and a desire for my success to make-up for her sacrifices.  This was my heart on the screen.  Finally, in the pivotal Mahjong game towards the very end of the film, as Rachel is walking out of the parlor, after powerfully claiming her right to be “good enough” despite attempts to shame her because of her (and her mother’s) past, she proudly takes the arm of her mother, who gives one direct look at Eleanor Young, before walking out with Rachel and preparing for their journey home.

I couldn’t process this yesterday, but in the early hours of the morning, I felt deeply the loss of my own mother, not just the physical loss, in that she will never be there to walk in during the most painful, beautiful, and important moments of my life, but also the loss that comes from not knowing who my mother was as a whole person.  Rachel didn’t really know her mother’s story.  I didn’t know my mother’s either.

While I was probably the person who was closest to my mother for the last 15 years of her life, I was a child, who was uninterested in who my mother was as a person, because, honestly, who cares who their parents are as people when they are trying to develop who they are as a person? Developmentally, that comes later. It comes when you go through those adult moments and want to know what it was like for your parents in that moment (particularly your same gender parent). It has come so many times in the last 23 years.  But my mom hasn’t been there to ask the questions that only she could answer.

So, this morning, I thought that the time has come to piece together who my mom was, as best I can.  I know it will be imperfect, but it will be better than having no memories.  This morning, I resolved to ask people who knew her to tell me their memories and stories of her, to help me to know who she was as a person, to help me to get a piece of myself back through getting some of her back, before it’s too late. I know it’s been almost a quarter of a century since she died, but I am hopeful.

For my brother’s 40th birthday, 10 years ago, I asked that people send me letters or stories for him and put together a book.  For my own 40th birthday, I am asking that people who knew my mom or who know people who knew my mom, Ming-mei (Lois) Chen Hsieh, to tell me their stories, to bring my mom home for my birthday.  To give my children a chance to know their grandmother who they will never get to meet in this life.  Please, even if they are small stories, and if you could pass this blog along if there are people I don’t know.  I’m easy to find on the internet and Facebook and happy to share my e-mail address if people message me.

I did not know the road to finding who I am would lead me here, or perhaps that it would lead me here so quickly, but this would be my greatest gift.

Sometimes you open yourself up, and you break.  And you reach out to community (some of whom you don’t even know) to help put you back together.  I know my mom made a difference in people’s lives.  I need those stories now more than ever.