humans have meandered into this page.
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Citizen of the Galaxy, by Robert Anson Heinlein
I remember first reading the above quote when I was in high school. Oftentimes words on a page are simply that… words on a page. We read and pass over the words much like the passing seconds ticking off a clock. And yet there are those very significant moments that change our lives, just like there are those precious few words. I remember reading this passage and how it struck me. It changed my life. Heinlein died a few years later on May 8, 1988.
So here I am… another year older and hopefully another year wiser. [Yes, I understand that some of you will have a tough time uttering my name and the word wisdom in the same breath without your teeth exploding from the laughter]
Originally, I thought about diligently writing my accounts of the events on my birthday and the days that followed. However, I came to realize that a birthday is simply another day. Birthdays are token milestones, and they're nothing if they don't help us grow. As I'm writing this, I think about the way my life has turned, where I came from, and the person I'll become. Life moves quickly and it has been some time since I have stopped and taken a little breather. Maybe it's time I take a look back and perhaps a look forward. Maybe it should be a yield sign rather than a stop sign…
Okay, I said I wouldn't do this, but I couldn't resist…
I'll only mention one of the events of my birthday, mostly because it's the only one that was truly noteworthy. [Well, Duh!] It happened while my friend, Len, and I were exiting my condominium complex on the way to my birthday dinner. [See picture at right…] Incidentally, he was driving.
Without actually telling you the events that transpired, I will mention a few things…
- The yellow sign on the right is of particular significance.
- No one was hurt.
- There were no pedestrians or joggers involved. Bicyclists? I can't say…
- Collision is a strong word… "Tap" is probably closer to the truth.
Next time, we'll interview…
Naturally, I've seen little or no significant changes from one day to the next. I suppose first and foremost is maybe how far I have strayed from my roots. Gwen, who I met during my college days, had innocently introduced me a number of times as one of her Chinese friends. Noel, who I met after I got to Seattle, once mentioned after seeing me read A Magazine (an Asian American magazine) that I'm one of the least Asian people he knows. Many of my struggles have revolved around my coming to terms with my cultural identity. So where do I sit?
I'll admit it. There was a time in my life when I distinctly disliked being Chinese. It is not cut and dry self hatred; it's not that simple. I suppose what is tough for some people to understand is that Chinese is often the first thing that people see. You could be intelligent, attractive, charming, and witty, but you'll always be Chinese first. Remember how silly and self-conscious you feel when you have a Bad Hair Day™? Imagine feeling this way every day of your life. That's basically what it feels like. It took me years to figure that out.
My mother recently visited me for a few days; she was on her way back to Florida from Hong Kong. She left a number of things with me, two of them being particularly noteworthy. First, she left me a collection of Chinese movies, certainly with the expectation that I would enjoy them, but more specifically with the intention of having them "aid me in not forgetting the Chinese language". Second, it was an application for a Hong Kong identification card, and if I remember correctly, half of which was written in Chinese. The latter left me not only a little puzzled, but also a bit annoyed. I carefully contemplated the significance of this application while trying not to let my "teenage rebellion" instinct take over. I found it tough not interpreting this as a sign of disapproval. Historically, my mom and I have always had similar arguments and after many years of conflict, it finally dawned on me… this is simply the way she sees me. She fails to see me as someone who is different from herself, but instead she sees me as someone who is like herself but has been led astray.
Genetically, I'm Chinese. I'll no longer pretend that I can run away from that. Culturally, I'm a hybrid. I suppose the term Asian-American or Chinese-American fits best, although I also grew up with a certain amount of Latin American influence. So what does that make me? Well, a mutt! Remember the MASH episode (Goodbye Cruel World, eighth season) where the Chinese-American soldier repetitively tries to commit suicide? His dilemma was that to be a good American he had to kill Chinese and thus to be a good Chinese he had to kill himself. This is the problem many of us Asian-Americans face [obviously few with fatal or near fatal results]. We're cultural refugees between the shores of the East and the Western worlds, neither of which will truly embrace us if we don't completely disown the other.
I remember a particular phone call with Francis, a friend of mine from college who happens to be Chinese. He was the first one who called me a banana (yellow on the outside, white on the inside). We were discussing some of the differences between the two cultures we share. Sometime during the evening, he uttered the words, "I am a Chinese." I thought to myself that it sounded very strange… I mean I would certainly use the term Chinese as an adjective, but saying a Chinese as a noun sounded very strange to me. I did look it up though, Microsoft Bookshelf 98, defines Chinese as a person of Chinese ancestry, which certainly describes us. However, I think it runs deeper than that. Maybe it comes from hearing so many people declare the words "I am an American" with such pride. I don't picture myself uttering "I am a Chinese" with the same vigor. Not to say that I'm ashamed of it, but I don't find it any more significant than stating that I'm dark haired. Similarly, I'm not entirely comfortable calling myself an American. Where does this put me?
In some ways, moving to Seattle was a blessing. It allowed me to be able to find out more about who I am without the feeling of betrayal towards my Chinese heritage. Okay, make that without the immediate feeling of betrayal… As the years have quietly scampered by, I have found that I have indeed drifted further from my Chinese heritage than I would've liked. There's certainly a fleeting feeling of sadness, but not much from the loss of an old friend, but more out of the years of estrangement. Today I can finally say that I'm simply me, and that I have to be true to myself first since I cannot be completely loyal to any culture. Oftentimes, this leads me to a great deal of thinking about everything I do and its underlying motivation, but the way I see it, it's a small price to pay for my mental freedom.
It's tough to forget my father during my birthday… Father's Day is always within a week. I barely remember him. He died when he was forty-three years old. My eldest sister was thirteen at the time, which means that he became a father when he was thirty. And now, so am I…
I go to the health club a number of times each week and normally take a book with me. It normally takes me a few months to read a book this way since I only read it while I'm working out. It is Sunday, June 21st… Father's Day, and I finished reading the book that I had been reading for months. Ironically, the book is The Kiss by Kathryn Harrison. The book talks about an a young woman's incestuous relationship with her father. It describes in eerie detail how her father psychologically and emotionally dominated her for years. I'm not sure what significance this bears or if it bears any significance at all; I just found it a bit… unnerving that I happened to finish it on Father's Day. I liked the book by the way, though I found it a bit dark.
I was nine when my father died. I didn't know him when he died… well, certainly not as a man, more like the father figure. I can't imagine what he would be like today. All I have is a collection of bits and pieces of memory where I might extrapolate who he was. He was an exceptional chef… called Master by some. He became a chef through an apprenticeship, or at least that's how it was described to me. More importantly, he was proud of his work. The only argument that I remember my parents ever having is one about the quality of his work; they didn't speak for two days. He was beaten as a kid, occasionally to unconsciousness, yet he never lifted a finger to strike us. Years later I discovered how difficult that cycle is to break. He was a pacifist. Even after this many years, I still remember his making me promise to never get in a fight. A promise I broke when I got to the sixth grade [Sorry, pop…] Despite having little formal schooling, he learned both English and Spanish; the former well enough to write a journal, and the latter well enough to run a business. But most of all, I remember him as being an outstanding father, and yet I can't voice why.
I'm sure many of the memories of my father are idealized and similarly many of his flaws have been selectively forgotten. In some ways, I'll always be chasing his ghost. I don't look to mimic his behavior; he and I are motivated by different things. I look to learn from his wisdom, or at least how I interpret his wisdom. I suppose that maybe the toughest part is determining whether or not he would approve of the life I lead. I couldn't begin to speculate what his expectations were of his son; he never talked about it. At thirty, I can no longer pretend that I'm still a kid. So the question remains, would he be proud of the man I've become? [Hey pop… if you're listening and you're pissed, please don't tell me]
With all this talk about my father, it is natural to think about my own potential fatherhood. I'm not one who subscribes to the idea that life is not complete without a spouse and kids. Do I want to be a father? Uhmm… Sure. Someday. I suppose, for me, the question becomes whether or not I would make a good father. Although I believe I would indeed make a good father, there are still too many things I need to learn about myself. For instance, I'm still struggling with my cultural identity. As much as I hate to admit it, I'd be more inclined to want to have kids if I were to marry a Chinese woman for a couple of reasons. First, if we were both Chinese, we (as a couple) would be more likely to recognize and practice Chinese customs, which are generally more family-centric than American customs. Second, children of mixed parents often face, if not prejudice, at least estrangement from other full-blooded Chinese folk; life is difficult enough without having part of your community seeking to amputate you. Of course, all this talk of fatherhood is somewhat of a moot point since I have yet to find Miss Right. Who knows, maybe it will all work itself out.
I've been asked a number of times now what I thought I would accomplish by the time I turned thirty. The simple truth is that I didn't have any ideas about turning thirty in particular. I will say that life has turned out quite differently that I would've anticipated when I graduated high school. Not necessarily better or worse… just different. If there's anything at all that the past years have taught me is that I shouldn't assume anything about the way life will turn out. It doesn't make much sense to worry about absolutely everything; all it does is create more stress. [Would I care for an ulcer? No thanks, I'm full…]
Overall, where does this put me?
I've become comfortable with the idea that I'll always be somewhat of an outcast among the more traditional Chinese folks. Membership is a package deal that I'm not ready to accept. [Mr. Wong, please sign on the dotted line…] So this essentially means that I'll be continuing to struggle through every decision about how it is I feel and why it is I feel that way. That's okay too. Maybe the struggle becomes which parts of the culture I can continue to enjoy without being a full-fledged member? [Sorry, the steam room is off limits for guests…]
As always, there will be the struggles with my father. I can only hope that I've lived up to his expectations. There's times when I've wondered how differently life would've turned out with him? Or had my mother remarried? I suppose that all I can really do is live in the comfort of knowing that if I had I to face the same decisions again, I would've made the same choices… That and knowing that I'm proud of the person I've become, and that will have to be good enough.
What will the future hold? I'll write the chapters as they unravel.
January 3, 1999