All posts by Kathy Khang

31 Things I Learned During 31 Years of Marriage

If you’re newish here, this is my annual post about my marriage. I am not a licensed therapist. I am not a marriage counselor. I am a woman getting ready to mark 31 years of marriage by sharing some reflections, stream of consciousness-style.

My Dear Readers, you know the drill. Yes, it’s been another year, and this year is our palindrome anniversary (4-24-24)! What is time??

  1. Over communicate everything. Oh, if we had only started our marriage by oversharing, reiterating, and asking clarifying questions, but we were in luuuuuuuuv and luuuuuuuv conquers all.
  2. Luuuv doesn’t conquer all, but love sustains this marriage of mine – being in love, being loving, loving.
  3. Romance is not the same as love. It can be a way to communicate love, but it’s not the only way to communicate love.
  4. I really enjoy gifts of fresh flowers, but I didn’t when we were first married because they made me anxious because $$$. Now we have a Trader Joe’s and more room in our budget.
  5. I am not always in love with Peter (I’m sure it’s mutual, but this is my blog), and if I only focused on the lack of warm fuzzies and romance our marriage would not have made it. I love Peter. 
  6. Sometimes I don’t like my husband’s choices or actions (again, I am positive this is mutual but he doesn’t blog), which is when I remind myself I love him. 
  7. Old habits die hard. One person in the marriage rarely made the bed. The other person more often than not made the entire bed. And then she got tired and just made her side of the bed. And then she stopped caring just when the other person started making his side of the bed. Go figure. Both old dogs learned new tricks. It’s possible.
  8. Marriage is amazing, even without curated images posted on social media. 
  9. Marriage is challenging, especially with the curated images posted on social media.
  10. What anyone posts on social media isn’t the whole of what’s going on in life, let alone a marriage. My husband and I continue to learn how to manage our consumption of social media while I manage my own social media presence.
  11. CPAPs can save marriages. I can still hear the CPAP, but it’s so much better than listening to snoring.
  12. We/I set a gift rule early in our marriage – no appliances. Sometimes rules are meant to be broken. Peter years ago bought me an Italian espresso maker and burr grinder. He does not drink coffee. 
  13. Sometimes our different attitudes and values around money and spending are challenging, and so we go back to #1. Know your own issues around money and how those issues present themselves. I grew up pinching every penny, saving every condiment packet, and searching clearance racks first. I had to learn that behavior doesn’t make me a better person or even a person who saves “more” money. (But it kinda does, doesn’t it? JK. I only keep the ketchup and soy sauce packets. No mustard or mayo. He grabs so many napkins, though, that sometimes even I am embarrassed.)
  14. Back to sleep: we grew up in church and were told, “Do not let the sun go down on your anger.” That was BAD advice for us. We both do much better with sleep. We do angry and arguing better with sleep. We do not do reconciliation and forgiveness at 1am. We go to bed and pick up where we left off after work because we also have to sleep to go to work to pay the bills.
  15. Marriages go through seasons and phases of development. The hardest was hitting the sandwich generation stage just after a decade of marriage with three young children. 
  16. You can marry someone of your same culture and ethnicity and still be in a cross-cultural marriage. Peter was born in the US. I came to the US at 8 months so same thing, right? WRONG. My younger sister never calls me by my first name. IYKYK. 
  17. I’ve heard as you get older people need less sleep and eat less. We have not hit that stage of life or marriage.
  18. It’s good and healthy to have common friends and separate friends. He had bowling buddies he talked about for years. I have writer friends he probably will never meet. Our marriage is better because he could talk bowling with his bowling friends, and I can talk writing with writing friends. 
  19. It’s also good and healthy to have common interests and hobbies and separate interests and hobbies. Sometimes they rub off on you; I watch more movies in different genres because Peter LOVES movies. Sometimes you try bowling, but it doesn’t get beyond buying my own bowling shoes because I do not prefer renting shoes.
  20. Peter still can’t read my mind. He asked me what we were going to do for our anniversary, and I responded, “Hm. What are we going to do, Peter?” (Thanks, Tina, for the coaching.) I blinked my eyes and stared at him, and once again learned he cannot mind meld. I told him I would like to go out to dinner. 
  21. I love buying myself flowers, too. It doesn’t mean Peter doesn’t love me. Sometimes you don’t need your spouse to get you that gift or take you to the thing or surprise you with whatever. Sometimes you can do that for yourself. Don’t expect others to be the sole source of joy and care. 
  22. This one is for the churchy people: I still don’t know what it means to be “spiritually compatible.”
  23. Another one for the churchy people: I stayed at two churches until Peter was ready to leave. I will not go back, even if Peter is ready, until I am ready to go back.
  24. I really don’t think there is such a thing as a 50/50 marriage. You can’t divide life in half every moment. It’s just when one person is carrying the heavier load for longer with no acknowledgement or help when things crumble. 
  25. When things crumble, before things crumble, you need to ask for help, for new and clear expectations. That’s probably what got us through the toughest part of our sandwich generation season. 
  26. Speaking of crumbling, women in perimenopause you are about to find out how brittle and dry your entire being can become. Hair, nails, skin, eyeballs, vagina – ALL OF IT. Dry as bread crumbs. Drying up like a walking desert coupled with mood changes, hot flashes and/or night sweats, sleep issues, anxiety, etc. will make any relationship a challenge. I’m done, which means no more eggs, but I swear my post-menopausal life is just less hot flashy/night sweaty but everything else remains. Let’s talk!
  27. I’m still unpacking all the unhealthy and unhelpful messages about sex (it’s bad and dangerous if you’re not married to another Christian, and then sex is automatically good and easy after you marry a Christian) and aging and menopause aren’t helping.
  28. Lubricants are helping. (Again, no one told me about that when I got married. HELLO?!?!?!)
  29. At this season of our marriage, it’s not the quantity of sex but the quality, which actually should always be important – mutual pleasure was not brought up in our pre-marital counseling. 
  30. As I’m typing this I guess I should really ask Peter what he thinks about the quantity part. See, 31 years and I’m still learning, too, to over-communicate. Also, none of this was taught nor do I see it discussed much in the world out there. 
  31. I think Peter and I work not because we are opposites but because we make the other person want to become a better version of ourselves. And by better I don’t mean thinner or more fit or younger looking. (But I’m not gonna lie. I’m so glad he is my Botox injector.) We make each other want to be kinder, more patient, more loving and generally better humans –  more Christlike rather than just Christians.

Any married folks want to add your lessons learned, My Dear Readers? And single folks what wisdom do you have to share about friendships (or marriages you have observed or been a part of) because if marriage isn’t a friendship, it’s doomed.

A bonus thing I’ve learned in marriage? We both like sitting in aisle seats when we fly.

 

Cold Plunging Into New Spaces

I didn’t quite manage to stay standing. I took the idea of a cold plunge quite literally, my body plunging into the Atlantic daring my feet, knees, or hands to find solid ground. My Dear Readers, they did not. Somehow my contact lenses stayed in while I almost lost my dignity. The cold waters tossed me and my bikini as the laughter and screams of a group of women I had just met 48 hours prior competed with the crashing waves.

The entire weekend was a cold plunge of sorts, and all seven of us said yes.

I Don’t Know You

From l to r: Jeni, Cha, me, Nancy, Soyoung, Kadee, and Deidre

The invitation came from someone I had never met through someone I had met once. I know. It sounds ridiculous, but such is the nature of friendship and connections in these times. Connections that could’ve remained parasocial snapped into the world of flesh because Jeni asked friends, acquaintances, and strangers to take a risk and head to the beach.

When my longtime friends asked me why and with whom I was headed to the coast, I sounded absurd. I was headed to a beach house with six other women – four women I didn’t know at all – for a weekend with no agenda and no expectations. If this were a movie, I might be yelling at the screen, “DON’T DO IT!”

Old Friends Were Once Unknown

It took years to establish a group of “mom friends” in my current neighborhood. I was the mom of three, my oldest starting 3rd grade. The girl moms had already established themselves into groups. My own insecurities coupled with limited energy  to insert myself into the circles of conversation meant loneliness. My middle child was starting kindergarten. I hoped to find other women eager to connect over the start of a 13-year journey for our children. It felt like speed dating – catching quick conversations, hoping I would click with someone, ANYONE. Most of the women were kind and polite, some were even warm and open, but the search continued.

It wasn’t until my youngest started kindergarten (two years after the move) I started to meet other

women who were mostly launching the first or second child off to school. We exchanged numbers not just to arrange play dates for our boys but also to coordinate our schedules so we could get to know each other while the kids played. Those gatherings evolved over years into what would be the start of “supper club” where playdates spilled into dinner time. We would gather from our respective homes the makings of a potluck or an order for pizza, talking until it was time to get the kids to bed.

 

When the Kids Grow Up

Peter roughly cut and pasted two of the couples into this photo because he could.

Some of my friendships did not make it out of the ebb and flow of my children’s friendships. We change and sometimes friendships do not make it beyond kids’ friendships, activities or schedules. The real miracle for me has been a group of mom friends who outlasted our kids’ childhoods. We have mourned and buried parents, celebrated each other’s children, laughed and cried over aging and disease. And if all that wasn’t enough, our husbands are friends geeking out over tech, movies, music, craft beer, and audiobooks.

 

We have taken a few trips together, collectively deciding future trips should include fewer than 20,000 daily steps and warmer weather. But this trip by the ocean was not with them. This trip wasn’t to replace the supper club but to see if the woman shaped by old friendships could still learn new things in new spaces.

Cold Plunges to Make New Friends

I hesitated. 

One does not simply walk into a house with six strangers. We all had our own reasons. My reasons? Well, let’s just say after almost 20 years in the Christian Industrial Complex, I needed to believe I could still hope and dream. I didn’t want to become jaded. I didn’t want to stop taking risks. It was scary to jump on that plane, hop in the car, walk into the house. It’s humbling to walk into a room of women who didn’t know me the way I might be known if I was a conference speaker. 

I wasn’t coached into this gathering, but I was coached into my first ocean cold plunge. Cha was our coach. She told all of us to push through the initial shock of the cold, to keep walking in, and breathe. Who knew you could walk into a room of strangers or jump into the ocean, push through the shock, and breathe?

 

Easter for Those of Us Who Left Church

We left. We left death and pain. We left behind our Sunday best. We left behind childish beliefs for adult-sized questions. We left. But now it’s Easter Sunday. What is Easter for those of us who left church?

The prayers and Bible verses we had memorized without context and question were the secret handshakes and slogans of belonging. The passing of the peace meant peace only there, in that moment, in that space because war continues to wage outside.

We were told to take the seat of the hero, the savior, the all-knowing, the judge and jury, and for a while we took the seat until we started asking questions about the limits of God’s love, about pronouns for God who was not human, about passing the peace inside and why we couldn’t cry for it outside.

Some of us left for good, but some of us, myself included, stayed near. We didn’t leave and hide like the male disciples did after Jesus was crucified; we stayed near like the women at the cross, bearing witness to the abuse, the cover-ups, the lies, the deception, the limited love. Some of us grieved out loud and shook our fists at the pews and doors that were supposed to be an invitation but turned out to be the boundaries. Some of us grieved quietly holding close what was left and wondering what was to come of our loss. We all grieved. Some of us are still grieving. But what do we do with that grief on Easter, we who left church?

It’s years into my grief, and I’m still reluctant to go back inside the buildings I left. But I still think about Jesus. This Easter I thought about Jesus. I thought about Jesus with his scars leaving the tomb, a place and symbol of death and rot.

Easter for those of us who left the church is a reminder that we have done the same. We left the death and rot. Our grief will not have a hold on us forever, and we will find life and hope again. All because we left.

Birthing a Book

Indian-fusion dinner to celebrate Book Launch Day!

My Dear Readers,

I gave birth to a book this week. Loving Disagreement: Fighting For Community Through the Fruit of the Spirit “hit the shelves” Tuesday. (And if you see the book in the wild, as in on an actual shelf in a physical store, please snap a photo and send it to me!!)

It was weird because my friend and podcast co-host Matt Mikalatos birthed the book with me, and we just met IRL in August when we recorded the audiobook baby.

It was weird because the last time I birthed a book it was 2018, and so many people said Raise Your Voice: Why We Stay Silent and How to Speak Up was timely. Apparently things have only gotten worse or didn’t get significantly better because the same is being said about Loving Disagreement: Fighting For Community Through the Fruit of the Spirit.

It was weird because this week has been one of deep divisions, pain, suffering, disagreement, and war – Ukraine and Gaza. I want the celebrate the book, but it’s been a quiet path to hold joy and grief in tension and publicly. Matt and I don’t like that there is an immediate pressing need for our book, but that is not a reason to celebrate.

I’m sure I’ve shared this before, but the work of writing a book finishes long before the physical book arrives. The final edits were turned in months ago, followed by a few quiet weeks before the marketing and publicity push.

The social media landscape has been completely different with each book I’ve authored. More Than Serving Tea was published in 2006 during the time of blogs and when older folks had not yet pushed young people off of Facebook. Twitter had just launched at that point so when Raise Your Voice came out in 2018 publishers were looking at a potential author’s “platform” – the number of followers and maybe the size of the mailing list of your blog. It’s 2023 and Twitter is history but platform is still a thing, even if blogs have now given way to Substack, Medium, and other ways writers can connect with readers. That too has been weird. I am on social media more than the other four members of my family combined, despite the fact that three of those four are in their 20s. 

Launch day was really just another day with the privilege of teaching yoga and an inbox that will never hit zero. I took a walk because the sun was out. I’m pretty sure I did some laundry, and I didn’t post anything on my socials. I liked and maybe shared some posts, but for the most part I was organizing my feelings and thoughts around some words about me and my writing (and about my co-author and his writing, but mostly about me), the impact of those words, and discerning what God’s invitation is to me as I enter into a loving disagreement with all of the power dynamics and emotions and assumptions you can imagine.

That has been the weirdest part, My Dear Readers – to sit with my own words and those of my co-author and the Biblical text as we try to model what we just wrote about. The writing is never the hardest part.

But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control. Against such things there is no law. Galatians 5:22-23.

 

 

 

Jury Dury and National Parks

I got my first county jury summons a few weeks ago, and my reaction was one of excitement and dread. Since becoming a naturalized citizen, pledging my allegiance and paying literal dues, I’ve tried to take the privilege of citizenship seriously and not take it for granted. I vote, work as an election judge, trained to register new voters, and try to stay informed on local, national, and global policies as best I can without sending me spiraling. The jury summons, believe it or not, is icing on the cake, another chance for me to see how part of the sausage, so to speak, is made. 

I’ve seen over the years many of My Dear Readers and others on the interwebs post about their dread and disdain for receiving similar summons. The possibility of losing time and income doesn’t motivate anyone, and it’s also not a privilege just anyone can take on. A jury case could last days or weeks, and I know very few people who could afford that kind of time off. I can’t afford that kind of time off. The system reminds us that it is a literal DUTY for all citizens to prepare to fulfill and while no one wants my opinion, my opinion is that system SHOULD make it financially viable for ANYONE to fulfill that obligation. YES, the system is broken, imperfect, and biased but also we can work to change the system while the system chugs on. Easy? No. Change is not easy. Systemic change is not easy, not linear, not this or that.

My request for a change of date of service due to prior commitments (non-refundable tickets to our annual family vacation) was approved quickly via the county website. I thought it was interesting that part of our vacation, as it has been for the past few years, included a visit to one of our country’s national parks. This year we had the privilege of hiking and visiting Yosemite National Park. Yes, we chased waterfalls and were rewarded with stunning views and cold mist. 

The first national park was Yellowstone, established by Congress in 1872, putting land in Montana and Wyoming under federal control for  use “as a public park or pleasuring-ground for the benefit and enjoyment of the people”. The US currently has 63 areas with “national park” as part of their official name, but technically there are more than 400 national park sites that fall under the broader national park system. And let us not forget that this entire nation is established on stolen land. There are 27 Indigenous Tribes associated with Yellowstone. Depending on where you live, getting to a national park isn’t easy or affordable. Land set aside for public use (and preservation) in theory is wonderful because it’s for everyone, citizens or not – an OPPORTUNITY.  However, everyone can’t get to a national park. Again, the system is broken, imperfect, and biased. It also is a beautiful concept adopted globally as a way to protect and preserve land for public use.

I grew up roadtripping to several national parks, mostly in the back of a station wagon or sedan and before seatbelts were legally required. My dad drove us through Acadia (I think my sister and I did some of the driving to this trip), Badlands, Glacier, Grand Teton, Great Smoky Mountains, Rocky Mountain, and Yellowstone. We never camped. My parents didn’t immigrate here from a war-torn and then-developing country to sleep in tents. We stayed in motels, not unlike the one in Schitt’s Creek – in rooms in need of attention and “quaint and charming small towns” just as white and not nearly as entertaining.

Since then I have visited eight more, seven of them with my children. My parents and I are from South Korea, and the Korean peninsula is about 1.4 times smaller than Illinois; they often talked about wanting to see as much of America as they could so most of those parks were part of a road trip involving both of my grandmothers, a station wagon, and a drive to Vancouver, Canada, and back. I remember driving into small towns feeling very uncomfortable and obviously being watched. My sister tells the story of me turning to someone who was obviously staring at the Asians girls in aisle two and telling them, “Take a picture. It will last longer.” I can neither confirm nor deny this memory, but my feelings as a child visiting the national parks were of adolescent indifference, fear of all the white people staring at us and our food (I know now our food – rice, jangjorim, Spam or Dinty Moore beef stew heated up in a hot pot, kimchi, and ssamjang was superior to the cold cut or peanut butter sandwiches), and wonder. There was a lot of wonder. America as a nation is imperfect and exhausting. America as a land is diverse and beautiful. 

My parents and I are also all naturalized citizens, while my husband and children are all birthright citizens. Our relationships to the obligations and duties of citizenship are different. I didn’t grow up going to the polls with my parents to watch them vote, and I didn’t see Peter go to the polls to vote very often before I became a citizen. As far as I know, my parents have never been to any kind of protest or demonstration, while I have participated in actions in both Seoul and Chicago, and I drove out with my daughter and a friend to DC to march with others. 

So when the jury summons arrived, I approached it as I have approached other duties and privileges of citizenship. I was grateful for quick approval to a date change, which required a few things. I had to call the Friday before my report date to see if I needed to be there first thing Monday morning. It turned out I did not, but by then I had already gotten a sub for my yoga class so I was out the pay. And then I had to call before noon that Monday to see if I needed to report that afternoon. I don’t have an afternoon class but that also meant keeping that afternoon open, and it turned out I did not have to report. And then I had to call again at the end of the business day only to find out that I would not have to report at all the rest of the week. 

That is why people hate jury duty. A day “on call” where only certain people can wait for instructions, make phone calls maybe while back at work, and wait to make another call just in case they are called for the next morning. While not as extreme as the process of naturalization, jury duty is actually a heavy burden on most people. I lost of day of work having given away my class to another teacher. My family will be ok but there are individuals and families who cannot afford that. Yes, people can get exemptions but you can only ask for so many exemptions.

Citizenship is such a fascinating idea, especially as a follower of Jesus who has been told by white evangelicals that my citizenship is in heaven therefore I should stop it with the race stuff. I will not stop with the race stuff because my focus isn’t on the afterlife but on God’s will being done on earth as it is in heaven. So that’s why I’m still rambling and mulling over jury duty and national parks. One is a duty by design and the other an opportunity by design, both require a level of privilege for participation. As a Korean American, fulfilling duty and taking advantage of opportunities is baked into my cultural story. I am here because my parents saw opportunity. My existence as an adult child of Korean immigrants is one of duty, and out of both has come a life of privilege connected to community. Maybe that is why this tension feels normal and right. But when I add the layer of faith and religion, it feels normal but so wrong. Why is it that so many aspects of citizenship in the U.S. and the kind of religious life some espouse require so much effort to deny others privilege and opportunities? Why does U.S. citizenship come with so few duties but the duties and opportunities cost so much more for those with less privilege? 

But one thing I’ve learned over the years in learning and unlearning is that giving up privilege isn’t the answer. You can use it to open doors, invite others in, burn down the doors to build new views. You can, with enough privilege, share the power and multiply it like fish and loaves of bread. So after I listened to the recording officially thanking me for my time and releasing me from appearing in person, I printed out a list of national parks not unlike when I print or read up on local candidates. Voting is a privilege, and I’m not just going to give it up. I’ll keep trying to learn how to use that little power and privilege to burn the right things down. Visiting the national parks is a privilege, and I’m going to see as much of this country as I can because God’s beauty is everywhere. Even here.

 

Tree pose in a tree.

30 Things I Learned During 30 Years of Marriage

My Dear Readers,

Peter and I are about to celebrate 30 years of marriage. We are headed off for a week in Paris and London without the kids and without my computer. This is serious.

Here’s my list of 30 things I’ve learned during 30 years of marriage. 

  1. Marriage isn’t good or bad or even the ideal because people aren’t good or bad and we are never the ideal. We are complicated and nuanced and so is marriage. 
  2. Sometimes you go to bed angry because sleep is important. Staying awake angry won’t solve things, especially if it’s the same thing that’s been festering over and over. Go to sleep, and find a therapist.
  3. If you’re so angry you can’t stand the sound of your spouse’s breath, you or your spouse should sleep in another room.
  4. Because of #3, invest in a comfortable couch or guest bed. Better yet, buy that king size bed so there is space for the days you’re not angry but just need space.
  5. Love isn’t a feeling. It’s a verb. It’s action. Action takes work. 
  6. I am not lovable when I’m hungry. My dad gave Peter this advice when we left for our honeymoon: Feed Kathy and she will be happier.
  7. Do your own inner work. Your life partner isn’t your therapist, even if that person happens to be a therapist. Mine is my dentist and can actually fix my teeth but isn’t responsible for brushing and flossing my teeth. 
  8. Which means you can’t fix your partner. You can’t love them to mental health. You can make a way for them.
  9. For all the US reality shows, this society is not built for healthy marriages. It is built for whitewashed fairytales. 
  10. It’s ok to want and create fairytale moments. Look, as you are reading this post, Peter and I are flying off to Paris. FAIRYTALE. But the moment is fleeting because the reality is that I have a sinus infection with lots of congestion. We are flying economy, and I am super proud that we bought roundtrip tickets under $500 each. Make sure the moment is grounded in reality.
  11. My friend Tricia asked me what I like about traveling with Peter, and that was a great question. The lesson? Friends who ask you about your marriage keep you honest and real. (I like traveling with Peter because he is up for just about anything and we enjoy trying things the other person is really excited about.)
  12. You don’t have to like the same things, but you should be respectful of each other’s interests. Peter used to run and train for races. At some point I asked him to reconsider the hours he put into training or pay to take care of some of things he was in charge of around the house. I spent a lot of money on scrapbooking supplies, and then when Peter saw the end products he didn’t question the investment. 😉 
  13. You can teach a dog new tricks. I am the dog. (I was actually born in the year of the dog.) Because of Peter I have learned to drink beer, watch a variety of genres of film, and tolerate some classic rock. 
  14. You don’t have to do everything together all of the time, but find things you do enjoy doing together – not things you have to do like the dishes or laundry but things like going to the library and browsing aspirational reading and viewing or occasional trips to a thrift shop. Yes, those are things we like to do together.
  15. Money doesn’t buy happiness, but it does provide access to healthcare, housing, food, etc. and those early years of marriage were full of stress as we were paying of student loans, credit card debt, and failing at saving. This is related to #9. 
  16. Growing up in church and an immigrant home did not set me up well for a healthy understanding of sexuality and the role of sex in a healthy marriage. Sex is more important than is preached about and less important than it is preached about. It’s not a dial you turn on at marriage.
  17. Menopause really messed up my sex drive. Perimenopause messed up my sex drive. Having children messed up my sex drive. 
  18. Good sex in a marriage is important, and “good” has to be agreed upon between partners. That said, the “in sickness and in health” part really comes into play with sex so it helps to shed purity culture notions of sex and get creative and playful and, if you have young children, quick. Good sex is mutual and sometimes you take turns. You can also take matters in your own hands, or each other’s. 
  19. My spouse doing the dishes is not foreplay. Folding laundry isn’t a turn on. Peter vacuuming the one carpet we haven’t isn’t sexy. If that’s your thing, awesome, but it’s not mine anymore.  
  20. All that talk about sex is really about communication. Over communicate. Conversations in my head do not count. 
  21. The big and little things matter, but you can only hold them against your spouse if you’ve communicated them and agreed to action. I can’t be angry at Peter for not doing “x” for my birthday if I have not told him that is what I would like. I learned this by being angry at Peter for not reading my mind. This is expanding on #19. 
  22. Learn to apologize AND repair. You can say you’re sorry but words don’t matter if the behaviors and actions never change. Sometimes the apology comes years later, but even then we have to decide if we will work together to repair the harm. 
  23. Learn to let go. I got tired of making the bed so I started making my side of the bed. Now we each have our own blankets, and it’s what it is. 
  24. Stand your ground. I thought I was being helpful when I would reorganize Peter’s closet or tidy up his office. It was not, and he told me so. I tried for a few years to convince both of us he was wrong. I was wrong. He just makes sure his closet door is always closed. 
  25. Small gestures count. Peter put the kimchi in a small dish and made Shin ramen for me the other night. 
  26. Big gestures count. A few years ago we made it to Mount Rushmore because Peter REALLY wanted to see it. Many of you can guess how I feel about that place but it was super fun to watch him take it all in. (If you’ve never been in person, it really is something. 
  27. MUTUAL respect in public and in private is important. 
  28. I still close the door to the bathroom even though I know he can hear everything. It’s just a me thing.
  29. I am glad I kept my “maiden” name, and I still love getting junk mail addressed to Peter Khang because the patriarchy is still hard at work. 
  30. Time is very weird. I can remember so much of our wedding day – the cake topper went awol and we didn’t know the guy who caught the garter, and I can’t believe it’s been 30 years. It feels like yesterday and a lifetime ago. I’m so grateful we made it to 30 because if I’m honest I wasn’t always sure we would make it. But here we are, Peter. Here we are. I love you. 
Feeling cute. Might delete later.

Boys, What Do You Want To Eat?

That was the refrain last week as I vacationed with my sons. They are both in their 20s. Their voices dropped into manhood years ago. They packed shaving cream and razors instead of their blankies and stuffies. They needed the extra leg room the free upgrade into exit rows afforded us. And they needed to eat, and I needed, well, really wanted, to feed them well.

My Dear Readers, there is nothing quite like watching your loved ones enjoy food. Wait, am I the only one? Do you love watching your loved ones eat? I don’t know what it is. I have always loved watching my kids eat – the delight of new tastes they enjoy, the looks of “I don’t enjoy this”, and the look of satisfaction at the end. I love it all. The pickiest eater of the three will try just about anything so the possibilities are endless. (So parents of young ones tired of chicken nuggets, don’t worry. They get new tastebuds, and be prepared. Those new tastebuds like it when the parents pay for a good steak or hazy IPA.)

In my mind this was a trip about feeding their stomachs, and it was. We were in LA so the minute we were in the rental car it was off to eat. We ate cheesy kalbi jjim, marinated pork belly + beef, kkal gooksu, Japanese curry, handmade mochi, taiyaki aisu, okonomiyaki, and a good old-fashioned brunch with pancakes and hash browns.

But food is also about comfort and provision, about love and time, about honoring and learning preferences, about sitting and listening. 

It was time to get to know my sons and the men they are becoming.

They take up space and make space

When the kids are little, their stuff takes up space. I remember the days/weeks/eons of trying to corral their toys and books and stuff into cubbies and shelves to be safely accessible and slightly esthetically pleasing. 

But one child moved out more than five years ago. One lives and works remote from home; he took the dining room for his office. We coordinate schedules because we share a car and make each other coffee. The last one is in his third year of college so most days are spent he spends 3/4 of the year on campus. Gone is the clutter of toys, replaced by adult bodies moving about in the same space toddlers once occupied.

So spending 24/7 for a few days with just my boys meant being in each other’s way (one budget hotel room with two “queen” beds and one bathroom) and having a chance to just watch how they made space for each other and me, waiting to walk to the elevator and the car, waiting to enter a restaurant or to get to the door. 

The older son took a work call, and it was fun driving with E riding shotgun, whispering and using facial expressions and hand gestures that finally gave way to playlists and commentary.

Different eyes

I think I was watching them more closely because I know that time like this is rare. I love and like my grown children, and so far they like spending time with me. The kids have cleared social and work schedules to spend a week together for a family vacation on top of being together for Christmas. I don’t know how long we can keep that up and how in the future significant others and partners will join in on the Christmas Day movie or invite our kids to join their family traditions. But for now, I’ll take it all in.

Both sons needed time in the morning to ease into the day. They both needed time to exercise and unwind. In another season of parenting, I would’ve pushed to get us out the door to get to one more place and see one more thing, but in this season that started during the college years I let them sleep, workout, fix their hair, and walk slowly. This world can be a cruel, grueling place. I saw them with compassion knowing Capitalism doesn’t all us to enjoy each other’s joy and rest.

They wanted to spend a good chunk of a day watching professional teams play League of Legends and asked if I wanted to join them at the tournament, a little worried about how I would spend my time and a little worried I would rush them. No rush. I said go ahead, had coffee with a friend, and then sat on a bench at the beach to watch the sunset. I know. A mother’s sacrifice. And when C saw two players in standing on the corner in Sawtelle, I asked, “Are you going to say hi and ask for a photo?” A mother’s gentle nudge to shoot your shot, even if it’s a moment of fandom. I’m smiling while typing this, remembering how my boys and their friends took in the random moment and played it over and over in the car with the photos to prove it happened…and I got to see it all, too.

I also watched them eat, trying to gauge if they had enough protein, offering up half of my egg or a chunk of tofu. “Did you have enough? Do you need more? Do you want this piece?” I asked at every meal, not with the eyes of a mom of little ones who cannot efficiently feed themselves but of a mom who will not have many more opportunities to be the one to take care of their needs and wants. Corban said I was doing it more than usual, and maybe I was. There is a bit of a juggling act as a Korean American mom of Korean American sons; my loving and caring should not be enabling man-baby behavior. I’m still learning how to mother young men to be grown men. IYKYK.

And so I listen to Corban and try to eat and listen to what my needs might be as well.

The years really are short

I tell parents of younger children time sped up when the oldest started high school. Before I knew it the last one was a high school senior and we were in a global pandemic. He was so moody and grumpy but weren’t we all? I’ve heard so many friends say that first year of the pandemic was so long and so recent, time bending in ways we don’t understand. That’s parenting. I swear I just gave birth but that’s impossible because I’m also post-menopausal. My joints remind me that my body did some crazy stuff but my mind says it was just yesterday.

But it actually was just last week my boys and I woke up in the same room, and I asked, “What do you want to eat today?” 

 

Playing the Name Game of Endorsements

My Dear Readers,

I have a book, written with my friend Matt Mikalatos, that hits the shelves October 17. The process of seeking endorsements – the blurbs on the back, inside, and sometimes on the cover – began a few weeks ago. A PDF of our edited but not typeset manuscript was sent/is being sent to leaders in the Church – progressives, conservatives, authors, pastors, organizational leaders, etc. Because our book, Loving Disagreement: Fighting For Community Through the Fruit of the Spirit, is about engaging in disagreements we are intentionally looking for people with a variety of theological and political views, representing the diversity of the Church. I suspect even I may be surprised at the endorsements because hopefully some will come from people I disagree with but believe in book. 

Recently the topic of book endorsements, particularly within Christian publishing, has come under scrutiny because of a soon-to-be published book containing dangerous theology and uncomfortably weird analogies was endorsed by several prominent authors and pastors. Their endorsements raised questions about those blurbs and the process of vetting both the book and the blurb.

I’ve written elsewhere about Christian publishing – how that process played out for me and how it could play out for other aspiring authors. I thought I’d add my one cent here about the game of endorsements.

It’s a business and a ministry and a business

Please remember that Christian publishing is still a business. Even if the publisher is the publishing arm of a non-profit, book publishing is a business. 

So when it comes to endorsements I have found it complicated. As an Asian American female Christian author, I am often asked if I would read a manuscript and offer an endorsement. When I first started down this road of Christian publishing almost 20 years ago, Twitter + IG did not exist. Smart phones did not exist. But that did not mean Christian authors weren’t building platforms. They were blogging and building email lists. They were speaking at conferences that kept getting bigger with more stage production and building email lists. So when five completely unknown Asian American women were getting ready to send More Than Serving Tea out into the world, we were asked to think about prominent Asian American church leaders and academics to give our book credibility and possibly connect us to more readers and networks.

In this recent situation I have been reading a lot of comments about how endorsements are an awful game and authors and readers shouldn’t play. I’m not sure how I can fully divest myself from the game when I am months away from publishing another book and waiting to hear from the more than two dozen folks we have reached out to for endorsements. I’m not sure how as a reader I can fully divest myself from not only turning to friends for recommendations but also looking at endorsements to see if others I respect have signed off on a book I’m thinking about reading. I’m not going to only trust the librarians’ or a pastor’s recommendations if the librarian or pastor doesn’t read books written by authors of color. As a reader, I look for endorsements from other authors and leaders of color, particularly women of color. 

But as an author, I have learned that the game is also networking. Don’t roll your eyes. We all do it. How else do you make friends? How do you find out about summer camps for your kids or possible job leads when you’ve had it with your current boss? How do you find a church in a new community? You lean into your network. And as an Asian American female author, my network and my own platform carry a different weight and carry me.

Let Me Explain and Ask a Few Questions

I know that many of you started following me back in 2016 after authors like Scot McKnight and Rachel Held Evans blurbed about More Than Serving Tea on their own blogs. Now I have no idea if those blog posts generated sales, but for me as an author their posts opened up networks. Scot and Rachel became  people I considered friends and allies. Scot taught me about honoraria and how to ask for what I deserved and needed. Rachel connected me to possible agents and gave an endorsement for my book Raise Your Voice. That came about as a result of the game.

But what I have found is that when I, as an Asian American female author, endorse a white author’s book I am offering a level of credibility. In the crudest way possible, my endorsement can be a stamp of Asian American approval. I have consistently turned down requests for endorsement from white authors I do not know. My priority is to endorse women of color, especially new authors, because the game wasn’t developed with us in mind. That is how I play the game. That is how I have chosen to leverage the little bit of influence and power I have and how I manage my time. 

I am also relying on my network of authors of color and white authors I know and trust to be the first ones I ask for an endorsement. Why? I respect them. Their words carry weight and influence. As an author I believe in my work and I want as many reader to buy and read my books. I will always write, but writing a book? That’s a different beast than writing for myself and for the love of my craft. Personally, I want my books to sell and while an endorsement alone doesn’t sell books, it is a stamp of credibility. I don’t know what other ways an author has to signal to potential readers that our words are worth a chance. What draws you into a book? A beautiful cover? A provocative title? Do you read the endorsements? If so, why? If not, why not? Short of reading the book, what helps you, My Dear Readers, decide to buy and read a book?

And one day I may make a mistake. One day my beliefs may change (many of my beliefs have changed since my first book). One day the beliefs of an author whose book I endorsed may change. I’m not sure how to handle that except to say that is part of the risk we authors take when we send our words out into the world. They are frozen in time and do not move and shift with us, which is why we keep writing and we keep reading.

Back to the Game

Some folks have commented that endorsements can be bought. No one has ever tried to buy my endorsement, and I have never tried to buy an endorsement. I can’t imagine making enough money off of a book contract to give some of it away to buy two sentences, but I can see how that might happen. While many Christian authors have gone the way of Substack and other platforms, there was and might still be folks who sell posts on their blogs and platforms. Some of the “guest posts” on other spaces might be paid for, and you will never know. So if we are going to interrogate endorsements, and I think it’s fair, let’s look at it all, including the platforms. Again, I’ve never charged anyone for a mention of their book or for the chance to post on my blog. But I know for a fact there are Christian authors who “share” their platforms for a price. 

Endorsements when done in a perfect world are written after the book is read and some of the outrage in this current situation involving a book about sexuality and the church is that endorsers may not have read the entire book. That is not my personal practice and I suspect many of us will make sure we spend even more time reading manuscripts before we write our endorsements, but I do have a request of you, My Dear Readers. Please consider how you also play into this game with your reviews (or lack of) and words on the interwebs. Did you love the book? Please tweet about it. Review it on Goodreads. Post a photo of the book with your pet. Ask your library to carry the book and then go check it out.

I’m not sure what if anything will change with endorsements, but I want to remind all of us that Christian publishing is still a business.

The cover. I love it.

 

 

Thoughts From Your Local Election Judge

I voted in my first presidential election in November 2012 after finally becoming a naturalized citizen in 2010. I think I started as an election judge in 2017. Where I live we get paid $10/hr, but I think I read somewhere we now get $12/hr. (My Dear Reader, you must know that no one is doing it for the pay. It’s a 16-hour day that starts at 5 am. This year that meant I got to see the start of the blood moon lunar eclipse, which felt oddly fitting.) It is both a privilege and an honor to serve as an election judge. I have the ability and privilege to take the day off, finding subs to teach my two yoga classes this year, and a reliable car to get to and from the polling place before and after voters come through. It also allows me to participate in “the vote” in a way the Founding Fathers never codified for women or for naturalized citizens and a privilege I can’t assume is protected. 

 

Two years ago when the former president of the United States amped up the rhetoric around voting, I experienced the result of that rhetoric – comments from voters about whether or not their votes counted,  questions about the voting machines, voters incorrectly assuming the ballot had their name printed on the ballot, etc., and I posted a few thoughts on my FB page.

 

As we await the final results of a few key elections across the country, I thought I’d pull those posts together and add in italics a few more thoughts.

June 30, 2022

Voters, learn about the rules governing elections. Illinois voters do not need to show ID at the time of voting because IDs are checked at registration. When you come to vote your signature is checked BY TWO PEOPLE. And then you are given a ballot, which is checked by TWO PEOPLE to make sure you got the correct ballot. (Illinois is an open primary so you can vote for either major party regardless of your personal affiliation. Those are the rules.) We are not checking your name and what party you are voting for. We are making sure you get the correct ballot because each site covers several precincts and different ballots.

 

The voter’s name is not on the ballot. There is no way for anyone to know how an individual person voted.

 

Ballots arrive at polling sites in sealed boxes. Each sealed box contains ballots specific to the precinct, and the ballots also come in sealed packets. Election judges are instructed to open packets as needed. All ballots – cast and uncast ballots are returned to the boxes and resealed before being taken back to the county clerk’s office.

 

The fun part? After the polls close, election judges have to account for every ballot. There is a record of the number of ballots issued, spoiled (voter makes a mistake), and cast. Again, there is no way to connect a paper ballot with a specific voter.

 

Nov. 5, 2020

Last week local county election judges were asked to come in to help process mail-in ballots. This year (2022) election judges were asked again to help process mail-in ballots but I was unable to make it work with my schedule.

 

Only official election judges can verify signatures. There were 10 computers and not always 10 of us to process ballots. We also were asked about party affiliation because the county clerk office wants to make sure it’s a mix in the room.

 

Some voters have a signature history from the DMV, etc., others do not. Rejecting a signature required three of us and our signatures on the physical envelope (there is no signature or name of the voter on the actual ballot, and at this part of the process we do not see the ballot). During a four-hour shift I could go through anywhere from 1,200-2.400ish ballots depending on how easily I could match signatures, etc. Out of a batch of about 1,200 ballots a judge on an unofficial average rejected 3 ballots, some of them because of a missing signature on the envelope.

 

None of the election judges I worked with over four days wanted to reject ballots. Sometimes it took longer because three of us, wearing masks, would hover around a single computer TRYING to find similarities between signatures so that the ballot cast could be counted because we all believed that if someone took the time to register, request, fill out, and return a ballot it was due the respect and time.

 

Those ballots didn’t get to us until the outer envelope was opened, scanned, organized by date, location of drop-off and receiving. After signatures are verified, ballots had to go have that envelope opened, ballots stacked and THEN counted.

 

Add the global pandemic, an unprecedented number of mail-in ballots in many places, a postal service that had its own share of shenanigans.

 

It takes a long time, people. Be patient.

 

And besides, someone with power keeps telling his followers to count ballots in one place and stop counting in another place. I’m sure people are confused.

 

Nov. 6, 2020

Today more local county election judges helped process mail-in ballots. We are “volunteers” meaning we are not county employees. Rumor is that we are being paid $10/hr taxable. As a naturalized U.S. citizen who paid to go through the process my kids and spouse were born into, handling ballots is a privilege and sacred work.

 

Many of us were hoping ballot counts would be finalized, but most of us HAVE NO IDEA HOW TEDIOUS this process can be. Yesterday I wrote about the signature match process. Today I saw part of what happens next….

 

After the signature on the envelope, not the ballot, is approved by an election judge, the envelope has to be opened, the ballot physically removed, checked for valid write-in candidates (and tallied if such write-in is cast), initialed, and then stacked by batch for eventual counting.

 

The envelopes come in a batch, the same batch of envelopes when signatures are matched. Those envelopes were scanned together so that YOUR MAIL-IN BALLOT CAN BE TRACKED.

 

I went through two trays of ballots, I think less than 1,000. One of those trays required me to open each ballot. One tray had already been opened perhaps by a machine, an employee, or a paid volunteer who isn’t an election judge. Why by hand? A machine may tear through the ballot. What happens if a ballot is accidentally torn? It has to be re-cast by two judges manually. I saw one of those ballots, and it really made me sad.

 

I also had several military ballots, which also meant that batch had to be put aside so that the ballot could be re-cast on an actual ballot that could be scanned by a machine. That requires two people to fill out a ballot.

 

On election day we did not see a single poll watcher ALL DAY LONG. NONE.

 

Today there were more than a dozen poll watchers representing both parties. I was told that it was unusual. Thankfully I was working at a separate table that could be observed and was observed, but further away from a larger set of tables where at one point there were only 3 or 4 volunteers and more poll watchers.

 

Sidenote: I wore a t-shirt that read “He’s a racist. Me-2017” A county employee received a complaint about my t-shirt because it was too political, so I was asked to figure out a way to hide the words. I went to the restroom to turn my shirt inside out. I didn’t raise a stink because I truly went to help get legally cast ballots processed and counted. Again, I consider this sacred work. I don’t care who you voted for. If you went through the process of registering to vote, requesting a mail-in ballot, filling out said ballot, mailing or dropping off the ballot, your ballot should be processed and eventually counted. I took an oath to do that.

 

The Privilege of Isolation in the Age of COVID

 

A bowl of oatmeal topped with mixed berries.

My son promises me this is a single packet of instant oatmeal.

 

 

I’m supposed to be writing chapters about other things, but, My Dear Readers, what is procrastination if not diverting energy to other equally demanding endeavors? AND to do it whilst isolating, thanks to finally meeting Rona after all these years.

Rona is not nice.

Yes, five days in the master bedroom.

Day 5 of isolation is over – free of fever, feeling more like a cold than anything else, but still testing positive. The handy CDC quarantine and isolation calculator tells me that I can leave isolation but masked when in the company of other humans. The other humans I live with would prefer I stay isolated a little longer, which is totally understandable since my brain swab lit up like a Christmas tree.

Instead of breaking free, I am typing at my freshly dusted childhood desk that serves as a vanity in my master bedroom.

I came home Sunday evening with symptoms that came on fast and furious.

Monday morning I tested positive for COVID19 (Day 0). I promptly took over the master bedroom, which is bigger than some NYC studios so I’m grateful for the king bed (singles and couples, BUY THE BIG BED) and bathroom. The double sink vanity and my mirrored closet doors came in handy when I had a burst of energy two days ago; we keep cleaning supplies under every sink so I cleaned the vanity, the mirrors, and lightbulbs. 

The first 48 hours were the worst with fever and a sore throat I haven’t experienced since who knows when. I ran a fever for four days but I never had trouble breathing, never turned blue, which I often do when I am super cold (anyone remember Emmy’s wedding?).

This is the privilege of vaccination combined with upper middle income status. I am vaccinated with one booster. I actually got vaccinated earlier because I could take time off and volunteer with my county at mass vaccination sites in early 2021 when vaccines were just rolling out. That feels like a lifetime ago. Volunteers had early access.

And even though the boosters are widely offered, there are side effects so privilege means being able to have a buffer with work and time off if reactions require it.

Until you have COVID19 you don’t fully understand what “mild” means. Mild means you might not have any symptoms, you might experience what feels like a seasonal cold, or you might be really sick but not sick enough to require a doctor or hospital.

My innocuous posting online about isolating surprised me with the number of DMs from people commiserating privately with me because they had either already had the infection or were also sick.

For a bunch of folks who like to be authentic online I realized there is still a strange stigma about having caught the virus. 

No shame.

It’s a virus.

I think for those of us who rode the high horse about vaccination and masks are rather embarrassed to find our best efforts are just that. Nothing can fully protect you unless you never ever venture out.

Also, many of us stopped wearing masks in public. I did. I teach yoga. I teach yoga in a heated studio, and for months I wore a mask and then I didn’t because it was no longer required. I sometimes follow rules, and when there were no rules about wearing masks I took it as permission to save the good ones for the airport.

And to be perfectly honest I’m not sure when I’ve tested negative and have the stamina to return to teaching I will wear a mask when I teach because y’all can complain about wearing a mask but try doing it while cueing a one-hour power flow in a room heated to 90 degrees. Super not fun. 

We all take risks and sometimes we don’t calculate the risks correctly. And sometimes we take all the precautions and still nature takes over and reminds us that we cannot control everything. That’s right. Even here in the effing United States of America the most cautious of us cannot control everything, especially a global panini that dropped the collective “us” to our knees in the spring of 2020.

So if you are coconut positive or were and didn’t share it with your socials even though you share everything else, IT’S OK. I just want to invite us to figure out why we/you didn’t share your COVID status when you’ve shared your lunch, your black squares, etc. and to address the strange and inconsistent ways shame grabs a hold of us/you.

So how bad is it?

Day 0-2 were the worst. It was a combination of the flu and strep throat, and I haven’t had strep throat  in years. In fact, I haven’t been sick like this since before the spring of 2020 because masking, social distancing, and hand washing works.

I had a fever. My throat was raw and sore. I lost my voice. My sense of taste and smell remains intact. Food wasn’t the priority, but I drank water in hopes of soothing the incredibly raw throat. I drank ice water instead of hot tea, which goes against every Korean sensibility but I am not postpartum so ice water is allowed. I think.

The fever broke on Day 4. I now sound and feel like I have a cold that will morph into bronchitis. I am feeling waves of fatigue and headaches that make me want to cry (I have a very high pain tolerance, folks), but remember I also have the privilege of isolating.

I haven’t taught a yoga class in more than a week and probably won’t for another week or so. That’s lost income that I can afford. 

My adult-ish sons are home and feed me “son-sized” portions of food. Two days ago I called C and asked him if the bowl of oatmeal he had just left outside of my bedroom door was really only one packet of oatmeal. He laughed at me and promised it was just one packet. I’m not sure I believe him.

C eats two packets…along with two eggs and a cup of egg whites with spinach and smoked salmon and sometimes a side of leftovers so his sense of normal portions is…off.

I also have a husband who checked in before he left for work and when he arrived back home.

My son’s girlfriend made soup and mango sago so I love her the most.

Friends are texting funny and beautifully mundane snippets of life. I read two books. I wrote more than 1k words but not for the deadline I am about to miss. This is mild because the vaccine works.

But this entire time I kept thinking about friends and strangers and the more than one million people in the U.S. and the more than six million globally who have died as a result of this pandemic. People are still dying.

So it’s not that bad. But it is. It really is. 

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