Bon Appetit!

Did any of you watch Julie & Julia? What did you think? Did it make you want to run out and buy a copy of Mastering the Art of French Cooking?

I enjoyed the movie, but I didn’t leave the theater inspired to cook my way through self-discovery (but if any of you were so inspired and need someone to help you eat what you cook on your way to self-discovery, I’m your woman).

It did make me wish I had more counter/prep space in my kitchen (which is frozen in time just like Julia Child’s, though mine is not at the Smithsonian). It made me think about role models and the women who have gone before me. It made me think about friends – new and old – who have helped me become a better version of myself.

And I left the movie with the itch to write again.

Writing is part of what I do and who I am. I didn’t grab a pencil at my first birthday for nothing people. (Koreans traditionally celebrate a child’s first birthday by placing them in front of a table to “choose” a symbol of their future destiny.)

I write down lists even though my iTouch has a handy dandy app for that. I write in my journals. I compose letters when something that happens on the Oprah show irritates me or when my kids’ school teachers all have a different reason explaining why President Obama’s speech was not being shown in class. No one would describe me as “slow to speak” but there is something about committing words to writing that compels me…it keeps me honest. It’s not always beautiful prose, but life won’t be this side of heaven.

So I unexpectedly found inspiration to get back at it through a movie about cooking, eating, doing something that people say you can’t do or shouldn’t do or will stink at doing and finding one’s voice in the process. Thanks for joining me.

Sorry I don’t have any food to offer you (but if we meet in person we’ll chat over coffee and something made with butter, sugar, eggs and flour). But indulge me with a glimpse into what has inspired you lately? And what has that inspired you to do?

Sunday? Sabbath?

“Mom, can we take a break from church because I want to do something as a family for a day…like play outside?”

Elias apparently noticed that the sun is out this morning. My kids need some vitamin D after last week’s wave of clouds and rain. He wants to spend the day relaxing and resting…and even at his age he’s wrestling with something I’ve been wrestling with for years.

Sometimes our Sundays do not feel like a Sabbath. Sometimes going to church does not feel restful or restorative or even worshipful. Sometimes I just don’t feel like it. There. I said it. I’m struggling with identifying how big of a space “going to church” is supposed to take in my life. If going to church does not equal a Sabbath, what is the proper equation?

I grew up going to church. Even on family vacations my parents would try to find a local church to attend. During one of our week-long road-trips to see and appreciate the expanse of land known as AMERICA my father found a small countryside chapel. The pastor was the only one there, and my father explained in his choppy but not broken English that we were on vacation and couldn’t be at our home church. Could we pray and sing a hymn or two as a family here in these pews? I seem to remember the pastor joining us for the singing…

When Peter and I were in the painful process of leaving our home church of 10+ years, we did what we Christians call “church-shopping” which for me is a lot like bathing suit shopping – something I feel I must do but cringe at my self-loathing, over-critical, never-satisfied self. We church-shopped because we couldn’t imagine not going to church because that is what we were supposed to do, expected to do and wanted to do. We felt lost without that Sunday morning anchor, but somewhere along the line we gave ourselves permission to take a break and worship God together as a family by going to experience the Doctors Without Borders exhibit, by taking Sunday to prepare our vegetable garden, by meeting the neighbors and sharing a meal with them.

And then we “found” a church. And on this sunny Sunday, my youngest son is asking, “Can we take a break?”

So for those of you who are Christians, do you go to church? Why or why not? Do any of you practice the Sabbath? If so how?

When to hit “Remove From Friends”?

Has anyone hit “Remove From Friends” because someone has crossed the line between friend and frenemy?

So…Facebook is a major time suck. I know several hold-outs who don’t want to read that so-and-so is stuck in traffic and so-and-so is eating this amazing meal and so-and-so went to the U2 concert with her daughter and lost 2% of her hearing. 🙂

I kind of like it. I have to take my FB in small portions otherwise I get sucked in looking at photos (like my cousin posing with Ludacris is one of my favs), responding to funny status updates (like Jessica’s about “No one should be frozen in carbonite” still makes me laugh), etc. It’s like eating. Eat several small meals during the day instead of the big three which tend to make me veerrrryyyy sleeeepppyyy and in turn less productive.

For the most part I’ve figured it is his/her status and he/she can write whatever whenever. Whatever. But lately there has been quite a bit of chatter on FB by “friends” who are doing what I am doing right here – venting, and I’m feeling very conflicted.

Have you ever read someone’s status and thought, “This comment makes me uncomfortable.” Or better yet, “WHAAAT?! Are you kidding me?” 

So when you read something like that, do you engage or not? Do you ignore the status and maybe that person’s updates for awhile? If you see that person to you acknowledge the crazy status update? Or do you comment on the status?

Anyone out there unfriend a friend? If so, why? Did you think about it but decide against it? Why?

I’m looking for a few honest folks who aren’t just removing friends because they are no longer OK with not really knowing all 1,000 of their friends. I’m looking for the few folks who’ve had a bone to pick…and picked it.

Anyone?

Thinking About Female Bonding Over Sweat and Jeers and the Etiquette of Exercise

Until last year, I exercised alone. My “routine” was easy: grab my water bottle, headphones and iPod, enter the gym and make as little eye contact as possible. Why smile at a stranger while I was willingly walking towards 60 minutes of torture on the elliptical? It was a great routine, which gave me just enough time to get through a single “This American Life” podcast.

Last fall a fellow mom asked me if I wanted to join her in a weights class. I hesitated, and managed to put the decision on hold for a week or so. As an extrovert, the idea of working out in community seemed like a logical move, but as the sometimes-insecure-woman-who-can’t-believe-she’s-still-struggling-with-moments-of-insecurity I wasn’t sure if walking into a room of women was a good idea because, let’s be honest, women can be a teeny bit catty.

As someone who is genetically predisposed to having a small, petite frame, I’ve found myself in dangerous female territory. I’ve had to explain why I exercise because certainly a thin woman doesn’t need to exercise. Right? Sure, there are plenty of reasons to exercise, but the media wants us to believe the reason to exercise is weight management. (Insert appropriate hate the skinny girl comment.) My polite comeback to the “you don’t need to exercise” comment is this: If we were looking at my 80+ y.o. grandmother and my 60+ y.o. mother (sorry, mom) I would agree with you. I don’t need to lose weight. But if you knew my mother and grandmother you would know that my mom had a heart attack before she turned 60, and both my mother and grandmother are on medication for bone density loss. Yes, I do need to exercise.

Add to that the entire exercise class sub-culture – barbells, hand weights, mats, steps & boards, exercise balls and bands, walls of mirrors and bad lighting combined with early hours and perky instructors all looked like a well-packaged means of torture. 

I was so wrong. It only took a few classes before I was hooked because I had taken a few negative personal experiences and my own prejudices and applied them to something I had never experienced. Muscle Max, Sculpting and Cardio-Mix turned out to be something that can be hard to come by – a fairer playing field where women spanning at least three decades are supportive of each other and their goals whether it’s losing a few inches or pounds, releasing some stress, or just making it through crazy push-ups (you should see this set of push-ups).

I’ve learned about parenting high schoolers and college-aged children. I’ve learned about diabetes. I’ve learned about what aging gracefully can look like. I’ve learned to laugh at myself when the voice inside wants me only to hear “you’re not doing it right” and keep moving even when I can’t figure out the step combo. I’ve learned that most of us can still name 5 things we would change about bodies, but I’ve also learned that in a room full of women we’re quicker than I thought to offer words of genuine encouragement to shed the lies that hurt our souls.

But that’s enough about me and my journey of discovery through sweat and squats. Anyone else out there finding that exercise is teaching you more than you expected? Anyone else learning to face their own prejudices and stereotypes of others through activity? Anyone else want to join me? (Bring some water and some Advil. Trust me.)

My American Name? My Married Name? My name.

A North Texas legislator suggested voter identification issues for Asian-descent voters could be simplified if they changed their names. You know, change their crazy Asian names into American names.

My American name is Kathy Khang. My parents gave me “Kathy” (just “Kathy”, not “Katherine” or “Kathleen”, and not “Kate” unless you happened to be my high school homecoming date who was the only one to ever call me “Kate”) because the “k” sound similar enough to the first sound of my Korean name – KyoungAh. They simplified my name when we immigrated because they figured that was one elementary/junior high/high school torment they could save me from. The whole “go back to where you came from” was beyond a name change.

My parents also took on “American” names. Sort of. My mom became “Helen” and my dad just took “Shin” (the first syllable of his Korean name)  when they bought a drycleaning business. Customers would come in and chat with “Helen” and “Shin”, but when they sold the store it became awkward to introduce my parents to anyone as “Helen” and “Shin”. In my world, adults didn’t have first names, and in my world as an Asian American I would never fully be an adult so long as my parents were around.

Many immigrant families also changed their names and made them more “American” by changing the order of their names. In Korean culture, your full name starts with your surname – identifying first your family line and then your individual name (which also carries a generational marker, historically if you are male). My male cousins all “Suk” as the second syllable to their name. Clearly, you can see why they might have wanted to changed their names had they immigrated to America.

I am not surprised at this politician’s suggestion. In her mind and personal experience it really may be that simple. Change your name and be an American who won’t get questioned when you want to vote. Right.

But I am a bit surprised at how this conversation so far is limited to race. I’ve blogged about this before. While it is becoming more and more prevalent, it is still generally assumed that the woman will change her name upon marriage. If anything, being progressive means asking the bride-to-be, “What are you planning on doing about your last name?” Rarely is it assumed that the woman would keep her name (unless you have a friend, and you just know she’s going to keep her name).

When I got married, the assumption was that I would change my last name and take my husband’s last name. I got all sorts of questions:

  • Don’t you want everyone to know you are married to your husband? Yes, what does my name have to do with it?
  • Don’t you want to be known as a married couple? Yes, but again what does my name have to do with it? I also want to be known as an individual who had a life that mattered to God before I got married.
  • Peter is going to let you do that? Is it Peter’s decision alone?
  • What will your family think? Actually, my parents were honored.
  • What will your inlaws think? At the time I didn’t stop to ask.
  • Don’t you think it will be confusing when you have children? Confusing for whom? Are you worried the children will be confused or others will be confused?
  • What will people call you? They will call me by my name.
  • Isn’t it just easier to change your name? Actually, from what I hear, no. There’s no paperwork involved in keeping my name.

Almost 16 years later I am still explaining the name thing, with less bite. The kids all have my name as part of their name. B, C & E go by what the Texas Rep. Betty Brown would call their “American” names, but they also have their “Korean” name, followed by my last name and then their “real” last name (my husband’s last name). I tinkered with the idea of pushing that the kids would have my last name, but when you’re struggling through months of nausea and exhaustion some things ceased to be critical. In the end, they each know their names and the significance and story behind why we chose B, C & E. They know why their grandfather chose their Korean names, why we wanted them to have Korean names and the meaning behind each syllable. They know why my last name is a part of their name, and they know that even though I have a different last name I am their mommy who knows them and loves them and is part of their family.

I agree with many of the frustrated comments being thrown about in response to Rep. Brown’s suggestion. Names matter, but I don’t want to read motive or intent into her comments because I don’t know her.

I do know that spelling “Brown” is easier than spelling “Khang”. I do know that when someone hears “Brown” there are different assumptions made than when you hear “Khang”. My sister often gets a surprised response when people have heard of her before they meet her because she goes by her married name – a more “American” name. I suspect Asian adoptees go through something similar. There are cultural connections that people still value and make in and through names while the definition of American is still changing and being challenged. There isn’t a whole lot that is easy about becoming or being an American, especially if you aren’t White. A name change won’t do it. Living in American for most of your life doesn’t do it. Citizenship does it in a legal sense but doesn’t cover the day-to-day nuances of American life and acceptance into America.

But as a married woman, my name, changed or not, matters as well. There is a cultural and family connection to my past that profoundly shaped me into the woman my husband married. There is nothing easy about being married, with or without children – joy doesn’t make everything easy. And when things get tough, a common name isn’t going to be what pulls you through.

As an Evangelical (insert lit match here), names matter. Why? Because in many evangelical circles it matters whether or not Junius was Junia. Name is not strictly race but also gender.

So, do names matter to you? Why is changing your name for the ease of others offensive or not? What is the story behind your name? And, would you change your name to change the story?

The Stigma of Suicide

Aquan Lewis was found hanging in a bathroom stall at his elementary school. He was 10 years old.

The Cook County medical examiner’s office ruled his death a suicide, but Lewis’ mother, Angel Marshall, openly shared her disbelief and distrust of the ruling.

“My baby did not kill himself,” she said. “You all need to get in that school and look at that stall.”

A police investigation into Lewis’ death continues, but the local news coverage is now focusing on the broader issue of suicide. The front page of the newspaper, countless websites, the news radio programs, afternoon news – suicide spoken of out loud in the same segment as the economy and weather. Does that mean the stigma is gone or is it something else?

As a campus minister, I have walked staff and students through two suicides. The first one was a freshman I vaguely remembered meeting at a new student week event. I got the call in the middle of the night from a frantic student leader. The second one was an upperclassman I did not know. I was out of town at a staff training event (ironically being trained for a new job supervising staff teams) when I was quietly pulled out of a meeting and given the news.

As an adult suicide has touched me several times, but only once was I told up front what had happened. A college friend had gone home for break and did not come back to campus. She had hung herself, perhaps in an attempt to silence the darkness that she had been fighting for sometime.

The other two times were just family deaths until years later when the secret of suicide emerged. A family member who had died decades before I was born died in the midst of familial turmoil, but it was never clear how this person had died. I once heard someone come close. “— died because — was so sad. — died because of the sadness.” It was almost as if the cause of death could be erased the demons would never come back.

Decades later those demons did come back. This time involving the other side of my immediate family. I was simply told that this relative, who was years younger than I, died. No other explanation given despite my obvious question – “How did — die?”

I was pregnant at the time, and I later learned that relatives were concerned that telling me this person had died of suicide would lead to either problems in my pregnancy or somehow adversely affect my child. You see, there are cultural taboos and then there are cultural taboos. There’s eating and drinking cold things after birth taboos and then there are the taboos that follow through the generations. The problem with hiding those family stories and addressing the taboos straight on is that we never really know what we’re running from and where we need to run to. 

I started thinking about my family’s relationship and understanding of suicide because the story of a 10-year-old boy’s suicide reminded me that suicide is never expected. It never makes perfect sense, if any sense at all. Yes, my family members may have struggled with undiagnosed depression. Yes, there might have been “signs” and “cries for help”. But at the end of the day those things never neatly lead us to think “Yes, that makes sense.”

The story also reminded me that those who have come closer to suicide than others in some strange way carry a responsibility to break the stigma around suicide, to continue breaking down the cultural barriers to openly talking about death and depression and how the two really can come together. One day I imagine it would be important for me and my sister and my parents and my children to sit down and talk about how depression runs in the family. About how I struggled with thoughts of suicide. About I feared depression was rearing its ugly head in my own children. About how we’ve sought both prayer and counseling therapy. About how the only taboo is believing that not acknowledging suicide will erase it from existence.

So as I glance at the clock and head out to pick up my young boys from school I’m saying a prayer for Angel Marshall and her son’s family and friends. I don’t know what the death investigation will turn up, but hopefully it’s gotten some people talking about suicide and bringing to light that which cannot remain in the dark.

Have any of you been affected by suicide? How have you (or your families) talked about suicide (or not talked about it)? Does a stigma remain on suicide? depression? mental illness? And how does faith or religious beliefs help or cloud the issue?

There are a number of good resources out there, but one I’ve used over and over is Grieving a Suicide by Albert Y. Hsu.

“…I didn’t do enough…”

I feel the weight of familial guilt, shame and expectations heavily. The older daughter married to a first-born son can’t get away with “I don’t feel like it” or “I can’t fit that into my schedule”. I try. Believe me. I try. But the danger of living a bicultural existence relatively detached on a daily basis from the direct implication of said existence is that I begin to think I am the only one in my family who feels the weight. I may think and experience life a bit differently but most mornings when I rushing out the door to work or to drop the kids off, life is less bicultural and more chaotic.

Anyway, the other day I was on the phone with my mother talking about my grandmother. She is 86 and still lives on her own. As one who has helped care for an aging parent, I was trying to sensitively give my mother advice on how to best care for her mother. About two minutes into the conversation I remembered there really is no culturally sensitive way to give one’s own mother advice (if any of you have figured it out, please let me know…).

Instead I tried to listen, but I was so sad and disturbed at the weight of the guilt my mother carried that I wanted to hang up the phone lest the weight take me down too. My mother was wondering out loud why her own mother is choosing not to move closer to her adult children, and after she had run out of what seemed to be the most logical and legitimate reasons (grandma likes her independence, she doesn’t want to leave her friends, etc,) my mother went “there”.

“Maybe she doesn’t want to move in with me because I didn’t do enough for her. Maybe she doesn’t think I will really take care of her,” mom said.

One of the things I find most difficult about adulthood is navigating the cultural divide with my parents. As a child/teenager/young adult my response was often one of detachment or simple resentment. “They don’t understand” was the path of least mental and emotional resistance. The older I get the more I begin to understand and appreciate that they understand as much as they can given the circumstances. They have spent their lives as parents bending in an attempt to understand America and its culture and trying to bend their lives to fit and be “American” enough for their neighbors, coworkers, children. My guess is that they understand my bicultural journey more than I know.

What I still don’t know is how best to respond when my mother goes “there” with her guilt and expectations.

Facebook 25

1. My two favorite jobs in college were: waitressing at Yesterday’s and being the morning news assistant at WNUA-FM. Waitressing meant a free meal after my shift (PK, KY and IJ also benefitted from this as I would eat at the salad bar and bring home my entree!), and the morning news shift meant sharing in the amazing muffin basket the bakery downstairs sent us every morning.
2. I love meat. When Peter and I go out to eat, he orders the salad and I order the full slab or a piece of cow, cooked medium. When the food comes out they give me the salad. Why?!
3. When I am hungry I get crabby, which is why when waitstaff offer me the salad my husband ordered, I want to lower their tip.
4. I got to ride on a parade float in my hometown’s “Rose Parade”.
5. No, I was not the Roselle “Rose Queen”. Nor was I on her court. I won an essay contest. I can’t remember what the essay was about. I think I was in junior high.
6. In 2007 I got my chance to be a queen and took the stage in a tiara and sash. So what if I bought the tiara. It was a blast, and I look good in sparkles!
7. My favorite hot beverage is a double-shot latte with 2% pulled at home, and poured in my apple green mug from my stint as a queen.
8. My mug almost matches the color of my office walls, which really is the reason I use the mug.
9. After I gave birth to my first child I almost bled to death.
10. As a result of #9, I had emergency surgery during which I overheard my husband chatting with my anesthesiologist. They were talking about fishing.
11. Despite #10, I still love my husband.
12. After I gave birth to my second child in JUNE, my mother and mother-in-law tried to stop me from drinking a cold beverage because they seemed to think the cold juice would make all my teeth fall out. I grabbed that huge pitcher of juice and ice and slurped it down like there was no tomorrow.
13. Despite #12, I still have all of my teeth.
14. I have all of my teeth even though I don’t floss every day. Yes, Peter knows.
15. My shirts are organized by color and sleeve-length.
16. On a regular basis I must ignore the urge to organize my husband’s closet in the same way.
17. I wooed my husband by baking him chocolate chip cheesecakes and watching movies he picked. We both were probably 10 pounds heavier by the time we walked down the aisle…5 1/2 months and several chocolate chip cheesecakes after we first met.
18. Now that I think about it, I don’t think I’ve baked a chocolate chip cheesecake since we got married. We’re both thinner. That’s almost 16 years without baking a chocolate chip cheesecake.
19. Someday I would like to go back to school. My sister thinks I should get a counseling degree, but then I would want to charge her for our daily therapy sessions.
20. I really never thought of myself as being a “strong woman” until 2006.
21. I really never thought of myself as a “loving” person until 1993, 1995, 1999 and 2001. Clearly, I am a work in progress who needs reminders about loving.
22. I once did a spot on impression of Wile E. Coyote running into a mountain. It was on our honeymoon. I was not paying attention to my surroundings and walked full-stride into a steel-encased concrete column on the cruise ship. I remember hearing Peter say, “Honey, watch out for the” followed by a loud “boooinnnnng” as I rammed into the column, forehead-first.
23. As a result of #22, I had the biggest bruise near my brow that “flowed” onto my eyelid. If you look at our honeymoon pictures I am wearing lots of eyeshadow.
24. I once vowed I would run a marathon before turning 30.
25. I have never been very good with numbers.

What in the World?!? Free Makeup and “My People”

I enjoy a good deal. The only thing I enjoy more is a great deal. That being said, I learned the value from my parents. These same parents called me Tuesday night to tell me that they had been to several department stores after dinner to stand in line and claim their one free product per customer (albeit at multiple department stores and at multiple shopping malls). Seriously, they were downright giddy.

The makeup giveaway is part of a class-action lawsuit. The settlement included a mass distribution of high-end cosmetics to customers. No proof of purchase necessary. Just sign your name on a piece of a paper and decide if you want the cream, perfume, mascara, etc.

I figured I would stop by the mall the next morning and get my free makeup if the wait wasn’t long. The wait was short, but what I couldn’t help but notice was the demographics. I would have to guess that 85% were Asian/Asian American (the remaining 15% was mostly Latinos and Europeans based on the conversations going on). I have never seen that many Asians/Asian Americans at that mall in the four years we’ve lived here. Many of them were couples, just like my mom and dad, each getting their free sample.

Initially I did an internal giggle, called up my sister (who happened to be at Macy’s), and told her to pick up some free makeup.

But the line at the second department store was a bit more uncomfortable. There were two lines snaking through the cosmetics and jewelry departments, and one of the women staffing the giveaway table started addressing us in a tone I have often used when my children were younger. She spoke loudly (ok, so there were a lot of people there so I’ll give her that) and deliberately (though when I got closer she chattered much faster with her coworkers).

“Now remember, you can only have one item. Just one. No two. You can only come once. You can’t come tomorrow. It’s not fair. See, we’re having you write your names. We have to collect the names so we’ll have your names. We’ll know you came back.”

Again, I know there are bigger fish to fry. I’m not trying to fry any fish here. It was just one of those uncomfortable moments where I found myself wondering if this woman would have said the same things in the same tone had the crowd not been 85% Asian/Asian American and 15% Latino and Europeans. I found myself wanting my free moisturizer but a bit embarrassed for an unknown reason that I was in the company of “my people”. So what if I came back? On my honor I took my one sample, but seriously did she think she was going to be the voice of conscience or implying something by stressing the fact that they were taking down names?

I should have signed my name Jane Austen or Amy Tan or Michelle Obama. 😉

For those of you wondering about the free makeup, here’s the info. It’s until supplies last so run. My mom and her friends have been working the phones so who knows if there is anything left out here.

The Inauguration Live or a Day at School?

Should I cut the school day short and have the kids come home to watch the inauguration on tv?

During MLK Day, in between the arguments and conversations about legos, Bionicles, Wii and shopping, we talked about Dr. King and his legacy, president-elect Obama and his inauguration, what kind of dog Malia and Sasha might get, and ended the night with the Disney Channel’s concert (Malia and Sasha in the front row busy taking photos and shooting video – too cute and so serious!).

Do they “get it”? I think so. I hope so.

But would pulling them out of school help mark the significance of the day or would the day turn out to be an excuse to miss school?

I know. I’m totally over-thinking this.

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