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My niece called me on a racist remark at dinner the other night. Not in an accusatory way, mind you, just matter-of-factly. She had described her reluctance to eat street food at her home in Beijing and I chuckled and asked, “Why? Because it might be dog?”

“No, that’s racist,” Dana replied. “Most Chinese people think that’s disgusting too.”

I was slightly taken aback. While I hadn’t meant to discriminate, I could see her point. I look down on eating dog and I’d captured a whole group of people in my ignorant comment. As it happened, I’m glad she used the r-word to describe my behavior because it got my attention. I don’t like to think of myself as racist but, like it or not, I do carry the privilege of being white in a society that has given those of my race individual and institutional power throughout history. I’m glad Dana shared her judgment right away in the moment and was not antagonistic. As a result I had to agree and then could reflect on how I’d like to speak differently next time. I could acknowledge that I have a lot to learn in this arena. Since I don’t intend to hurt others or treat them unfairly, I want people to tell me if my comments seem aggressive or mean.

Later Dana’s response encouraged me to backtrack on a related incident. I had been finishing lunch with a group of colleagues when one woman laughed as she imitated her grandson mimicking a Chinese accent. I had finished eating and was leaving the table so while I recognized this remark as racist and felt awkward, I didn’t call her out or at least ask her intent. But after my personal lesson with Dana, I decided to retrace my steps, voice my discomfort and ask my co-worker what she’d meant. Unlike Dana I hadn’t been brave enough in the moment but, later, I asked my friend if she would have told the story in the same way if a person of color had been with us. Even though she didn’t see the incident as I did, I left our follow-up conversation with a clearer conscience, emboldened to give immediate feedback in the next instance.

After all we teach kids not to be bystanders who allow bullies to hurt others. I think being silently complicit to racist remarks is an adult version of the same unacceptable behavior. I want to do better.

 

My morning practice includes journalling and reading my entries from a year ago, a month ago, a week ago and just yesterday. The last ten weeks have been loaded with “feeling words.”

Post-election: Shocked. Alarmed. Unnerved.

A week later after reading “Arrivals,” a poem about new immigrants by David Whyte, then sharing our own bridging stories with colleagues: Curious. Appreciative. Encouraged.

In between times given the consistent and general background malaise due to news of presidential politics: Dread. Disgusted. Uneasy. Distracted. Afraid. Worried. Apprehensive. Forlorn.

Then inauguration weekend.

Thursday after reading together from The New Jim Crow, a book about racism by Michelle Alexander, then sharing our own stories about undoing institutional racism: Disappointed and heavy hearted. Also curious. Compassionate. Open.

Friday after accidentally turning on my phone and seeing the Obamas board the plane to end their era as our leaders: Bereft. Deeply sad. Fragile. Wretched. Vulnerable.

Then after seven hours volunteering at Seattle United, an event to connect immigrants and refugees with attorneys and other services: Engaged. Elated. Pleased. Grateful. Refreshed.

Saturday after the womxn’s march, sitting on my sofa alone, seeing photos from around the globe of others who marched, millions of us…er, at the very least, a million of us: Spellbound. Amazed. In awe. Invigorated. Deeply touched and moved. Inspired.

Like we can do this.

The next morning I sat in bed, still in pajamas, with my sister, studying Jennifer Hofmann’s Weekly Action Checklist. This is where we started. Some people have been doing this since Day 1, preparing, making it easy for us to be steadily politically active and not burn out. We each picked our three focus areas as Jen suggested. Then we located contact info for our congresswomen and senators. Then we left messages on the phones of those leading action we oppose. We donated. We committed to twenty minutes of this targeted work per week. It was good to be together.

Empowered. Determined. Proud. Invigorated.

Yes, we can do this. Yes we can!

 

 

 

 

On one level I’ve been miserable lately due to federal politics but, thankfully, I’ve had distractions because James and then Dana helped us welcome in 2017.

James stayed with us first. He’s a dual citizen – Australian and U.S. A new uni grad, in his vernacular, with degrees in environmental science and geography. James lived across the street from us with his family as a baby and since then with his folks in Perth. While he traveled internationally with others, this trip is his first major one on his own. He wants to live and work in the U.S. for awhile and I hope that works out for him.

Technically Dana is my first-cousin-in-law-once-removed. Wow, six words to describe one relationship. That reminds me of a characteristic I like about Spanish where one simple word describes each family relationship. No “in-law” tacked on for instance. Instead suegra means mother-in-law and cuñado means brother-in-law, etc. All this to say, I’m going with “my niece” from now on when I speak of Dana Fong. After all, she calls me Aunty Penny.

Dana is staying with us this week because she lives and works in Beijing but her company is based in Seattle. Occasionally they fly her in and this time, lucky me, she asked to stay at our house. Dana’s an easy guest because she has work plans during the day and social plans in the evening, including the one great night she saved for family dinner around our table. While Dana is in her twenties too, unlike James, she knows how to get around town and came here with U.S. dollars in hand.

Thank God for these two. Yes, James’s visit required more direct time and energy from us but we were fascinated and really enjoyed having him. Between the two, he looks more like he could be our kid than Dana does, as she is Asian-American. But the minute he speaks he’s foreign, English-speaking so we can generally understand him but his strong accent, to our ears at least, led to some fun conversations. We loved hearing his stories and his insights as he tackled Seattle and compared America to Australia, a continent we want to visit now more than ever.

Hosting Dana, on the other hand, was like having one of our own at home for a flash. She came and went on her own schedule, touching base every now and then. The stories she shared were usually in response to our questions and more often about China, her home base for now and another place we want to visit. Again our world expanded even though we stayed right here, cozy at home.

I am immensely grateful we started 2017 with international visitors. Definitely a privilege. I’ve needed distraction from the political hoorah unfolding all around me as the presidential reigns change. Yes, I cried with the rest of you listening to Obama’s farewell speech. I will be volunteering on Friday and marching on Saturday to mark Inauguration Day. I find though that my best antidote to anger, fear and sadness in the face of impending sea change is curiosity and engagement with whoever is right here, right now. Bridging across ages and continents via our twenty-something guests was good medicine for the fortitude needed in this time of change and uncertainty.

 

In the beginning – how else does one start a wonderful story? – a Jewish family invited the whole neighborhood to make Light together over eight days. But first, the father Jim sculpted giant clay buildings to hold the candles and the sun and moon aligned so the first time we assembled was Christmas Eve. I hadn’t lit a menorah candle before but after the first night I was drawn as though magnetized whenever I was in town – six of the eight nights at 6 PM between the Eves.

Every night I learned something new. Since I arrived early on the first night, I heard the story of Hanukkah from a boy in a wheelchair. His mother was gently grilling him, “Why do we even do this?” Since there were only a handful of early-birds, I stood alongside and encouraged him, “Oh good, I don’t know this story. Tell me.” I learned about the small amount of oil that miraculously lit the desert for more than a week.

That’s when Jim slipped in with others and explained the process. Someone would hold a did-he-say-shama candle from which we would light all the others. The first house held eight candles. If you were filling the lowest floor it was best to straighten your elbow and, to avoid burns, form your wrist into an L-shape so you could safely lower the candle on your fingers. When all were lit, we’d extinguish the string of electric lights and recite or sing the traditional Hebrew prayer together. That’s what I remember about Day 1. Oh yes, I also remember spontaneously hugging Jim and his wife Carolyn, too, at the end knowing I had found a gem and would be returning night after night.

I took my own family to the Hanukkah observation the next night. Mom and Carolina huddled together under a new down comforter (a gift from Santa) and sat on the bench in front of the menorah. Rob stepped up to serve as Shamash holder. And since Jim was out-of-town, his oldest son Jesse ably led the proceedings. After prayers, we sang a few songs, including the one I knew about the dreidel.

James came with me on Day 6. We’d first known James as a baby 20 years ago when his folks lived across the street before they moved back home to Australia. He’d returned to check out this second home of his. An outdoor Hanukkah lighting seemed the perfect way to re-introduce him. I chuckled when he asked, “Is this what usually happens in America? Everyone is so friendly.” Why answer? After all, I might risk altering any surreal glow that the usual neighborhood Hanukkah lighting might pose after 30+ hours of traveling. Maybe he was imagining the soft warmth of similar and simultaneous miracle-making in neighborhoods across the land? Yes, maybe we obese Americans do all drive giant pick-up trucks but at least we know our neighbors and assemble in the rainy darkness once a year. An extra bonus was James met Gabe, another of Jim and Carolyn’s sons, and launched a plan to get together later. Knowing Gabe proved especially gracious two nights later after all the buildings were lit because James could welcome in 2017 with peers.

As the week progressed I had a chance to ask Jim a question now and then. I learned that he didn’t start out to build a menorah but after constructing some of the village, realized what he had in his hands. I learned that he’s left-handed and so, in recognition of this family characteristic, untraditionally lights the menorah left-to-right. He explained that the bricks between the buildings and his home were crafted individually and serve to reflect light, thus creating more of it, rather than to provide a fire break as I’d assumed. The small white vase cradled in the wall above the center candle is a “social experiment” always there throughout the year to see if anyone walks away with it. This artful story goes on and on – starting long ago in the desert and evolving, fresh and polished-up each year, even here in drippy Seattle.

While I knew Jim’s name before our week of lighting candles together, I wasn’t sure of his last name (Stout) and had to ask how to spell Carolyn. I knew the basics: he’s a physician as well as a potter and has three sons. This week though, what I remember best about all I’ve learned, is Jim’s deep soul. I watched him share an ancient tradition matter-of-factly with just the right amount of both laughter and reverence, especially for those of us gathered at his home, outdoors and in public. I saw him interact with his family and all of us. I left knowing his deep creative self because he had humbly and peacefully touched all of ours.

Would that we could all create light together and share our stories in this way.

 

This December it’s my 88-year-old mother who’s expecting. While she’s definitely in labor and the birth of her book is imminent, we don’t know exactly when the final editing will be compete. Since the due date was Christmas Day, this creation will be late. She has accepted that. Still the nearness of letting this brand new one go out into the world is very present, finally certain and exquisitely exciting. The time of waiting and hoping and holding and caring is almost complete. It does help to have the proofs.

I know what it’s like to be pregnant in December since that’s when my first child, Clarke, came. I have also published a book so I can relate – the effort, the struggle, the inevitable doubt is all there, along with the rich possibilities creativity entails. For me, it took about nine months to craft my story into a product suitable for public consumption so the analogy to pregnancy was clear. Daring to let my vulnerable wee one go out into the world felt like birth in a way.

Yesterday – bless me! – I was the midwife alongside Mom. We sat side-by-side for several hours on her chocolate-brown loveseat. Each of us lovingly fondled a draft copy of Haiku Memories in one hand and a stern red pen in the other. Fortunately, her co-creator (Kristin Carroccino, a talented developmental editor) had constructed a bound version of my mother’s poetry and photos. It was almost ready to publish. We could afford to marvel and coo over it because few corrections were needed.  Lucky for me, the author herself – my own mother! – was right there in the flesh beside me accenting certain memories as they flowed by. I found myself reflecting on how much I actually like this person.

It is not always this way for me. I have often thought that by now, six months after Mom’s move to the nearby retirement home, she’d be more settled and capable again. After all she ran a university’s nursing department once upon a time, for God’s sake. I also thought, frankly, that I’d be more patient and loving having added a half year to my understanding of things. After all I call myself a Christian, for God’s sake.

Instead in the rush of my job and home life (including those afore-mentioned wild kitties), I often find myself flat-out irritated when Mom calls to say, “The computer’s broken and I can’t get my email” or “I forgot the password to my phone” or – my favorite – “The laptop says I have a virus and need to pay them $200 to save my memory” (as if $200 could actually do that). Sometimes the difficulty is a financial puzzle. Or her problem cuts closer to the bone like when her shoulder harbored excruciating pain and the doctor found nothing wrong.

My pervasive annoyance is not the worst part of living near Mom for me. Instead I am often disappointed in myself. How could I be so heartless and pissed about the disruption to my precious plans? What am I thinking?! She’s my mother, for God’s sake!

Then, on a recent snow day, I was unexpectedly home from work. My calendar opened and any prior obligations fell away. Rob, my intrepid all-weather driver, had an early appointment near Mom’s and dropped me off for the morning. First, we located Mom’s holiday CDs and chose music. Then we decorated her little Christmas tree. We stopped for a cup of tea. When Rob returned, he played the keyboard for us while we chatted. She invited us to stay for lunch. And the best part for me was that in the midst of it all, I accidentally paused and noticed, “Hey, this is fun. I am really enjoying this. I am loving her, and Rob, and me too.”

Later I found myself noticing her giggle during the family gift exchange, her pleasure while hosting my friend and me in her community’s dining room, her delight when she called to happily announce the books had arrived. Yes, of course I could clear my own agenda and come see them. I couldn’t wait to pour over those priceless words and photos that are her very life. I was beyond joyful to help polish them, adding any sheen I could.

But mostly we could sit in the comfortable womb of her sofa together, captivated for the afternoon. We were practically squealing with glee as we studied this beautiful synthesis of her retirement years. The collection is at once a tribute to my late father – a love story really – as well as a tale of rebirth and legacy after the great darkness that his death and the aftermath were for her.

Haiku Memories tells the story of her post-work years in one jewel after another. I am grateful to wait and hope with her for its published arrival. Yes, I know my aggravation, when it comes, is my way of avoiding the deep sadness of eventually letting her go. Before that though, on this Christmas Eve, I am grateful to get such a wonderful up-close-and-personal picture of her LIFE.