I’m feeling restless today. It’s Mother’s Day and I’ve been at my Mom’s place for the last three days looking after her as she recuperates from her surgery. I’m also feeling somewhat sluggish and tired with all of the travel and crisis we had with Mom the last few days.
But I’m also anxious and bored. No errands to run. No movies to watch. Only endless chatter from the Japanese channel playing on satellite T.V.
There’s also this ongoing thought in my mind that I can’t stop. It’s about Grey. For some reason I haven’t been able to get Grey out of my mind recently. I switch the channel to the Food Network and there’s some show about a weekend in New York which makes me think of Grey even more.
I decide to go for a walk hoping it’ll take my mind off things.
I wander onto a lakeside trail at the college down the street from my Mom’s. It’s a bright day and the campus is deserted. I walk briskly for about 20 minutes and feel better as my mind empties and wanders about. New York is still on my mind. I reminisce about nothing in particular but my mind settles on Velma and the time we went for drinks. It was summer and the Met had a champagne happy hour event on their rooftop. It was a beautiful, warm early evening, and there was quite a large turnout. Velma looked particularly beautiful that evening in her simple white summer dress. She always had the most beautiful shoulders.
I also thought about the gathering I had just before I left. We had also met at some rooftop place somewhere midtown just off of Park in the lower 30’s. It was the first gathering of the Group of 5. I got there pretty early and had a few rum tonics before the rest showed up. It was warm and we were all having a great time. I remember the sun setting over the rooftops and thinking how I’d be leaving all of this behind in a matter of a few weeks. I vaguely recall that we had dinner later on but I can’t remember where. Maybe that tiny Italian joint on 3rd or Lex and 40th just down the street from that Italian steakhouse. Oh yeah that steakhouse—I think it was the Tuscan Steakhouse. I can’t remember the name for sure but I do remember the dinners Mark and I had there. A round of cocktails, a magnum of a nice Super Tuscan and a veal chop.
Regarding the magnum, Mark’s theory was since \we’d polish a bottle in no time; why not order a magnum to begin with? There would be no need to fuss or deliberate about ordering the second bottle and it showed upfront commitment. Funny, I never questioned his logic. I think something about him being a philosophy major made whatever he said always convincing. And then there was that time where we invited Rich after the McGraw-Hill pitch. It was for the whole account...not just McGraw-Hill but for Standard and Poor’s plus their educational divisions. I remember how great it felt, as we nailed the pitch. And by the time Rich joined us, he had gotten the preliminary kudos’ from his insider at McGraw-Hill.
Of course we did the magnum thing again.
I veered off the trail and made my way to the campus track field. As I circled around the field I landed upon the subject of celebrities. In a city [Los Angeles] where celebrity sightings are commonplace, I hold the distinction of spotting nobody--celebrity challenged, I believe is the official term. Even around my neighborhood where apparently there are hordes of people who work in “the industry” [a convoluted term which drips of self-importance if there ever was one]. And while she’s not part of “the industry” someone recently told me that she spotted Betsey Johnson at one of the neighborhood joints. Now that’s pretty odd—Betsy Johnson in Toluca Lake? Besides, would you really recognize her? I can’t even recall what she looks like—doesn’t she look like Bette Midler’s younger, thinner crazy half sister? I think I can actually recognize her dresses more readily.
Ok, back to New York.
However celebrity-challenged I am, there have been two occasions where I have recognized someone. Ok, not quite your typical celebrities: Charlie Rose and Malcolm Gladwell. The two sightings were on different occasions, but in similar settings—small neighborhood eateries and both individuals alone, busily writing away.
I was in an English pub in Chelsea that had been getting some recent press when I noted Charlie Rose sitting alone in booth in the back. I was having one of their renowned burgers and a pint. The bartender told me that the booth was Charlie’s “spot” and I shouldn’t bother him. I was a little annoyed that the bartender would actually think I would bug the man. But I let it pass. And of course, I still think highly of Charlie as I’ve always been enamored with journalism. Of course the highlight of chance meetings was the time when an older gentleman asked I wanted his table just off the bar at Kuleto’s in San Francisco. [Bars are getting to become a recurrent theme here—have you noticed?]. I thanked him as I was meeting another party and it was such a nice spot. As he put on his jacket he asked me what I did for a living. I replied and he mentioned that it was a good profession. We said our goodbyes and later the waitress asked if I knew that the gentleman I was talking to was Walter Cronkite.
The spotting of Malcolm Gladwell was at a small, cute place just off Mott Street. I stopped for a glass of wine and saw an intense looking, wild haired man sitting alone at a table piled with books and paper. I confirmed my suspicion with the bartender and mentioned to him that I might go to his table. The bartender, amused, asked whatever might I have in mind to talk with Sir Malcolm. I responded to the bartender that I happened to have a few theories of my own which I’d like to pass by him. Perhaps another glass of wine might be a better alternative suggested the bartender. Point well taken and I signaled for another round.
I later reflected on the bartender’s comment and was slightly offended. What made him think that I wouldn’t have much to converse with Malcolm? After all, my IQ has been tested at 140 [well, ok I cheated just a little bit as I took an extra 10 minutes on the test], which may not be quite MENSA material, but certainly qualifies for fringe status, right?
I’m feeling better as I make my way around the lake. Half running up the incline I spotted a golf ball. A Top-Flight. I grabbed it and threw it against the asphalt walkway. I’ve forgotten how high these golf balls bounce. Pretty soon I’m running across the walkway playing catch by myself. I slam the ball and as it shoots upward, I run towards the ball as it reaches the pinnacle against the bright sky and falls downward.
I can easily make a game out of this.
Memories of solitary ball games flashed forward. I remember playing endlessly with a rubber baseball throwing it against the kitchen cabinets. In my mind I was the pitcher and the goal was to catch the ball as it bounced off the cabinet and re-throw as if I the ball was being fielded to first. If I caught the ball, the runner was out. If I fumbled, or if the ball went astray and knocked into the kitchen table or the wall, the runner was safe. It was a combination of handball and baseball—my game of solitary.
I run across the parking lot chasing the white golf ball. Thoughts of Grey have settled somewhere in the back of my mind and even my New York musings are long gone. The only thing that occupies me is the warmth of the mid afternoon sun, the bright cloudless sky and the empty campus parking lot. And of course that small white, brilliant spot high up in the sky.
Sunday, May 13, 2007
Thursday, May 03, 2007
In The Arms of Your Significant Being: The Amerasian
Rider always knew how to get to me. All she had to do was to call me Amerasian and she knew that it would ruffle my feathers. Of course she would never do it with malice.
According to Wikipedia, Amerasians are children born to Asian women fathered by American servicemen throughout Asia. What is implied, but not explicitly mentioned is the fact that these children and their mothers were left behind to fend for themselves. Ostracized by their respective society, these half-breeds never allowed to assimilate into their native culture and lived as outsiders. The term for Amerasians in Japanese is especially haunting: senso otoshigo. Quite literally, children dropped as a result of war.
It bothered me terribly growing up in Japan and being referred to by this phrase. Of course it shouldn't have, as it didn't apply to me. Well almost. While my father didn't desert us and we grew and lived as a family, the part about being an outsider was always present. I made light of it, as it's the way I usually deal with sensitive and hurtful subjects, but it did bother me as I was never not fully accepted within the Japanese community. And upon my move to American, I also sensed that I would never quite fit here. Whether in college or in corporate America, I was always an in-between. Oddly, because of this "fit" issue, I thought about moving to Hawaii while in college. I took a trip during spring break and It just did not appeal to me. Hawaii reminded me of the communities surrounding the military bases in Japan and the pigeon English never quite rested well with me and somehow represented the worst of multi-culturalism.
With this in mind of my background, a few incidences occurred recently which made me start to rethink and ultimately feel ashamed of my self-absorption.
It all started rather innocently with a telephone conversation with Rider. As usual we kidded with each other--I've gotten less sensitive about the Amerasian thing with her. I was still smiling to myself about how silly we can be as I settled into Murakami Haruki's book of short stories. I found myself on familiar grounds with his writing style as I read the story "Tony Takitani." It's a touching story of love and longing for a lost love. I've seen the movie adaptation, which was brilliant, and devoured the story. I had also forgotten that it was a story of a child whom was mistaken as an Amerasian because of his given name, "Tony". Not quite the common Japanese name, but a name given to him by his godfather, a GI who played the clarinet with Tony's father, a noted Jazz musician. H-m-m-m, I thought, I had forgotten about the Amerasian thing. Funny given my recent banter with Rider about the Amerasian thing.
I was still thinking about the story the following day, as I greeted Morita whom I had arranged to have drinks. Morita was an interpreter who specialized Korean-English legal translation. Being of Korean mother and Caucasian father, Morita was, as with myself, sensitive to the plights of half-breeds. We eased into our conversations as we had quite a bit to catch up. I asked Morita whether there had been any interesting gigs recently and apparently there was this jaunt as press conference interpreter for Yahoo dealing with the Korean press recently. However with another round of drinks, Morita welled up a bit as the story of the more recent assignment unfolded.
Apparently Morita took on this immigration case involving a Korean family whom had overextended their stay on a tourist Visa. Long story short there were three of them--the mother, an older sister and a younger brother. Apparently the older sister had somehow arrived earlier and after much hardship, I assume, graduated recently with a Master's from a noteworthy Ivy League school. The mother had also applied and successfully petitioned for legal residency. But the legal case was for her son. And it was a deportation case hearing.
Apparently the son had been caught with possession of marijuana. A small amount, which would have meant a misdemeanor for you or I. Unfortunately for him, it meant the immediate halt of his permanent residency application and he faced immediate deportation. Of course what it really meant was being returned to a country where society shunned him. As an adult of mixed breed and of no formal higher educational schooling, it would surely mean trotting the path of an outcast.
Morita had tears welled as the story was told to me. I had a lump also. While we didn't really comment, we knew all too well the consequences. Being an outcast was hurtful enough. And now in his adult life to be alone with no family, walking the streets with the eyes of society beating down on him. It's the same as if being rejected by your own mother.
Fast forward to today. The post delivered my Netflix movie: The Beautiful Country--a brilliant film written by Sabina Murray [she's of Filipino descent, won the Penn/Faulkner award and has worked with Terence Malick]. Directed by Hans Petter Moland, a Norwegian director whom I'm not familiar with but apparently much acclaimed, it's such a beautiful, moving and heart-grabbing masterpiece. The topic? What else but an Amerasian who after much tragedy leaves Vietnam in search of his father. Of course the one hour and forty-seven minutes captures his tragic life and journey, but in the end, the bittersweet reunion with his father is beyond what any words may describe. It brought tears to my eyes as the ending of the film faded and the kind of film which brings you to your knees and makes you think not twice, but three times. And truthfully, there shouldn't be too many things in life which you needn't think three times. Unfortunately, there are.
I've always been incensed when mistaken as those from subordinate Asian cultures--meaning I always held in high regard the Northern Asian cultures as being more refined. But as I've given more thought over the past few years and certainly the last few weeks of the plight of children whom have experienced the wrath of men and the lifelong resultant plight, I feel ashamed of my smugness. The pain I felt as I child was but just an insect bite given the enormity of pain felt by my fellow Amerasians.
--
Sidenote: the title links to aahope.org. Hope lives in limited sprinkles.
According to Wikipedia, Amerasians are children born to Asian women fathered by American servicemen throughout Asia. What is implied, but not explicitly mentioned is the fact that these children and their mothers were left behind to fend for themselves. Ostracized by their respective society, these half-breeds never allowed to assimilate into their native culture and lived as outsiders. The term for Amerasians in Japanese is especially haunting: senso otoshigo. Quite literally, children dropped as a result of war.
It bothered me terribly growing up in Japan and being referred to by this phrase. Of course it shouldn't have, as it didn't apply to me. Well almost. While my father didn't desert us and we grew and lived as a family, the part about being an outsider was always present. I made light of it, as it's the way I usually deal with sensitive and hurtful subjects, but it did bother me as I was never not fully accepted within the Japanese community. And upon my move to American, I also sensed that I would never quite fit here. Whether in college or in corporate America, I was always an in-between. Oddly, because of this "fit" issue, I thought about moving to Hawaii while in college. I took a trip during spring break and It just did not appeal to me. Hawaii reminded me of the communities surrounding the military bases in Japan and the pigeon English never quite rested well with me and somehow represented the worst of multi-culturalism.
With this in mind of my background, a few incidences occurred recently which made me start to rethink and ultimately feel ashamed of my self-absorption.
It all started rather innocently with a telephone conversation with Rider. As usual we kidded with each other--I've gotten less sensitive about the Amerasian thing with her. I was still smiling to myself about how silly we can be as I settled into Murakami Haruki's book of short stories. I found myself on familiar grounds with his writing style as I read the story "Tony Takitani." It's a touching story of love and longing for a lost love. I've seen the movie adaptation, which was brilliant, and devoured the story. I had also forgotten that it was a story of a child whom was mistaken as an Amerasian because of his given name, "Tony". Not quite the common Japanese name, but a name given to him by his godfather, a GI who played the clarinet with Tony's father, a noted Jazz musician. H-m-m-m, I thought, I had forgotten about the Amerasian thing. Funny given my recent banter with Rider about the Amerasian thing.
I was still thinking about the story the following day, as I greeted Morita whom I had arranged to have drinks. Morita was an interpreter who specialized Korean-English legal translation. Being of Korean mother and Caucasian father, Morita was, as with myself, sensitive to the plights of half-breeds. We eased into our conversations as we had quite a bit to catch up. I asked Morita whether there had been any interesting gigs recently and apparently there was this jaunt as press conference interpreter for Yahoo dealing with the Korean press recently. However with another round of drinks, Morita welled up a bit as the story of the more recent assignment unfolded.
Apparently Morita took on this immigration case involving a Korean family whom had overextended their stay on a tourist Visa. Long story short there were three of them--the mother, an older sister and a younger brother. Apparently the older sister had somehow arrived earlier and after much hardship, I assume, graduated recently with a Master's from a noteworthy Ivy League school. The mother had also applied and successfully petitioned for legal residency. But the legal case was for her son. And it was a deportation case hearing.
Apparently the son had been caught with possession of marijuana. A small amount, which would have meant a misdemeanor for you or I. Unfortunately for him, it meant the immediate halt of his permanent residency application and he faced immediate deportation. Of course what it really meant was being returned to a country where society shunned him. As an adult of mixed breed and of no formal higher educational schooling, it would surely mean trotting the path of an outcast.
Morita had tears welled as the story was told to me. I had a lump also. While we didn't really comment, we knew all too well the consequences. Being an outcast was hurtful enough. And now in his adult life to be alone with no family, walking the streets with the eyes of society beating down on him. It's the same as if being rejected by your own mother.
Fast forward to today. The post delivered my Netflix movie: The Beautiful Country--a brilliant film written by Sabina Murray [she's of Filipino descent, won the Penn/Faulkner award and has worked with Terence Malick]. Directed by Hans Petter Moland, a Norwegian director whom I'm not familiar with but apparently much acclaimed, it's such a beautiful, moving and heart-grabbing masterpiece. The topic? What else but an Amerasian who after much tragedy leaves Vietnam in search of his father. Of course the one hour and forty-seven minutes captures his tragic life and journey, but in the end, the bittersweet reunion with his father is beyond what any words may describe. It brought tears to my eyes as the ending of the film faded and the kind of film which brings you to your knees and makes you think not twice, but three times. And truthfully, there shouldn't be too many things in life which you needn't think three times. Unfortunately, there are.
I've always been incensed when mistaken as those from subordinate Asian cultures--meaning I always held in high regard the Northern Asian cultures as being more refined. But as I've given more thought over the past few years and certainly the last few weeks of the plight of children whom have experienced the wrath of men and the lifelong resultant plight, I feel ashamed of my smugness. The pain I felt as I child was but just an insect bite given the enormity of pain felt by my fellow Amerasians.
--
Sidenote: the title links to aahope.org. Hope lives in limited sprinkles.
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