"I became somebody through loving you"
June 25, 2011 § 2 Comments
Honie is currently visiting me in Seattle and today happens to be her 14th birthday. If I hadn’t been so overwhelmed with work, I would’ve written a completely new entry, but fortunately, I found this old essay I wrote for a class in 2007 that could suffice. I feel slightly horrible for recycling material (especially for such a special person on her special day), but all the sentiments still hold true. This kid inspires my life and writing in so many ways (like here and here), that I guess this isn’t too much of a copout.
***
At first the cupcakes were a ploy to fatten her up. Honie was always the smallest in her class, always a foot shorter than everyone else. My brother and I had been fat toddlers, so my mom was concerned that Honie could have a deficiency. After all, my mom was forty years old when Honie was born, and we all thought it was a little bit crazy. It didn’t help that Honie preferred vegetables to anything else, and that she put hot sauce over everything – her diet wouldn’t allow her to gain the weight. So we started to bake cupcakes a couple times a month, in hopes that she’d at least plump up from licking the sugary bowl. Even when I moved away for college, we would still carry on our Betty Crocker tradition, despite the fact Honie hadn’t gained a pound.
And as always, I left in a hurry. Poor time management left freshly baked but unfrosted cupcakes on the counter. “Don’t frost all of them, mom hates that stuff!” I yelled towards my brother’s vague direction as I rushed out the door. But of course, he hadn’t listened, or forgot, or both. Ki stood in the kitchen, holding a butter knife in his hand, half-heartedly slopping a glob of rainbow chip frosting on one cupcake after another.
That’s when she said it. My then four-year-old sister screeched out the words that became infamously permanent in our storytelling: “DON’T PAINT ALL THE CUPCAKES! SHE TOLD YOU NOT TO PAINT ALL THE CUPCAKES!”
Ki stared at her shocked, a knife frozen in one hand, a naked cupcake in another. “What?”
“She said not to paint all of them!” It was a clear scold, almost condescending as to say, you are such an idiot! You had one task and you can’t even do that!
Ki’s laugh was a crescendo; tiny mumbled bubbles at first but gradually climbing to obnoxious decibels. “Paint them?” He spat out.
Honie could sense the mockery in his tone and instantly dropped her authoritative demeanor. “…Yeah” she said more softly, less self-assured.
I laughed with Ki when he relayed this story to me, dismissing it as a possible episode of “Kids Say the Darnest Things!” But now I categorize that little moment as being the encapsulation of Honie’s entire being; a kid who is confident enough to be a bit different, but completely oblivious to that fact. Painting cupcakes and Honie have become synonymous, and for me, it has meant more than just a silly story. Honie is the most colorful, flavorful cupcake in the batch and it didn’t matter if she frosted, painted or scotch-taped her way to it.
When Ki dropped the F-bomb in front of her when she was six, she gasped like most kids would do, but unlike them, she never threatened to tattle (we just aren’t that type of family). I did however, tell her that only unintelligent people cussed because they didn’t have anything smart to say. Four years later when Ki tried to bribe her to say just one bad word, she rolled her eyes, and replied, “only dumb people cuss”. I had forgotten what I had said. She had not.
“I’ll give you twenty dollars if you say shitface.”
“No.”
“Fifty if you say fuck-ass.”
“You’re an idiot.” And with that, she ended the conversation to watch CSI Miami.
As an older sibling, there is always an unspoken obligation to lead by example, but I don’t feel burdened. Sometimes I worry about how willing and open Honie is to take everything I say as nothing but the absolute truth, but I am honored to be viewed as such an important person in her life. And I’m not worried that I may influence her too much; if she has proven anything at all, it is that she has too much personality to be pushed around.
Over the years I have lovingly observed the type of kid Honie is: wildly compassionate, highly intuitive, and unwavering in her principles. She is the type of kid who dutifully accompanies her grandmother with her daily prayer each night, understanding how upset she gets that no one else will. Last summer when she came to stay with me for a week in Seattle, she never complained once about being bored when I had to stay in to study for finals. Instead, she read her books (commenting how “that Charles Dickens guy” was a good writer), figured out how to use TIVO, and even washed the dishes when they had begun stacking up (even though I had to rewash them later). And while we all tend to leave my dad alone when he sits quietly in his office looking at his favorite photo of my late grandfather, Honie will walk in, give him a kiss on the cheek, whisper an “I love you oppa”, and promptly walk out. Even though it’d be easy to dismiss her little act as being nothing more than adorable, I believe that Honie’s intuition told her she could help ease his heartache. Her subtlety was the only thing that could have gotten through.
She has always been more than a little precocious: when turning on the radio in the car, she is quick to skip over the latest Fergies or Gwen Stefanis before settling on BeeGees (thanks, Dad), to which she knows all the words. She has always preferred old classics to new fads; never apologizing for liking something her friends did not (she is the only ten-year-old I know that knows who Ann Margaret is). Her first crush was Brad Pitt, when I found her on the floor of Blockbuster, dreamily gazing at the cover of Meet Joe Black. She later described her affection for him the same way I did with JFK Jr. when I was her age. I get the feeling that if she weren’t twelve years younger than me but perhaps two, we would be competing for the same boyfriends.
During one Seattle visit, when I had returned back to my apartment after my very last final, Honie greeted me at the door with such an enthusiastic “did you do good?” that it didn’t matter I felt totally defeated from the test, I was just glad to be done. I wanted to cry out when her twig-like arms wrapped around my neck; I felt so undeserving. I felt I had failed to live up to the person she saw me as, someone she could brag about, someone who could handle a stupid test without feeling so pathetically drained. But she looked at me with her hopeful, unreserved eyes, and I realized none of that mattered. What she offered me was absolutely unconditional; I didn’t have to earn anything at all. I dropped to my knees to be at her height and I enveloped her body with my arms. As I hugged her, I felt all the emotional and physical exhaustion leave my body, as if she had silently shoo’ed them away. For a family as close ours, she is the constant (and most surprising) source of rejuvenation for our souls, boosting our spirits and hopes when we need it most.
And it’s always been that way with her. Because when I look at her, I see everything that is good in this world. When I’m around her, I forget that the MCAT’s are around the corner, or that my water bill is astronomical this month. Without saying a word she’s able to stop me from spinning out of control in stress and worry. She won’t love me any less if I don’t get accepted to Johns Hopkins; she’s more concerned if I can’t ride Space Mountain four times in a row. Most of all, what I see in her is everything that I used to be; stubbornly ideal, and annoyingly optimistic. I think about how much I’ve changed since her age, and I then start to worry that some day soon, Honie’s love affair with simplicity will weaken and dissipate. I worry that she really will turn out like me, someone too concerned about planning for the future, someone too busy and preoccupied, someone completely obsessed with pleasing everyone else, someone who actually has to worry about the calorie content in a rainbow chip cupcake.
There is a part of me that wants to preserve Honie in a jar. One time we were in the candy section at the supermarket, when trying to waste time while my dad finished shopping, I asked her to try to create a sentence using a candy bar in it. As an example, I started off with, “The 3 Musketeers and I went out on a date.” Honie thought for a minute, scoured the rack, and finally said, “My penis is Nutrageous!” (obviously Ki’s teenage vernacular has found a way into Honie’s). Even though I laughed like a maniac at her unexpectedly perverted joke, I worried that her days as an innocent and charming kid were limited.
Sometimes I want to warn her. Sometimes I want to shield her from everything that could possibly tarnish her charm and joy for life. But I hold back, because I know she’s smart enough to figure these things out on her own. And taking a step back, I realize my life isn’t as miserable or less fun just because I got older, it just got a bit more complicated, a little bit more hectic. What kind of person would I be if I wanted to prevent her from facing challenges simply because I didn’t want to see her hurt? She may be small in size, but she had clearly proven that her heart was big and strong enough to handle anything, even Ki’s incessant teasing.
Honie is still the smallest in her class, with her skinny ankles and wrists, and her new purple-rimmed glasses, she is hard to miss in the class photo. We joke about how abnormally large her feet are compared to the rest of her body, but she assures us that one day she’ll be five-foot-ten, and walking the catwalks in a Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show while working on her “dentist-stuff” from Harvard (I don’t have the heart to tell her that this will be seemingly impossible to do simultaneously). The baking tradition still continues to this day, with Honie yelling out, “okay, let’s do this, let’s get me fat!” This I hope never changes, no matter how old we get; that each time I go home, a box of cake mix and a can of rainbow chip frosting will be sitting on the kitchen counter, waiting to be frosted, waiting to be painted.
–November 2007
***
I love you kid, more than you’ll ever freaking know. Happy Birthday.
*Disclaimer: This was posed. She’s not really drinking. What kind of person do you think I am?
"I know I’ve been a liar, and I know I’ve been a fool"
May 9, 2011 § 1 Comment
There are only two things in this world that I will love unconditionally: doughnuts and my family. I’ve talked about each with equal adulation, although if I had an ultimatum, I’d choose the latter (by a hairline of a margin).
This love we share for and with each other mandates all the major choices in our lives. And maybe that makes us too dependent on one another, but I’ve never seen it that way. I have a support system that compares to no other, and one that I would never want to change. But because I’ve had such a kick-ass foundation under me, I’ve always had difficulty understanding those who don’t know what it means to be as close. I’ve secretly pitied them, felt boastful about the fact that I grew up so lucky.
That’s why, when it comes to my paternal grandmother, it’s difficult to admit she’s family. There’s an absence, a lack of connection, and a barrier that keeps me from admitting I’ve loved her in ways I wish were true. There was time in my life where this woman raised me, while my parents were on a different continent, trying to establish a life. There was once a time where cute anecdotes were shared about how she allowed my entire mouth to rot over the summer and the horrendous bowl-cuts she opted to give me. It’s difficult trying to understand what the hell went wrong in our relationship, to designate where exactly we began deteriorating. But somewhere along the line, I grew up, and I began to understand the rifts that inevitably pull families apart… and realized she was the one causing them.
And despite my attempts and half-assed efforts, I could never find it in myself to forgive my grandmother.
I never bothered to understand her life; a woman who escaped a war, bore more than half a dozen children, losing a few on the way. My dad told us stories about his childhood, where my grandparents struggled to provide food for every member, while she often went without so her children could eat. I heard stories about how she would travel with a sack of heavy goods down steep hills, to set up camp for the day, trying to sell just enough to buy groceries. And my dad told these stories to us, guilt ever-present in his voice, coated with the regret that is realized only years (and decades) after.
But the person my dad knew was not the same person I did. I could never identify with such a person, so selfless and protective. I never knew that person, because by the time she became my grandmother, she had transformed into a woman who possessed no traces of such qualities. She became a woman I grew to despise.
I never got to know my paternal grandmother in the ways I probably should have. I’ve only associated her with this being that caused pain and heartbreak everywhere she went, causing alienation among her own children. She was the woman who had emotionally tormented my own mother, without provocation or just cause. She was a bully. And I hated her for it.
And so earlier last week when I received news of her passing, I reacted in a way that confused the hell out of me.
Because I lack the eloquence to word this otherwise, I will simply say: I lost utter and complete composure. I broke down in ways that’s embarrassing and uncontrollable, mascara and snot running freely down my face.
I had lost all connection with this woman. This woman whose mental health declined so dramatically, that by the end, she was barely able to recognize me as a granddaughter.
So why did I feel such a loss? Why did my heart break so unexpectedly? And with such overwhelming impact?
My paternal grandmother and I were virtual strangers, especially in the last decade of her life. I saw her as a woman with too many faults, too many mistakes to overcome, and too much bad blood in our history.
But it is from her blood that gave me my life. It was from this woman that my dad came to existence. It was because of this woman my dad became my father. It was from her mistakes that he learned to avoid them. She was ultimately the motivation behind who he chose to become.
At the end, it was he who forgave her, defended and protected her, and accepted her despite her biggest mistakes. It was he who loved her unconditionally, and who will grieve for her the hardest.
It’s appropriate that I revisit the notion of being defined by the things you are not – themes I touched upon last Mother’s Day. I think it’s important to know who you are… but just as important to know who you are not. Thanks to my grandmother, my dad was able to distinguish everything he wanted to avoid as a parent, and prevent history from repeating.
Bad blood or good, it is ours. And though I’ve carried this bitterness inside me, I cannot hate you entirely, not without hating all the good that also came from you. I’m sorry I couldn’t find it in me to forgive you when it counted. And I’m even sorrier for the days we’ve lost, and the days we’ll never see.
And I hope you knew, deep down, that despite everything, you were loved.
I hope you’ve found peace, grandmother.
"Can you meet me halfway, right at the borderline?"
April 1, 2011 § 2 Comments
When I bought the domain name for this blog a couple months ago, I was pretty excited to give it a major facelift, which included, among other things, consistent material (text implants? entry-o-plasty?). Each month it seems, I put “write more” on my to-do list, but ultimately neglect the bold underlines until the following month, where the inevitable cycle continues.
In my defense, I am strongly opposed to posting entries for the sake of posting entries – this blog is not a tumblr (take no offense tumblrettes, I love you dearly), not an outlet for random and impulsive posting of photos and videos, or mundane updates about my lack of clean underwear and ideas for dinner (that’s what Twitter is for). This has always been, and I hope it continues to be, the blog of a writer, which means you’ll be reading more words than viewing pretty pictures. And my philosophy is, if you’re going to take the time to be reading something, I hope it’s something worth your while, rather than some unfocused, self-indulgent babble. If I’m asking you to read my words, I want them to be coherent, thoughtful, and relevant (more or less). Otherwise, I’m just being a selfish asshole.
The problem is, I am insanely critical of my own writing; I will write 6 pages and delete 4, add 2 more pages, and then decide to scrap the piece altogether. At the rate I am going, I will never finish a manuscript for a book, let alone a brochure. These insatiable standards can be a strong motivator because they make me want to continue to grow and learn, but they can also be a debilitating when it comes to finding something passable to post. Currently, there are 34 open (unfinished) entries in progress, for any combination of reasons including A) it’s crap, B) it’s crap, C) oh hey, it’s crap. The ideas are there… but the execution is piss-poor at best.
Also contributing to the lack of entries is the ever-so-popular excuse of “I have no time!” My job takes up a significant amount of my day, that’s true… but if I really wanted to, I could find the hour or two each night to practice what I preach (even if it means all I’m doing is staring at some words for an hour with my mouth hanging open). The truth is, by the time I walk through the door, take off my pants, and plop down on the couch, all I do is look through a dozen other blogs that aren’t mine, seething with envy at the sophistication of their lifestyles.
I am planning to try some different things (bisexuality? ecstasy? mayonnaise?) in hopes of posting more content without sacrificing quality. I am still in the process (a slow, neglected, often abandoned process) of trying to figure out what and how I want this blog to shape up. But above all else, I need to stop making excuses about the lack of time and/or being too tired. I’ve given up trying to freeze time with my mind and this crap isn’t gonna write itself.
Please be patient. It may or may not be worth your while.
"Leave all your love and loving behind"
January 17, 2011 § 3 Comments
Is the third Monday of the month too late for a 2010 recap entry (see 2009’s review here)? Ah, well, blame it on the new zodiac sign. It was a semi-sweet year – full of some deep-shit soul searching, weight gain, sleepless nights, the laziest of lazy summer days, another cross-country road trip, weight loss, anxiety attacks about my future, and subsequent weight gain. I learned that, despite my best efforts, I do not have my shit together, and that I am a bigger mess than I had feared. I also learned that the world does not end when you throw away your lifelong plans, that you can always find a way out and start over, but only if you want to. Other things I’ve learned?
1. Apologies are meaningless if you continue to make the same mistakes.
2. The eating habits you acquire in college will be harder to break than you think. I was spoiled living at home, with my Omma’s delicious cooking, non-plastic utensils, and lack of foods involving the microwave. The day I returned to Seattle, I was back to eating dry cereal out of the box and buying Cup Noodles in bulk.
3. Irregularity. What a shitty problem to have.
4. One of the best things about returning to Seattle? Return of the late night happy hour. New favorites? Barrio and Nijos.
5. Must keep an active reminder that my current lifestyle (i.e., work) does not allow for the capacity of a puppy. I can hardly manage to take care of myself. I am not responsible enough for a puppy. Even one with a face like this:
6. I admit I can be temperamental psycho. But it doesn’t stop me now, does it?
7. People who love and care for you will continue to do so, despite your worst qualities and your most disastrous mistakes. These are the people who will tolerate your oddest quirks. They are the ones who will remain patient and supportive as you get your shit together. They are the ones who will remind you not to walk out of the house with toothpaste on the side of your face. And they will do so free of asterisks and expectations of reciprocation.
8. Is there no hope for any of us?
9. I am maniacally protective over my friends and loved ones (I would use a metaphor involving a mama grizzly, but some moron already did that). No one is ever good enough. And I will come after you if you screw any of them over. A meat cleaver will be involved.
10. Jewel was right. In the end, only kindness matters.
11. Often times, the most pragmatic choices make the least sense. Sometimes, even the promise of a cushy life isn’t enough to calm the protests of the soul. It took me 20-something years, thousands of dollars in tuition, and literal blood, sweat, and tears (and occasional vomit – thanks Harborview ER!) for me to realize that I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life living a façade. When you start hating yourself more than your job, then it’s time for a change. I’m doing just that.
12. Costco: where practicality and romance come together.
13. Family. We’re a good type of dysfunctional. I think.
14. Sometimes, your friends will know you better than you know yourself. When I announced that I would not pursue a medical career, and instead, attempt to become a writer, the overwhelming response was not “whaaaaaaat?”, but instead, “I knew it!”. It’s an incredible feeling to know your ambitions are recognized and supported.
15. People are rarely hopeless. They are merely difficult.
“May your days be merry and bright”
December 24, 2010 § Leave a comment
Lately, I’ve been so busy that I’m lucky to find time to wash my hair (like that’s really my excuse). Between work and a new boy, it’s difficult to find the energy to make plans, let alone follow through on them. By weekend come, we find ourselves choosing desperately-needed sleep above anything else, forfeiting all the cute date things new couples are supposed to be doing.
I’ve been neglecting a lot of things, like exercise, balanced meals, and proper hair hygiene. It’s becoming increasingly more difficult to finish a book, and once important goals, like more frequent posts on this blog, have been placed on the back burner. I only talk to my family once a day now (and on some days, only through email – aghast!), and there are three, four-day stretches where the dishes in the sink go untouched. I’m powering though eye cream, wearing a lot of hats, and spending more money eating at Whole Foods than my wallet really wants to allow.
And I thought that by giving up the medical school student life meant that my days of being sleep deprived and completely void of a social life were over – but here I am, with zero invites to weekend festivities, and having people constantly tell me I look like crap (via “you look really tired”). It often seems that the only difference between the life I’m living now, and the life I thought I’d have, is the absence of those powder blue scrubs.
But just before I launch into a full on rant about how miserable I am, I am reminded of how I’m not – because despite the long hours logged in at work, I feel more at home, more comfortable in my own skin, than I ever did roaming the hospital hallways. Am I doing something I always dreamed of? No. Am I at my dream job? Absolutely not. But I feel more at peace with who I am, and who I’m becoming, and that’s enough to keep me here.
I flew home just a few days ago, only to spend the entire day at the dining table, telecommuting with work, maniacally trying to meet all the deadlines and due dates before I could really start my “vacation”. I would be ferociously typing away on my keyboard, when I’d be interrupted by an occasional shriek from Honie, never-ending series of delicious smells from the kitchen, and my mom scolding my dad on his latest home improvement endeavor. And I had to stop, take a moment to pause and soak in the life that was being breathed through this house. Despite the heater refusing to function (wtf Florida, it’s 55 here? you can’t even get your weather right), this house is filled to brims with warmth. I had forgotten what it’s like to be here, surrounded by these people who are my world. But with one round of Korean profanities echoing through the rooms, I was back. And it’s like I had never left at all.
I’m not exaggerating when I say that I speak to a member of my family at least once a day. Our conversations are often mundane in nature, and short in duration. More often than not, it’s my mom who’s reminding me to pay my bills and eat more regularly. But a day without some form of communication (we’ve also now resorted to texts), I begin to worry. But despite the fact that we talk so regularly, I am reminded of how lucky I am to be part of this family. And more importantly, how lucky I am to be here, to have my life, to be doing what I do, filled with an endless supply of unconditional love.
I honestly don’t know what it is about the holiday season that makes people pause for reflection. But as I take this time to ruminate about everything that’s happened this year – and my god, a lot has happened – I am flabbergasted at the change in my perspective. When I spoke about change and growth, I never expected this much so soon.
But I am happy. It’s an odd revelation when you admit that about yourself, but one that I don’t want to question, for the fear of scaring it away. I am grateful for so much – my family (which goes without saying), for the boy who is turning me into a lovesick teenager (so dangerously close to doodling our initials in hearts in my notebook), and for this job that’s inadvertently allowing me to realize what I really want to do.
I spend too much time (ironically) in Seattle focused on the lack of time and energy in my every day life, to actually take the moment to appreciate the fact I’m living. It wasn’t until my return home for the holidays that I allowed myself to. It wasn’t until Ki came home today (we stood outside waiting for his car to appear), having each member of this family accounted for (for the first time in months), that I looked around the kitchen (this kitchen that can accommodate more than just two people), and was prompted to come to my enlightened state of mind. I’m hoping to take a little piece of this with me back to Seattle, so that I can prolong this feeling (in the movies, this could be easily remedied with a meaningful snow globe).
I hope you’re all spending this time with the people who make you feel the same way as I do now. And remember, some things don’t have to be seasonal.
Merry Christmas.
soopastryheart 