To Rant or Not to Rant

I came home yesterday, fatigued, drained, spent from my job. I tutor as a profession. I am pretty damn good at what I do, but it leaves me extremely tired and sometimes irate. Never because of the children, but somehow the commuting and being away from Adele makes me more sensitive, much to the dismay of Alex waiting for me at home.

He always cooks me dinner. Last night; an homage to my heritage, he cooked kimchi marinated tilapia, steamed kale, spicy squid, and rice. Some of you may have just gagged, but I love this stuff. I love how Korean food makes you TASTE, feel, sweat, and really experience food. Fortunately, so does Alex. He not only appreciates it, but he cooks it for me, following my dad's detailed instructions over the phone. I am blessed. Somehow, in this cosmos of amorous pairing, God paired me with a Southern Scots-Irish man who knows how to make kimchi infused anything.

Mid-meal, he casually tells me about his day, all the fun activities that the twosome did while I was gone. Most of the events were ordinary, but he said one thing that caught me off guard.

'So, a little girl went up to Adele today', Alex begins.

'At the park?' I mumble, my mouth ungracefully filled with food.

'Yeah,' he replies, apparently not disgusted at the sight of me ravaging my food.

'Did they play?' I prod.

'No. Guess what she said?' he says casually.

'What?' He's peaked my interest.

'She said, 'She has squinty eyes!' and pointed to Adele.'

'WHAT the fuck?' I say as I almost choke on my spicy kale.

'Are you serious?' I probe.

'Yeah, but she's just a kid.'

'I don't fucking care.' Fury emanates from my mouth.

'You should've said something,' I chide.

'What was I gonna say? Her dad was right there,' he defends himself.

'Oh my god, he wasn't mortified. He didn't say anything?!'

'No. I mean, we made eye contact. He was probably embarrassed.'

'I bet. He didn't say anything?' My liberal ass, California-raised self can't believe his nonchalance.

'Well, maybe he talked to her later,' Alex always gives people the benefit of a doubt which is nice but sometimes annoying.

'If you live in Manhattan, you better have that talk before the kid is school age,' I continue to fume.

I understand that it wasn't intended to be mean. I understand that the situation may have been awkward, but as a parent of a mixed-race child, I demand that parents wake up and clue their children in to the various differences that exist among us.

Growing up, I am haunted by a couple memories. Most of my childhood is filled with the usual warm, fuzzy feeling that one conjures when nostalgia overcomes them. All my haunted memories come from racism, usually from children. As we get older, we learn to either celebrate our differences or mask our intolerance. From my experience, children often imitate what they learn at home.

Racism at asians is usually directed at the eyes. There are plenty of psychologists and scientists who could point to why this is the case, but no matter, it's always directed there. Wake up world! Asian eyes are different, yes, but they are beautiful. Please put those fingers away, the fingers that stretch the corners of rounded eyes to mock the beautiful almond shape of much of the world.

If Adele were a little older, she would have known what was going on. She would have understood the connotations of the scene. For that, I am grateful. She has yet to delve into human habits of categorization and simple ignorance. For her sake, and for any other child who does not look like she walked out of the pages of Aryan Vogue, please educate your children, tell them what it means to be different, watch them grow into aware, kind, compassionate individuals who think before they say.

Say You're One of Them

The rays of sun fall upon Adelle as she swings in her baby chair at the park. I took this picture a couple months back, midsummer moment captured by my phone, a glimpse into daylight and beginnings.

I've been reading a book by Uwen Akpan, 'Say You're One of Them', a hit with the world since it was featured on Oprah's book club. I am always skeptical of reading mass bestsellers because I tend to be attracted to books that are less known, more complex in narrative and characterization. Essentially, I am a literary snob. Once in a while, I am humbled by something the public has chosen well.

I read on the train, in the midst of hustle and bustle, careening cars on rusty tracks, filled with people, often shoulder-to-shoulder with New York's 'finest', and trying to propel myself into a world that will take me away from the chaos of the city.

I find myself in a different chaos in this book. Every story is about tragedy, but there are seeds of triumph in most of them, a hope that lingers and allows the reader to want the best for that character, his or her world and the Africa that hosts them all. My favorite so far is Fattening for Gabon, a chilling tale of child slavery. What shakes me most is the betrayal that exists in this narrative, an uncle selling his niece and nephew, two children who were already victim to another tragedy; their parents' AIDS, and the continual redemption, remorse, and complexity that remains even after I read its last sentence.

Every night, I find myself climbing the subway steps to the street, making my way from one maze to another, and my hearts aches for these stories, these children who are now heard through the pages that leap into my heart.

FALL

I smell fall around the corner. This time of year reminds me of many things; crackling orange leaves, school year mania with my students, falling in love, and now....having my baby Adele, walking into my apartment with her bundled in my arms, wrapped tightly in a swaddle contraction, and hearing the words 'It smells like baby' from a five-year-old boy in the hallway.

She is turning one next week and I can't believe that my baby is becoming a toddler. She can now point and tell me what she wants. She can dance to her favorite song, 'Old McDonald'. She can chuck food halfway across the room with her dainty wrist. She barks (no joke) and growls (yes, it perturbs me a bit, but what can I expect when I let her watch Baby Einstein Animals?) like it's her job.

Looking at her tufts of light brown hair, her (now) pond colored eyes, and her lithe (less chubby) baby figure, my heart aches for those moments when she was content staying in my arms for hours, for the nights when I slept with her nestled in the crook of my arm, and the smell of violet lotion on her newborn skin.

Then, Alex breaks me out of my reverie and reminds me of the all nighters, the scream fests, the yeast infections, staph infections, and all around postpartum pain....I snap out of it. I am glad she can entertain herself. I am relieved that my nipple is no longer her sole comfort. I am freaking ecstatic that she can sleep for twelve hours straight. Hallelujah! This year of sleeplessness and groggy existence has finally come to an end.

New Neighborhood; Little Israel, Spanish-speaking gangstas & Crazies, Part II

I need to clarify my title for the last couple entries. The neighborhood that I currently live in borders the projects and the more affluent community, which consists of many yuppies and Jewish families. There are, of course, many mixed asian-white couples in our hood, as there are in most Manhattan neighborhoods. The other day, I told Alex (as I watched the fifth asian-white couple in a three block radius), 'I wish we weren't such a trend,' to which Alex replied, 'I think the trend's here to stay.'

Growing up in the Bay Area, I wasn't immune to mixed families. In my high school alone, there were more and more half-this-and-half-that people than I could count. I loved it! It gave me hope that race would no longer be an issue in, say, a couple generations from now when color lines blur. However, any time I step outside my safe bubble of ethnodiversity, I was slapped in the face with the realization that most people stick to their own.

You would think that in a city with almost every ethnic group represented in its borders, that people would mix and mingle, creating more and more mixed children, more and more interesting communities with two or three cultures in one household, but I've found that many people, even in a place as big and bold as Manhattan, are more comfortable sticking to their own.

At the playground across the street, I have an identity crisis almost everyday. I know I go there for Adele, but I still feel out of place. Do I sit with the (often hispanic or black) nannies and their red-haired chargees or the yuppies (often much more established and older)? While I contemplate this, I begin to wonder if there are others who feel as estranged as I feel.

And there are.... A woman smiles at me. I can't figure out if she's the nanny or the mother. She looks very young and her child has blond hair while she has darker coloring. I'm sure this is the same thought pattern that is racing through her head about me. I sit down next to her, Adele climbing all over the bench and reaching for the baby's toy. Of course, this breaks the ice and we start talking. Turns out, Janice is a young mother like me who also feels out of place. 'Everyone thinks I'm the nanny.' I don't say that I wondered that too. Instead, I nod. She continues, 'Everyone here is either a haitian nanny or an older white lady. I just don't fit in.' I feel like clapping and shouting 'Hallelujah', but instead I demurely state, 'I get what you're saying.'

A few days after I meet Janice, I return to the park with Alex and Adele, happy to enjoy the park on a beautiful Saturday afternoon. Mid-swing, I look over at Alex and ask, 'Something's different about the park today....What is it?' Alex laughs and simply answers, 'All the white people are here.' Sure enough, I look around and I see WASP families, all perfectly manicured with paisley hats and polos, walking Brooks Brothers advertisements and I don't recognize any of the faces. I make eye contact with Alex and mouth, 'Why the sudden flood?' He mouths back, 'Nannies are off on Saturday. Parents take their kids to the park to feel less guilty about leaving them home during the week.' I gotta hand it to Alex. He says what he thinks, with no hesitation and not so much as a facial twitch.

This brings me back to my first day in Manhattan. I was embezzled out of an apartment (which I will blog about later, I promise) and found myself crying in Central Park. The only distinct memory I have from that day that didn't have to do with testifying against a nasty, heroin addicted crook is noticing all the nannies in the playgrounds. Nannies outnumbered parents 10;1 and it made me sad. I made a promise to myself, that even if I were to make it big, get rich, and have more disposable income than I know what to do with, I will not fall into the super cliche of having a black/hispanic nanny taking care of my mixed child. If anything, I want a young, white manny, preferably one who likes Chaucer, to flip the stereotype slightly on its head as he strolls my little Adele around.

New Neighborhood; Little Israel, Spanish-speaking gangstas & Crazies, Part I

First, I've got to apologize for the delay. Moving, they say, is stressful enough to rank right below the death of a child/parent. That tells you something. Considering I've lost a parent at a young age, I can safely say that moving doesn't come close to that type of stress, but I get the point. It is damn aggravating to search through your stuff, get rid of half of it, move, and decide that you should've gotten rid of more useless things.

Being a packrat, it's hard for me to let go. It's always some sentimental reason or some use I'll have for it in the future. I can never just chuck it the way Alex does. He tosses about half my shit into plastic bags, most of which he doesn't ask me about since I'll invent some reason for holding on to it. If I don't see it, I can cope with the purging of accumulated baggage.

Baggage is exactly what it is.... I read an article that talked about how ridiculous it is that we pay for storage units. According to the author, 'How much shit do we have that we have to pay extra to store it?' I won't look down on people who rent them because, quite frankly, we considered getting one to store all of Adele's many baby trinkets. However, being the nerd that I am, I did the math. $50 x 12 months equals $600/yr x 3yrs = $1800....Hmmm, is all her baby stuff worth almost two grand. For that price, we might as well get all new, more bulky, more advanced baby crap.

Moving with a ten-month-old child is like juggling knives; although possible, it's highly likely that someone will get hurt. I don't think I can count the many times I stopped Adele from putting a piece of sticky packing tape into her mouth. We ended up getting a sitter to distract the baby from the disaster we called our apartment.

Once moved in, Adele cried for two days, bewildered about her new surroundings of boxes and bins. I think there was a crawl space for her between the pillars of luggage and laundry. To her, it must have seemed like midtown Manhattan.

Slowly, we unpacked boxes and made our space liveable, but we still had a couple strange occurrences.

For instance, no one told us that our next door neighborhood (being a coop, he's not more than three feet away) was insane. I mean he is certifiably nuts. Our super told us that if he doesn't take his meds, he can be rude and downright mean. Our first day, he squatted on the lobby steps and watched us move. I thought he was the super at first, but Alex told me, 'No, he's our crazy neighbor.' I thought he was kidding at the time.

That day, although a little strange, he was nice--holding the doors open for me, saying 'Howdy neighbor' and all. The next morning, I get in the elevator with him and he gives me the meanest look. He mutters 'bitch' and considering we were alone, I am pretty sure he was talking to me.

Michael Jackson R.I.P

Michael Jackson is synonomous with eighties pop, red leather jackets, moonwalks, jerry curls, and my mother. She loved the way he moved his feet, flicked his hair, rotated his pelvis (sounds more naughty than it is) and the howl that he makes when he struts his stuff.

His death saddens the world as everyone gasps at the way his life abruptly came to a halt. I can't help but think of his family, especially his four children, during this time. As in the case of Natasha Richardson, the shocking nature of his death is too reminiscent of the way my mother died.

It's especially difficult when I remember how much my mother loved MJ. She imitated him poorly, but had crazy dance moves all the same. When I think of my mother, I think of certain images, icons, memories than transcend the present. MJ's death is another reminder that the remnants of my childhood with my mother is coming to a close.

I remember one particular winter day near Christmas when I was a young child. It was one of my earliest memories. We were spending the night at my cousin Danny's house in San Francisco. We watched the Charlie Brown special and then the music video, Thriller, premiered on television. I couldn't sleep that night from the images of monsters, crazy dancing, and the transformation MJ made from a shy teenage boy to a dancing maniac. I slept without realizing how much of an impact he would make on the world. The cute kid from Jackson 5 was all grown up and about to transform the entertainment industry. I woke up to a world where MJ was at his finest.

In recent years, he has been the butt of many jokes. His lightening skin tones, narrowing nose, and bizarre parenting choices have provided a different form of entertainment for the world. Everyone has seemed to forget his idiosyncrasies in order to remember what is really important about his life; his contributions to the music and dance worlds.

Everyone Falls Sometimes

Adele: 'Waaaaaahhhh!'

Me: Oh FUCK!!!

No one wants to wake up to a screaming baby, especially when she's your own. In a daze, I search the premises to find Adele. No where in sight, I scour the room and find her on all fours, screaming from the apparent drop. She looks up at me with helpless eyes, tears streaming down her face, and I want to gouge my infected eyes out as self-inflicted punishment. I feel like the most horrible mother alive.

CATCH-UP; I was nursing her in the middle of the night. Although I always take her back to her crib after her night binge eating, I fell asleep from four consecutive days of sleep deprivation as I try to prep spoiled rich brats on their final exams while trying to mother my eight-month-old baby.

I pick her up and ja-jang (a term coined by my sister which means rocking, shushing, swaying, doing-whatever-is-necessary). She calms down and gets sleepy. I feel her sweaty body and want to drown myself in her tears. Is this what it means to be a parent; to feel your heart in your quivering throat every time your child gets hurt? I'm seriously reconsidering having another child if I can't master my own fears/anxieties/guilt with raising this first one.

I don't notice the blood right away. It's only when I attempt to nurse her that I spot blood trickling down her nose. Oh god, I feel sick. My child is bleeding and I didn't even notice. In my hysteria, I couldn't see that her nose was badly scraped. Though it's just a scrape, my vivid imagination and poor eyesight lead me to believe that she's hemorrhaging. I'm too scared to turn the light on so I wait until she finishes and gently examine her under the glow of the closet light. Her eyes, eyelids, eyelashes are drenched but look unscathed. Check. Her forehead seems okay too. Check. It's only her nose.

After putting her down, I tiptoe out of the room and start calling everyone I know. Freaking out, I call Alex about ten times, each voicemail more high-strung than the one before. I call the restuarant and his manager tells me he has left.

'Fifteen minutes ago. He's probably on the train now.'

'Oh... Adele had an accident and she split her nose. I need to talk to him.'

'Call 911,' he says in a deadpan voice. Fucking frenchie. I want to kick his ass and put some feeling into that annoying accent.

I hang up and ring Ms. Barbara. Mother-in-law tells me it's okay, to keep tabs on Adele's lucidity. I am surprised she didn't tell me to rub garlic on her nose or bathe her in acidophilus.

My dad is next on my list.

'Dad. Adele fell off the bed.'

'She okay?'

'I think so, but I can't tell. It's pretty dark in there.'

'Is she still crying?'

'No.'

'Then she's fine.'

'How do you know?'

'Because if it was bad, she would be crying a lot.'

'What if she's internally bleeding.'

'What?'

'You know, bleeding inside.'

'No, not from a drop like that. You fell from your bed many times.'

'What?'

'Yeah, it's fine.'

Okay, so my dad may be the wrong person to talk to since he seems to think falls from my annoying ass medieval style bed are no big deal. The next morning, I realize, that he was worried sick and couldn't sleep the night. He called me at 5:30 am his time.

'Dad you sound tired? Why are you calling me so early?'

'Couldn't sleep.'

'Worried about Adele?'

'Yeah. Is she okay?'

'She seems fine.'

'Babies fall sometimes.'

'I know. I just saw blood and freaked out.'

'It's okay. Don't worry too much.'

'Thanks Dad.'

Adele and I have survived many things; irritating hospital staff, yeast infections, eye infections, impetigo, and now, bed falls. I have to remind myself that babies will get hurt sometimes and that once in a while, I may be the cause of that injury, whether or not it's because I didn't pad the entire bed area in pillows or, when the time comes, because I say a harsh word to her sensitive thirteen-year-old self.

Being a parent is superhard sometimes. As she tries to cruise around, balancing herself on any object suspended on the floor, I feel my hand and heart extended out to catch her potential falls. Nine times out of ten, I catch her. I have to remind myself that part of growing up, is falling down sometimes.