On reconnecting with a pleasure I had let fall to the wayside

When my amazing colleague and friend, Kim, invited me and several of our colleagues to join her on the Slice of Life challenge, I told her YES, hoping that, by the time March rolled around, I'd miraculously be energized and excited to blog every single day for the next 31 days. When the miracle I was hoping for did not happen, I told myself I'd try it for three days, and if I hated it, I could stop.

And so I tried.

On day one, I told myself it didn't matter what I write, just write. Don't worry about who is going to see this first draft writing.

On day two, I discovered I had no desire to write about my work. After a full day of teaching, and with grading and planning always looming nearby as I stole some time to write, I needed this space to be a retreat, a place where I could fill my well. And I confess: I prefer reading and commenting on slices about anything over work. 

By day three, I knew I could stop and not feel that I had let myself down--after all, I had reached my initial target of 3 days. But I didn't want to.

In the last month, I've reconnected to a pleasure I let fall to the wayside when I became weighed down by the daily grind of teaching. The irony of this is not lost on me. An English teacher who teaches writing but doesn't write on a regular basis? Bad, bad, bad. And yet, that is a vast majority of teachers. Imagine if school leaders actively created working conditions that support the professional growth of teachers? For all the talk of "rigor" and "literacy across the curriculum" at my school, I have yet to see a visionary move to support the lives of teachers as readers, writers, and scholars. And it is so fixable.

Putting your money where your mouth is matters. I am so proud of all of us for taking the plunge into this challenge. I have had the pleasure of writing alongside masters whose words and spirit inspired and sustained me throughout the month. I have deepened friendships with colleagues I already admired, respected, and adored but now feel even closer to. And I am so grateful to Kim for rallying us to write. 

Family history and how I learned English, Part 2

Those of you who read my entry yesterday on my mother's childhood dream to build a life in America noted her courage, passion, focus, and determination in your generous comments. (Oh, your generous, generous comments!) 

My mother was not the first in her family to overcome hardship. Her parents escaped Communist China in a harrowing journey, first by train from Shanghai to Guangzhou, then below decks in a smuggler's flimsy boat over the South China Sea, to make a life for themselves in Hong Kong, a British colony until 1997. They were part of the exodus of Shanghai tailors hailing from Ningbo who relocated to Hong Kong, which quickly became a city known for its bespoke industry. (Note: China ceded Hong Kong to the British in 1841, during the first Opium War. I blogged about my family history in the Opium war here.)

My mother was three years old when her family escaped Communist China to start anew in British controlled Hong Kong. While her parents faced a language barrier and discrimination (Shanghainese and Cantonese, the dialects spoken respectively in Shanghai and Hong Kong, have so little in common they might as well be called different languages), my mother and her siblings played the roles that many children of immigrants know well: translator, negotiator between old and new ways, beneficiaries of parental sacrifice, which always comes with an inherited responsibility, whether stated explicitly or not.  Adversity is an amazing motivator and teacher of life lessons. 

In yesterday's entry I left off with my mother's ingenuity and determination in ensuring that her children learn English. What began as a childhood dream gathered momentum as she grew into a woman with a plan. Like her parents before her, my mother is deeply skeptical of oppressive governments; she had no intention of staying in Hong Kong when it was ceded back to China in 1997 as delineated by the Treaty of Nanking. 

So, she enrolled us in the Hong Kong International School, a school with an American-style curriculum, founded by Lutheran missionaries. By the time I entered Kindergarten, I understood English, thanks to the solid foundation my mother paved for me in English language preschool, Sunday school, the YMCA, English language bookstore visits, and a home tutor. But forming the strange sounds of the language still felt like an affront to my senses. On top of that, I was painfully shy around strangers. I refused to speak. 

My teachers put me into the Learning Center, the international school version of an IEP, where on a regular basis, I received small group instruction in social skills, practiced reading aloud, played games, put on puppet shows and skits. Once, our teacher even brought us up to the faculty apartments adjoining the school to show us a litter of newborn pups her Cocker Spaniel had just given birth to. 

Noting my reluctance to speak, the kind, patient teacher encouraged me to write stories. Afterward I would read them to her in a very quiet voice, and she would praise me, and encourage me to put on a silly costume and act out the words I had written. I loved the Babar costume best and dreamed up plot after plot involving elephants and their various family outings, conflicts with siblings, playground dramas. Even in elementary school, long before I ever heard of Aristotle, I understood that art imitates life.

Though a budding author, I had no confidence in my language ability until the year my family immigrated to America. I was ten years old, the same age my mother was when her father died. In my family's first year in America, I skipped a grade. Something in me clicked, and all the words I had been holding inside, entrusted only to the pages of my diary, came tumbling out. I never looked back.

The year I found my voice corresponded with my initiation into the role of child of new immigrants: translator, negotiator between old and new ways, beneficiary of parental sacrifice, with which came great responsibility. 

In three generations, the arc of my family history spans my orphan grandmother who was not afforded the opportunity to attend school and was therefore illiterate, my mother, a high school drop out who nevertheless devoted herself to educating her children, my siblings and cousins with Bachelor's to post-doc degrees among us.

I'm pretty sure that grandma shared her stories with me because she knew I would write from the heart about them one day. 

Dreams from my mother, or how I learned English

When she was in 6th grade, my mother became best friends with a new girl in her class. An army brat from Hawaii, she spoke fluent English, and was, according to mom, fun-loving, confident, a breath of fresh air. Only months after she arrived, the new best friend moved away again. 

Though their friendship was brief, my mother credits Hawaii girl for inspiring her to dream of building a life in America one day. 

When she was only ten years old, my mother lost her father to tuberculosis. He had been ill for some time. One morning, he projectile vomited enough blood to fill a bucket. That was the last time she saw her father.

To avoid the social stigma of being called fatherless, which was a real thing in the 1960s in Hong Kong, my mother chose to tell her classmates that her father was a sailor deployed to faraway lands.

Not long after, she met Hawaii girl, an American born child of a sailor. It's no surprise at all that she glamorized her new best friend. The prospect of making a new friend with no history attached must have appealed to a grieving 10 year old girl. Moreover, my mother always loved languages. English was one of her favorite subjects in school. She could practice her English with her new best friend.

Unfortunately, due to economic circumstance, my mother dropped out of high school to work full time to help support the fatherless family. 

So, when her children were born, she was determined to give us opportunities she did not have. She was only 20 years old, but she had a plan. What began as a childhood dream now drove her decisions on how to parent us. 

Thus, she enrolled us in an English-speaking nursery school run by British missionaries. The school was conveniently attached to a church, and on Sundays, she dropped me and my brother off for Bible school. Through Jonah and the whale and Joseph and the multi-color coat, we learned English. We were Buddhists with a mom who believed that we should learn English, because one day she intended for us to live in America. 

I cried every day for several months. At home we spoke Cantonese, so when I was suddenly plunked into a preschool where I did not understand the language, I was scared and retreated into silence. Eventually, though, I began to sing the songs along with the other children. Music equalized the scary world of English for me, and to this day, I remember relaxing a little when the teacher played the piano and we sat on the rug around her singing nursery school rhymes.

On weekends, my mother took us to the local YMCA for swim lessons. Afterward, we ate at the restaurant attached to the club, where she insisted that my brother and I place our orders in English (the Y was a favorite of ex-pats in Hong Kong, so waiters were invariably bilingual). She rewarded our efforts with books that we were allowed to choose from the English language bookstore next to the YMCA. She hired a tutor who helped us practice reading aloud from our English storybooks.

That I can still recall the details of my earliest memories of learning English is a testament to my mother's creativity and fierce determination. What began as a a childhood dream for her as she mourned her father paved the path of our journey to America. 

Grandma's tomato egg flower soup with bean sprouts

http://www.tastehongkong.com/recipes/featured/soy-bean-sprout-soup-with-tomatoes-and-leftover-whey/

On a rainy, raw Monday afternoon, after a full day's work capped with yet another wrist-gnawingly mind-numbing compulsory meeting of little substance, I take Hagrid on a walk in the cold drizzle, when memory, like will-o'-the-wisps, flickers around me when I least expect it, beckoning me toward a languid winding river flanked by green pastures and open blue sky.

I follow the river, and suddenly I am at the table from childhood, drinking a bowl of Grandma's tomato egg flower soup with bean sprouts, into which I've scooped some warm, sticky rice from my rice bowl. 

It has been a while since I last tasted this soup; it's not particularly a favorite of mine, and yet, here is where the surprise appearance of will-o'-the-wisps has led me today.

Born into a time when only sons (and daughters of the upper class) were educated, my grandmother, an orphan raised by distant relatives, was illiterate. She had little use for measurements and recipes. Grandma cooked from the heart with her taste buds, nose, eyes, and ears, distilling flavors and textures into a combinations that nourished and delighted countless discerning palates.

You won't find most of my grandmother's creations in Americanized Chinese restaurants. I absolutely cannot stand the starchiness of the egg drop soup of American Chinese restaurants. Not at all like the real deal. 

Luckily, my mother, brother, sisters, and I were all apprentices in grandma's kitchen. So here's a glimpse into this soup, recreated from memory. (Note: egg drop soup, translated literally, means egg flower soup. I've never forgiven the unimaginative English translation!)

Grandma's tomato egg flower soup with bean sprouts

Ingredients:

• Vegetable oil
• Several tomatoes, seeded and cut into wedges (note: if desired, blanch to remove skin)
• 1-2 eggs, beaten well (grandma always beat eggs with chopsticks)
• a handful of soy or mung bean sprouts
• broth (homemade is the best, can be any kind of broth: veggie, chicken, pork, etc.)
• salt to flavor
• optional: scallions to garnish, white pepper, sesame or chili oil to flavor

1. Heat up wok or frying pan. Add some oil, and when oil is hot, add bean sprouts and stir fry until they begin to become translucent. It won't take long. Be careful not to overcook. Transfer sprouts to a dish.
2. Using the same wok, add tomatoes and stir fry for several minutes.
3. Add enough broth to turn it into a soup. Turn heat down and simmer.
4. In a bowl, beat egg(s) thoroughly. If you want to be a boss like grandma, do it with chopsticks and beat it so well you can't tell yolk from white. Do it with gusto so that you incorporate air into the beating. You should see air bubbles in the finished mixture.
5. When the tomatoes are tender (they should not be too hard or too soft), turn off the heat. Drizzle the beaten egg mixture into the soup in a circular pattern (do not drop the whole bowl in at once... think egg flower, not egg drop!). The egg will flower in wisps. Add bean sprouts. Stir gently.
6. Garnish with scallions, if you like. Flavor with sesame or chili oil, or both. Eat with a bowl of rice.  

http://www.tastehongkong.com/recipes/egg-drop-soup/

Sir Hagrid's Famous 'Fro, or I Belong in Best In Show Pt. 2

Time to tame the 'fro: Hagrid on my "grooming table" 

Not perfect, but I want to end the session while he's still mostly relaxed

In a previous post, I wrote about how I belong in the movie Best in Show. (Incidentally, apparently some people not familiar with the film completely missed my cheeky tone in that post. So, for the record, it was all cheek, and this one is as well!)

Here's another reason I belong in Christopher Guest's Best in Show... 

I am the self-appointed hair stylist of Sir Hagrid.

As non-shedders, Bichon Frises are at the very top of the list for breeds with the highest grooming needs. Maintaining Hagrid's coat involves daily brushing and combing, regular bathing (especially if your dog is allergy-prone as Hagrid is), as well as haircuts every 3-4 weeks, and trimming around the eyes even more frequently. Oh and of course nail trimming and tooth brushing. 

You name it, I do it. 

Why?

Because I am paranoid and belong in the movie Best in Show.

I have read and heard of too many stories of groomers rough-handling dogs with force. Of clipper and scissoring accidents resulting in visits to the emergency vet.  Of dogs left in drying boxes unsupervised, essentially cooked to death. The list goes on, but I'll stop there. 

If you are groomer, or happen to have a groomer your dog looks forward to seeing every time, please remember that a) I'm happy for you, I really am! and b) I know I'm being paranoid, and of course I don't think all groomers are incompetent. I just don't choose to leave my dog at a salon where I can't see what's going on.

When Hagrid was a puppy, I figured, how hard can it be? My mom cut our hair until we went off to college. If I messed it up, Hagrid wouldn't know the difference, and it would grow back eventually. 

The first time I gave Hagrid a bath, I cried. I was not at all prepared for the transformation from fluffy powder puff to skinny drowned rat. I thought I had ruined his hair forever. I was never so relieved when his hair dried and he fluffed back up. Phew.

I wish I could say the same for the first few haircuts I gave him. Once, a vet scolded me to take my dog to a professional groomer, who might be able to teach me a thing or two about cutting my dog's hair. 

But now, Hagrid's famous 'fro is often a conversation starter, inviting smiles and compliments from people of all ages and backgrounds. 

My grooming skills are a work in progress. I smile when strangers ask me, "Where do you take you dog to be groomed, because he has the best hair cut!?"

Can we get on with the walk already?

August Wilson Evening with Susan

Typically, on a Friday evening, I am in jammies recovering from a scrape-me-off-the-floor physical and mental exhaustion of the teaching week. My couch is my refuge, solitude my balm. 

Thanks to a 3-day weekend reprieve, though, last night, I met up with my beloved mentor and friend, Susan, for an evening of friendship, delicious food, and August Wilson's "How I Learned What I Learned" at the Huntington Theater Company.

Susan does amazing work with the youth of Boston as the education organizer of the Learn2Teach/Teach2Learn program at the South End Technology Center at Tent City directed by none other than the venerable Mel King. In her words, she is a "community education worker & bicycler who chops vegetables, bakes pies, loves our Boston youth for their unique passions and genius!" Can you see why I love her? 

On a typical Friday evening, Susan is as likely to be hosting a group of community Makers at the Tech Lab as she is writing a grant, troubleshooting some misbehaving code or circuit, or tweaking the latest learning activity for the next workshop. Mel often tells her to leave, get a life, go do something fun (my words, but trust me, that's the essence of his meaning). 

Thus, when we solidified our plans to--GASP!--go out on a Friday night, we were both super proud of ourselves and of course looked forward to each other's company. 

We began our evening with a delicious meal at Lucy Ethiopian Cafe, a gem of a "hidden" find that nourished our bellies and warmed our souls. 

Peanut tea with 3D printed bunny, a gift from Susan, fabricated with love at the Tech Ctr:
the most heavenly concoction made from a special house recipe containing milk, honey, peanuts.

Vegetarian platter for two with injera: yum yum! We kept eating even after we were full. 

After dinner, we walked a block to the Huntington Theater Company for August Wilson's "How I Learned What I Learned," a theatrical memoir directed by Todd Kriedler, featuring Eugene Lee. Both Kreidler and Lee worked closely with AW when he was still alive, Kreidler as the dramaturg, and Lee in lead roles of several of AW's Century Cycle plays. On top of that, Constanza Romero, Wilson's widow and the executor of his estate, serves as creative consultant and costume designer for the show. In short, Wilson's spirit very much inhabits the theater and this production of his final work.

Eugene Lee gave a phenomenal performance. Charismatic and dynamic, with a stamina that blows my mind (it was a 1 hr 40 minute one-man show, no intermission--I would be toast after a single performance, if I made it all the way through, much less performance after performance, 2 on Saturdays, for an entire month), Lee breathed life into August Wilson's words, engaging the audience throughout, surprising and delighting, provoking us to confront issues of race and class that make so many people uncomfortable. Great art makes us think. It nourishes the soul. Wilson fervently believed that art could effect social change.

And for the first time in my life, I attended a theater performance whose audience was not overwhelmingly white. Wow, the audience was not all white! I couldn't play my usual game of counting how many POC because there were too many to count! As a woman noted in the post-performance audience discussion, when a theater produces material that speaks to the diverse population of the city, the people who don't usually come will come. I wanted to stand on my seat and whoop at the the top of my lungs!

The set of August Wilson's "How I Learned What I Learned": papers strung on wires to represent AW's prolific scribbles and drafts on any piece of available paper, including napkins, coasters, and scrap paper; changing video projected letters on top of the suspended papers; a deconstructed boxing ring, an arena symbolizing AW's life and journey; a desk of plywood over two filing cabinets reminiscent of an aspiring writer's modest roots; and debris strewn below the boxing ring symbolizing each of his Century Cycle plays, including a baseball mitt, bat, and a golf club.

"All you need in the world is love and laughter. That's all anybody needs. To have love in one hand and laughter in the other."--August Wilson

The time my brother gave me Thoreau as a peace offering

My brother tormented me when we were little. He was my hero, I was his albatross. While I remember him pinching me if I dared sit next to him in Sunday school, where mom dropped us off for free English lessons (a clever, clever move, I've always thought... leave it to my genius mom, a high school drop out, to hunger after giving her children opportunities she did not have to the point of dropping us off at a church that offered free English lessons for children... we were not Christian, but hey, free English lessons! But that is a different story for a different day)--

As I was saying, while I remember him shunning me, my brother remembers me chasing after butterflies and leaving behind shopping bags that were my responsibility (mom always believed in everyone pulling their own weight). Though he is only 20 months older, my brother, always the responsible eldest child, collected the shopping bags that I'd left behind, and hated me for it.

We were night and day. He was the favored child, I was (allegedly) the ill-tempered one. He was measured and calm, I was emotional and crabby. He was focused, I was a space cadet. He was responsible, I was a free spirit. He was aware of his surroundings, I was absorbed in details that took my attention away from my immediate surroundings. In other words, he was a Jedi master, and I was a nobody.

To teach me a lesson, my brother would steal my Smurfette or Chuck E. Cheese wallet to see if I noticed. To test my reflexes, he'd practice his latest martial arts moves on me without warning. My mother did not intervene. (Back to the favored child and only male status.) Once, when my uncle and aunt were visiting, my brother stealthily attacked my aunt, mistaking her for me. I was outraged when he did not get in big trouble as I had hoped he would.

It's not surprising, then, that sometime during high school, I reached my breaking point. I was sick and tired of being his unwilling whipping post, sick and tired of my parents not intervening. So, I stopped speaking to my brother.

If you ask him, he stopped speaking to me because I declared he would never, ever get into college. (That he took anything I said to heart was a revelation to me.)  

About a year and a half into our silence, in his junior year of high school, my sophomore year, completely without warning, my brother left me a present under the Christmas tree (no, really, we are not Christian), wrapped in light blue packaging paper, addressed to me in his distinctive masculine cursive. My eyes teared up as I unwrapped a Bantam Classic edition of Thoreau's Walden and Other Writings. 

Just like that the icy silence melted. 

In the time we did not speak, my brother did not stop noticing my love for the written word. Thoreau went to the woods to live deliberately. My brother's deliberate act of calling a truce changed the course of our relationship; he was far more magnanimous than his angry teenage sister.

When we met up in Europe as grad students, I saw for the first time the dark side of his favored child status: he internalized much of the burden of being the first born child, the bearer of the hopes and dreams of our parents. In childhood, I was so busy protesting the inequities between us and feeling sorry for myself that I never noticed his burden.