My First Book

The Rice Daddies blog recently held a writing contest that asked parents to reflect upon a favorite book from their childhood or one they have read to their child(ren). I missed the contest but it got me thinking about my favorite books from childhood.

Actually, I don't remember the title or the author of the book that had the greatest impact on me. It was the first book I read by myself. It was about a boy who was made fun of or felt awkward because of his big hands. The story ends with the boy using his big hands to play football, where his hands help him become an excellent receiver. He no longer felt awkward about his hands, now that his large hands served a purpose.

This book had a big impact on me because up until then I was choosing books that were beyond my reading level and only "pretending" to read them. I don't know why I did that. I guess, I thought it would make me look smart.

The second most important book from my childhood would have to be Tales of the Fourth Grade Nothing by Judy Blume. I remember my elementary school teacher reading it to my class. I read it myself recently and realized that my teacher had skipped some of the more perceivably controversial sections of the book (or at least I don't remember her reading those parts of the book). What I remember most about the book was that it was "contemporary," set in then modern times in the same city I was growing up in. I think I felt a "connection." It was a story about a boy a little older than me, growing up in the same city as me.

Up until then reading had consisted of fairy tales, furry animals in human clothes, and SRA cards (SRAs were the bain of my existance in elementary school. Basically, it was an hour of silence where you completed reading comprehension activities printed on little color-coded cards).

Tales of the Fourth Grade Nothing is set in New York City's upper West side (or East side, I don't remember) near Central Park. The narrator, Peter, lives in a small apartment in Manhattan with his mother, father, and baby brother, Fudge (who antagonizes Peter and his parents with his seemingly innocent antics). It is because of Fudge that their father has lost an important account and is on the verge of losing another. It is because of Fudge that their mother is so frazzled all the time. And it is because of Fudge that Peter feels so much like a "nothing." The story climaxes when Fudge swallows Peter's turtle (which is funny because I didn't realize that those little Chinatown turtles were available back then). I am sure that you have already guessed the ending. Everything turns out well. Fudge lives and Peter for a brief period in time sees the positives of having a little brother. Peter gets a new puppy (something too large for Fudge to swallow) and it seems his parents have set stricter boundaries for Fudge.

Is.It.Me?Space.Com

I have a profile. I have Friends. I have even been Added and have asked to be Added. So why do I feel like something's missing? Why do I feel like I'm doing something wrong?

I have friends who can get on a plane or a train and end the journey having met a new acquaintance. Nobody talks to me when I am traveling. I never meet anyone. My wife moved into my apartment shortly after we met. I had been living in the same neighborhood for five years and only said hello to the fellow in the pizza parlor, the husband and wife at the video store, and the cashier at the supermarket. Within a week she was friendly with most of the neighborhood (including the severe looking guys at the Italian Club on the corner).

Networking itself is confusing to me? I know that it happens - that it is supposed to happen. I know it is routine and ordinary. But it seems so insincere to admit that you do it or that you are good at it. At least it does to me. It could be just the idealist in me. The part of me who wants to meet people for the thrill of meeting new people and not for the purpose of my own professional advancement.

Networking. It sounds so calculated.

I set up a MySpace account after reading an article about it in Blender? Or Spin? Or Rolling Stone? I don't remember which. It was a short article where the subject matter was more interesting than the writing. The article was about how MySpace is changing the way music is being marketed. It talked about how bands were using MySpace to connect with fans and promote their shows and CDs. I have actually become a fan of some of the bands that have sent me MySpace friend requests. Tilly and the Wall, Tiny Masters of Today, and Ruby Throat (Katie Jane Garside's project) to name a few.

I recently set up a Face Book profile. I guess now that MySpace can be considered mainstream, technophiles are looking for other virtual networking alternatives. My youngest sister introduced Face Book to me. She says it's "cooler" than MySpace. I can't tell the difference. MySpace has better customization options but Face Book has much less spam.

Gung Hay Fat Choy!

Drawing Lines in the Sand

I have drawn lines in the sand with my family. I have had to set boundaries. It was difficult at first. It started with my father and grandmother. I had to get them to call before "dropping by." I also had to get them to agree not to drop by so often.

It hasn't been easy. I know their feelings have been were hurt. And, in hindsight, there have been times I made decisions out of personal convenience instead of a greater good. I have said, No, to family gatherings, if the boys were sick or if the weather was bad or (and I hate to admit it) if I didn't feeling like dealing with my family.

It is important to me that my children bond with their grandparents - all three sets of them! It is more important that my family is healthy and happy.

I grew up not knowing much about my father's side of the family. I knew only that my grandmother was a second wife and that my father was her only child with my grandfather. He had several children with his first wife but my father was the only child he had with my grandmother. At least this is what I have pieced together.

My wife's family is very close and my mom's family is very close. Being close means that life is not always cheery. Sometimes being close is too close. Recently, I have had to draw a thicker line in the sand for my mother.

My mother comes over to "help" my wife manage the house and our two sons. It began as a visit once or twice a week but then grew into a visit a day. Some weeks she even came on the weekends. My wife and I no longer spent time alone with our children (especially the our youngest child). Her visits had become more of an inconvenience than a source of help and support. She made greater and greater demands of us and took control of how our youngest was being raised (including issues of health and medication).

I have asked her not to come over anymore. However, I have yet to confront her about her actions. She doesn't know that anyting is wrong. I simply told her that my wife, my kids, and I needed some "nuclear bonding time"; bonding time as just a "nuclear family."

JinXes

When I was young (maybe 10, maybe 7), my grandmother ran through the house shaking a rope of bells. My sister and I followed excitedly behind her with our dog, who barked throughout the commotion. My grandmother said she was chasing out demons. Decades later, I reminded my grandmother of it. She denied ever doing it.

My grandmother died a devout Christian. There was only one devil and one God. She did not believe in demons and kitchen gods anymore. These beings were relegated to folklore and superstition.  

Drugstore Cowboy is one of my favorite movies. Not only because William S. Burroughs is in it. He was my creative inspiration for many years. I regret not going to see him when I had the chance. He died months later. And not only because Matt Dillion was great in it. Up until then I had only known him from Rumblefish. I never saw the Outsiders. But because the Matt Dillion's character was severely superstitious, which caused tension with the gang his character was the boss of.  "Never put your hat on your bed..."

I am selectively superstitious. I don't stand chopsticks up in a bowl of rice. I cut my hair the week before the New Year and not the week after. I also don't sweep or vacuum New Year's day or the day after (to be on the safe side). I believe in ghosts and have had moments of Deja Vu. I tell myself that they are the result of anxiety, restlessness, exhaustion, and stress. I'm not very convincing.

My wife announced she was pregnant with our son the Saturday after 9/11. My wife and I waited the three months before telling anyone outside of our family. When we announced it to our friends, my coworkers wanted to celebrate but I said, No. I was afraid that bad karma from 9/11 would harm him in some way. I didn't want a big deal made. I didn't want to attract any bad luck.

Recently, our youngest son had an operation. It was a common and simple procedure. The doctors seemed confident and everyone we spoke to whose children had the same operation said it was a simple operation. My son's operation would have been simple, if he did not have an ear infection, a cough, and severe cold. It also turns out that there was a minor complication with the procedure itself. It took longer than the surgeon expected.

Everything worked out fine. He is recovering nicely on all counts (the cough and cold, the ear infection, and the operation). My wife and I were both stressed out during the weeks leading up to the operation. I refused to speak too much about it. I was afraid that speaking about it too often would jinx the operation. I wrote a brief email message to friends asking for their well wishes but that was about it. I was uncomfortable giving out any details - even to family.

Waxy Poetic

It used to pour out of me. It used to be a state of mind. I used to be able to take in a situation and churn it out as "poetry." I was so passionate about it then. I actually enjoyed the challenge of putting sounds and rhythms together. I used to have something to say.

Then it all changed. I changed. It got hard. It got too challenging. I got bored. I was reading the same words over and over again. It became more about who I was with than what I was saying. And when that happened I didn't have anything meaningful to say anymore.

Now, it's been a long time. I finally took an online creative writing course. My wife has been very supportive of my writing again. I tell her she doesn't understand the time involved. The class started out OK. I enjoyed reading what other's were working on and I enjoyed receiving criticism on my piece, but there wasn't enough time and slowly but surely I stopped turning in the weekly assignments and I really only did what I always end up doing, reediting the same portion of text over and over again. I got stuck in the same place I had when I first dropped the piece.

I made a decision when our first son was born. I decided that our being together then the three of us, now the four, was the most important thing for me. I still dream of getting that first book out and I think that maybe someday I will. But for right now, spending time with my wife and my boys is what I want most.

Right now, I am still my kids' hero. They still enjoy spending time with them. I don't remember spending time with my father when I was young. I think maybe I just forgot. I remember my mother taking my sister and I shopping a lot. I think most times it was just me. My sister spent time with my father. It is important to me that my kids remember spending time with me.

Right now, my job is still enjoyable. I feel like I am learning again. The challenges are stimulating and not just frustrating (though it seems I have been catapulted into a more tremulous and polarized arena). I daydream about earning a living as a fiction writer and poet, but doubt I would be able to earn what I do now. Practical things are important now (health insurance, regular paychecks, etc.)

Nine Lives Frisky

Are you an animal lover? Do you have pets? The Chinese aren't big on the pets-n-baby scenario. I like to tell friends and co-workers what some of the members in my wife's and my extended family said to us when we announced we were going to have a baby.

One of the comments was (loosely translated):

"Now, that you are going to be parents, it's time to grow up and get rid of your pets. The dog is cute so you could probably sell him but you should probably just put the cats to sleep..."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing and just bit my tongue through the rest of how inhaling or ingesting cat hair causes cancer.

My poor cats. They were to blame for everything from the common cold to the path to Armageddon. Our dog caused human blight as well but not to the degree that our cats did. I was not always a cat lover. I did not have a cat when I was growing up. We went through several dogs and fish. It was not until the summer after my freshman year in college when I owned my first cat. Rain. It was a tiny black kitten that a friend had brought over. I didn't want to come back to the City, so I was renting the first floor of a house with friends under the guise of finding a job. I spent most of the summer hanging out, smoking, and drinking. The cat ran away when I came home to NYC for a month to earn some money.

My next cat experience was through my first real girlfriend. She was actually the first woman I would say I was in love with. With a few exceptions my wife reminds me a lot of my first real girlfriend. My girlfriend was White, my wife is Vietnamese. My first real girlfriend loved cats, my wife loves dogs. My first real girlfriend and I might still be together now, if I weren't so emotionally retarded then. I had a lot of strong opinions then. I've since learned that 2+2 doesn't always equal 4 (though the sum may be similar). My first real girlfriend lived at home with nine cats. For Christmas, a year into our relationship, I went and adopted a cat. He was a Maine Coon Cat. His name was "Spike."

My first real girlfriend and I broke up. I was unemployed and couldn't pay the rent anymore. After a night of drinking by myself, I decided I had lost. It was time to move back home to my father's house. My father forbade me from bringing Spike home and my first real ex-girlfriend couldn't take him either. I think one of her roommates was allergic. Spike went to a nice security guard who worked the plaza where the Fotomat store I used to work in was. I meet him in the street and handed him the cat. It was a warm day. The sun was out. It might have been spring. I don't remember. People were having brunch, so it must have been a Sunday.

It was painful. I was in a daze. It didn't seem real. I have him tattooed to my arm. It was my second tattoo.

A friend of mine helped me load all of my stuff into a van and we drove all night. That same friend also helped me move into my first apartment in NYC. I got our current cat, Squat, shortly after. He was a stray that wandered the Brooklyn neighborhood where I lived. He was a runt (though you couldn't tell it now). He been badly beaten up in a cat fight. It costs a whole month's rent to get him fixed and patched up.

We got our second cat, our first New Year's living in Manhattan. She was a tiny white kitten my wife named Tomoko. She and Squat have been members of our family since.

Just Like Momma Used To

I joke that my dad was the typical stony Chinese dad. I joke that the only time he spoke to me was to tell me that I was blocking the TV. My dad is a nice man. In hindsight, while he was the one that gave me most of my spankings, it was usually at my mother's request.

Before the divorce, I can remember him laughing and joking with his friends. He has since lost contact with them. The divorce really sent him for a loop. He cried in front of me. I was a teenager. I was cold. I told him, if she (my mother) really wanted to go, let her go, and move on.

A positive byproduct of the divorce was that my father and I actually started speaking. I mean having conversations that went beyond the weather and whether or not I needed money. Unfortunately, now that we were talking, we realized that we didn't understand each other. He couldn't understand how I made sense of my world and I couldn't understand how he rationalized his.

This doesn't mean that we didn't keep trying. We still don't understand each other but the range of topics we speak about has increased as the number of "life decisions" I must make increases. Also, having met one of his college friends from Hong Kong, and sharing stories,  I have come to realize that he and I aren't that different. He was a big partier in college too.

Where my dad was not engaged, my mother was controlling. My mom and I had a great relationship until I learned it was OK to say, No, to her. Up until junior year in high school, when I discovered New Wave music and the school theater club, I didn't really care about what I wore or how my hair looked. I had a terrible puberty and lost any feelings of attractiveness during it. So up until junior year I really didn't care what I looked it.

I gave up on my mother my senior year of high school when I got my ear pierced. It was still pretty taboo then. She was furious. I joke with her now that by the time I graduated college, many of her male interns and even some of her male staff had earrings. They did the "Italian" (the one diamond stud in the ear). I had flamboyant hoops and expanded collection in college.

College was really the time I "grew up." My parents were distracted by their recent divorce. I was eight hours away by car or bus and free to explore all of the things I thought an arty poet musician wannabe should be doing.

In adulthood, I have come to accept that my father and my mother wanted a different son. They wanted someone who better fit their mold of "All American." In my mind, I did. I was very "American." It just wasn't the America they were hoping for.

I am scared now. I see a lot of my mother in me. Do I control my sons too much? Am I too demanding? I also see my father in me. My eldest son acts differently around me than around my wife. She says it is because he and I don't "spend enough time with him." I say, I do. But do I? She says we don't interact when we are together.

Decades from now, if they are sitting, writing about their childhood, will my boys feel I controlled them or was uninterested in what they liked? Is knowing that the potential is there enough for me to stop and have a better relationship with my children than I had with my parents?