Anniversaries

Gold foil-wrapped Jordan almonds. Red silk jewelry boxes. 

For the days preceding September 11, 2001, these were the things that occupied my mind. With less than two weeks away from the most important day of my life, I was busy dealing with head counts, meal preferences and questions from vendors.

Then, early on the morning of September 11, my sister Linda called with the news that two airplanes had crashed into the World Trade Center. Vic and I were living together in California then and both of us had been asleep. He turned on the television, which stayed on the rest of the day. Shocked, sad and angry, suddenly, I couldn't think about our upcoming wedding any more, and in fact, the idea of assembling 180 wedding favors seemed downright frivolous. 

Even though 10 years have passed since that awful day, I still remember the dramatic emotional shift I underwent, from pre-wedding giddiness to post-9/11 anguish. Even though I hadn't lost any friends or family in the attacks, like so many Americans, I was distraught. 

I dug up a few email messages from that time to recall the exact words I used in corresponding with friends that week:

"I'm not in the mood to talk -- about my wedding, that is. It seems so inconsequential in light of everything else going on right now."

 "I am still so sad about all of this. On Saturday, I'm supposed to fly to Cleveland to iron out last-minute details about my wedding. But I can't even think about the wedding right now…"

Back then, Vic had been working for an Internet start-up whose office overlooked the San Francisco airport. He stayed home on September 11, but returned to work the next day. It was eerily quiet, he said, as the usual whoosh and roar of airplanes taking off and landing was missing. "There is zero apparent activity taking place over there," he said. 

We were in California and our wedding was in Ohio. We were scheduled to fly from San Francisco to Cleveland in four days, but weren't even sure if our flight would happen. For the next few days, we fielded phone calls and email messages asking if the wedding was still on. Someone suggested we postpone it, but we dismissed that idea immediately. A few people canceled their plans to attend. Too risky to fly, they said. 

One of my friends, Wendy, emailed me some wonderful advice then: "First and foremost, you need to thank God that you and your loved ones are safe and celebrate the time you have with them at your wedding.  I think you are actually lucky to have an event to celebrate with your closest family and friends this weekend during this tragedy.  Celebrate even more and tell everyone how lucky they are to have everyone together for this very important event in your life."

She was right. The wedding took place on a beautiful day in Cleveland and was a wonderful celebration of family and friends. The nation's official period of mourning had just ended, as President Bush ordered the American flag to be raised to full mast that day. 

In the time that has passed since September 11, 2001, I came to meet other women who shared their 9/11 stories with me - a friend who was pregnant then, a woman who even went into labor that day. In the 10 years that have passed, Vic and I became parents too. Our older son, a fourth-grader now, was upset this week that they didn't talk about September 11 at school. He was incredulous that they didn't discuss it in class, but said he did talk about it with his friend Lance during recess. I asked what they said. He shrugged. "We were just sad," my nine-year-old said. 

When I think back to the fateful day 10 years ago, I remember that after getting over the shock, I felt exceptionally proud to be an American and uncommonly united with all fellow Americans. September 11 marked a turning point for this country, and it seems that since then, we have blurred the difference between nationalism and patriotism. We have found more ways to divide ourselves. I hope today we will reflect on the losses we suffered together as a country 10 years ago and unite again.

News media love anniversaries and no doubt, the day will be filled with profiles, special reports and other commemoration features about the 10-year anniversary of 9/11. I hope we will use this opportunity to remember, reflect and return to the values that bring us together. 

American, by choice

(Note: This essay was published in the San Jose Mercury News on November 25, 2001.)

Pride in becoming American intensifies after Sept. 11 attacks

Last year, I became a true American: I was granted U.S. citizenship.

At the ceremony, 1,500 of us gathered in San Francisco’s Masonic Auditorium on Nob Hill to declare our loyalty to this country. An Iranian woman stood on my right, a Korean woman on my left. People of all ages, races and economic backgrounds were there, many dressed in red, white and blue. Some wore jeans, others business suits and dresses. We were as diverse in appearance and ethnicity as any group could be, but we stood as one in the crowded auditorium.

I had expected the naturalization ceremony to be just another bureaucratic ordeal to endure, much like renewing my driver’s license at the Department of Motor Vehicles. But as 1,500 strangers from different lands pledged allegiance to the same flag, tears filled my eyes, pride surged in my heart.

Memories of that day flooded back to me on Sept. 11 Like millions of Americans watching the awful events of that morning unfold on television, I felt shock, sadness and fear. By the time the World Trade Center towers collapsed, I realized I felt something new, something I'd truly never felt before. We soon learned that this country, my country, would be going to war and I felt as patriotic as any native-born American.

It was my younger sister, Linda, who frantically woke me with the news that two planes had crashed into the World Trade Center towers. And, it was my sister, Linda, who had an appointment with the Immigration and Naturalization Service on Sept. 11. After we ended our call, I stared in shock at the TV for the rest of the day. My sister, I later learned, headed off to her INS appointment to be fingerprinted, one of the critical steps to becoming a naturalized U.S. citizen.

I was upset that my sister kept the appointment on a day people fled most government buildings in droves. “Are you crazy?” I asked. “I’m sure INS would have understood your wanting to reschedule.”

My sister, who is five years younger, knew the truth.

Time is of the essence

“I’ve waited too long for this,” she said. She knew that missing her appointment, even on that terrible and frightening day, could delay her naturalization process several months.

Linda, 26, is the last of us to see American citizenship. A San Francisco social worker, she has nerves of steel. Whether she was overcome with patriotism or she merely wanted her family to stop nagging her – or both – she kept her appointment with the INS.

Her defiance of fear on the day that changed America – and how we think of it – forever was similar to my new feelings of patriotism.

Until my naturalization ceremony, becoming a U.S. citizen had been a mind-numbing process of filling out forms, cramming for the civics exam and waiting for further INS instructions. Until I entered the auditorium, I felt only relief to have reached the final step of naturalization.

But after I turned in my green card to INS officers as part of the ceremony, the weight of the experience overcame me. I was about to begin a new life. When I took my place in the auditorium, I felt exuberant. Although I began the naturalization process alone, I was ending it surrounded by hundreds of strangers, all looking as proud and happy as I.

Looking around the room, I was reminded of the official motto of the United States of America, printed on Page One of my official “Guide to Naturalization” booklet: E Pluribus Unum – From Many, One.

For years, our family never felt an urgency to apply for citizenship. We weren't able to vote, but having a green card seemed enough at the time.

My family’s road to U.S. citizenship began with my parents in the late ‘60s when they emigrated from Taiwan to Canada, where my dad attended graduate school. He eventually received a job offer to teach and do research at an American university, so in the summer of 1976, our family drove across the border to begin our life in the United States. We moved to Cleveland Heights, Ohio.

In the mid-‘90s, my parents worried about growing anti-immigrant sentiment. They decided to formalize their commitment to their adopted country and were sworn in as official Americans in 1997.

Reasons to apply

I decided to apply too, for other reasons. Unlike my Taiwanese-born parents, I was raised in the United States. I was born in Canada but had lived here since age 7. Citizenship status was a mere technicality and I had been content being a U.S. permanent resident or as my green card said, a “resident alien”.

My feelings changed when my parents became citizens. I realized that if my mom, who still speaks with a heavy Taiwanese accent, could make the leap to American citizenship, then surely I could. Both my parents required extra effort to study for the naturalization civics exam, but I already had the benefit of an American education, from grammar school to graduate school. I had been reciting the Pledge of Allegiance since second grade. Surely if anyone in my family were to be called an American, it should be me – and my sister.

I had already missed three presidential elections already and decided that was enough. My parents and I voted as U.S. citizens for the first time last year.

My road to citizenship had taken two years.

The experience is the same for everyone who seeks citizenship. You begin by filling out a detailed application in which you are asked if you have any affiliation with the Nazi Party or various other groups. You must declare if you've ever been a prostitute, a gambler or a “habitual drunkard.”

The questions are meant to determine the moral character of an applicant but seem so pointless, especially now. During the oral exam, an INS inspector quizzes you on a variety of U.S. government and history topics, which sometimes include having you list the 13 original colonies, explaining what the colors of the flag represent and naming local elected representatives.

Does knowing those things make us good citizens?

Pose these questions

In our post-Sept. 11 world, we need to know so much more. Perhaps it's time to change the citizenship application process to reflect modern reality. If I were in charge of developing a new citizenship application, I would ask people to answer: Why do you want to be an American? What does it mean to you?

The answers, I imagine, would be as varied and individual as the applicants themselves. I had wanted to vote. Others wanted a better life for their children. Some sought religious freedom. Or education. Or opportunity. When I first came to the United States, the Pledge of Allegiance was just a jumble of big words. When I recited those words at my oath ceremony, I finally understood and cherished each one.

Just like a marriage oath, the oath of allegiance to this country is something sacred. It means declaring to the world, “I choose you” and being willing to fight to protect the personal and political freedoms we hold dear.

At my oath ceremony, 1,500 people simultaneously renounced allegiance to their countries of birth and swore to “support and defend the Constitution and laws of the United States of America against all enemies, foreign and domestic.” It was an easy promise to make in peacetime, though. The oath bears greater weight and significance today. Will young men still pursue naturalization now, knowing they could be drafted for war?

As part of the Sept. 11 aftermath, there has been talk of monitoring student visas and imposing more stringent background checks. While it is important to protect the country from enemies, we need to be careful not to discourage the people who come here with good intentions. Somehow we must distinguish between those who come to visit and those who come to stay.

Unlike people who are citizens by birth, naturalized Americans choose their allegiance. They choose to put their faith, their hopes and their dreams in their adopted country. And if necessary, they will put their lives on the line.

In a way, those who come forward to seek citizenship now are quiet heroes. They will be the ones who, even in times of danger and backlash, keep their INS appointments.

See you later, CWRU

Today is my last day of work at Case Western Reserve University. It's been an incredible experience working for my undergraduate alma mater for the past eight years.

My role as director of marketing and communications for the College of Arts and Sciences has to be among the best jobs around. I work with people I admire and respect; they are dedicated, diverse and dynamic. My staff colleagues include a classics scholar, a fashion model, a violist, a talent agent, a yoga instructor and a musical theater director. The faculty I work with include anthropologists, astronomers, chemists, dancers, historians, musicologists, novelists, playwrights, psychologists, sociologists. My boss and mentor, the dean of the college, is a particle physicist who unwinds by training for ultramarathons and teaching himself Mandarin.

My first job at CWRU was in the Office of Undergraduate Admission, where I helped to attract talented, high-achieving students to the university. After that, I joined the Office of Marketing and Communications to lead the university's media relations team. My colleagues were some of the most hardworking, tireless people I have ever known.

Among my most rewarding professional experiences at CWRU was being a founding member of the committee that created the university's Women Staff Leadership Development Initiative. It was exhilarating to see one little idea evolve into a robust, thriving university program. It was deeply rewarding to work with a group of talented, thoughtful women leaders interested in building a supportive community and elevating the campus culture as a whole.

And of course, I cannot forget the students. CWRU students are simply amazing. I was honored when I was nominated for an undergraduate mentoring award a few years ago; knowing these incredible individuals has been a privilege. From the interns I supervised to the student newspaper editors I advised, these rising stars were impressive as undergraduates and have continued to astound me with their accomplishments since graduation; they include a Fulbright scholar, Teach for America corps members, Peace Corps volunteers, and a number of engineers, doctors and lawyers. Some of them have married, some are new parents. Thanks to Facebook, I'm able to stay updated on their exploits.


Working at CWRU has had its challenges over the years. For one, it has been difficult juggling parenthood and a demanding career. I should have realized from the start that my work-life balance would be indelibly blurred at CWRU - my work and wedding anniversary are the same day. During my time at the university, I endured a difficult pregnancy and contemplated quitting my job once my baby was born. I had understanding supervisors, though, who gave me flexibility in my work arrangement. I continued to work full time with a few accommodations (anyone need a breast pump - anyone?). And then I connected with a network of wonderful working parents who sought to face work-life issues together.

In my personal life, these past eight years have brought some major changes. My family expanded; when I first came to work at CWRU, I had a one-year-old boy in diapers. Now, that little guy has big horse teeth and will be entering fourth grade. And he now has a three-year-old brother, one who enjoys playing online UNO on my iPad but has little interest in toilet training.

And their dad, my husband, is working for a fantastic company that requires us to relocate to California. We are excited about this new family adventure, but it is going to be hard to say goodbye to all that we love here in Cleveland, Ohio.

Case Western Reserve University has been a special place for my family. My father has been a research scientist here for nearly 35 years. My sister and I used to visit his lab and be fascinated with the Geiger counter. My husband and I both earned diplomas from the university; I was an English major, Vic was a computer engineering major who later also earned a graduate degree in operations research. Our sons experienced life on campus, from visiting my office countless times to going to Springfest year after year. Nico used to accompany me during production nights at The Observer while Vic attended evening classes. I nursed two-week-old Nolan in the press box radio room during a CWRU Homecoming game.

I am enormously grateful for all that I've experienced in my years at CWRU. I've met great people and I've learned valuable life lessons. I am sad to leave a place that has had an impact on my family for three generations.

But I know I will be back again some day.

Tiger Mom vs. Third-Grader: Part II, Great American SpellCheck

This morning, Nico participated in Roxboro Elementary School's first Great American SpellCheck competition and was eliminated in the second round. (Did I imagine a gasp when it happened? Maybe it came from me.)

It was a somewhat shocking result, as Nico misspelled the word "badly" ("baddly"). This, from a kid who breezes through weekly spelling words like "perspicacious" and "paradigmatic". I was stunned that he was eliminated so quickly and saw that he was too. He walked off the stage dazed. When the students eliminated in his round rejoined their classmates in the audience, Nico sat off to the side, away from all his friends.

I went over to him and suggested we go out to the hallway. He was fighting back tears. "I spelled it wrong on purpose," he said, bitterly. "I didn't want to be there in the first place." Nico had scored 50 out of 50 on the written exam to qualify for the oral spelling competition, but had mixed feelings about the whole thing. "I don't want to be on stage," he had said when he learned he had qualified.

Spelling bees are a source of pride in this family. Both Vic and I were grade school spelling champs and to this day, I silently judge people who can't spell well (and don't get me started on people who can't use apostrophes properly). Still, I didn't want to put too much pressure on Nico for his first spelling bee. I debated even going to the competition today, but am glad I did. I sat with some friends and we cheered for all of the spellers.

There is so much drama at these things! For first-, second- and third-graders, these competitions must be incredibly nerve-wracking. As I spoke to other parents, we all admitted that we were nervous ourselves as we watched our children take their turns at the mic. The rhythm of a spelling bee is mesmerizing - we hold our breath as the students recite the letters, we listen for the bell, we sigh with relief (or gasp in sympathy), we clap, repeat. It was heartbreaking to watch the young spellers as they were eliminated, one by one. Some of them stumbled, crestfallen, into their parents' open arms; some only needed a quick hug and then raced back to sit with their friends, others needed to be embraced for the rest of the competition.

Nico displayed a disturbing, but familiar mix of emotions after he was ousted from the contest. Like me, he's emotional and excitable, but he is embarrassed to show it. Like Vic, he is brooding and intensely competitive. When we finally reentered the auditorium after a few minutes hugging in the hallway, I heard Nico whisper, "Yes!" when his friends were also eliminated. "Don't you want to root for your friends?" I asked him. "No. I don't want anyone to win," he replied.

Admittedly, I was annoyed that Nico was booted out of the competition so early. I tried not to show it, although, for a microsecond, I related to my own mother's feelings of disappointment in me. I remembered the piano recital where I flubbed a note and heard her in the audience clucking her tongue. That memory has stayed with me and I don't want Nico to know that feeling. I hugged and kissed him for a long time. "I'm a horrible speller," he said. "No, you're not," I told him. "You have weekly spelling words much harder than the one you missed today. You're a fantastic speller all day every day, just not for a few seconds today. It's OK." I hugged him again.

I wasn't at all a Tiger Mom today and it was fine. F.I.N.E.

Tiger Mom vs. Third-Grader: Part I, Invention Convention

Last night, Nico won the 3rd-4th-5th grade division for his school's Invention Convention with his "Boat Buddy Bath Thermometer". He built a sailboat out of balsa wood and inserted an 8-second thermometer through it so that the whole contraption would result in a floating device that could measure bath water temperature. He came up with this idea based on his daily problem of jumping into a shower that is too cold. Although his invention doesn't really work for showers, it's pretty good for baths.
 
I helped Nico a lot with his project, taking him to Target and JoAnn Fabric for supplies, assisting him in building his sailboat and working with him to put his display together. His poster included a bar graph of our family members' preferred bath temperatures (mine was the highest - duh, I'm Asian!). It also included an advertisement: "Upgrade your bath! Ingredients for a perfect bath: soap, bubbles, water, Boat Buddy!"

While there were some amazing inventions on display, the science teacher told us that what put Nico's project over the edge was his research plan. Yesss! I gave my husband a smug look. "See, it's all about the writing, " I explained to Vic.

Then, in re-reading Nico's research report, I saw that my first-born son had crossed out "special thanks/credits to my mom for her help". Originally, when I read over Nico's report, I was flattered that he mentioned me at all. But at Science Night, when I saw he crossed out the words in heavy, angry pencil marks, I was surprised. Nico explained, loud enough for everyone to hear, "I crossed that out after you made me mad! You said you weren't going to help anymore and that it was my project and I had to do it all by..." I cut him off, worried he was going to tell the world all about the ups and downs of our collaboration (i.e., my mood swings throughout the process). I was nervous he would describe how, in a fit of frustration and anger,  I angrily scattered all of our craft supplies across the dining room.

It was a terrible Tiger Mom moment and I knew it even as I flung pieces of balsa wood in the air. It reminded me of the time in second grade when my mom got upset at me for sulking through a weekday afternoon piano practice. I had been sitting at the piano, shoulders slumped, sighing and dawdling, listening to my friends Big Wheel down the sidewalk. Suddenly, my mom swooped in, swept up my piano books and threw them in the trash. The kitchen trash. I fished them out of a snarl of apple peels and carrot shavings, cleaned them up, taped the torn pages and sat down to practice. It was a day I will never forget and now I wonder if Nico will have a similar experience seared in his memory.

So far, Nico does not seem too scarred. He was elated when he was announced as one of the two school winners. When we got home, he bounced into the house and called my dad, who was simply delighted. Nico put him on speakerphone and it was heartwarming to hear their conversation. My dad told Nico he had a good feeling about his invention because it was a great idea and that he had worked hard on it. He asked Nico if he was happy and if he wanted to be a scientist some day. Nico said, "I think so!"

Next up: Great American SpellCheck

A letter to me, age 7

A few days ago, I watched a wonderfully charming film, With Love, From the Age of Reason (L'age de raison) during the Cleveland International Film Festival. The premise was intriguing and completely resonated with me: A woman, on her 40th birthday, began receiving letters from herself that she wrote at age 7. The first began like this:

Dear Me,

Today I am seven years old and I'm writing you this letter to help you remember the promises I made, and also to remind you of what I want to become.

So, today, on my birthday, I decided to write a letter to me, age 7:

Dear Me,

Today I am 41 years old and I'm writing you this letter to revisit the promises I made, and also to tell you of what I became.

Here are the things I had vowed to do that I did do:

-- I went to college (and graduate school).

-- I lived by myself (in an apartment seven blocks from the Pacific Ocean).

-- I became a writer.

-- I got married.

-- I became a mom.

Here are the things I didn't do:

-- I did not make an appearance on Sesame Street.

-- I did not become a kindergarten teacher.

-- I have not opened a combination boutique/bakery/bookstore.

-- I have not lived in a mansion I designed myself.

There is still a lot of time to do the things I've always wanted to do, although I sometimes find myself feeling overwhelmed in wanting to do many things at once. Sometimes I don't know where to start. I can't believe I ever felt one moment of being bored! I remember the "Things to Do on a Rainy Day" book I made when I was seven and contrast it with the ever-growing pile of to-do lists I keep today.

What keeps me busy? For the most part, it's my family, my friends, my work. I am a wife and mom, which I had always hoped to be. I love my family wholly and unquestionably; I feel so blessed by having so much love in my life. Marriage and parenthood are much, much more than I expected - more exasperating and more exhilarating. My husband is solid, brilliant, handsome, kind and fair. My sons - my sons, can you believe it? - are beautiful, hilarious, devious, fun-loving and sweet. My guys are everything to me. They deplete me and fill me up every day.

I'm not a perfect wife or mother. I am not as patient as I hoped I would be, I am more tired than I want to be. In second grade, I started a list of things to keep in mind when I became a mom. I was angry at my mother at the time, and wanted to be sure I didn't do any of the things she did that enraged me. Now that I'm a mom of two, I understand her a lot more now. People have asked me if I'd like to have more kids. I have all that I can handle.

As far as work goes, I didn't become a kindergarten teacher, although I do work in a higher education setting doing meaningful work that makes a positive difference in the world. I love being in a university environment working closely with amazing, accomplished people who are incredibly diverse, smart, curious, creative, thoughtful and funny. I feel blessed in being able to work with people I respect and admire.

I've learned that it's important to surround yourself with great people, no matter what age you are. My family and my friends support me, challenge me, protect and comfort me. They buoy me wherever I go, whatever I do. Being blanketed in this unconditional love gives me the emotional security to take risks, to try new things, to visit new places.

I'm middle-aged now, but I don't feel old. I have a fulfilling life that seems to keep getting better each year.

Happy birthday!

Love,
Me

Lost: my exobrain

I lost my iPhone two days ago.

I am completely lost without my exobrain and am trying to convince my husband that I need to get a replacement (upgraded model, though, of course) ASAP. Vic and I are not on the same page about this. He reluctantly bought me my first iPhone (now the one he uses) for my birthday in April two years ago.

Here's an excerpted transcript of our phone conversation this morning:

Vic: I'm looking into the iPhone stuff. I emailed you a bunch of links.

me: OK.

Vic: You should probably go to the Apple store. Find out what your options are - correction - find out what your CHEAPEST options are.

me: Cheapest?

Vic: Yeah. Don't just walk in there with the mindset of "I'm coming out with a new iPhone."

me: Uh-huh.

Vic: I mean, if you have to get another phone, your best bet may be a refurbished iPhone 3Gs.

me: Hmm. I was thinking iPhone 4.

Vic: Well, I'm due next for the upgrade.

me: I knew you would say that. I'll see what it costs.

Vic: Don't buy anything or sign any new contracts without calling me first.

me: I have to go.

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