Top 3 Tantrums of My Adulthood (thus far)

 

Many of my friends have left lovely comments on Facebook and Instagram in response to my post about my mom's 80th birthday. Thank you, friends! But in posting a breezy birthday message and cute photos to go with the post, I feel like I was not being fully honest. So I'm here to reveal the humbling truth behind the pretty pictures. An hour before my parents arrived at my house for an outdoor family dinner, I had one of the biggest meltdowns of my life. It was pretty major. Here are the top three tantrums of my adulthood (thus far):

1) The Turkey in the Pantry Incident
This was in 2002. I was pregnant with my firstborn, starving, and looking to make a turkey sandwich. Nothing fancy. Just some deli turkey slices on whole wheat bread with some mustard. But alas, the turkey in the fridge was spoiled. People in the house knew this but did not discard the turkey! They left it there for some unsuspecting hungry person - me - to discover and deal with. I was furious and shrieked. I shrieked a lot. Everyone scurried as I shrieked. With no one around to hear my shrieking, I chucked the package of turkey into the pantry.

2) That One Time We Went to the AT&T Authorized Retailer
I don't really have to explain this one, do I? If you've been to an AT&T Authorized Retailer, chances are you have had your own bad experiences there. Mine happened a few years ago. I went in to inquire about a new smartphone, but while I as there, the salesperson talked me into a "free" tablet. But as you probably know, and I know now, nothing from AT&T is free. My husband and I were upset when we saw the charges that showed up on our bill so we went to the store together to resolve our billing questions, with our younger son in tow. The five-year-old sat and read a book while we asked to speak to a manager. My husband did most of the talking and everything was going well so I turned my back to talk to my child. That's when I heard the salesperson say, "Maybe your wife didn't understand..." Oh no he didn't. Honestly, I don't know what happened after he said that because I kind of blacked out. But my husband and younger son still chuckle about "that time mom lost her temper at the AT&T store."

3) My Mom's 80th Birthday
This one happened yesterday. We planned a small family get-together to celebrate my mom's 80th birthday - just me, my husband, our kids, and my parents. My sister's family would join from California via a video call. We agreed, confirmed, reconfirmed, and extra-confirmed that my parents would arrive at my house at 5:00PM. Even though we were going to eat outside, we prepared for my parents to come inside the house for a bit. My husband, the kids and I spent the day in a housecleaning frenzy, vacuuming, dusting and tidying. We decorated the living room and dining room with paper flowers. I was determined to have a perfect reunion with my parents for my mom's milestone birthday.

Earlier in the day I baked two yellow cake layers (from a box mix - don't be impressed) - but left out the eggs due to a food allergy. When it came time to stack the cakes, I lifted one layer and it broke in half. No! I tried to pick up the half that had fallen and it broke into multiple pieces. NO! I tried to pick up the other layer and that also broke into pieces. NOOOO! Without eggs, the cake didn't bind. My son, waiting to frost the cake, stood horrified, as I picked up the pieces and threw them at the wall. "WE DON'T NEED CAKE! WHO NEEDS CAKE? THROW THIS STUPID CAKE IN THE GARBAGE!" I swore. A lot. I fled the scene of the crime as my younger son desperately tried to frost the remaining cake crumbs.

"It's fine, Mom! You're overreacting," he called out to me. "We'll just tell people to close their eyes when they eat it. No one will care."

I sulked over the cake disaster. I had wanted to give my mom a double-layered chocolate frosted yellow cake. Two months ago, I had baked a cake for my dad's 80th birthday (also from a box mix, but with eggs that time) and I wanted my mom to have a cake too. For my dad's birthday, we stood outside in frosty February-in-Cleveland weather. But for my mom's celebration, we were blessed with a gorgeous day - 80 degrees for my mom's 80th birthday. All of us, except my younger son, have been vaccinated and we could finally be together in person. I just wanted everything to be perfect for our reunion.

My nerves were frayed and now I had to clean up the aftermath of the cake mess I made. I was anxious and taking it out on everybody in the house. The "cake" was a mess. The homemade pop-up card my older son made out of construction paper, with Chinese characters and English words, wasn't good enough - the Chinese characters were uneven. There were piles of paper and other stuff (all mine) still on the dining table. I was spinning out of control.

Suddenly, there was a knock at our door. My parents were here! A half hour early.

I wish I could say that I greeted them warmly. I didn't. I said, "It's not 5 o'clock! Why are you here so early?! We said 5 o'clock! It's only 4:30! I'm still cleaning! IT'S NOT 5 YET! I'M NOT READY!" My parents looked at each other and then my dad said, "It's okay. We can take Bailey for a walk while you get ready." He put a leash on our dog and they took him out for a stroll through our neighborhood.

I wish I could say that I had calmed down while my parents took our dog for a walk but I was still fuming. "But it's not 5 o'clock!" I wailed to my husband. My younger son cleared the dining table, carrying six loads (he counted) of my things upstairs to my bedroom.

"Yes, but you know they always show up early," my husband said. "And they were probably so excited to see us and couldn't wait to get here."

When my parents returned from walking the dog, my dad pulled me aside and said, "You can say what you need to say but you can do it with a softer tone. You could just say, 'Oh, you are early! I wasn't expecting you so soon.'" He was right and I was ashamed.

In the end, everyone pretended I didn't just throw an epic tantrum and we had a lovely meal together outside on our deck. No one commented on the pan of chocolate frosted cake crumbs and my mom happily blew out the candle I planted in the gooey mess. My dad helped me cut and serve "slices" of the "cake" and everyone ate their pile of crumbs. And my kids even asked for more, polishing off the cake pan.

I am sorry and embarrassed for being such a jerk on what should have been a purely joyous day. It's been a long year and I have to relearn how to be a human being.

On misogyny, racism and gun violence

I've had a severe case of emotional whiplash in the last day and a half. I learned about the eight people killed in Atlanta shootings after a busy day where I had tuned out news and social media. 

Before I checked the news that evening, I was having a great night with two virtual book launches and a phone call with a dear friend. The first book launch event celebrated the debut novel of one of my favorite local writing instructors and included some magic psychic poetry. Right after that, I attended another Zoom book launch to celebrate a friend's debut cookbook, which included a fun cooking demonstration. And then, I had a catch-up phone chat with yet another writer friend to discuss a collaborative storytelling project she is leading. It was a night to celebrate inspiring women sharing their voices, stories, and recipes.

And then I checked Twitter.

I don't know how to describe how I feel. Distraught? Outraged? Exhausted? Yes. 

Is it the misogyny? Is it the racism? Is it the gun violence? Yes. 

Minutes before the Georgia shootings, Stop AAPI Hate released a report that there have been 3,800 anti-Asian incidents in the past year. Most of those have been against women. Of the eight victims in the Georgia shootings, six are women of Asian descent. The Georgia killer said he has a sex addiction and that the shootings were not motivated by race. 

Misogyny and racism are not mutually exclusive. 

The AAPI women I know understand this. We are accustomed to being seen as perpetual foreigners and asked "Where are you from? No, really, where are you from?" As children, some of us were teased with "ching chong" chants. Later on, we were fetishized, exoticized and oversexualized: "Is it true what they say about Asian women?" We've been accosted and assaulted. 

In the past year, we've heard our former president give speeches about "the China virus" or "kung flu." We've been worried about coughing or sneezing in public. We've been told, "Go back where you came from." We've worried about our elderly parents getting targeted when they are out in public.

Particularly for some of us with East Asian backgrounds, we were perceived as being part of the "model minority". We were expected to get good grades, achieve, and not make waves. We were considered "honorary Whites," which diminished and erased essential parts of us. We grew very sensitive social antennae to navigate our surroundings. 

Some people, especially other BIPOC friends, have checked in on me and asked how they can support the AAPI community right now.Yesterday, I was too numb to think about anything specific. But I did email my city's mayor and ask him if he could put out a statement. He replied within four minutes that he was already on it. 

If you are in a position of privilege or power, use it to help people who are vulnerable and don't have the resources you have. 

We need solidarity. 

We need words and we also need action. 

We need people to speak up and stand up, not just for us but for every victim of injustice. 

Neighborhood Voices

I am honored and proud to be among the writers included in

Neighborhood Voices, a city-wide writing anthology project produced by Literary Cleveland and the Cleveland Public Library. 

For this anthology, I wrote a memoir piece, "Can Understand, Cannot Speak," about bussing tables at a Chinese restaurant in Midtown Cleveland. I was a high school student then and that experience galvanized me as an Asian American writer growing up in the Rust Belt. 

My story is just one of many in this project, which includes voices from all over Cleveland. The print version will be available later this year, but you can check out the online version now to read about finding fellowship at a Sunday barbecue in Mount Pleasant, shopping for produce at West Side Market alongside Dennis Kucinich, photographing the sights of University Circle, and imagining a future without violence in Glenville.

In praise of Target parking lots

I love Target. I miss the Before Times when I could take long leisurely shopping trips there, browsing every aisle, taking my time. I could get everything I wanted at Target, from snacks to office supplies to pharmacy medications. 

I even like Target parking lots and have my favorite places to park there (i.e. next to a shopping cart corral in a close-but-not-too-close row near the entrance).  

Even after my shopping trips to Target were finished and my bags were loaded into the trunk of my car, I liked taking my time before heading home. I could sip a cold drink I just bought from the Target Starbucks and maybe open up a bag of snacks. I could listen to music in the car, blissfully, by myself, away from any demands from home, work, family, the world. 

So when I read the police blotter blurb in the community newspaper that a woman was stopped by a police officer for hanging out in a Target parking lot after hours, I was horrified. What is the crime in sitting in your car not bothering anybody? I know this woman. I am this woman. I felt such a deep connection to this woman that I was compelled to reach out to her. 

Read the open letter I wrote to her for McSweeney's.

Tour of Grief

Two summers ago, I remember reading news about an orca whose newborn calf died about thirty minutes after being born. The mother, called J35 and nicknamed Tahlequah, carried her dead calf for 1,000 miles in the waters of the Pacific Northwest. She kept her baby afloat for seventeen days, balancing it and lifting it up with her head. Other whales and dolphins have been known to mourn the loss of a family member, but not for this long. Researchers called it a record-breaking “tour of grief.”

During this pandemic, someone is always grieving. I have 981 Facebook friends. Without being able to visit family and friends in person the way we used to, I mostly stay in touch with everyone through social media. When I scroll through the newsfeeds, I scan posts that give me emotional whiplash - a photo of a homecooked meal, an announcement of a work-related award, pictures of cats, coronavirus-related news articles, school opening updates, and then one that stops me. Another friend has lost a parent.

Five of my friends have lost their fathers during this pandemic. One lost his mom. We didn’t go to the funeral services, some of which have been postponed to a future date to be determined, presumably when things are back to normal again. Expressing sorrow and sympathy through phone calls, emails, and texts is not the same as showing up in person; it seems so shallow and inadequate. There are no sufficient emoji.

When elderly people fall ill, it can turn serious very quickly. A common cold can turn into pneumonia. A fall can mean shattered bones. Whether they are long, slow farewells that stretch over years or sudden, unexpected passings, no one is ever really ready to lose a loved one.

I think about mortality a lot these days. During this pandemic, one of my younger friends underwent chemotherapy for a rare, aggressive form of breast cancer. She was diagnosed mere weeks after giving birth to a beautiful baby girl. We celebrated Kate’s final chemo treatment with a surprise socially distanced parade, all of us lined along her driveway, street, and sidewalk wearing rainbow wigs like hers, in solidarity.

Finding out about a friend’s loss through Facebook or Twitter amid photos of homemade baked goods and political rants diminishes the profound experience of mourning. For people who share their grief on social media, do our comments and tweets help keep them afloat?

Today, during my morning news scroll, I read that Tahlequah is pregnant again. The gestation period for an orca is 15-18 months. I pray for her to carry her baby to term. I imagine her celebrating the birth in a tour of triumph, lifting her new calf up to see the sky, and then swimming alongside her child, traveling another thousand miles, light and liberated.

Read more stories on Raw Data: Living in the Fallout from the Coronavirus.

Snack Wheel

Maybe he’s going through a growth spurt. He is a 12-year-old boy, after all. Or maybe he’s like me and he’s eating his feelings. He’s bored, he says. This family is so boring. Nobody ever wants to do anything. He asks for more screen time to play online games with his friends.

His hunger is constant. He snacks several times a day. Sometimes, he’ll have cereal, depositing the empty bowl in the kitchen sink afterward with a few Cheerios stuck to the sides. Sometimes, he’ll grab a fruit cup and a spoon, leaving sticky syrupy residue on the dining table. Sometimes, he’ll shake a mound of tortilla chips onto a plate and microwave it for a few seconds to have a warm salty snack. Sometimes, he’ll dump a tin of tuna into a bowl and add a handful of black olives. Sometimes, he’ll mix the tuna with pickle relish and spread it onto Ritz crackers.

We’ve been self-quarantined for 29 days now, and I spend large chunks of each day in the kitchen, cooking meals at the stove, loading the dishwasher, handwashing the wok and cast iron skillet, cleaning spills from the countertops and floors, taking inventory of the refrigerator and pantry, and wiping everything down.

Along with the snacks he prepares for himself, the sixth-grader has devoured an assortment of food I’ve made for him since the statewide stay-at-home order: stuffed peppers, a berry pie, red lentil soup, toasted pita with hummus, fish sticks, sloppy joes, bowls of pasta and meat sauce, banana bread with raisins, two loaves of pumpkin bread, fried rice, potstickers, lentil vegetable soup, baked cod, couscous, baked apples. 

Tonight, during dinner, as he shoveled down spoonfuls of Spanish rice and ground beef, he turned to me and said, “What else can I eat? Could you make me a meatball sub?” He is always thinking about his next snack. He makes grocery wish lists: Lunchables, Oreos, Fruit Gushers, Capri Sun. 

The other day, hungry and bored (because his family is so boring), he made three meal wheels, one for snacks (bread, chips, crackers, pretzels, almonds), one for dips (salsa, jam, ketchup, mustard, marinara sauce) and one for drinks (water, milk, orange juice). Each wheel also includes “you decide!” as a possibility. 

Because he is always hungry, I am always thinking about food too. Tomorrow, we’re going to make Chinese dumplings together. We’ll sit at the dining table, filling flour wrappers with spoonfuls of ground chicken, ginger, soy sauce, and sesame oil. We’ll place them in the bamboo steamer and then lift them out with chopsticks when they’re finished cooking. 

The sixth-grader will be ready to eat. 

Read more stories on Raw Data: Living in the Fallout from the Coronavirus.

Welcome, goodbye

My essay on my family's immigration journey in The Plain Dealer

On our first day in the United States, my dad’s new boss at Case Western Reserve University welcomed us to Cleveland by taking us out for pizza at Geraci’s in University Heights. For our first American Thanksgiving, her family hosted us and served a feast of roast turkey and pumpkin pie.

Not all immigrants are greeted so warmly. Americans are divided now, as rhetoric of being a nation of immigrants has become talk of building a wall.

Our family’s journey to the United States began in the late ‘60s when my parents emigrated from Taiwan to Canada, where my dad attended graduate school and my sister and I were born. After my dad landed a position as a cancer researcher at CWRU, we packed up the car and drove five hours from Toronto to Cleveland. It was the summer after I finished first grade. 

Read my full essay on Cleveland.com