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.

On being an Easter basket case

Even though I have lived in North America my whole life, I am still perplexed by certain American customs and traditions. I've mastered most holidays, like Halloween and for the most part, Valentine's Day. And I thought I knew Easter too, but I was wrong.  

As the daughter of Taiwanese immigrants who are not particularly religious, I grew up celebrating Christmas and Easter not as holy days, but mainly as American commercial holidays. For Christmas, our family exchanged brightly wrapped gifts, decorated a tree and hung stockings. My sister learned the true identity of Santa Claus when she caught my dad hurriedly stuffing McDonald's gift certificates into her stocking. For Easter, my sister and I embarked on indoor egg hunts, searching for foil-wrapped chocolate eggs my dad hid all around the house. When I was in high school, though, he was tired of the routine and instead of hiding a whole bunch of eggs, he half-heartedly plunked a single bag of chocolate eggs in one spot where it was easy to find - pretty lame, I have to say.

Anyhow, I have a few questions about Easter. I am a bit confused about the Bunny and the Baskets. I know that the Easter Bunny is kind of like the Santa Claus, except instead of depositing toys and treats into a stocking, he/she does it in a basket. I get that. But the baskets are meant for children only, right? Not for adults?

Today I was doing some Easter shopping with a friend and noticed that she was not just buying things for her children.

"Hey, what's going on?" I asked. "Are you buying Easter stuff for your husband?"

"Yes, we all get Easter baskets," she replied.

"What?! Easter baskets for everyone? For adults? Is this a thing?" I asked. As we strolled down the street of shops, flurries in the air turned into large snowflakes. It's spring in Cleveland, after all.

"I don't know if it's a thing," she said, "but in our family, we all get Easter baskets." Snowflakes landed on our heads as I looked at my friend quizzically. 

This is my same friend who makes Valentine's Day a family celebration, not a day focused solely on romance. For Valentine's Day, she makes sure everyone in her family gets sweet treats. She is very inclusive in celebrating special occasions, including Canada Day. It's one of the reasons we are friends.

Still, I was puzzled. From polling friends over the years, I have learned what typically goes into a child's Easter basket: at least one chocolate Easter bunny, plastic eggs filled with jelly beans, small toys or gadgets, books, maybe some socks. For some reason, at our house for my kids, the Easter Bunny also delivers toothbrushes and toothpaste. 

So I understand what a child's Easter basket is all about. But what goes into an adult's Easter basket? The same thing? Does everyone in your family get an Easter basket? If so, what's inside? 

What does your family do for Easter?

Lean On: A Tribute to Susan Lewis

A lot of people are talking about Facebook COO Sheryl Sandberg's book Lean In: Women, Work and the Will to Lead. I've only read excerpts of it so far, but her words remind me of another extraordinary woman: my friend Susan Lewis.

Susan Lewis, friend and leader.
Photo courtesy of Tim Crowley

Susan passed away on Friday after a hard-fought battle with cancer. She was a principled and focused leader with high expectations for herself and everyone around her.

I met Susan five years ago when she came to work at Case Western Reserve University's College of Arts and Sciences as executive director of development and external relations. She had worked at the university years before and some of my colleagues knew her to be a take-charge, no-nonsense boss. 

When Susan returned to the university in her new role, some of us didn't know what to make of her. She was too cool and composed. She was direct and demanding. I regarded her warily. As we got to know each other, though, we developed a rich working relationship and a cherished friendship. We shared our personal and professional lives. We brainstormed ideas for projects, we shared parenting stories, we chatted over countless cups of coffee and tea. 

Susan offered valuable career advice and helped me navigate treacherous university politics. Her children were older than mine and she shared her wisdom and experience generously, especially the year my son's third-grade teacher seemingly had my cell phone number on speed dial. One thing I loved so much about Susan was that she was always willing to listen and always ready to help. 

As supervisors, we often discussed ideas about leadership. Both of us were committed to promoting the university's Women Staff Leadership Development Initiative. We wanted to build a robust community of women leaders. We wanted to nurture an environment that supported women in the workplace. 

I often leaned on Susan for support and advice. One afternoon at work, I received the devastating news that a friend had taken her own life. Overcome by shock and sadness, I felt unhinged. The world no longer made sense to me and I was lost. In the middle of a dean's cabinet meeting, I burst into tears. Afterward, I told Susan how embarrassed I was that my emotions overcame me so publicly. She comforted me, reminding me that we are human, that we have emotions. Sometimes we lose confidence in ourselves, but we gain it back. "Fake it 'til you feel it again," she said. 

On another day, Susan came into my office smiling shyly. She asked me to review two essays she had written for a graduate program application. I was flattered that she sought my input on something so personal and meaningful to her.

In one of her essays, Susan had written about her diagnosis of cancer in 2003, a life-changing event that suddenly derailed her successful career. Up until that point, she had defined herself by her professional accomplishments and career path. 

"I loved to do, to achieve, to solve, to be active," Susan wrote. "I had fallen victim to the mindset of valuing oneself as a reflection of what one does. The experience of cancer and cancer treatment opened my eyes to the endless possibilities of one’s career, and enabled me to construct [a] more balanced and satisfying personal and professional life. In the end, it was my cancer 'milestone', and the opportunity to step outside my 'professional' self that was truly the starting point on my journey to professional self-awareness."

Prior to reading her essay, Susan and I had not talked about her battle with cancer. I did notice the sun hats she wore even on cloudy days. Sometimes I overheard her chiding fair-skinned colleagues to cover their bare shoulders and arms and at least wear sunscreen. I had chalked it up to her motherly instincts, though, and not known she had fought skin cancer.

Suddenly, Susan's tough exterior made sense. She was a warrior. For 17 years, up until her original melanoma diagnosis, she had worked for the Boy Scouts of America and been surrounded by men in a traditional top-down organizational structure. The experience had steeled her and motivated her to focus on organizational leadership as a personal and professional mission. 

Susan wrote about her shift from focusing on her own goals to helping others achieve theirs:

Each day I interact with staff, faculty and alumni of CWRU and have come to admire them as individuals; have come to be inspired by them as contributing, engaged members of the greater community.  It is through these interactions that I have come to realize that I have a longing to learn and know something more – about myself and the world around me.  Further, I have a longing to make a positive impact on the world around me by providing leadership and direction for those, like myself, who are searching for something more.  

Susan was accepted into the program. 

She thrived in it and loved to share what she learned. She was eager to put her knowledge and skills to work. She mentored younger co-workers and encouraged them to challenge themselves and accept roles with more responsibility.

Two years ago, after I left the university and moved across the country, I kept in touch with Susan mainly through emails, phone calls and yes, Facebook. I learned that the cancer had returned. I made a few trips back to Cleveland and Susan always made time to see me. We'd catch up over lunch and then we would hug as if we wouldn't see each other again. 

Over the next several months, her email updates announced bad news. The cancer spread rapidly to her liver and lymph nodes. Last April, she wrote, "My cancer journey continues tomorrow and I ask that you keep me in your positive thoughts. I was recently diagnosed with not one, but two brain tumors – a result of malignant melanoma legions." 

In May, she reported happy news: "I am thrilled that I will be collecting my diploma for my Master of Science in Positive Organization Development and Change from the Weatherhead School of Management at CWRU this Sunday! My parents, Tim and the kids will be there for me at graduation. This MPOD program, and all that I have learned and experienced, has been a powerful force in my life...especially through relationships built with my classmates, and most timely with my life (health) adventures over the last 9 months. The focus on the positive, the appreciative lens, and the openness to embracing change, all played a significant role in how I, and my family, have chosen to live this journey. I am truly humbled that this opportunity appeared at the time I needed it the most."

Susan leaned in. In her fight against cancer, she endured pain, fatigue, treatment therapies and surgeries. In contrast to her first bout with cancer, when she fought the disease alone, this time, she shared her experiences at A Gathering Place, a support network of cancer patients. She worked full time as long as she could. At home, also, she charged ahead, cheering on her husband during his long-distance races and her daughter during her soccer games. Last year, she stood by her son as he earned his Eagle Scout rank and started his first year of college. This year, she guided her daughter in her senior year of high school.

Susan allowed others to lean on her, and when she needed it, she leaned on us. She showed us the importance of sharing yourself, your dreams, your strengths and your frailties and letting others do the same. 

She leaned and she led. And we loved her for it.

Hello To All the Children of the World

Hello, bonjour, buenos dias!

Hello, Bonjour, Buenos Dias

G'Day, Gutentag, Konichiwa
Ciao, Shalom, Dobre Dyen, 
Hello to all the children of the world!

Last Friday, I chaired an event at my sons' school: the International Fair. It was a wonderful celebration of culture and community.

Several months ago, the school PTA president asked for volunteers to help plan the event this fall. I signed up, thinking I'd basically be organizing a giant potluck. (When you say International Fair, I say food: Fair! Food! Fair! Food!)

We moved to California last summer, so we are still relatively new to the neighborhood. At our former elementary school in Cleveland Heights, Ohio, we loved the Soul Food Dinner/Multicultural Night that was held every other year. Food was a huge part of the evening, as it was essentially a massive potluck dinner in the cafeteria, flanked by parent-hosted country booths. The soul food selections were always fantastic: fried chicken, mac-n-cheese casseroles, banana pudding, sweet potato pies. The other cultural dishes were wonderful too. Latkes always disappeared fast, along with potstickers.

So at our new school this year, I agreed to chair the International Fair. And then I learned that it was more than a potluck. I worked closely with two other moms to plan the event. Juggling home and work responsibilities, we met weekly for the past month and a half to develop and execute a plan that included recruiting volunteers, lining up food and merchandise vendors, scheduling entertainment and coordinating publicity. Before this event, I had not met these two women, but by Friday evening, we had bonded. For weeks, we dealt with lots of logistical details together. Unexpected problems cropped up. Volunteers dropped out, food trucks broke down, performers needed special accommodations. We worked with some wonderful people along the way: committed parent volunteers and a supportive school staff, including our principal, Amanda Boyce.

It had been years since the school last hosted an International Fair and in the past, the event had been held as a schoolday event only for students. This year, we hosted the event on a Friday evening and opened it to families and the larger community. With these changes, we didn't know if people would respond favorably. An hour and a half before the event opened, I stood alone on the school blacktop starting to worry. What if the food trucks don't come? What if the DJ doesn't come? What if no one comes?

Then, the first food vendor arrived: the charming El Sur food truck. They showed up early to begin baking their incredible Argentinian empanadas. When they rolled up, I was so excited I shrieked and ran up to them like they were the Ice Cream Man. I directed them and the other food trucks to park in a way that anchored a food court area. Then, the custodian arrived and set up tables and chairs, helping everyone all evening. Merchandise vendors came and set up clothing, jewelry and henna stands. Parent and teacher volunteers trickled in and set up various country displays.

Everything was coming together and I happily ticked off items on my checklists. I was starting to breathe normally again. When the DJ arrived and successfully hooked up his equipment, I felt even more relieved. And then when the martial arts team showed up, looking not unlike the Cobra Kai team from The Karate Kid, I knew everything was going to be OK. (Seriously, I expected their leader, at any moment, to say, ominously, "Sweep the leg.")

Families strolled in, many dressed in clothing from their native countries: China, India, Iran, Ireland, Japan, Korea, Phillipines, Romania and more. They practiced slapshots at the Canada booth, folded origami hats at the Japan booth, tried tinikling at the Phillipines booth. They sampled street food from the food trucks and the Indian chaat vendor.

Everyone swarmed the dance and music performances. One of my fellow event coordinators, a dance teacher among other roles, choreographed and led a delightful kindergarten performance that attracted a large mob of overbearing kinder parents (me being one of them). In all the time I worked to plan this evening, I had forgotten that my own younger son would be performing. When he and all the other kinders sang "Hello to all the children of the world", everything about the evening came together. All the logistical details swarming in my head fell away and I just listened to these adorable youngsters singing to celebrate our international community.

It was a memorable night.

Food truck obsession: it all started with the Ice Cream Man

The original food truck. 
Photo credit: Wikimedia Commons

I am a little obsessed with food trucks these days. 

For me, it all started 30-something years ago with the original version: the ice cream truck. The first time I experienced the ice cream truck was the summer before second grade, after my family moved from Canada to the United States. One hot, humid afternoon, a truck came ambling down our street. Music blared - I think it was "Turkey in the Straw". My buddy Audrey grabbed my arm. "It's the ice cream man! Come on, let's go!" She saw the confused look on my face and directed me on what to do: go home, collect all the loose change in the house, beg parents for money if needed and then rush back to the tree lawn to wait for the truck to come by.

I did as instructed and met Audrey on the street curb. When the truck stopped in front of us, I was overwhelmed. Photos of various frozen treats plastered the entire side of the truck. It took all summer for me to sample the various options and determine my favorites: the orange sherbet Push Up, the Strawberry Shortcake bar, the Fudgsicle, the orange Creamsicle and the peanut-crusted Drumstick. (OK, I guess that isn't much of a short list.)

Anyhow, my cheap Asian immigrant parents were not fans of the Ice Cream Truck and tried to dissuade me from developing this new American summer addiction. They bought cheap tubs of Neapolitan ice cream (Three flavors for the price of one! On sale!) from the supermarket and hoped that would cure me. What they didn't understand was that it was the whole Ice Cream Truck Experience that was appealing, not the ice cream itself. The variety. The immediacy. My addiction got worse. Bolting up every time I heard the truck music, I had become one of Pavlov's dogs. My mom refused to give me any money to support my habit. Audrey and I started setting up lemonade stands. We sold greeting cards. We sold pens. We sold our toys. 

Once, on a family trip to Taiwan, I heard a truck blaring music from loudspeakers. "ICE CREAM!" I squealed and leapt toward the door of my grandparents' house. My parents shook their heads. "It's the garbage man," my dad said.

Flash forward. Two years ago, my fabulous foodie friend Gina P. told me about a food truck making a stop near our workplace in Cleveland: Dim and Den Sum. She invited me to meet her there for lunch. Dim sum + food truck + lunch with a friend = no brainer. The Asian fusion selections were yummy and I went back to work happy. 

Then last year, we moved to the San Francisco Bay Area, home to a thriving Food Truck movement. At my son's elementary school back-to-school picnic, I was surprised and thrilled to see several food trucks parked on the school grounds. Options included Indian dosa, Chinese rice bowls, Mexican burritos and Kara's Cupcakes. A food truck frenzy! Heaven.

This past weekend, I organized an International Fair event at my sons' school and went with the food truck model. Researching and contacting food trucks in the area, I gained considerable knowledge of area food trucks. For the past six weeks leading up to the event, I often had dreams of them. In one dream, I opened up a Taiwanese food truck called BoPoMoFo (a phonetic Chinese pronunciation alphabet) that offered Taiwanese street food (specializing in bubble teas and steamed sticky rice in banana leaves).

Now I'm obsessed with food trucks more than ever.

Starry Skies

This essay was published in the Final Exam section of CWRU, the magazine for Case Western Reserve University, in Spring 2002. 

Starry Skies

After several sweaty trips between our car and my dorm room, the last of my boxes and suitcases were finally stashed into my new home in Michelson House at Case Western Reserve University. It was a hot August afternoon, and my parents dumped me off (their firstborn child on her first day of college) without so much as a hug or tearful goodbye. I offered to take them on a campus tour, but my dad scoffed. He had been working at CWRU for years and already knew his way around the university.

The campus was nothing new to me either, after countless visits to the lab where my dad, Song-mao Chiu, worked, dozens of piano recitals at the Cleveland Institute of Music, and seemingly endless trips to the orthodontist at the dental school. Still, even though my family lives just a few miles from campus, I hadn’t anticipated that CWRU would open up a new world to me – a rare, diverse international community.

By living on campus, I developed friendships with people from all over the globe. I lived on a floor with students from Sweden, Vietnam, Pakistan, and the United Arab Emirates. In the first week of school as we all got to know each other, I found myself struggling to find an easy answer to the question: “Where are you from?” Did this mean where was I born? Or where do I live? Or what is my ethnicity? I didn’t know how to offer a succinct answer without providing a long-winded explanation: I was born in Canada to Taiwanese immigrant parents but grew up in Cleveland.

Spending time with a close circle of international students introduced me to other cultures, while crystallizing feelings about my own. It also helped me better understand and cherish the idea of living in a multinational community. Sometimes our political discussions lasted all night. Ethnic differences were not always celebrated. One time, a group of American-born freshmen grilled a Middle Eastern student, accusing him of being associated with terrorists. They questioned what his father did for a living. Surprisingly, the student remained calm and joked that his dad was a farmer. When pressed for details on what was grown on the farm, he replied with a straight face, “Ravioli.”

Overall, though, living in a multinational community proved to be positive and enlightening. One night, a Swedish graduate student, after decorating our suite in blue and yellow streamers, threw a “Swede party” for all of us. Muslim students explained Ramadan. An Iranian student described the dazzling sight of stars lighting up a desert sky.

In the classroom too, I developed a broader perspective on international cultures and traditions. In my senior year, I took an English class called the Immigrant Experience. We read literature from Asian, Russian, and Mexican writers, among others. We wrote and shared our own stories, which illustrated how each of us found our way to the United States and to CWRU. We wrote about how our families arrived in the country, the reasons we came, and the reasons we stayed. We wrote about living between cultures, among languages, within religious customs.

I began to sense that being American does not preclude coming from an Asian, Arab, European or any other ethnic background. In fact, in many ways, the immigrant experience is uniquely American. Coming to this realization helped me in my decision to formalize my commitment to this country. I decided to become an American citizen.

Considering how much our world has changed since September 11, I’ve been thinking a lot about what it means to be an American today. I’ve been thinking about the situations that bring us together and the conflicts that drive us apart. I’ve been thinking about the friends I made during my freshman year and in that remarkable English class. I’ve been thinking about the Iranian student and wondering if he still looks up at the stars. And I’ve been hoping that we are looking at the same sky.

Hungry Ghost exhibit opening reception in San Francisco tonight

Tonight is the opening reception for the art exhibit I have been producing with the Asian American Women Artists Association. 

Opening Reception:

Thursday, April 26, 2012, 5 - 8:30 PM

Exhibition Dates:

Monday, April 23 - Friday, June 8, 2012

Location:

Thoreau Center for Sustainability

The Presidio, Building 1014

Tourney Avenue

San Francisco, CA 94129

Join us for the opening reception of Hungry Ghost: Yearning for Fulfillment, a dynamic exhibition featuring the work of 38 visual and literary artists. The Hungry Ghost, a concept based in Buddhist and Taoist beliefs, is a lost soul that roams burdened by unmet needs. Driven by insatiable greed and intense desires, the Hungry Ghost wanders, searches and feeds. Hungry Ghost: Yearning for Fulfillment asks Asian American women artists to interpret and illuminate this powerful, culturally rich metaphor. They address the questions: How do we crave acceptance and fulfillment? What feeds us?

These artists responded through essays, illustrations, mixed media installations, paintings, photography, poetry and sculpture. Their works express themes of food and family, identity and isolation, consumption and compulsion.

Hungry Ghost: Asian American women artists visual and literary arts exhibition

The art exhibition I am curating opens in less than three weeks! 

Asian American Women Artist Association's Emerging Curators Program presents Hungry Ghost: Yearning for Fulfillment a visual and literary art exhibition featuring 38 artists curated by Lisa Chiu Opening Reception: Thursday, April 26, 2012, 5 - 8:30 PM Exhibition Dates:  Monday, April 23 – Saturday, June 9, 2012 Location:  Thoreau Center of Sustainability The Presidio, Building 1014, Tourney Avenue, San Francisco, CA 94129 Join us for the opening reception of Hungry Ghost: Yearning for Fulfillment, a dynamic exhibition featuring the work of 38 visual and literary artists. The Hungry Ghost, a concept based in Buddhist and Taoist beliefs, is a lost soul that roams burdened by unmet needs. Driven by insatiable greed and intense desires, the Hungry Ghost wanders, searches and feeds. Hungry Ghost: Yearning for Fulfillment asks Asian American women artists to interpret and illuminate this powerful, culturally rich metaphor. They address the questions: How do we crave acceptance and fulfillment? What feeds us? These artists responded through essays, illustrations, mixed media installations, paintings, photography, poetry and sculpture. Their works express themes of food and family, identity and isolation, consumption and compulsion.  The Artists: Octavia Baker • Mitsuko Brooks • Jennifer Cheng • Karen Chew • Linn Chiu • Wei Ming Dariotis • Ganga Dharmappa • Stephanie Han • Khay Hembrador • Julie Huynh • Jaimee Itagaki •  Zilka Joseph •  Rosie Kar • Leslie Kitashima • Susan Kitazawa • Julia Kuo • Amy Lam • Lucy Liew  •  Elaine Gin Louie • Grace Hwang Lynch • Wei Ma • Mia Nakano • Choppy Oshiro • Cat Chiu Phillips • Michelle Salnaitis • Linda Shiue • Leah Silvieus • Sokunthary Svay • Elizabeth Travelslight • Cynthia Tom • Vivian Truong • Solongo Tseekhuu • Cat U-Thasoonthorn • Nancy Uyemura • Susan Lien Whigham • Pamela Ybanez • Stephanie Yu • Leslie Zeitler The Curator: Lisa Chiu is a Taiwanese American writer and food fanatic. Her interest in curation stems from a desire to cultivate creative opportunities that foster cultural awareness. She conceived Hungry Ghost as a forum to amplify Asian American women’s voices and showcase their art. Asian American Women Artists Association (AAWAA): AAWAA is a nonprofit arts organization dedicated to ensuring the visibility and documentation of Asian American women in the arts. Through exhibitions, publications, and educational programs, we offer thought-provoking perspectives that challenge societal assumptions and promote dialogue. www.aawaa.net Emerging Curators Program: AAWAA’s Emerging Curators Program provides a platform for aspiring curators residing in the San Francisco Bay Area to develop their vision and encourage curatorial expertise in the Asian American community. Presenting Organizations: Thoreau Center For Sustainability  Asian Pacific Islander Cultural Center For more information, contact info@aawaa.net

On democracy and oyster omelettes

A few weeks ago, my family ate at an Asian restaurant in Cupertino and chowed down on several Taiwanese comfort food dishes: bean thread noodles, oyster omelettes (also known as oyster pancakes) and steamed dumplings. The next day, I met up with a few fellow second-generation Taiwanese Americans in San Francisco and we reflected on what it was like to grow up as an Asian American in the Midwest and West Coast. 

There is a powerful connection between food and memory. Every time I eat Taiwanese food, I feel compelled to call my mom. So, feeling nostalgic, I called my parents in Ohio and we talked about my weekend of Taiwanese culture and the recent presidential election in Taiwan. My parents had been rooting for Democratic Progressive Party candidate Tsai Ing-wen, Taiwan's first female presidential candidate. Our relatives in Taiwan, including my spunky 96-year-old grandmother had voted, while my parents followed election news on satellite TV. "We lost. It was close," my dad said. Both my parents cried. 

It was ironic that our conversation took place the weekend before Martin Luther King Day. I remember the first time I heard the word "We shall overcome" was as a child growing up in Cleveland. With heavy Taiwanese accents, my parents and their friends sang the words as they marched down Euclid Avenue to Public Square. They wore matching t-shirts and hoisted homemade signs that said "Democracy on Taiwan!" I have vivid memories of our family gathered in a basement with other Taiwanese families silkscreening dozens of those t-shirts. We hosted a party where all of us rounded our dining room table in an assembly line, folding, sealing and stamping letters to Congress petitioning support of Taiwan.

While I understood my parents' disappointment with the election results, I couldn't comprehend why they were so emotional about it. After all these years, there is still a language barrier between us when it comes to discussing emotions and complex topics. So I turned to a few of my Taiwanese American friends to get their perspective. 

Each of them reminded me that our parents grew up during World War II when Taiwan was under Japanese and then Chinese Kuomingtang (KMT) rule. Many of our parents, including my own, have bitter memories about the KMT, in particular. "The KMT seized property that belonged to my father's side of the family," my friend Vicki said. "My maternal grandfather was imprisoned for six months. My mother still gets emotional when she talks about it."

After growing up under martial law for many years, our parents dreamed of the day Taiwan would one day be independent. Many of them came to the United States for graduate and professional school opportunities. And then they stayed. By now, they have lived more years here than in Taiwan. They are U.S. citizens; they pay taxes, they vote, they serve jury duty (my dad raved about it!).

In the past decade, I've enjoyed a wonderful closeness to my parents, mostly because of my two kids. Where my mom and dad once were typical Tiger Parents with me, they are complete softies with the boys. My parents spent a lot of time caring for my boys when they were babies and I was at work, and as a result, I swear my older son's first word was "chocolate".

So even though I feel closer then ever to my parents, there is still a cultural gap between us. As a teenager, it frustrated me. As a middle-aged mom, it saddens me. I wish I could understand what they are going through. I can't help but wonder if my parents are giving up the dream of an independent motherland - and perhaps more than that. Is it about getting older? Is it about thinking my aging grandmother may have voted in her last presidential election? 

I wish I knew.

October in California

We had a fun Halloween evening today, our first in our Sunnyvale home. Our good friends Ellen and Edward brought their adorable son and daughter over and we ate pizza, trick-or-treated and handed out Halloween toys to the neighborhood kids. 

Don't mess with these ninjas!

It was a beautiful evening, with perfect 75 degree weather. It seemed a little strange to trick-or-treat without the familiar crispness of a midwestern October night and without leaves crackling beneath our feet. It was also weird to set out without knowing most of the people on our street.

I wasn't sure what to expect as far as the number of trick-or-treaters in our neighborhood, so I ended up with a lot of leftover rubber skeletons, Halloween tattoos and bouncy balls. Of the kids who came to our door, all were young, well-mannered and dressed in adorable costumes, accompanied by attentive parents standing behind them. I don't think we had any trick-or-treaters older than age 10 and none who came without their parents. A few neighbors introduced themselves, which was really nice.

This year, for the first time in our family, the selection of Halloween costumes went relatively smoothly. Both boys decided to wear matching ninja costumes.

Last year, Nico and I were not on the same page about his costume choice. He wanted to wear a gory Grim Reaper costume replete with an exposed rib cage and fake blood pump. 

This year, there was no battle over excessively gruesome attire. And I also let go of my cheap Asian mom instincts (well, to some extent). Years ago, I bought a plush puppy toddler costume off eBay for $10. I made both boys wear it, each for three years in a row. Friends tried to talk me out of it, lest my kids think that Halloween means dressing like a dog. Whatever! I got six Halloweens out of that costume, at $1.67 a year!

This year, I again went back to eBay for my costume shopping. I found some pretty good deals and opted against the ninja costume extras. Nico complained that he needed a sword, but I convinced him that the best ninjas need only their bare hands as deadly weapons. 

Last week, we participated in other Halloween activities. Nico's school had a wonderful Halloween celebration, beginning the day with a parade and an awesome performance of fourth- and fifth-graders dancing to Michael Jackson's "Thriller" (an annual tradition), led by their gym teacher. Vic thought it would have been better still if the kids dressed up as Filipino prisoners while performing the dance. Nico was embarrassed about the routine, but I thought it was fantastic! Also, the boys joined Vic for his company's annual trick-or-treat event for kids. Vic's team dressed up as Occupy Halloween protesters, with signs that said, "Save the pumpkins! No more carving! No more tricks! Give us treats!"

Earlier in the month, we went on a pumpkin-finding mission in Half Moon Bay, where we went to a pumpkin patch with my sister Linn and her girlfriend. All of us went in the haunted house, which was a stupid idea for four-year-old Nolan, who screamed, "NO! NO! NOT AT ALL! NOT! AT! ALL!" within seconds of entering the pitch-black maze. Vic and Nico also found their way in and out of a huge cornfield maze, while Nolan and I rode on the baby train. Afterward, we went on a long family hike. 

October in California has been lovely, although I do miss autumn in Ohio - the beautiful leaves, the apple-picking, the football weekends. Halloween is the highlight of the season for me, and once it is over, I know the winter holidays are not far behind. At least in California, the weather will be nicer. It's amazing how much sunshine and fresh air can lift my spirits.

After turning off the lights and cleaning up the trick-or-treating aftermath tonight, I'm feeling a bit wistful. Another Halloween, another childhood milestone for the boys, another year drawing to a close.

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. 

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.

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