Democracy and diversity in action

Tonight I attended a city council meeting and listened to nearly three hours of audience comments about a proposed Islamic Center. It has been a controversial issue and a petition on change.org has garnered over 1,000 signatures in opposition of the center.

These are some of the comments on the petition I found disturbing:

Muslims are required to follow Sharia and consider the Constitution beneath them bc they are MAN MADE laws. 80% of US Mosques and Islamic centers are funded by the Saudis, and they preach hatred of Jews and Christians. There is no place in our country for this type of hate.

I'm signing based on the history of other countries. The Islamic Center is more than a building of prayer, but a strategy construction for jihad. 
If they came to America, let them become Americans or return to their home country.

#MAGA

We are the United States of America! 
#remember 9-11 

I am uncomfortable with a Mosque in Solon.

When I arrived at City Hall for the meeting, the parking lot was full and the room was packed, requiring an adjoining space to be opened up to accommodate the overflow. I've never seen the parking lot this full, even on Election Day. While I looked for a seat, a Chinese couple moved their chairs and invited me to squeeze in next to them. They spoke Mandarin to each other and their friends around them.

The meeting started with the Pledge of Allegiance. As I stood and looked around the room, I saw that the attendees were quite culturally diverse. It reminded me of a mini-version of San Francisco's Masonic Auditorium where I participated in an oath ceremony to become a naturalized U.S. citizen years ago. 

After we sat down, I heard a thwacking sound next to me. The man who scooted his chair over to make room for me was loudly slapping stickers onto his chest and forehead. They were white stickers that said "NO!!!" in red and blue. Behind me, other people were passing around sheets of stickers, peeling and affixing them to their clothes.

After a brief overview of audience comment procedures from the city's law director, one by one, residents took turns stepping up to the podium to share their thoughts about a plan for an Islamic Center in a residential area of single-family homes. 

The first to speak was a member of the Solon Rotary Club expressing support for the center and attesting to the character and commitment to community service of one of the center's board members, Masroor Malik. 

The next speaker was a woman who felt that the city did not inform residents about the proposed plan. Many of the residents opposing the center were immigrants, speaking with heavy accents. They expressed frustration that the city did not notify them about the proposal. They anticipated heavy traffic. They were worried about declining property values. A few were concerned about clearing trees and wanted to preserve wetland and green space. 

Some of those opposed to the center emphasized that they were not opposed to having a mosque in the city; they just didn't want it in their back yard - literally. Many of them said they appreciated diversity but just did not want a "monstrosity" in their neighborhood. A few of the residents practically shouted into the microphone, expressing deep anger that was surprising and a bit scary.

Some of those who spoke in support of the center included area church pastors. One resident likened the situation to one his family faced when looking to build a Mormon church.

"For those who are uncomfortable with this, for whatever the reason might be," he said, "just think about the opposition - what that might be doing to divide our community more than it needs to be. We're all citizens of this town, this area, and we should be supporting each other as well as we can."

A few members of the Islamic Center's board spoke too, including Malik.

"It's somewhat disheartening that some people don't know about the project," he said, explaining that the board has been working with the city for a long time on the proposal. He offered to explain the project to anyone who had any questions about it. Other members of the center spoke too, inviting residents to meet with them to learn more. 

After the audience comments, city officials stated that while some residents felt that the city did not properly inform them of the proposed plan, all policies and procedures were followed. A traffic study was completed also. 

Finally, the mayor offered closing remarks, recalling that when he moved to the city 25 years ago, he was part of the first Jewish congregation here. After first meeting in the rabbi's house and then renting space for many years, the congregation built a synagogue in a residential area of the city. Members of area churches came over to welcome them. 

"One thing that struck me was the outpouring of love and warmth that we found in this Solon community. The first people who came to welcome us were the Christian congregations - all the churches," he said. He expressed hope that the Muslim community would soon be able to say the same thing some day and feel welcomed too. 

It was fascinating to hear so many opinions tonight expressed by so many voices. It was remarkable to see so many people at the city council meeting, and I wonder if we will see more civic activism regarding other issues.  

For this particular issue, I understand the concerns the residents expressed about not being notified. But democracy requires an educated citizenry and we have to make sure we are informed and involved.

I am in favor of having an Islamic center in our city. I have only been in a mosque once, for a funeral service, and although I was an outsider, I felt welcomed. In every house of worship I have ever entered, regardless of religion, language or culture, I have found a place of peace and beauty, where people come together in faith and harmony. We need more places like that.

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.

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.

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.