- set 3 goals for this year (professional) - let someone know
- set 3 goals for this year (personal) - let someone know
- no smoking
- work out at least once/week
- dinner with a friend once/week
- attend one networking event/month
- cultivate/manage your friendship
- go to a museum/month (museum Fridays)
- have at least one date/two weeks
Saturday, November 7, 2009
D'List
I've been given an assignment. I don't remember how this list thing came about.., but I need something to do... So without further ado, here's the list I need to flesh out:
Monday, November 2, 2009
It Comes in Waves
On Halloween, around 2:00pm, my grandmother, my halmuhni, left us to be with the Father.
She passed away with her daughter, my mom, beside her singing a song of Praise to our Maker. As my mom sang, "Hallelujah," my halmuhni exhaled her very last breath.
Around an hour after, I arrived, at her room in the hospital. There, on the bed, my halmuhni rested, her face serene, peaceful... she was freed from the emptiness of Alzheimer's and the slow agony of congestive heart failure.
There's so much about her that I want to share, but I don't know where to begin.
She raised me. It was just us three... my halmuhni, mom, and me, living together in a tiny one bedroom apartment in Flushing. Even when I was living in Korea, I think it was just us three.
My halmuhni was strong. The many years of hardship as a housewife taking care of her husband and the in-laws: his father, his mother, and his siblings; made her physically strong. I don't think I ever felt her hands soft; Hers were calloused and thuggish. But they were there to blow my snotty nose. And they reached out during the final weeks of her life... to be held. I didn't get to hold her hands at all when I saw her on the bed.
My halmuhni was strong. Her father didn't believe that girls should learn to read or write. She was illiterate. But her lack of education didn't stop her from asserting herself when people better educated than her would try to cut her down. She demanded attention and respect, especially from her well educated children and grandchildren. However much we knew or understood about anything and everything, no one had better disrespected her. My mom called her stubborn, but I think halmuhni had to be.
My halmuhni was fierce. She had lost two children. One at birth and the other in adulthood to a disease common to children. She even suffered her husband's infidelity many times over. But she still stood tall. When granddad, hallabuhji, was too sick to take care of himself and moved in with us, she got him to convert to Catholicism, just so that they could be buried as husband and wife, together in a land sanctified by the Church.
My halmuhni was fierce. So fierce that she died on a day where we're supposed to commemorate the dead and the paranormal, Halloween. She was fiercer than Jennifer Hudson ever was when she told Jamie Fox, "You're gonna love me!" I think that was her final statement to us. And I laugh when I think about it, her passing on Halloween was her saying: "you'd best remember me; you'd best love me!"
My halmuhni was beautiful. I remember when I was in grade school, I was teaching her how to sign her name for some reason. She was on the kitchen table, with a pen in her hand, writing her name one letter at time repeatedly. Her penmanship was shaky at first. But after several sheets of paper were used up, after she was satisfied, she stopped. It was like watching her make noodles, kalgooksu. After the dough was flattened to the perfect thinness, she'd carefully fold it a few times, dusting each layer with flour so that it wouldn't stick on to itself; and with a chef knife, she'd cut each noodle strand so fine and perfect. It was art. Her signature had to be beautiful, like her noodles.
My halmuhni was beautiful. It's funny... late in her life, many non-Asian hospital and nursing home clerks and staff mistook her for a man. I don't know why. She was beautiful.
Strong, fierce, and beautiful.
Her given name was Do-Im, a very uncommon Korean name for a very uncommon lady.
She's survived by her eldest, my mom, and her grandson, me; by her second daughter, her three grandchildren, and her five great-grandchildren; her grandson, the deceased son's son; her youngest daughter and her two grandchildren; her middle son and her two grandsons; and her baby son, and her two grandchildren.
We never use the word, "Love," in our household. It's a very Korean thing to do: not using the word, "Love,' but expressing it in other ways. But I want everyone to know, I loved my halmuhni.
I love you, Halmuhni. And I miss you.
She passed away with her daughter, my mom, beside her singing a song of Praise to our Maker. As my mom sang, "Hallelujah," my halmuhni exhaled her very last breath.
Around an hour after, I arrived, at her room in the hospital. There, on the bed, my halmuhni rested, her face serene, peaceful... she was freed from the emptiness of Alzheimer's and the slow agony of congestive heart failure.
There's so much about her that I want to share, but I don't know where to begin.
She raised me. It was just us three... my halmuhni, mom, and me, living together in a tiny one bedroom apartment in Flushing. Even when I was living in Korea, I think it was just us three.
My halmuhni was strong. The many years of hardship as a housewife taking care of her husband and the in-laws: his father, his mother, and his siblings; made her physically strong. I don't think I ever felt her hands soft; Hers were calloused and thuggish. But they were there to blow my snotty nose. And they reached out during the final weeks of her life... to be held. I didn't get to hold her hands at all when I saw her on the bed.
My halmuhni was strong. Her father didn't believe that girls should learn to read or write. She was illiterate. But her lack of education didn't stop her from asserting herself when people better educated than her would try to cut her down. She demanded attention and respect, especially from her well educated children and grandchildren. However much we knew or understood about anything and everything, no one had better disrespected her. My mom called her stubborn, but I think halmuhni had to be.
My halmuhni was fierce. She had lost two children. One at birth and the other in adulthood to a disease common to children. She even suffered her husband's infidelity many times over. But she still stood tall. When granddad, hallabuhji, was too sick to take care of himself and moved in with us, she got him to convert to Catholicism, just so that they could be buried as husband and wife, together in a land sanctified by the Church.
My halmuhni was fierce. So fierce that she died on a day where we're supposed to commemorate the dead and the paranormal, Halloween. She was fiercer than Jennifer Hudson ever was when she told Jamie Fox, "You're gonna love me!" I think that was her final statement to us. And I laugh when I think about it, her passing on Halloween was her saying: "you'd best remember me; you'd best love me!"
My halmuhni was beautiful. I remember when I was in grade school, I was teaching her how to sign her name for some reason. She was on the kitchen table, with a pen in her hand, writing her name one letter at time repeatedly. Her penmanship was shaky at first. But after several sheets of paper were used up, after she was satisfied, she stopped. It was like watching her make noodles, kalgooksu. After the dough was flattened to the perfect thinness, she'd carefully fold it a few times, dusting each layer with flour so that it wouldn't stick on to itself; and with a chef knife, she'd cut each noodle strand so fine and perfect. It was art. Her signature had to be beautiful, like her noodles.
My halmuhni was beautiful. It's funny... late in her life, many non-Asian hospital and nursing home clerks and staff mistook her for a man. I don't know why. She was beautiful.
Strong, fierce, and beautiful.
Her given name was Do-Im, a very uncommon Korean name for a very uncommon lady.
She's survived by her eldest, my mom, and her grandson, me; by her second daughter, her three grandchildren, and her five great-grandchildren; her grandson, the deceased son's son; her youngest daughter and her two grandchildren; her middle son and her two grandsons; and her baby son, and her two grandchildren.
We never use the word, "Love," in our household. It's a very Korean thing to do: not using the word, "Love,' but expressing it in other ways. But I want everyone to know, I loved my halmuhni.
I love you, Halmuhni. And I miss you.
Sunday, January 4, 2009
I Am Shy
"I am shy." One of the most loquacious person I've met in Japan confesses to me. Y, this Japanese girl, unlike any other Japanese girls I met, says to me, "I am shy."
...
We're in Therapy, a gay bar in the heart of Hell's Kitchen, because I promised Y to show her the gay scene in New York City. We're at the lounge seats on the ground floor sipping the rum heavy Mojitos and checking out the foot traffic in and out the bar. Her eyes are popping out of the sockets.
"Ne, ne, ne," Y taps me on the shoulder to get my attention, "he's good looking." I give her a nod and take a long sip. Again those taps, "Ne, ne, ne, what do you think about him?" Without even noticing my shrug she continues, "It's good that I'm in a gay bar and I can check out the hot guys without having to worry about a guy checking me out."
"Don't you normally want the guys to check you out?" I ask.
"Yes, but I am shy..."
...
Bar Bird, with its moody, candle lit, laid back atmosphere coupled with strong drinks, brought us, the W-city's expats, back time and time again, having breathed in the foreign air, to breathe out something familiar. I was with two buddies of mine arguing about nothing, but I'm damn certain, back then, to us, the topic in discussion was everything. In walked Y with her girl friends. After a quick exchange of pleasantries with the bar staff, her attention turned to the raucous disturbance that played the counterpoint to the smooth Friday night groove. She then walked over to our table, cutting through the fumes of cigarette-barricade and embracing the alcoholic liberties: "Can we join you?" she asked with near perfect American accent.
...
"You are SO not shy," I counter.
"Do you see anyone you like?" Y asks. And I do see some of them, but nonchalantly I shrug and down my Mojito.
As on cue the waiter saunters over to our table, takes the empty glass, and shining his pearly whites asks if I want another drink. I order a beer, because Y wanted to get me this round.
"Ne, ne, the waiter is really cute, ne?"
"Yes," I reply, "and he has a nice ass."
She holds her gaze on his perky bubble butt. But my eyes dart over to a guy coming down the stairs. I notice him more for his t-shirt than anything else. His t-shirt reads something like, "I'm not into women," and a little "ha" escapes my mouth. This time I tap Y's shoulder, pointing out the t-shirt guy to her. "He's wearing a funny t-shirt," I share. Y cranes her neck to look at the t-shirt, but as soon as the guy is out of her sight, she gets up and floats over to the guy, leaving me laughing uncontrollably.
"What did you say to him?" I inquire as soon as she returned.
"I told him, 'I like your t-shirt, and my friend too.'"
And I ponder the irony of her statement.
...
Unwilling to let those words, "can we join you?," go to waste, my two buddies, with their Cheshire cat grin, made space for the three ladies to join us. While Y and her friends were getting settled, Y glanced over to where I was sitting, and she had the look that many Japanese people had when they saw me with a bunch of Caucasians, a quizzical yet an expectant look towards me to take the lead to help bridge the two cultures. Whenever they were brave enough to come socialize with us, or whenever my buddies decided that we ingratiate ourselves to their social company, more often than not, one of them, when their look towards me went unanswered, would strike up a conversation with me and always in Japanese, so that we'd be properly introduced. But Y, even while her quizzical gaze still lingered, she took the lead in introducing her friends and herself, and to confirm her suspicion that I was indeed an alien and not an impolite Japanese asked, "You are from America, ne?"
...
"Why don't you go and talk to him?"
I look straight into her eyes and say, "No, besides I'm shy."
...
We're in Therapy, a gay bar in the heart of Hell's Kitchen, because I promised Y to show her the gay scene in New York City. We're at the lounge seats on the ground floor sipping the rum heavy Mojitos and checking out the foot traffic in and out the bar. Her eyes are popping out of the sockets.
"Ne, ne, ne," Y taps me on the shoulder to get my attention, "he's good looking." I give her a nod and take a long sip. Again those taps, "Ne, ne, ne, what do you think about him?" Without even noticing my shrug she continues, "It's good that I'm in a gay bar and I can check out the hot guys without having to worry about a guy checking me out."
"Don't you normally want the guys to check you out?" I ask.
"Yes, but I am shy..."
...
Bar Bird, with its moody, candle lit, laid back atmosphere coupled with strong drinks, brought us, the W-city's expats, back time and time again, having breathed in the foreign air, to breathe out something familiar. I was with two buddies of mine arguing about nothing, but I'm damn certain, back then, to us, the topic in discussion was everything. In walked Y with her girl friends. After a quick exchange of pleasantries with the bar staff, her attention turned to the raucous disturbance that played the counterpoint to the smooth Friday night groove. She then walked over to our table, cutting through the fumes of cigarette-barricade and embracing the alcoholic liberties: "Can we join you?" she asked with near perfect American accent.
...
"You are SO not shy," I counter.
"Do you see anyone you like?" Y asks. And I do see some of them, but nonchalantly I shrug and down my Mojito.
As on cue the waiter saunters over to our table, takes the empty glass, and shining his pearly whites asks if I want another drink. I order a beer, because Y wanted to get me this round.
"Ne, ne, the waiter is really cute, ne?"
"Yes," I reply, "and he has a nice ass."
She holds her gaze on his perky bubble butt. But my eyes dart over to a guy coming down the stairs. I notice him more for his t-shirt than anything else. His t-shirt reads something like, "I'm not into women," and a little "ha" escapes my mouth. This time I tap Y's shoulder, pointing out the t-shirt guy to her. "He's wearing a funny t-shirt," I share. Y cranes her neck to look at the t-shirt, but as soon as the guy is out of her sight, she gets up and floats over to the guy, leaving me laughing uncontrollably.
"What did you say to him?" I inquire as soon as she returned.
"I told him, 'I like your t-shirt, and my friend too.'"
And I ponder the irony of her statement.
...
Unwilling to let those words, "can we join you?," go to waste, my two buddies, with their Cheshire cat grin, made space for the three ladies to join us. While Y and her friends were getting settled, Y glanced over to where I was sitting, and she had the look that many Japanese people had when they saw me with a bunch of Caucasians, a quizzical yet an expectant look towards me to take the lead to help bridge the two cultures. Whenever they were brave enough to come socialize with us, or whenever my buddies decided that we ingratiate ourselves to their social company, more often than not, one of them, when their look towards me went unanswered, would strike up a conversation with me and always in Japanese, so that we'd be properly introduced. But Y, even while her quizzical gaze still lingered, she took the lead in introducing her friends and herself, and to confirm her suspicion that I was indeed an alien and not an impolite Japanese asked, "You are from America, ne?"
...
"Why don't you go and talk to him?"
I look straight into her eyes and say, "No, besides I'm shy."
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