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Triple A

Asian. Adoptee. Actor.

Mom and Me

When I was a kid, I thought a lot about my mom.

Not as I knew her – the woman who watched my ballet classes and made a lot of casseroles and got her Masters in Social Work and sewed my winter formal dress – but who she was as a kid. When she was like me.

My mom made a habit of answering my questions honestly, so I asked a lot of them. About her parents, Grandma and Grandpa, and what they were like.

Her parents were well-known and well-respected in their community. My grandpa spent some time in the State Legislature and did community theatre. They owned a local business and my grandma had peaches-and-cream skin. They had four children: aunt, mom, uncle, aunt. If there had been an open call for a poster of The All-American Family, they would have been chosen immediately.

Of course, like every American family, they were dysfunctional. I say this with kindness, because I truly believe no family exists without some amount of dysfunction. People fight and love and hurt each other. Humans are messed up, but that’s often what makes us amazing.

My grandpa really, really wanted a boy. Like a lot of fathers, I imagine he yearned to see himself in another guise. Not unusual. So after their first daughter, my aunt, was born, they did the hoping dance.

And out came my mom.

Denial is an incredible shield. It makes a father give his daughter a boy’s tool set for Christmas, and not out of an enlightened view of her capability as a female. It makes the daughter feel unwanted and unloved for most of her childhood. It makes a mother get up and walk away when that daughter tries to tell her something is wrong.

And decades later, it makes that daughter keep her illness a secret until it’s too late for anyone to do anything.

Of course, there was love. I know my grandparents loved my mom because I saw it. As everyone got older, it became easier, I think. As a kid, I know I witnessed some evolution of forgiveness. I held my breath and watched for it.

But my greatest wish was to somehow be able to go back in time, to when my mom was like me, and be her friend. I would have stuck up for you, I told her. I would have yelled at Grandma and Grandpa. You should have had someone on your side. I would get sweaty and mad just thinking about it. My mom would smile and hug me and check my third grade math homework.

Every parent fucks up. We’re all messy blobs just trying to figure out how to maintain some kind of shape. Before my mom died, I think she came to understand enough of her own mess to forgive that of her parents.

Every once in awhile, growing up, people thought my mom and I were biologically related. The mistake made both of us really happy. Adopting a kid from the other side of the world means risking a sense of displacement, uncertain identity, shaky self-worth. But I was my mom’s daughter, the one she chose, deliberately, to bring into her life. She was always on my side. There was no denying it.

We would have been friends.

We were friends.


Getting Shit Done

Even I admit this is odd.

The building next door is undergoing intense renovation to convert it from a (I’m guessing) former factory/warehouse to (sure about this) multiple dwellings. The notice tacked up in our elevator warns that the first part of the process will be the noisiest.

Because, jackhammers.

In parts of Britain, they’re referred to as “Kangos.” It’s a brand name, apparently, and isn’t it adorable?

Because, obviously, the sonic effect of jackhammers is not.

But here’s the thing. It’s making me get shit done.

This morning, before coffee even, I manually removed myself from a catalog mailing list. Meaning, I did a live-chat with Maureen who promised it would happen within the next three months. I feel a kinship with Maureen. She’s on my side.

Normally, I would have griped about suddenly finding myself on the list for this wretched catalog (non-wrinkle travel dresses, foldable hats) but thanks to the jackhammers, I took action.

I’ve been “under” the “weather” for the past two weeks, so this feels major.

C just came over to show me what you can get on Groupon for eight bucks: a bluetooth selfie button.

It can be challenging not to just pull on the cloak of misanthropy and point a gnarled finger of accusation at the stupid world.

But back to productivity!

There is a brief lull in the hammering so C heads into the booth to record. I am suddenly in a writerly way, so we’ll see what that yields.

I’m not sure if this is a true pattern or not, but so far, jackhammers = G.S.D.

Little House on the iPad

Laura Ingalls Wilder and Me Part XVII: The Internets

LIW has discovered Buzzfeed.

My parents bought her an iPad air (the engraving reads FOR OUR DEAREST LIW), and she’s watched Americans try Asian Snacks about 50 times. Every time she watches she turns to me and says, You’re an Asian Snack, and if my parents aren’t around I give her a good, hard pinch.

She moves on to photos of Taylor Swift and is already mostly down that rabbit hole when I suddenly get my most genius idea ever.

Hey LIW, I toss out casually. She gives me a tiny amount of side-eye, and I can tell she’s still mad about the pinching. You should have a Facebook.

Like all people who still fall into such a category, she is arrested by this siren portmanteau.

She stops sucking on her braid and turns her whole head to stare at me.

I want that, she says.

Great, I say, and quickly set up an account. It’s dope, I say, trying out the word. Make sure you poke everyone. And be very political. And talk about God constantly. You’ll have so. Many. Friends.

LIW blinks. Friends? she asks.

Oh yes, I nod. Maybe even from Wisconsin.

Her cheeks flush slightly and she goes back to sucking her braid.

She takes a profile pic of her left eyeball and I back soundlessly out of the room.

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