Death of Baba

For the longest time I have always called him that, "Baba." That's the Chinese way of addressing your father. He's my father, my Chinese father, and Chinese fathers only want what is best for their kids right?

Ever since I was a kid, I had big imaginative dreams. At first I wanted to be an actress. But Baba shot that dream down. 

Actresses get into bad situations. I don't want you to go into that sort of business.

Then I wanted to be a rock star but he shot that one down too.

Very few people make it big being a rock star. Most likely, you won't succeed.

Then I decided I wanted to be an artist, but he had an excuse for that too.

Artists don't make a lot of money at all. There are those who go into design and make some money and there are those who starve.

When I got into high school, my dreams started maturing a bit and I told my dad that I wanted to study psychology.

Psychologists just plain starve.

Then I started getting into film and writing scripts and I found that I did have a talent for it of sorts. I told my dad that I was thinking about writing movie scripts when I got older and he got excited. It was a good job that could make a decent living at least and make millions at most. He became confident in my talent and ability telling me that I could go really big with this. That I could truly live up to my full potential and make a good living for myself along with a good amount set aside for him and my mom when they retire. It made me happy seeing him get so excited about my future.

But.

Something bothered me on the inside. I loved the thought of writing movies for the rest of my life. It made me feel like I would be able to live out my passion for expressing and creating stories. However, something inside told me that this was not where my life was headed. Something inside me had another passion. A passion for people. The Navajo Native Americans living out in Arizona to be more specific. Something told me that I needed to reach out to the broken youth there. That my place was teaching. That my calling was loving the people that already exist, not create other ones. I knew that was part of my purpose if not the whole thing. I knew that that was where I was supposed to go. Out into the desert, not into the stars. I knew I couldn't deny it. It was a part of me and I was a part of it. 

But.

I was terrified. I was terrified of what lay before me, of what was in my future, of what was to come. And most of all, I was terrified of telling Baba. I could not even begin to imagine what sort of objections and obstacles he would put in front of my path. One day, we were out eating dinner, just the two of us, and I blurted out my dream to him. I don't know why but I told him everything from the brokenness in the Native American people to the beautiful dry atmosphere to my fears to the sacrifices I would have to make to the call to teach. He sat quietly for a while. Then he started telling me about how he and my mom, after they just got married, saved up every penny they made to pay off any debts as soon as they could. He told me how my mom worked hard and how they lived very meagerly to save as much money as possible.

You don't need money or things to be happy.

Then he told me that I should probably start looking for a doctor or another teacher with this same vision to marry.

I always knew you were bright and could go really high if you wanted to. But you know, when I was young, I never got the opportunity to do what I wanted. My life was chosen for me. Go do what you want. I support you and this. Maybe one day your mom and I will go out and join you.

It was the first time that I did not have to live up to his expectations anymore. That I know now he loves me because I am his daughter, not the dutiful obedient good daughter that all Chinese parents want. That my dreams are his dreams because he loves me. And lately, I find that I call him Baba a lot less now. At times I'll catch myself calling him...

Daddy.

White, Yellow, and a Mutt

Multiracial. That's what I have to bubble in under Race or Ethnicity on standardized tests. Some occasions they don't have either so I have to bubble in "Other." It's such a little thing but basically that is what describes a huge part of my identity. I'm an "other." I don't really like the word multiracial. To me it's one of those politically correct terms. Personally, it's almost mocking. In truth there is no multiracial. When you are multiracial, you really just have no race. 

I hated it in the beginning. I wanted to be either or, not both. In middle school I felt so alone. Like I half belonged with my friends because I was only half of them. I felt that many of the people my friends were friends with, would be my friends if I was just born pure-bred. I couldn't identify with anyone. Not fully. And I can't really relate much with other mutts either. Because it's a mix and you never know how much of one aspect is poured in over the other or what different parts were chosen and which were left out. One becomes one's own race. It's a lonely feeling: to never be fully connected with either heritage. I didn't have that crutch as some do. You know, when people ask you to describe your personality or ask what's your identity. I can't say Chinese or American. Sure I can say mutt, but what is a mutt? Chinese have a distinctive culture as do Americans. So what's the culture of a mutt?

But I must say, I'm glad I was born mixed. I'm proud to call myself a mutt. The years of a grueling search for my identity was worth it. I am an individual. I can choose aspects of the Chinese culture that I like and reject others that I don't and do the same with the American culture. I have my own culture and it is my own. I almost pity those who use their ethnicity to identify themselves for they never search for the characteristic beauty GOD has hidden in each of them. Racial identity is a crutch. It'll help you hobble on your way for a bit but if you depend on it too long, you'll forget how to use your own leg. I was given two broken legs without any crutches but now I can walk strongly and proudly. 

I am a beautiful mutt.

Tables, Corners, Anywhere Hidden

I have to say that I respect my mom more than anyone else at the moment. I've always had. Any other American-raised woman would've left, split, skedaddled, given up on the seemingly hopeless case I call Dad. But she didn't. She made her choice to love and commit to my father and she did. When I was young, there were a lot of fights. Scary ones. My mom never yells; my dad and I joke about how she doesn't have the lung capacity to even if she wanted to. But my dad yells. Loud. And fiercely. When he'd yell, I hid. Under tables, in corners, anywhere where I could escape from the fire. And I'd cry. I don't know why, probably because of some sort of fear, but I'd cry until it ended. It was even worse when he was angry at us. But whenever that happened my mom always came and threw herself in the way, redirecting the anger towards her.

For a while I thought they were going to get divorced. But they didn't. One thing about my father is that he is and will always be faithful to my mom. And my mom never takes the easy way. Over more than a decade of years my mom patiently stuck by my dad and worked with him. And over that time period, his temper was turned down many notches. That's not to say he got rid of it. I don't think he ever will. But the fights are rare and the extreme yelling pretty much dormant. Instead of slaying it, my mom tamed the dragon. She was our knight in shining armor.

I look at my parents relationship now and I see one I want to have when I get married. I don't want to marry a hard-headed goat per se, but I want a relationship full of good joyous times. But in between the good times I want conflict and fights, to prove that we aren't perfect, that we're merely human. And when those conflicts come up, I want to rise above them together. I want a relationship where we show the true meaning of love: that through the good and the bad we stay committed and we grow. I want my kids to look at us and see their knights in shining armor.

Oh Brother Dear

Just recently my brother finally asked a girl to a dance. It will be his first date ever. 

He's 21 years old.

That's the kind of person he is. If he's not sure about something, he won't do it. He'll leave it there to either disappear or wait until he's ready to handle it. And he will wait a pretty long time. But still, this is a mark for him. I never thought I would even see the day.

I guess my parents are right. Perhaps I'm a little harsh on my brother. I don't really like him. I love him for sure, he's my brother. But if he wasn't my brother, I wouldn't like him at all. He's a short-tempered, persistent, self-centered, meddling, inconsiderate, aggressive, stubborn, arrogant and just-plain awkward little crab.

Now I'm being a little too harsh. Lately he's gotten better. A LOT better. And with all the bad qualities, he does have his good ones. He is the single most honest and trustworthy person I personally think ever existed. He has God in his heart and thus he wants to get better, hence the recent growth. And he really does care. Sure he'll throw his fits but he will never ever get violent. And even though we have to put up with the fits at first, later on, when he has blown his steam off and has calmed down, he'll realize he was wrong and apologize. He just needs to vent out his frustration first which is a hard trait to live with. So in all honesty, I was and still am very skeptical about whether or not he will ever marry. Not skeptical in him finding a girl to marry, but skeptical about a girl good enough to be able to see past his difficult side and care for him. I won't lie(something he inspired me to do), it's not easy living with my brother. I would know, I lived with him for 16 years. It's a challenge. But I do sincerely hope and pray that he does find a really good girl who is tough enough to deal with him and sweet enough to want to deal with him. He has his flaws but he makes up for them with his qualities. I hope someone other than my mom and me will be able to see that.

Origin of Animals

My mom, baba(dad), and I were sitting around the table at dinner. Baba, being the Taiwan-raised man he is now, sucked on the chicken bone, making sure that anything that could be chewed and swallowed was in fact chewed and swallowed. My mom, raised in the dirty south of New Orleans, finished only the meat convenient enough on her chicken wing and placed it in the pile that was soon to be inspected by my father. I lied somewhere in between, making sure every scrap of meat possible was devoured, however, leaving behind the tendons and organs for Baba.

I'm not sure how we got on the topic, perhaps it was my mom making some jab at Baba or vice versa, but somehow we were thinking up animals to describe each other. My mom was the first to be labeled. She's the camel. Wise, enduring, and patient. She could carry heavy loads and burdens, could be depended on, and could survive the harshest of conditions. But when she spits, boy she can spit. My brother--not present at the time--was determined next. He was a crab. Stubborn, powerful, and thick-skinned, when he found a grip on something there was no letting go. Then there was Baba, the goat. Hard-headed, easily excited, and extremely stubborn, he charged into everything head first, disregarding the qualities his opponent whatsoever. And he wouldn't stop until he won. I was the only one left unidentified (my parents told me that we'd have to wait and see how I developed and what kind of person I would become). 

Those are the personalities of the members in my family in a nutshell. As you can tell there are plenty of ingredients already perfectly assembled for chaos, battle, love, and growth. This blog will consist of my personal account of the camel, goat, and crab and how I manage to live with them.