Taking Part in the Beautiful

photo courtesy of J Swenson Photography

My son was born in my bedroom. It still seems unreal sometimes. With only my husband, my midwife, my photographer friend, and three pushes, my baby saw light for the first time. And as soon as I held him in my arms, all the pain of the previous nine hours, and the fears of the previous nine months, were forgotten.

As you can see from the photo, the joy I felt at that moment could not be contained. It didn’t matter that this was my sixth child. This was still special. Like listening to Samuel Barber’s Adagio for Strings. Or watching a sunset go through all its changes. It doesn’t matter that I’ve heard Adagio for Strings five hundred times before, or that I’ve watched a thousand sunsets in my lifetime. It’s still special–every time. Only, this was even better. In giving birth, I’m a participant, not a bystander.

We all long for opportunities to take part in the Beautiful, to step into something bigger than ourselves. This was my chance. And it was only the beginning, Day 1 of many days of raising and caring for this child. And it may seem mundane, even degrading at times. The lustre of parenthood is not always as clear as it is on the day of meeting one’s child. Certainly there are days when I wish for a sunset, in Paris, from the top of the Eiffel Tower. Or an opportunity to sing Adagio for Strings, in a beautiful concert hall, with a top-notch choir.

But let me never forget, I am still an integral part of the Beautiful, from diapers to runny noses, from laundry to dishes. For what can be more beautiful than human life?

Across the Ocean

When my parents told me that we were leaving Hong Kong, I didn’t fully comprehend. All I knew was that we were getting on an airplane and going to someplace called ‘America’, and all I knew of America was that it was the home of Mickey Mouse and Snoopy. What five-year-old wouldn’t be happy to go to Disneyland? Like I said, I didn’t understand what was happening.

My grandparents, aunts and uncles, and many cousins followed us to the airport to say goodbye. We took photo after photo. Sometimes I smiled; sometimes I just stared with big eyes. “Is something going on? Why is everyone making a big deal about this?” They knew something I didn’t, that my relationship with them would never be the same after this. We would grow up in different worlds.

There are times when I wish I were better friends with my cousins. I wish I could attend their weddings and know their children. And I definitely wish I had more time with my grandparents. For many years I wondered how my life would have turned out if I had never left Hong Kong. What would it have been like, growing up in a place where I didn’t stand out because of my hair or skin color? Who would have been my friends, when we all shared a common background, ate similar foods, spoke the same language?

But now I know that where I grew up didn’t change the core of who I am: a writer, a musician, an idealist, a teacher. Growing up in the United States has undoubtedly shaped me, as the wind and rain shapes a cliff face, but I am essentially the same person. Hong Kong might have made me a snazzier dresser, a better Cantonese speaker, or a connoisseur of dim sum, but what’s the use of dwelling on the might haves?

If anything, growing up as a person of dual cultures has given me a deeper desire to connect with my past, and the desire to give my children that same connection. I also love experiencing other cultures and appreciating the similarities and differences between us. Most importantly, I have much sympathy for those who have also come across the ocean. I know what it’s like to be the outsider, and I know the feeling of being ostracized for my ethnicity. Though I wish I could say that racial prejudice no longer exists in the United States, it still does, and I can be one to educate people through my writing and teaching. And so, for that, I am glad I came to ‘America’.