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’.

The New York I Knew

My family lived in Queens, New York, for three years. I was fortunate to be old enough to remember my time there: eating dim sum in Chinatown, seeing the Nutcracker at the Lincoln Center, visiting the beautiful, giant Christmas tree in Rockefeller Center, climbing to the top of the Statue of Liberty. I remember stepping on the cobblestones of South Street Seaport and feeling like this was “my town.” I loved New York; it was a city with a personality unlike any other.

This family photo (that’s me in the middle) was taken on Liberty Island either before or after we did the epic climb to Lady Liberty’s crown. I tried to count each and every one of the 354 steps, but lost track somewhere around 250. For me, it was just another summer outing with my family: making memories, searching for adventure, enjoying my time with my siblings.

But when I see this photo now, my happy memories turn to sadness. I think of how my children will never be able to visit the city of my youth. We will still be able to eat dim sum in Chinatown and climb through the head of the Statue of Liberty, but I will need to explain to my children why the two magnificent skyscrapers in the photo are no longer there. How could I have known that in my lifetime, a city could be so changed?

I think that, if I ever do have the opportunity to visit New York with my children, I would like to take them all to Liberty Island. We will stand in the exact same spot where I once stood with my family, and take a photo, to commemorate the New York I knew.

My Parents at My Age

A little something I wrote on Medium.com six years ago.

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It’s funny how our parents are always “old” in our minds. I have to remind myself that I knew the 30-some-years-old versions of my parents once, that it really wasn’t that long ago that they were young parents, just like me. There was a time when they were more carefree and energetic, before the solemnity of life wore them down.

But I still have a difficult time picturing my mom as a thirty-seven year old. And I don’t have very many memories of my parents laughing– really, truly, tears-streaming-down laughing. That’s why I like this photo. My dad is the one wearing the ivory shirt and beige slacks playing tug-of-war. My mom is watching from the sidelines with my little brother. We were at a camp retreat with our church, and the younger people must have talked my dad into showing off his muscles. Judging from the age of my brother, my mom is just about my current age at the time of this photo. And the smiles on my parents’ faces are contagious! You can hear my mom’s laughter as you study this picture. She’s always had a beautiful smile. As does my dad.

I wish I have more pictures like this one. Even more, I wish I have more memories like this one. Which leads me to my resolution for this year: laugh more with my children and don’t shy away from the camera. I want to give my children opportunities to remember their young, laughing mom.

My Little Man

Another of my writings from "A Picture is Worth a Bunch of Words" on Medium.com.

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This is my son. He was born with one working kidney. When I was 20 weeks pregnant, the doctor noticed in my ultrasound that one of his teeny-tiny kidneys was full of dark circles. The other kidney was a healthy, grainy-gray, bean-shaped mass. What were the circles? We wouldn’t know until the baby was born.

Thank the Lord the dark circles turned out to be cysts, not cancer. His right kidney still would never function, but his left kidney was twice its normal size to make up for its missing partner. Which was fitting, since my son was born with a personality twice the size of his body.

Sometimes I worry about him. He’s a real daredevil. 

"Watch out! You'll run into the..."

"That's pretty high! Are you sure you can do it?!"

He does things that people with two working kidneys shouldn't do. See the red spot under his eye? That's normal. His legs are covered with scratches and bruises, and his pants are full of holes to prove it.

This boy doesn't walk when he can run.

He doesn’t talk when he can shout.

He believes that he can fly, if he flaps his arms hard enough. And nothing is going to stop him– not his small stature, not his cystic kidney, not even gravity.

"Mom, I'm fine! I can do it!" he shouts back to me.

And then he does it.

Maybe I don’t need to worry about him as much as I thought.

Someday, this kid is going to take on the world.