Where Were You When

Originally posted September 12, 2008:

I remember that very morning discussing how to get there.

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My colleague and I were headed on a 2-day session at our client's in remote western Maryland. We had been there several times before, but this time, I looked on the map to see if there might be a better route. Should we cut west on the Pennsylvania turnpike then head south? or should we head south then head west along a Maryland highway as we usually do?

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In the end, Vince and I decided to take the usual route across northern Maryland. We left early in the morning and were busy talking about our families, the client and other things that you share with a liked team member.
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My cell phone rang as we were driving in the beautiful mountains of Route 68. My secretary called in a panicked voice asking if I had spoken with my husband. My heart started pounding and my head began to feel warm. My immediate thought was that something had happened with our family. She went on to explain in a breathy voice that America was being attacked. We had to drive quite awhile before we came upon someplace, a motel. We stopped to see what we could find out. The few patrons were already grouped around the lobby TV set and watched, unbelieving, as we saw in real time the South Tower being hit.
.

We had no choice but to keep going to our destination, a hospital. When we got to the parking lot, Vince and I, both looking to the same Savior, against all professional tradition, sat in the company car in our client's parking lot . . . and prayed.

We found out that this facility was the third tier in the line of care in cases of catastrophes. By this time, the Pentagon had been hit and there were conflicting reports about Flight 93. We started our meeting, with heaviness. The series of meetings were to last 2 days, and at any time, helicoptors and ambulances might be coming with the casualties from the Pentagon or Shanksville. We continued, heavy-hearted, with the visions of the tower hovering in our hearts.
.

As the hours wore on into the late afternoon, with no radio contact, no helicoptors, no ambulances, we knew. We knew it was bleak news. Our clients, nurses trained in emergency preparedness, were frank: despite the number of people that had been injured, there weren't enough survivors for their hospital to be needed.
.

At the end of our sessions, Vince and I headed to our hotel rooms. We each sat in our own room, feeling alone, helpless, lost, and feeling like never before the deep primal need to be with our families. We met the next morning for breakfast, neither one of us having slept well. We continued our meetings. I don't know how we did it. We were there and we had to keep going.

As we drove back across Maryland, and as the news of the Shanksville tragedy became clearer, we realized that had we driven across Pennsylvania the morning before, we probably would have seen a plane in the sky, plummeting down toward an empty field.
.

I know that how I was touched is nothing compared to what others lived...are living through. But I was touched, as was every other in our country. And, what is it like compared to people who live with this violence every day in other parts of the world? They leave their family in the morning, not knowing if they'll come back with a limb missing, tortured for apparently no reason, or if they'll come home at all. Might we learn something? might we learn to have some love for our fellow human beings who suffer through attacks every month? every week? every day?
.

I have no conclusion to this story I've shared. How can there be? It is just my heart, poured out for the sadness and evil in this world.

*

JFK - 1967

In the plane.
Darkness.
The deep "brrrrrrr."
My knees aching. My mom holding me. Wanting Salonpas.

A long, dull corridor. Everything hard and square and colorless.
My mom, struggling with us 4.
Exhaustion.
A soldier approaches us. My mom nods.
He carries me in his arms.
I can hear him breathing.
In rhythm to the jostling of his steps.
I wonder if he regretted asking to help?
It was my fault I was too heavy.
Just inches away - a big nose, pink skin. Again.
A strange smell. Milk?

A car.
Darkness.
Bright city lights above.
My Dad driving.
Dad.
My Dad.
Dad.

I am all electricity.

I know this is the start of something big.
It's not home.
No.
It's not comfortable.
It's something exciting I can't control.

*

Quackers

I debated whether this should be on My Exurbia or here. I decided here. Jinsok used to pull this around. The "wings" turn and the itty bitty ducks "quack" by squeaky wheels.

Not a battery in sight.

And it's his dad's.

Think any of the crap these days will last 45 years? and grow in charm and delight?




.



QUAAaaaCK!

*

Green-Eyed Monster

I had heard of these people. Americans. I would be living among them soon. I heard they had pink skin. Some had yellow hair. And orange. Their eyes could be blue, or even green. I tried to picture them in my 6-year old mind, only half believing my grown cousin who told me this. After all, people have black hair and brown eyes. PERIOD.

Then, I saw one. Clack-clack-clack. Another trip with my mom to the U.S. Embassy in downtown Seoul. 1966. And there she was. The tallest human being I'd ever seen in my entire little life. She had cottony, orange hair and skin so pink she looked like a dime-store doll. She leaned down to me, parted her big red lips and said "Wpoarr arrrttarirr riryrrir!"

She scared the hell outta me.

*

1966

My son is quickly approaching 7. This time in his life brings strong emotions for me. I was just shy of 7 when I arrived at Kennedy Airport from Seoul, Korea. Snippets - scenes, sensations, smells.

We were in Seoul, bustling, noisy, smelly - back in 1966. My mom held my hand so tight it hurt. Dressed in silk and wool, her hair up, clack-clacking in her spike heels, looking every bit the spoiled daughter of a rich family. She didn't know this would hurt her, that this would make her wait 2 years to get a Visa, the officer waiting for a big envelope of cash to cross his desk. This Visa would let her join her husband in the U.S. and be a family again after 5? 6 years apart. Time after time, she wore her custom-made clothes, trying to make a good impression, when all it did was confirm to the bastard that it would be worth the wait.

Clack-clack-clack. Trying to keep up with her so my hand wouldn't hurt more than it already did. Those were the days that when you got lost, you were lost. For good. You got sent to an orphanage and then some white people might adopt you, if you were "lucky." (Remember Toby Dawson?) No TV. No phones. Maybe a radio. How would you find anyone? My mom held me tight. So tight I can still feel the ache.

We'd get home from these trips downtown. My mom would lock herself in a room and cry. Not soft whimpers, but the wretched, anguished cry of a helpless woman used to getting her way. The day she delivered the bribe, she got the stamps in our passports. She stopped crying and started packing. We were gone in less than a month.

When we arrived in the U.S., she would have other reasons to cry.

*

That Lovin' Feeling

Did you grow up in the days when each kid owned 2 pairs of shoes? if they were lucky? I think I had school shoes, gym shoes and maybe flip-flops, which we used to call "thongs."

Do you remember that feeling when you got new school shoes? Like you wanted to wear them out of the store and for the rest of the day? Did you ever get to wear them to bed?
.

Boo will never be able to relate to the shoes thing, but I think every kid knows the feeling of really, really liking something new that they got and never wanting to let it go.

*

Bright Lights

My mom had such style. She could take dime-store items and make them look classy.

So, it's Christmas, 1972. Brady Bunch. Laugh-In. Love, American Style. Marcus Welby, MD. Oh my gosh, and The Movie of the Week. You had to sit around aallll week to see a new movie! Polyester photo shirts. Bell bottoms. The first time around - on boys and girls. Hip huggers - but only on the "bad" girls.

Oh, I digress.

We'd just gotten finished with Thanksgiving and here comes another holiday to decipher: this time, Christmas. Are you old enough to remember the big fat Christmas lights? The ones for the tree were about the size of your thumb. (Remember, this is the era of the aluminum tree.) I remember every once in awhile, a too-dry tree with lights left on would start a house fire! The ones for the outside were huge. Like, the size of two thumbs. There weren't those cute white blinking lights or the icicles or the blanket of lights. You could only get them in strings like, ten or twelve feet long, and connect them and hope a bulb didn't blow. To hang them on the eaves, your dad had to get up on a tall ladder and hammer nails in. Then he had to untangle them from last year and risk his life and limb hanging over the ladder to reach the end. A few cuss words were known to hover in the neighborhood air.

What happened in our town, which was 99.44% pure, white christians, was that every house was covered from shingle to sill with these gigundous, multi-colored lights. I remember one year, sitting in the front porch, at my mother's direction, unscrewing all the multi-colored bulbs off the strings of lights, and screwing blue bulbs on. Our white, wood-clapboard bungalow in central Pennsylvania then glowed with strings of blue lights, peaceful - standing out from the garishness of the neighborhood.


I thought my mom was the greatest in the whole world.



*

U.S.

I was lead by the pretty young tech into a soothingly darkened room. Everyone had been lovely. Efficient, kind and on time.

It was a different town, a different place. Eight years had passed. As I lay down on the gurney next to that machine, I didn't look but saw in my mind the bottle of gel, the computer screen, the little tracking ball and the wand. My heart remembered. That last time, the tech got very quiet as she wanded my belly over and over. She said the ominous words, "I'll call the doctor in." There was no heartbeat. My husband and I sat in the car in the parking lot and cried.

This time, the wand searched further up, but in no less of a meaningful place for me as a woman. The lump had been there for several weeks, but seemed to be getting bigger. The tech stepped out to have the images read and she returned with the doctor in tow.

"Uh oh. I don't think I want to see you," I joked to the kind Radiologist. "Biopsy," he said. "There are benign traits, but we want to be sure," he said. I sat in the car in the parking lot and cried. This time, alone. Suddenly, for the first time, I wanted to wear one of those pink ribbons.

God is still God, but I am, nontheless, Ultra Sad.

*

Where Were You When

I remember that very morning discussing how to get there.

.
My colleague and I were headed on a 2-day session at our client's in remote western Maryland. We had been there several times before, but this time, I looked on the map to see if there might be a better route. Should we cut west on the Pennsylvania turnpike then head south? or should we head south then head west along a Maryland highway as we usually do?

.
In the end, Vince and I decided to take the usual route across Maryland. We left early in the morning and we were busy talking about our families, the clients and other things that you typically share with a liked team member.
.


My cell phone rang as we were driving in the beautiful mountains of Route 68. My secretary called in a panicked voice asking if I had spoken with my husband. My heart started pounding and my head began to feel warm. My immediate thought was that something had happened with our family. She went on to explain in a breathy voice that America was being attacked. We had to drive quite awhile before we came upon a motel. We stopped to see what we could find out. The few patrons were already grouped around the lobby tv set and we watched, unbelieving, as we see in real time as the South tower is hit.
.

We had no choice but to keep going to our destination, a hospital. When we got to the parking lot, Vince and I both looking to the same Savior, against all professional tradition, sat in the office car, in our client's parking lot and prayed.

We found out that this facility was the third tier in the line of care in cases of catastrophic situations. By this time, the Pentagon was hit and there were conflicting reports about Flight 93. We started our meeting, which was to last 2 days, knowing that at any time, helicoptors and ambulances might be coming with the casualties from the Pentagon or Shanksville. We continued our meeting, heavy hearted, with the visions of the tower hovering in our hearts.
.

As the hours wore on into the late afternoon, with no radio contact, no helicoptors, no ambulances, we knew what that meant. Our clients, nurses trained in emergency preparedness, were frank. Despite the number of people that would have been injured, there weren't enough survivors for their hospital to be needed. We knew it was bleak news.
.

At the end of our sessions, Vince and I each headed to our hotel room. We each sat in our own room, feeling alone, feeling helpless, lost, and feeling like never before, a deep primal need to be with our families. We met the next morning for breakfast, neither one of us having slept well and continued our meetings. I don't know how we did it. We were there and we had to keep going.

As we drove back across Maryland, and as the news of the Shanksville tragedy became clearer, we realized that had we driven across Pennsylvania the morning before, instead of the route we took, we probably would have seen a plane in the sky, plummeting down toward an empty field.
.

I know that how I was touched is nothing compared to what others lived...are living through. But I was touched, as was every other in our country. And, it is nothing compared to people who live with this violence every day. They leave their family in the morning, not knowing if they'll come back with a limb missing, tortured for apparently no reason, or if they'll come home at all.
.

I have no conclusion to this story I've shared. How can there be? It is just my heart, poured out for the sadness and evil in this world.

*

The First Official Perm Blog Challenge

I have searched my soul and found the fortitude to meet Carla's Challenge (of Four by 40.) Are you strong enough to join us?

My brother Dan and I are on the steps of our house in Seoul. He's four years older than me, so I can't have been more than two. Oma, why would you do this to a 2 year old?!?

Anniversary Thoughts

.

A perfect August day twelve years ago. It's too bad we don't believe in reincarnation. I would say I must have known you in another life. Twelve years can't be right, because I feel as though I've known you forever.

.

. . . the guests were gone, the hall was empty, and the jazz group kept playing for us.

*

I've been keeping something from you.

HH and I graduated from the same high school. That's not the part I was keeping from "youns." [Yes, they really say that.] What I've been keeping from you, is that we went to our high school reunion several weeks ago.

I had an absolutely fabulous time. So, naval-gazer that I can be, I was wondering why I did. First of all, our graduating class had 1,014. Yeah, you read that right. My older brothers had even more - 1,200 I think.

The evening before the big event, 4 of us good friends got together to catch up. We have known

each other since we were 11 years old. Un. Be. Lievable. Enjoying that part of it is totally understandable. But I had great fun the next evening too, when there were over 200 of us. I was hugging and greeting people like we were long-lost best friends, when in fact, we were passing acquaintences or casual friends. We might have been in a class together, or a club or committee. In a class of over 1,000 and a school of over 3,000.

Am I that sentimental? No. Am I so superficial? Did I want to spite anyone? Were the popular girls now chubby so I could gloat? No, no and no. It's going back to some of the most awkward and insecure years of your life, but going back as a more mature and secure person. It's like Peggy Sue Got Married - Peggy Sue (played by Kathleen Turner) faints at her high school reunion and wakes up to her high school self with her high school steady (Nicholas Cage.) I got to do it over again too, in a way. Would I want to go back to being 17 again? NO. WAY. Should I make that clearer? Not that it was so terrible for me. In fact, I really liked high school. But I was in my adolescence and all the stuff that happens then was happening to me. But for a little bit, I could be the former me from back then without the teenage angst.

Which reunion was it? That part, I'll continue to keep from you. The number is big enough to frighten me. ;-)

*

Santa Monica

In my hometown, there was a woman named Miss G. She was a large woman, a larger-than-life woman, who drove up to the various little elementary schools in her enormous Cadillac. Every one knew when she showed up, that someone was getting tested for "The Program." When I arrived in 5th grade at my 6-room schoolhouse, Miss G. showed up and all the kids tittered and whispered to me "you're gonna get tested for The Program!" I started to get a little nervous.

As it turned out, she was the school district psychologist in charge of the accelerated program. She and I entered the closet-sized office on the 3rd floor and she gave what was basically an IQ test. It was a big day. One that affected my entire life, though I didn't know it then. I even remember 2 of the questions:
1. If you lost your wallet in a baseball field, draw the path you would take to find it.
2. If you had a 3 qt bucket and a 5 qt bucket, how would you measure out 4 qts?

I ended up leaving my little elementary school. The next year, I got bused to the other side of town to attend 6th grade with other children also pulled out of their elementary school. Whatever friendships we had in our own neighborhood swere hard to maintain since we spent our days with another group of kids. It was harder in the summer as we tried to maintain friendships with kids who lived all over town. But we did. Atleast I did. Because at The Program, I found a group of kids that were so much like me, that I felt like I had come home. I could be myself, without holding back.

The new school was hard for me. The other kids had already been together a year. The Program didn't teach in the traditional methods but encouraged us to explore and imagine in new ways. We even had to schedule the day and complete our assignments by the end of the day. At 11 years old! I didn't do very well at first. But I caught on, and I have to say that The Program, in a way, saved my life. Atleast it saved my intellectual life. It was also there that I met a gangly boy ,known here as HH. He had scraggly wavy hair, big geeky glasses and had a penchant for wearing a white "Saturday Night Fever" vest. But that story will come later.

It became clear to me very quickly that The Program was envied and despised all at once and grown-ups didn't hesitate to let us kids know it. In fact, not only were parents antagonistic toward it, so were District administrators and other teachers. Miss G., larger-than-life, made it her mission to protect The Program - the teachers, who loved each and every one of us as individuals, and each and every one of us geeky, gangly, bespectacled, multi-syllable-spewing 11 year olds. Not every child from that class could be considered "successes," but for me, it was the booster rocket that made me all I am.

So, Monica G., here's to you!

The Next Generation

On Saturday, I went to my first wedding of the "next generation." The daughter of very dear friends of mine married her sweetheart of five years. Seeing how Abby is only 22, that's a good long time. The Cruse family is a testament that a truly God-centered, healthy, un-neurotic family CAN exist!

I didn't panic until 2 days before the wedding, when I realized I have NOTHING to wear. If you have seen my closets, you'd know this could not possibly be true! However, I felt compelled to hit TJMaxx anyway and tried on 7 dresses in 7 minutes. Found 2; both black, hip, cute, with an empire (say ohmpeeer like Stacey) waist. Both were great, but both had faults so I left with none. However! for the first time ever! they had Lancome at TJMaxx and I left with a blush and eyeshadow duo in beautiful groovy colors. Anyway, I was glad I didn't get those dresses when I realized that half the 20-somethings at the Reception were wearing black polyester "ohmpeeer" waist dresses. And I'm no 20-something.

Getting back to them...
When they were wee little, I used to take Abby and her older brother on walks and trips for ice cream or burgers. I doubt they remember those times, but I remember themt with fondness. They have grown to be wonderful, responsible, fun-loving (even sarcastic) Christian adults with nary a rebellious bone.

The groom's family was happy. The brides family was happy. The entire extended family was happy. All the friends were happy. There was no tongue-wagging or clucking to be heard. In Corea, both families must sign the marriage license. That's why if one side doesn't approve, you literally cannot get married. In the US, we have the freedom to decide as adults what to do. That's good and bad. However, my friends have raised their children with respect; trusting that they need to learn to make decisions, that they are God's, too.

The Cruses live the words 'children, honor your parents, and parents, do not frustrate your children,' and have been accordingly blessed. Oh, did I say they were always happy with no problems? Oh, no. Did God say we'd be rich and famous and beautiful and kept from harms way? No, the Lord our God said He would "cause all things to work together for good to those who love Him, to those who are called according to His purpose."

Oh. They have had their share of heartache. But they lived through encirecled by His everloving arms, trusting Him, talking to Him and knowing He is their loving God.

Diaspora

I was just shy of turning 7 when I arrived at Kennedy Airport. My mom, 3 brothers and I were joining my dad who had already been here awhile. Do you remember being 7? Do you have a child around that age? My son is turning 6. As he gets nearer to the age I was at this important time in my life, I find myself reflecting...

We have a photo of our extended family, posing on the tarmac at Kimpo airport in Seoul. I don't actually remember the moment. It has been replaced in my mind by the photo. I do remember asking my grandmother to buy us red carnation corsages. And there we all are, in January, in our winter coats, with buttoneers. [Where did she find carnations in January in a third world country??]

I remember sitting next to my mom on the plane, the interminable rumbling noise of the jet engine. I remember getting one of my frequent knee aches, being comforted by my mom, being given medicine (Salon-pas.) The next image is the long corridor and fluorescent lights of Kennedy. A white American man in a military uniform offered to help my mom by carrying me. I remember looking at his face, this stranger, as he carried me, his stride shaking my vision, like the hand held camera of film verite. I remember scrutinizing his pink skin, his prominant, high-bridged nose, and the odor to him that was unfamiliar.

I don't remember the exact moment when we saw my dad. It had been 6 years when I was 1, when he himself left from Kimpo airport. I have a vague sense that when he saw me, he hugged me. I don't remember. This man, my "father." This man, whose picture we had on our wall. This man, who I was meeting, really, for the first time.

I look back at our family photos and I realize that year, my father was 38. My mother was 34. With 4 kids. Half-way around the world. A different language. Different customs.

Here I am, more than 10 years older than my mother was. I listen to my only child in the next room playing happily by himself. I am happy, in a home I love, in a country I love.

I think about what my parents did, and I am humbled.