Nation and Culture

On the one hand, the United State has a dominant WASP culture.  The powers that be are still, on the whole, white Protestant males.  And many, I can say, think of America as being a WASP nation, and consider anything else to be, at best, suspect.  Why else is there the persistent rumor that Obama is a Muslim?  As if being a Muslim were proof that he is un-American. It wasn't long ago when being from Ireland was un-American.  Éirinn go brách.

On the other hand, we recognize the variety of cultures that make up this nation.  Melting Pot and all that.  These cultures could be ethnic heritage, national origin, religious practice, religious heritage and even variances of regional norms:

We may have been here for over 100 years, like the ethnic Koreans of Hawaii, or over 200 years like ethnic Africans brought over into slavery.  Or even recent immigrants like my family.  There are those, that on the surface fit the stereotype of an American but are clearly from another country, like Ahnold.  When I walk down the streets of my little town, I can't go but a block without seeing a black American woman wearing a burqa.  Even those that may not practice their religion clearly harbor the cultural norms instilled in them - like those who dress up for church on 2 Sundays a year.  When I went to graduate school in St. Louis, I was shocked at the regional differences in manners and speech from my Pennsylvania ways.  And anyone who has crossed the Mason-Dixon line will immediately feel the difference. 

And we're all Americans, right?  Different cultures, one nation.

Maybe the Melting Pot is only nice in concept.  NIMB: Not In My Backyard.  It's all nice to have "interesting" folks around, but don't make me have to smell their funny cooking, or try to understand their accent, or translate documents for them.  Maybe the Melting Pot is only nice if it looks and smells like mashed potatoes.

Today I heard that former Senator Santorum said, in effect, that if Puerto Rico wants statehood, they have to speak English.  He said this in Puerto Rico.  To Puerto Ricans.

I'll let you take that in.

(whistling)

I hope he knows there's no such provision in federal law.

[Oops, I think I'm breaking my guideline for succinct posts.]

A nation of monolinguals may, of course, consider language to be merely a flamboyance, like a fancy scarf.  Leave it in the closet, unless you want to make others feel uncomfortable or show your disdain for them.  Language is not a feather boa.  It's a ladder.  To your soul.  The more languages you know, the more you can know.  It's like love - the more you love, the more you can love.

On the one hand, Americans seem to be proud of the Melting Pot.  On the other had, Americans seem to insist that things melt into White.  Mashed potatoes.  Or would that be English?  Is English the line in the sand?  Stand on this side of the line and you're American.  Stand over there, and you're un-American.  Unpatriotic.

Must we be a nation of Either/Or?
Because me?  I want to be a nation of Both/And.
Messy.
Rich.
Interesting.

One nation, many cultures.

Flirtive

"He's flirting," the young mother would say about her 2-year old son.

That always struck a chord with me. The wrong chord.

I always thought that's what young women did with males to {harmlessly} get their way.  Access to a closed office, a drink, and the potential for S3X but never S3X.  Just the little juice of it.  When a man flirts with a young woman, there was always danger there.  Lurking, furtive.  An older woman, a woman old enough to be the man's mother or even grandmother, it was to harmlessly get some approval; to send herself back a time before she learned how lascivious men were.  See it all as harmless and innocent.

When I search "flirt" clipart, this is what I get:

Perhaps English being my second language turned first-cousin, I never fully understood the nuances of it.  Flirt. Why would a second meaning of flirt be used on a baby?
 
Though it's not visible to the naked eye, there it is:between the f, l, i, r and t are the naked letters s, e and x.  Do you see it?

How strange to associate a word like that with the affections of a child.

Or is it just me?

Three Years Old

Three years ago today, I let my friends Jo-Lynne and Sarah talk me into spending even more time on the computer.  Doing this thing called "Blogging."

I didn't really know what I was doing.  Like the new girl starting school in the middle of the year.  I had some thoughts that had been percolating in my mind for awhile.  Months.  Years.  Thoughts I wanted to get out.  Set out.

I'm an architect, and my college professors will tell you I AM NO WRITER.  Not only that, I always felt a bit handicapped by being raised in a family in which I was the only fluent speaker of English. 

I was just shy of 7 when I moved to Long Island, NY.  My brothers were 13, 12 and almost 11.  My mom and dad, arriving in a new country as adults, would never master the English language. And, as it turned out, neither would my brothers.  They would never catch on to why it was "I'm going to school," but "I'm going to the hospital."  They would always carry a Korean accent and never internalize the subtleties of the new language, and yet, through lack of use, lose most of their Korean, too.  Rock and a hard spot.  Coming or going.  Here nor there.

I would slide into the slithery mystery of English and slip right into it like a new pair of  pajamas.  I shed my Korean accent without looking back; without knowing that I had lost something.

I often share the story of my first trip to the public library.  It was a one room, wooden building, dusty and with that faint smell of old charcoal.  It was the librarian who first said those magic words, "Nancy Drew."  What could my mom or dad tell me about American books?  Nothing.  What could they do to help me with my English? to expand my vocabulary?    They couldn't read to me, nor would they know what to read.  My brothers had their own difficulties adjusting to a new culture.

When it was time to prepare for college, my SAT scores reflected my home life: 95th percentile in Math and a 50th percentile in Verbal.  I heard Korean parents say their children should stay away from fields like Law that require a mastery of language; that they were handicapped because of their immigrant families. It's an essentially Korean way of thinking - to put people in boxes, fence themselves in.

Through blogging, here's what I found out. Somehow, while studying vocabulary for the SATs, reading voraciously, writing business letters over and over again, somewhere along the way, I must have figured out how to write.  My best friend said I should write more.  I scoffed, given my background, my Korean fence.  She scoffed right back at me, giving me that quintessentially American,"You can do anything" speech.  It's an essentially American way of thinking - to see the vastness of the land and sky and know you can do anything.

Three years ago, I started with a little word: CAN.
And now, three years later, I see that I can write. I can!  I think.

Thanks to all my friends, who have stuck with me and supported me. 

Human Bein'

All those moppets have equal value: whether bein' white, beige, tan, brown, athletic, handicapped, mute, blind, deaf, happy, sad, made in China or Macao.  I need know only this, that they are all made in the image of their Maker.

Once they start walkin' and talkin' - it's a different matter.  Born that way or made that way, they're walkin' and talkin' now.

I have the right and the responsibility to judge whether the walkin' and talkin' is acceptable, or not.  Acceptable.  (Loaded!)  We all do it.  Judge: Decide.  I see other moppets doin and talkin things I find unAcceptable.   They - obviously - think it is Acceptable.  I have the right and responsibility to differ.  But some of them moppets are startin to insist that I accept what they walkn and talkin.  Not very liberal of them.

According to them moppets, me a bigot bein'.

Unscramble

1969. I was looking through our old family pictures. It was only today that I realized we're playing Scrabble. My uncle, on the far left, was getting his PhD in Physics but has an English-Korean dictionary in his hands. I think it wasn't long before I was winning every time. Yessss, little girl wins!
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Language Ladder

I am fascinated by language, the interconnectedness of the mind, spirit, language, word, truth and healing. Aside from English, I have some proficiency in Korean and know bits of French and I can see how these languages expand my understanding of others. If you are like most in the US, English is your first and only language. It is the status quo, the normal, the baseline, the natural, so much so that you probably don't even think about language.

I recently started helping a group of Korean moms improve their conversational English. They do not take language for granted. It is a heavy cart they push with every step, every day. They all maintain a "Korean only" policy at home, to ensure that their children remain fluent in their first language. The children are already fluent in English and are succeeding academically and socially. But the question has come up: is it detrimental to the family to maintain another language in the home?

I must say that I land squarely on the side of the parents on this one. I would love to speak to a linguist about this, but for now, I am telling you here, in my own way, in my limited vocabulary my thoughts. Language is not merely a means of transferring information from one entity to another, cold and straight-forward. Language is not just a convenience. I believe language is how you see the world, filtered through your experiences and brain mechanisms and tells something about how you relate to others. Layered with cultural inferences and implications.

I grew up here and became American, but I will always be distinctive because of my appearance: American by nationality, but always Korean by heritage. Always. This country still holds whites as the "norm" and held above all others. If you are white and don't see that, I understand. Because you don't see what doesn't exist for you: you never have to justify your presence, explain your existence. I always do. In various ways: polite, not, interest, curiosity, antagonism. I can sense these thoughts, as if they were objects, my radar having become highly developed:

• You are not white (therefore normal,) what are you?
• You are not white (therefore normal,) why are you here?
• You are not white (therefore normal,) therefore you do not matter.

And these kids will, too. They may grow up and become Americanized, as I have, but they will always, always be Korean. Can't be a Closet Korean and "come out" when you're ready.

So. I've taken you around on a nickel tour of my brain. Where am I taking you? Here: Language is essential to my self, my identity, my pride. My heritage is not dusty old photos; it is a picture of who I am. It is not in a silver pitcher brought from the old country; it is inside of me. It is not something to wear; it is infused in my soul. It is not a curiosity about something that has passed; I live now.
It is me.
It is me.
It is me.

Another language may be "inconvenient," it may be messy and things will go wrong. Kids will be embarrassed of their parents (isn't that novel?) and people will get frustrated. But I am convinced that with strong, persistent moms like the ones I'm befriending, multi-lingualism will find a place in US culture.

Despite whatever embarrassments and awkwardness suffered in youth, I don't know a single person who regrets being bilingual. I know many though, who regret not being bilingual...even generations later. By then, the language ladder to their soul will no longer quite reach.

*Photo by TommyOshima

Random Observations by Boo

I've had some intense challenges lately from the blogosphere. When the world weighs heavy, look to your six-year old for a new perspective:

On angel food cake: "It's like snow."

On water draining down the tub: "Mom, put your hand here, it's like a magnet."

On being groggy from a nap: "I need to recharge my battewy."

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Poke Him

Mrs. Wartenburg
Mrs. Tomaras
Mrs. DeHaven
Mrs. Biederman

Stagecoach Elementary School. Those were my teachers when we arrived in Longisland, New Yawk.

I can picture my first grade classroom, but I can't picture my teacher's face. Like the grown-ups on Charlie Brown. I didn't speak any English. I don't remember being scared. I should have been. I sat behind a curly-headed boy with a red shirt. It had a hole in the shoulder. I stuck my finger in it. He didn't poke me back and he didn't friend me. In fact, I think I was unfriended.

I vaguely remember going to another part of the room with a teacher and looking at a book about Jane and Spot. Pretty silly book, I remember.

My next memory, I see a child say to another, "CANIBORROWAPENCIL." Awhile later, I gave it a try. CANIBORROWAPENCIL. Ding! Someone hands me a pencil! Hey, I can do that!

And that, is how I learned to speak English.

Mastery of the Mundane

It's raining today. Is it raining where you are?

"the window screen, like a sampler half-stitched, or a crossword puzzle
invisibly solved, was inlaid erratically with minute, translucent tesserae
of rain"

- John Updike (1932-2009)

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Ferreal

I have in the past posted some funny misspellings from ads, mostly from CraigsList, of which I am an avid fan! It goes along with my love of thrift shops and yard sales. I shake my head in disbelief at some of the posts:

trapalane - the rubbery bouncy thing that your kids like to jump on

Wallmart - doesn't even your 5 yo know how to spell this environmental disaster?

rod iron - as in older patio furniture and railings. What spirit wrought her thus?

Bratt Pit - you know, Angelina's man

Another Real Ad

Bench. Shabby Sheik. $15.

Wondering what an Arab bench looks like.

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Proud Mama

Indulge me.

From Fireman Small, by Wong Herbert Yee:

"Come quick!" Mother Rabbit cries,
Holding back the tears in her eyes.
Fireman Small peers in the well
Climbs down to where Litte Bunny fell.
Finds Litte Bynnyt asleep on the ground
Brings her back up, all safe and sound.
Mother Rabbit shouts: "HOORAY"
Fireman Small drives back to the bay.

He pulls into station number nine.
Walks upstairs, one step at a time. Closes the curtains, gets in bed
And pulls the covers over his head.
JING-A-LING-JING the telephone rings.
Bakery's on fire! Can't see a thing.

Quickly out of bed he scoots,
Jumps into his pants and boots.
Ready to go, he slides down the pole
Puts on his helmet and coat below.
Sirens cry, lights flashing by
Fireman Small see smoke in the sky.

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This is a Real Ad

Four Wood Chairs, two Tea cups, a Sucking cup - $30
Date: 2008-11-22, 11:17 PM EST

Four wood chairs for sale, brand new, in very good condition. I ask for
$30 for 4 chairs.
Two sets of tea cups, new in box,never use,ask for $25 for both of them.
A set sucking cup, new in box,never use, ask for $10

I'm thinking "sucking" cup? do they mean a "sippy" cup? what is that? Intrigued, (or nosy) I went to the accompanying photo:

I kid you not.

I have a mind to contact them and spell "S-A-K-E."

You know, that stuff can S-U-C-K the consciousness right outta you.

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One

Divorces all around. In your neighborhood? In your church? I am even saddened by Madonna's divorce.

"Therefore shall a man leave his father and his mother, and shall cleave unto his wife: and they shall be one flesh." - Genesis 2:24 (KJV)

My friend has a little boy, just 2 years old. He says "this," for whatever action he wants. "This," he says, as he tugs my hand, come read me this story. "This," he says when he wants me to get something for him. This. This is what I want. This. It is here. Help me get it. I want it.

cleave (klēv)
[Middle English cleven, from Old English cleofian.]
intransitive verb: cleaved, cleav·ing, cleaves.
To adhere, cling, or stick fast.
To be faithful: cleave to one's principles.

Cleave. The husband to his wife. The intransitive verb "to adhere, cling, or stick fast" doesn't tell all. In Hebrew, there is action, intention: "follow close (hard after,) pursue hard." Can you feel it? Can you feel the effort? the struggle to be one?

Cleave has no meaning without a becoming of one. A transitive verb; the direct object being her, whom He made just for him.

Hard work. This.

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Voca-Boo-ary

Boo has to have all the answers. To everything. Or so it seems. Maybe this is common for a 6 year old, I don't know. By 4:00, I'm tired of being googled and wikepediad all day long. One of his series of questions involves how: as in how loud, big, strong, long, happy, hungry, far ...something, anything is.


This morning, he was giggling in the rec room, dropping a gym matte to hear it thud. Over and over. Each time, he'd ask his dad, "How loud was that, dad?" Even Buddha would get tired of his repeated questions. But unlike me, he wouldn't yell; just answer his question with a question, I am sure. So my husband, who, were he not a Christian, would no doubt be totally Zen, answers his son's query with, "Son, you ask me that often. Why do you ask me how loud something is?"

[You may have read that last question in your mind with a fake David Carradine "Kung Fu" accent, but my hubs is a Swiss-German-Scotch Irish lilly white American!]


Boo's answer to his dad was, "It's an expewiment."



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Poetry by a 6 Year Old

Boo spent all afternoon at the pool. At bedtime, I sprayed on some aloe lotion on his back and chest. He said,

"I saw the blue spray coming out!

if you spray it from higher

it would come down on me

like the rain!"

Lost in Translation

I have a pretty good life. No, I have an awesome life. HH is the love of my life and I am his. I have one child. Count 'em. One. Aaaaah. BUT. You all know what it's like to raise a child. Listening to their incessant droning. . I mean conversations. Answering their coutless meaningless. . I mean intriguing questions. About the minutea. . I mean the meaning of life.

My dad and his wife are visiting us from Korea. For 2 weeks. My dad is a robust 80, but his English skills are diminishing after 20 years back in Korea. And he has an accent. His wife doesn't speak English, but being an educated person can read and understand some. Boo, at 6 is yet unable to say his 'r's and has forgotten most of the little bit of Korean he used to know. My Scotch-Irish-Swiss-German HH knows about 15 Korean words.

So, in addition to my normal duties, I will be translating what Boo is saying to 'harabuji,' what 'harabuji' is saying to Boo, what 'halmunni' is saying to Boo, what Boo is saying to 'halmunni,' what 'halmunni' is saying to HH. . . .

Oooh my head hurts!

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Wendy Goes By

After VBS today, I was in a hurry to get home for a 1:00 PM appointment. So I succumbed to buying Wendy's for lunch. Boo knew we needed to get home, so he asked,

"Are we just drive throughing?"

"Yes, honey, we are just drive throughing."


By the way, visit Dave Thomas' Foundation for Adoption website.

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Cool

I crawled into bed with little Boo last night. He was all cozy from having been under the covers. All warm, doughy and squishy the way little ones get. When I got in, I was cool from being out in the air-conditioning of our house. He entangled his little legs around mine and said,

"Mom, you feel fwesh!"

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Fate Accompli

"It was Fate."

"As Fate would have it. . ."

Do you ever say things like that? What is fate? Does it affect your life? How?
It has always struck me that Fate is inanimate, so to speak. To me, it was Nothing, to which we attributed control over our mulitple, combined actions. Fate has no power. . . or does it?

The understood definition these days "the will or principle or determining cause by which things in general are believed to come to be as they are or events to happen as they do." Where did this idea come from? In Greek and Roman mythology, the Fates are any of three goddesses who determined human destinies, and in particular the span of a person's life and his allotment of misery and suffering. But it was Homer who referred to Fate as an impersonal power.

"Impersonal power." Is this your god? Does this god play with us, our loved ones, our future spouses, our very future? Is Fate our fait accompli?

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