family

This is the life I would rather be living

I don’t ever want my daughter to feel as though her existence is getting in the way of a life I would rather be living. I want her to feel wanted, appreciated, and cared for. I want her to feel seen, heard, and understood. 

I want her to know that she is important, that she is more important than my personal goals and aspirations, more important than my desires or regrets, and more important than my hobbies and my occupation. 

I want my daughter to know that she can talk to me, confide in me, and come to me for comfort and guidance. I want her to feel safe to tell me anything and to know that, even if I do not always like her choices, she is loved without judgement or conditions. 

I want her to know that there is nothing more important to me than her, that I would and will drop anything and everything if she needs me, and that there is nothing she can ask of me that is too big or too small for me to help her. 

I am not always perfect at this. I make mistakes. I make a lot of mistakes. I put other things before her. I don’t always give her the attention she wants or needs. I am sometimes preoccupied with other things and miss opportunities to see or hear her. But I am trying, and when I make a mistake, we talk about it. I am learning just like she is, and that is important for her to see. 

Children do not choose to come into this world. They have no say in the matter. We make that choice for them and they have to live with our decision. This is something I understood as a child. 

Knowing that I did not make the choice to be here, there were many times growing up where I wished I had never been born. There were many times when I felt like an inconvenience, like there was some other life my parents would rather be living, but they had me instead. Real or imagined, this is what I felt and I don’t ever want my daughter to feel the way that I did. 

This is the life I would rather be living and my daughter is who I want to spend my time with, not because it is an obligation, but because that is the decision that I made when I helped to bring her into this world. 

My first bicycle – I hate you

My little brother and I being the first grandkids in our family, everyone usually gathered at our house for Christmas. One year, as we all sat in our basement around the fireplace opening presents with our family, I saw two large boxes covered in wrapping paper. One had my name on it and the other had my brother’s. They were from my grandparents, my dad’s parents, two of the sweetest, most genuine and generous people I have ever known.

My grandparents didn’t have much, but what they did have, they gave to others. These two boxes were the last gifts to be opened. Everyone watched in anticipation as we tore into the paper. When we finally got to the boxes, we could see there were pictures of bicycles on them. But there was a problem. The boxes were empty.

My brother and I were extremely confused. Then, everyone started laughing. Being a few years older, I vaguely understood that there was more to the story than two empty boxes. My brother, on the other hand, didn’t get the joke. He must have thought everyone was laughing at him, as opposed to at the punchline, and he lost his temper, yelling, “I hate you!” at our grandparents and everyone who laughed.

I could feel the mood in the room shift. I can still feel it to this day, the awkward tension his outburst created and the hurt I could sense in my grandparents upon hearing those words.

This was partly my fault. Being the older brother and not knowing any better, I had played a lot of tricks on my little brother over the years. I created games where we would wrap toys in paper and trade back and forth. He would give me my favorite toy of his and I would give him his favorite toy of mine, or at least that’s what I told him would happen. When I opened the gift he gave to me, what was inside was exactly what I had hoped for, most likely some G.I. Joe figure or accessory, or a Transformer or Go-Bot. When he opened the gift I gave to him, however, where he was promised a toy, what he would usually find was a book, and I would laugh. I don’t know how many times we played this game, but it was enough.

So when he opened that empty bicycle box and everyone began laughing, what they didn’t know was that he had been through this before and he didn’t like it at all. He was hurt and angry, just like when I had tricked him so many times prior. Shocked at his reaction, everyone responded differently. My grandparents remained quiet, my parents were embarrassed, my uncle was upset by the seeming ingratitude, and I felt all of it all at once.

When the adults finally got my brother to calm down, they took us into the garage where the bicycles were, fully assembled and ready to ride. What I unconsciously suspected all along was true. My grandparents were not the kind of people to play a cruel joke like giving children, their only grandchildren, empty bicycle boxes for Christmas just to laugh at their expense.

Of course the bicycles were in the garage. It was so obvious in hindsight. I’m sure my brother apologized for his reaction, even if he was made to, but I’m also sure he was as embarrassed after the fact as he was upset prior to seeing his brand new bicycle. I’m also sure that my grandparents forgave him as they would forgive both of us many times over in their lives.

As I said, they were two of the kindest, most gracious and generous people I have ever known. They were hard-working faithful family-oriented folks. Whether they know it or not, I learned a lot from watching them over the years, even if I was unable to show them during their lives. They saw my brother and I make a lot of mistakes, but they always treated us with love.

Oh, and those bicycles were amazing! We got a lot of miles out of them and, I don’t know about my brother, but my bicycle gave me my first real taste of freedom. I’m guessing he had a similar experience because he was usually with me when I would ride miles away from home around lake for fun, or to the tennis courts to play street hockey with the kids from school. We rode together to many places for many years and had many amazing experiences.

Community sandals

There are many aspects of Cambodian culture that took me a while to get accustomed to. In fact, there are many aspects of Cambodian culture that I’m still not used to, even after being with my Cambodian-American wife for nearly seventeen years. For example, the idea of community sandals still baffles and sometimes irks me.

It is customary in Cambodian culture, as in many Asian cultures, to leave your shoes at the door prior to entering a home. Because of this, outside of any Cambodian home, you will typically find a pile of shoes that will include everything from dress shoes to sneakers, sandals, and flip flops, lots and lots of sandals and flip flops.

Being born and raised in an American where a person’s shoes are only that person’s shoes, my assumption has always been that a person wears only the shoes that belong to him or her. If I wear a pair of shoes to someone’s home and I take them off at their door, I expect that I will find them where I left them when it is time for me to put them back on. However, in my experience, this is not always true with Cambodians, especially when it comes to sandals or flip flops.

I have been at many Cambodian cookouts where I have left my flip flops outside, gone in the house to get something, to use the bathroom, or simply to get out of the heat, only to find that my flip flops were missing when I got back. At first, this thoroughly confused me. I had no idea where they went and I thought I had misplaced them, or that I was losing my mind.

The first time this happened, as I walked around looking for my missing footwear, I saw an older Cambodian woman walking around with giant black flip flops that looked like mine on her tiny Asian feet. I asked my then girlfriend, now wife, if the woman was wearing my flip flops. Confused by my question, she looked at the woman’s feet, then looked at me, and said, “Yeah?”

“They are my flip flops,” I replied, “Doesn’t she have her own shoes?”

“Probably,” she said, “Just grab another pair,” and then she walked away.

My black-and-white mind could not understand what was going on. It did not compute. These were my flip flops. That woman had her own shoes. Why was she wearing mine? Furthermore, why would I want to wear someone else’s shoes? Why would she want to wear my shoes, for that matter?

As I settled down a bit, I began looking for another pair of flip flops that I could wear. This created another problem. I have size thirteen feet and absolutely none of the people at this cookout, especially not the Cambodians, had feet, or shoes, that big. I grabbed the biggest pair of tiny flip flops I could find, squeezed my giant Dutch-American feet into them and shuffled around looking as weird as I felt. Eventually, I got my flip flops back and, the next time I took them off, I was sure to leave them out of the path of any Cambodians who might innocently slip their feet into the most conveniently located pair of shoes.

Over the years, I have come to understand that, while everyone comes to and leaves a Cambodian home with their own shoes, as long as those shoes are not currently being worn, they are community shoes. That is, if a member or guest of that household needs a pair of shoes to complete some task, they are going to grab whichever shoes are most convenient on their way out the door. When they are done, the shoes will be returned, maybe not to the same spot, but they will be returned. There is nothing malicious or inconsiderate about this custom. I suppose many Cambodians just see shoes as a tool, not an extension of personal identity or even property.

I assume it was grace

Thirty days before my nineteenth birthday, I entered rehab. Looking back, I still don’t know how I found the courage to go. At first, I was willing because I had nowhere else to turn. I had no home to speak of. I was barely getting by, working at McDonald’s, making enough money to eat and get high. 

I had been sleeping on friends’ floors and couches for a while, and occasionally in my car that had expired tags to match my suspended license. My mom had let me back in her home for a short period because I was too sick to take care of myself, but I had worn out my welcome once again, especially as far as her husband was concerned. I was running out of options. 

One night, at a Pizza Hut, my parents got together for the first time since their divorce, sat me down, and told me I needed help. My dad’s insurance would cover me going to rehab and they were giving me one last chance to turn my life around. Of course, I was angry and belligerent. This perceived betrayal was more fuel for the fire of resentment and self pity that burned me from the inside out. I said I needed time to think about it and I left. 

I knew I was in trouble. If I rejected their ultimatum, I would have nowhere else to turn. With the exception of one or two people, I had burned all of the bridges that I had crossed. I called one of my last friends up, a girl I met through drugs and drinking, and with whom I lived for a while when I dropped out of school and ran away from home. She had just recently gotten out of rehab and, as soon as she was out, we were drinking and getting high together. 

I told my friend what was going on and she came to get me, or at least I assume she did because all I remember is the two of us sitting on top of Federal Hill, smoking weed, and talking about rehab, and I know I didn’t drive there. I told her my sob story, we commiserated for a while, and then she said, “It might be good for you to take a break for a little while. Go to rehab. It’s like a vacation. I’ll be here when you get out. But, if you don’t want to go, you can stay with me at my mom’s house.” 

Her mom lived in the city. We used to go there to get high with her and she would buy us alcohol, but she was into some things even I wouldn’t touch. She had a drawer full of pills and smoked crack from time to time. That stuff always scared me. Although, with the way I was headed, who knows how many of my “nevers” were really just “not yets.” 

My friend’s offer was tempting. It was a way out. If I accepted, it meant I had a roof over my head for a while longer. It meant I could keep running. But I was worn out. I was tired and beaten. I told her I’d think about it and she took me home. 

What happened next still baffles me. The next day, I called my father and told him I would go to rehab like he said. I guess I was done, but I don’t know how or why. I don’t know what it was that gave me the power to make that decision when I had another option. The only explanation I have is that it was grace. 

My father contacted his insurance company, they set everything up with the facility, and gave me an intake date. I didn’t fight it. Thirty days before my nineteenth birthday, I was driven to rehab and I was given a chance that many do not get. I was given the opportunity to start my life over and, even thought I’m convinced that it was some kind of divine intervention, I took it. 

Chili humility

Recently, my wife took her parents to the Cambodian Buddhist Temple for a fundraiser. At the event, local Cambodian and Thai food vendors set up to raise money to donate to the temple through food sales. My wife came back with some of my favorite foods, including green papaya salad, chicken wings stuffed with Cambodian herbs, spices, and chopped peanuts, and fried bananas, which I really appreciated after a long day running and participating in a jiu-jitsu scrimmage for grapplers over forty. 

My mother-in-law brought home some produce, including a small, green bitter eggplant (turkey berry) that is used in a variety of Cambodian and Thai dishes, but she specifically uses it in one of my favorite Cambodian dishes, prahok ling. Prahok ling is essentially ground pork, fermented fish paste (prahok), herbs and spices (kaffir lime leaf, lemongrass, turmeric, etc), bird’s eye chilis, and turkey berries all stir-fried together. 

The dish is served with jasmine rice, raw vegetables such as cabbage, carrots, and green beans, and lime wedges. The prahok ling is either eaten over the rice with the veggies as an accompaniment, or the veggies are used to scoop up the prahok ling and it is all eaten together. The lime is there in case someone wants to add some acid to the dish, which I always do because I like the salty, spicy, bitter, and sour combination. 

Before we started eating, my mother-in-law warned me that there were whole bird’s eye chilis in the dish. At first, I ate around them, but then I got brave and I took a bite with a piece of chili in it. It was delicious and not too spicy. I finished what I had with the remainder of the chili and I decided to have some more. 

This time, bravery turning into arrogance, I took a couple of chilis into my bowl. I chopped the chilis up with my spoon, mixed them around in the prahok ling, squeezed some lime on it, and started eating. After my first couple of bites, I realized that something was very different. These chilis were not like the last one. My mouth was on fire and I could feel my belly starting to get warm. 

I told wife that I think I made a mistake and everyone started laughing. They know, and I know but had forgotten in a state of prideful ignorance and hunger, that not all bird’s eye chilis are created equal. Even in the same batch, they can range from a pleasant, fruity heat to regretfully spicy. I had just eaten the spectrum and now I needed to reevaluate my situation. 

Humbled and happy to give everyone a reason to laugh, I began separating the chilis from the rest of my food and enjoyed the remainder of my meal. It was not only delicious, but it was also very nice to have a sit-down, home-cooked meal with my wife, daughter, and in-laws. These occasions used to be an everyday occurrence for us because we all lived together for many years, but now that we live apart, it is more rare, and so we appreciate it when it happens. A temporarily burnt mouth and bruised ego are a small price to pay for delicious food and good company.