Rosie.

The world is a bit better when I'm with Rosie.
Not just because of the breeze and speed
rather,

the driver who pulled in his side mirror for me
the pedestrian who smiled back

the buildings
that reflect the river's luster,
the currents' crevice,
the cloud's shadow
and the sun's radiance.

The world is a bit brighter when I'm with Rosie.
Not just for the need and pure ease
rather,

the thoughts that begin to fly sky high
and never seem to land as my cranks provide

the understanding that
the height of the buildings do carry
their outside
in
and their inside
out.

with Rosie, the world is roofless and floorless
thus limitless.
with Rosie, the world is weightless

and there are no walls that separate
the dark and the light
the public and the private
the wind and the rain
the contained and the unconfined

with Rosie, my outside is inside, and my inside is outside.

snow = my white privilege.

I love to ride.

I am renewed amongst the trees and the mountains.

It grounds me, challenges me, and humbles me. 

I am aware and grateful for my able body.

I am most joyful and thankful for the friendships that arise.

But With It comes the car, the plane

the resources meant to maintain

our comfort

their preference

your heat

her choice

his needs

my joy.

hot cocoa in styro cups,

microbrews in plastic cups,

your lobster, his steak

their camber

our rocker

my flying v.

…………………

And With It, I often think of the dichotomy of my background and the experiences of others.

I think of my father when his friend tossed him his luggage from the crew cabin window.

Was the dock empty,
where there many border officers on the seaport?

Was he afraid?
Did anyone bid him farewell?

He’s strolled the wooden docks of dozens of ports
mingled with Aussies, drank with Moroccans –
how different would his life been, why this one?

The phrase ‘jump ship’ isn’t as dramatic as it seems.
The ship he worked on was bunkering in Houston,
and like many seaports along the Gulf, had waves of folks waiting and moving, leaving and going.

He was staying.

He told me he was given a phone number from a crew mate.
The dude lived in Brooklyn.
I always wondered where it was written.
Till this day my father doesn’t know how to store numbers in his cellphone.

That same day he boarded a plane to La Guardia.

Knowing he’s a middle school dropout from southern Taiwan, I’ve always wanted to ask all the little details, what if no one answered his call, how he communicated with the cab driver, how he felt in an airport, and whom he sat next to on his first American flight…
and throughout the years what fears and burdens displacement and deportation bring. 

But I’ve accepted the one-word answers, aside from being scolded, knew that my curiosity for colorful details – or even my Curiosity itself stemmed from a place of privilege. Many times Memories and Feelings of precarious journeys, unpredictable experiences and painful occasions are almost forgotten or better left unspoken. How else can one un-fog the hesitancy of fear and past, move forward, and ultimately survive? When does it become a privilege to remember? Or is it only a privilege when one can describe or defend memory?

……………….

In the mountains, we all have our desires, wishes, likes and wants.

Opinions gather to examine and decide,

the worthiness of those who share our runs,

the significance of our abilities,

the conditions of our environment,

the breadth of our hunger and choices

even the sweetness of the complimentary cider,

and ultimately the quality of the snow we hope to ride.

That never ceases to blow my privileged mind = I can judge The Snow.

I often joke that my kids will shred – both mountain and coast,

fearlessly ride – both trees and terrain, 

take risks - on wheels or boards.

But my greatest desire is that they will humbly love and engage – 

those near and afar.

And as they learn to also judge the snow, I hope they will patiently grasp the means it takes for others to survive. Maybe by then my father will have more words to paint, and my mother will have more stories to explain.

The Snow has taught me that privilege is not earned - it's not the result of our efforts, or from working hard for the choices and comforts we have.

It’s the result of someone else’s efforts,
the joys we reap from someone else’s challenges.

It’s a gift. 

And with that comes much Memory - and responsibility.

for the daughters of émigrés and immigrants.

inextricably sound

journey of 6,770 miles,

the voices of the past announce:

she is relevant

her voice belongs.

she is a delight.

her tan skin,

brown and black moles freckle her face

blessed by the West’s salt and sun,

she is delight.

across and between the vast pacific,

bound and tied

from the cusp of both shores

the ancestors shout:

“beautiful country, she is yours!”

“affirm her, challenge her, love her!”

she is delight.

“Mei-guo, she is yours!”

“affirm her, challenge her, love her!”

she is delight.

        

obligations weighted by history,

molded by untold tales

and heart-kept whispers,

hidden songs and muffled stories.

                                                

homes built on uncertain hope,

each grain rises with toil, masking

the unfamiliar tongues.

identity weighted by Gong-gong and Po-po’s

she takes the stories of souls’ past

threaded collectively

and layered intricately

and moves forth

obeys her curiosity

navigates the voices

and values her desires.

resilient from and reliant on

the gong-gongs and the puo-puos,

the ah-mas and the gu-mahs,

the ba-bas and the mah-mahs,

she rises.

selective comPassion

I first heard the phrase above after an intense Dharma session when the yoga teacher instructed us to level down and sit cross-legged at the foot of our mats.

we choose who we care for, she told us.

we choose what we care about, she told us.

we often have selective compassion, she told me.

I remember tears streaming down my face, meeting with the sweat that accompanied my headstand. Previously upside down, turned around, and whatever else she made us do, 

she had suddenly turned me inside out and worse, 

called me out.

I am stretched so thin, I thought, how do I not have selective compassion?

The number of prison beds are manufactured based on
the results of 4^th grade reading assessments,

It’s not too difficult to see who can read and who can’t.

who will be able recognize her name and who will struggle.

who gets the bed time story

and who doesn't.

who sees himself next to the crossword puzzle on the cereal box.

who never sees herself on the pages of a shimmering book, fighting the battle, winning the prize.

             How do you not have selective compassion? I cried out. 

 

That was 2 years ago, and I am still struggling with having compassion for everyone.

What’s different now is that I’m starting with myself – 

do I have compassion for me?

What areas of my life do I need to re-build and renew, so I’m stretched thicker than thin,

Courageous rather than ashamed,

Everyone has a story -

pockets empty or full,

language learned or mother tongue,

ivy leagued or home-schooled,

tall and handsome or short and stout.

Because in the end, we won’t know who will win the battle for us.

what makes my heart thump. (and skip and bounce and jump!)

The sun streaming past the horizon and behind the dome’s glow,

Tears wallow as I speed into the cold, piercing it with my tires

Squinting against the light, I greet the traffic, I greet the sun.

I am grateful for my body.

The legacy that binds and shapes the past, 
protrudes and marks the present

Layers revealed, inequality formed

a solid block, heavy and burdened

Push, pull and peel. Debris and confusion aside, the change makes way.

What decisions should I make? What actions lay ahead.

Tears pour as we strive, and I strive to better understand –

reveal, and work to provide.

I am grateful for my responsibilities.  

knowing 30

I wrote this in July 2012.
Before I knew I would leave the country for 7 months.

I left in February 2013.

I am 31 now, and
I don't know if I still know!

_______________________________

There’s a realization that hits the side of you face,

A realization mixed with so much clarity and confusion,

You turn your cheek, to be hit again – hopefully harder, sharper

so this time around there is less confusion.

You have come full circle.

When leaving feels like coming, and coming feels like going.

When places and spaces become options and choices,

Momentary feelings.

You opt out,

You choose ‘other’

You choose to go,

When leaving feels like a relief,

An adventure.

When you don’t remember the faces, but you remember the food.

When no country, no city, gives you that excitement and lingering curiosity.

But you remember that it used to.

You choose to stay.

When staying and saving, feels right.
When spending feels wrong, marvelous, frivolous, and painstakingly fun.

When the future includes mom and dad,

securing their comfort and safety, and nothing else.

iceland 9.7.2013

When you finally give yourself time to heal.

When you know exactly how to heal.

When you stop listening to others – and yourself.

When some say you are old,

And others say you are young.

When you’re annoyed to be carded

And surprised when you aren’t

When ‘5 years’ is for a minute

When a scenic drive feels like eternity.

When ailments and remedies are generously shared.

When you choose to live and celebrate life with and for others.

Birthdays. Weddings. Funerals. Births. Retirement parties.

When your shoulds’ become coulds.’

When mistakes don’t carry so much weight.

When mistakes, now – are a big fuckin deal.

When you have more patience for others,

But less for yourself.

When among life’s trials, aside from being present and aware,

You now know

There is not much you can do,

And there is not much left to say...

But maybe ask when and what else?