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.