We went to the KORUS festival last Saturday. We're a hybrid family (Korean-American husband, Caucasian wife, mixed children) so we fit right in. This particular festival, though, was far more US than KOR, and more weird than either.
The top-level parking deck at Tyson's Corner Center is first of all a less-than-festive venue for a festival, particularly on a hot day. Almost all of the tents belonged to corporate or political sponsors; small-time electioneering ahead of the mid-terms was in full swing, and my sons collected stickers, pens, and shopping bags from council, register-of-wills, and judicial candidates. We can't vote for any of them, of course; we live in Maryland.
The stage was occupied by a Korean girl rapper who was accompanied by a Black rapper and backing band. I suppose that the Korean girl, who had a definite Iggy Azalea accent, would have been accused of appropriation had there been any other Black people or SJWs listening, but the audience was made up of 95% Koreans with a handful of Caucasians who were married to Koreans. The rap was in English, and Christian-themed. Both rappers claimed to be former thug lifers, almost lost to crack and the street, but now redeemed, having found the Lord. I didn't fact-check them. The audience regarded them with a mixture of puzzlement and curiosity.
We wandered around to see the other exhibitors, who were mostly food vendors. My husband waited in line for bulgogi and kimchi, while I took my two-year-old nephew for frozen yogurt. He ignored the two halmonis who smiled and waved and made faces and tried their hardest to get a tiny smile or giggle from the Toddler of Nope. He wasn't having any, and he ignored my advice to enjoy the female attention now when it's readily available. He ate his yogurt and barely deigned to turn his head toward the ladies; when he did, he gave them no more than a baleful stare.
After an hour or so, we'd seen all of the exhibitors once and had just begun one last circuit to make sure that we hadn't missed anything. Anyone in the audience who had thought that witnessing the rap performance had moved them into "Now I've Seen It All" territory had only to hang around for a few minutes, when they'd have heard a Korean version of "Country Roads," made even better by a Korean dance team dressed in rhinestone-studded satin cowboy dresses.
My Korean husband, born in Seoul and raised in the close-in suburbs of Washington DC, has always claimed that he should have been a country boy. He's more urban than a subway pass, but that doesn't stop him from rhapsodizing about country living. He'd bale his own hay, and he'd grow his own food, and he'd live off the grid, if only he were in the country.
"This is what I'm talking about," he said. "See? My people know that I'm a country boy. They're singing my song." On a sun-beaten blacktop parking platform connecting one wing of a suburban mall to another, just off one of the most heavily traveled Capital Beltway exits, surrounded by high-density mixed-use development, which is surrounded by traditional suburban sprawl, an all-American Korean longs for the place where he belongs, which is apparently West Virginia. Meanwhile, the heat reflecting off the blacktop beneath our feet and the relentless sun overhead were finally enough. "Take me home," I said.
Tuesday, September 29, 2015
Thursday, September 24, 2015
One of these things is not like the other
I'm reading one of those books of funny essays written by popular bloggers. This one focuses mostly on modern suburban motherhood; the author is a renegade who just doesn't fit in with the Botoxed, superfit, Pinterest-pinning, organic/gluten-free, hypercompetitive, pumpkin-spice-latte supermoms who are apparently EVERYWHERE in the town where she lives, sharing homemade muffins and passive-aggression with the lesser mothers (like the author) who can barely manage to (Fill in the blank: put a meal on the table, comb their hair, shower, wear non-stretchy clothes, etc.)
It's funny, I suppose. As a person who is inept at all crafts, hates (REALLY HATES) to bake, finds Pinterest ridiculous, and believes that pumpkin should be consumed only within the confines of a pie, I should probably feel a more robust sense of tribal affiliation with the author. She's one of my people. But although I know more than my share of the other type of suburban mother, I don't think I've ever noticed that any of them bake or decorate or overexercise or garden or push their children to excel for any reason other than that's what they want to do. I don't recognize the smug, superior Mean-Girl mothers described semi-hilariously in this book, and I can't summon the appropriate resentment against their supposed tyranny over the rest of us.
There's a huge irony present in the very existence of this book, which is based on a blog that revolves around a similar theme, which is very popular with readers who often comment about their oppression at the perfectly manicured hands of the bitchy queen bees in their own neighborhoods. It's us against them, the author seems to assert: the slightly frumpy, just-holding-it-together mothers against the Little Miss Perfects, damn them. But of course, we have the words on our side. Most of the people who write or blog about the alleged raging Mommy Wars are in the former camp, and we can write stuff that makes us look cool and funny and down to earth, and that makes them look humorless and uptight and lacking in all decent human qualities. Who's the mean girl in this scenario?
*****
I was watching Morning Joe this morning; just a short break from the All-Pope, All-the-Time programming that has constituted my only TV consumption this week. Rick Perry was a guest. I'm not very political anymore, and I don't have much of an opinion of Rick Perry one way or another. Joe Scarborough finished the interview with Perry by sharing a story that Rick Santorum had told him. Apparently, at a Republican debate (I missed a few words, so I don't know if this happened in 2012 or 2015), Santorum noticed that of all the candidates, only Perry wasn't taking notes throughout the debate. Perry did, however, make a quick note when Santorum was speaking about his daughter Bella, who has Trisomy 18. At the end of the debate, Santorum made a point of looking down at Perry's notes when the men were shaking hands, to see if he could see what Perry had written. He had written three words: "Pray for Bella."
It was a touching story, and Perry didn't react to seeing Scarborough tell it on TV the way I'd have expected him to. He was neither embarrassed nor piously smug. It was just something that had happened. Perry said that he remembered making the note, and that he still prays for Bella Santorum. He also prays for Barack Obama.
*****
There should be a better segue between those two stories, some neat metaphorical connection between the mommy blogger and the conservative Texas politician. I'm not going to bother looking for it, though. Ten years ago, I'd have been nodded my head in recognition at snarky portrayals of Mommier-than-thou types who apparently rule suburbia with iron fists. I'd have also rolled my eyes at Republican politicians who claimed to pray for anything. Maybe my politics have changed, but I think that it's a shift in something other than politics. Us versus them in any context, which has always been unkind, now seems downright boring. A Texas Republican could maybe teach me how to pray for my enemies. A supermommy could maybe teach me how to make a nicer dinner. It doesn't matter who's teaching; I have plenty to learn.
It's funny, I suppose. As a person who is inept at all crafts, hates (REALLY HATES) to bake, finds Pinterest ridiculous, and believes that pumpkin should be consumed only within the confines of a pie, I should probably feel a more robust sense of tribal affiliation with the author. She's one of my people. But although I know more than my share of the other type of suburban mother, I don't think I've ever noticed that any of them bake or decorate or overexercise or garden or push their children to excel for any reason other than that's what they want to do. I don't recognize the smug, superior Mean-Girl mothers described semi-hilariously in this book, and I can't summon the appropriate resentment against their supposed tyranny over the rest of us.
There's a huge irony present in the very existence of this book, which is based on a blog that revolves around a similar theme, which is very popular with readers who often comment about their oppression at the perfectly manicured hands of the bitchy queen bees in their own neighborhoods. It's us against them, the author seems to assert: the slightly frumpy, just-holding-it-together mothers against the Little Miss Perfects, damn them. But of course, we have the words on our side. Most of the people who write or blog about the alleged raging Mommy Wars are in the former camp, and we can write stuff that makes us look cool and funny and down to earth, and that makes them look humorless and uptight and lacking in all decent human qualities. Who's the mean girl in this scenario?
*****
I was watching Morning Joe this morning; just a short break from the All-Pope, All-the-Time programming that has constituted my only TV consumption this week. Rick Perry was a guest. I'm not very political anymore, and I don't have much of an opinion of Rick Perry one way or another. Joe Scarborough finished the interview with Perry by sharing a story that Rick Santorum had told him. Apparently, at a Republican debate (I missed a few words, so I don't know if this happened in 2012 or 2015), Santorum noticed that of all the candidates, only Perry wasn't taking notes throughout the debate. Perry did, however, make a quick note when Santorum was speaking about his daughter Bella, who has Trisomy 18. At the end of the debate, Santorum made a point of looking down at Perry's notes when the men were shaking hands, to see if he could see what Perry had written. He had written three words: "Pray for Bella."
It was a touching story, and Perry didn't react to seeing Scarborough tell it on TV the way I'd have expected him to. He was neither embarrassed nor piously smug. It was just something that had happened. Perry said that he remembered making the note, and that he still prays for Bella Santorum. He also prays for Barack Obama.
*****
There should be a better segue between those two stories, some neat metaphorical connection between the mommy blogger and the conservative Texas politician. I'm not going to bother looking for it, though. Ten years ago, I'd have been nodded my head in recognition at snarky portrayals of Mommier-than-thou types who apparently rule suburbia with iron fists. I'd have also rolled my eyes at Republican politicians who claimed to pray for anything. Maybe my politics have changed, but I think that it's a shift in something other than politics. Us versus them in any context, which has always been unkind, now seems downright boring. A Texas Republican could maybe teach me how to pray for my enemies. A supermommy could maybe teach me how to make a nicer dinner. It doesn't matter who's teaching; I have plenty to learn.
Wednesday, September 16, 2015
Shelter from the storm
I have these black Kork Ease sandals that I bought in, I think, 2013. They're very comfortable. Last summer, during a family trip to Korea, I wore them almost every day, for seven to ten miles of daily walking, often uphill (I climbed Seongsan Ilchubong in these shoes.) Because I'd worn the sandals for most of the summer, too, my feet were accustomed to them, and I didn't have so much as a callus at the end of the trip.
This summer, I worked only from home for the first time, so even the Kork Ease were dressier than I needed for my daily routine of copy editing from my kitchen table and hanging around at the pool watching swim practice. I wore them to church, and out here or there, but most of the time, I was in flip-flops.
We spent this weekend in Baltimore. After seeing one of the craziest baseball games ever on Friday night (I looked it up; the Orioles' two grand slams in a single inning was not a first-ever feat, but it's only happened six times in modern baseball history), we spent Saturday walking and riding the Water Taxi around the waterfront, seeing sights and eating food. My Fitbit recorded over 19,000 steps.
It was 6:15 or so when we returned to the hotel. My feet were blistered raw in four places, and black from leather dye. We were all damp and chilled and ragged from the rain. After a swim in the hotel pool, though (I scrubbed my icky feet first), followed by a few minutes in the sauna, followed by a shower, we were all clean and dry and warm again. Then we ate more food.
*****
Because I follow what the young people are doing on the social media, I have learned that college-age kids now advise people to "check their privilege." If some juvenile social justice warrior told me to check my privilege, I think I'd suggest that she check her manners. I do not think that word means what they think it means.
Manners aside, though, I'm actually checking my privilege now. My relative privilege versus that of most of the world can be quantified by the word "shitload." I enjoy a shitload of privileges. When my children are hungry, I always have something to offer them, even if it's not exactly what the children want. ("There's nothing to eat in this house." I do not think those words mean what you think they mean.) Filth is a temporary and easily remedied condition. Shelter from the storm is always within short walking distance.
I think that I might have said something that afternoon about refusing to take another step until I had clean feet and dry clothes. I'm sure that refugee women, on a hot and dusty road from Damascus or Asmara, also sometimes threaten to refuse to walk one more step in their dirty shoes or ragged clothes. They keep going, though, and so would I if I had to. I don't have to, though. Most days, I don't have to. Privilege.
This summer, I worked only from home for the first time, so even the Kork Ease were dressier than I needed for my daily routine of copy editing from my kitchen table and hanging around at the pool watching swim practice. I wore them to church, and out here or there, but most of the time, I was in flip-flops.
We spent this weekend in Baltimore. After seeing one of the craziest baseball games ever on Friday night (I looked it up; the Orioles' two grand slams in a single inning was not a first-ever feat, but it's only happened six times in modern baseball history), we spent Saturday walking and riding the Water Taxi around the waterfront, seeing sights and eating food. My Fitbit recorded over 19,000 steps.
It was 6:15 or so when we returned to the hotel. My feet were blistered raw in four places, and black from leather dye. We were all damp and chilled and ragged from the rain. After a swim in the hotel pool, though (I scrubbed my icky feet first), followed by a few minutes in the sauna, followed by a shower, we were all clean and dry and warm again. Then we ate more food.
*****
Because I follow what the young people are doing on the social media, I have learned that college-age kids now advise people to "check their privilege." If some juvenile social justice warrior told me to check my privilege, I think I'd suggest that she check her manners. I do not think that word means what they think it means.
Manners aside, though, I'm actually checking my privilege now. My relative privilege versus that of most of the world can be quantified by the word "shitload." I enjoy a shitload of privileges. When my children are hungry, I always have something to offer them, even if it's not exactly what the children want. ("There's nothing to eat in this house." I do not think those words mean what you think they mean.) Filth is a temporary and easily remedied condition. Shelter from the storm is always within short walking distance.
I think that I might have said something that afternoon about refusing to take another step until I had clean feet and dry clothes. I'm sure that refugee women, on a hot and dusty road from Damascus or Asmara, also sometimes threaten to refuse to walk one more step in their dirty shoes or ragged clothes. They keep going, though, and so would I if I had to. I don't have to, though. Most days, I don't have to. Privilege.
Friday, September 4, 2015
Arachnophobia
That title, while relevant, is somewhat less than accurate, because I'm not particularly afraid of spiders (though I'm certainly not fond of them, either.)
So, this morning, I found what I'm pretty sure was a brown recluse spider in my kitchen sink. I know that the brown recluse has the distinctive violin marking on its back, but I didn't have my glasses or contact lenses, having just awoken a few minutes earlier, and I certainly wasn't going to get close enough to it to examine and identify any pattern that might or might not have appeared on its back.
It looked up at me, calmly and expectantly. It seemed to be waiting for me to offer it a cup of coffee, or maybe some orange juice and toast. As I said, I'm not particularly afraid of spiders, and perhaps this one, accustomed to human encounters accompanied by shrieks of terror, mistakenly thought that my silence indicated welcome.
The thing was already in the sink, not far from the drain. Problem solved, I thought. Instead of the hoped-for coffee and Continental breakfast, the spider got the business end of the faucet hose. Then, after a few minutes of the deluge, I turned on the garbage disposal, just for good measure. I thought for a moment that I'd probably be remembered among the brown recluse community as a monster, a fiend so cruel and wanton that mere drowning of an innocent spider wasn't enough to satisfy me; I had to torture the poor dying thing, too.
Imagine my surprise, then, when 20 minutes or so later, I found a spider in my sink again. Notice that I didn't say "another spider" because I'm not sure, in fact, if it WAS another spider, or the same one, tougher and more resilient than I could ever have imagined. What doesn't kill a spider might make it stronger, I thought, so this time, I squashed it. THEN I ran the water and turned on the disposal again. I tried not to think too hard about either of two distinct possibilities:
1. A new breed of bulletproof, kill-resistant, super spider that can withstand all extermination attempts
2. Spider infestation
No sightings since. Maybe word of this morning's incident has spread, and the spider community is wisely avoiding my house of death. Or maybe they're plotting revenge. I'll find out soon enough
PS--I thought to accompany this post with a photo of a brown recluse, maybe with a funny caption ("Actually, do you have soy milk? I'm lactose intolerant.") but if you've never done a Google image search for brown recluse spiders, then do yourself a favor and don't. It's not the spiders, because if you've seen one, you've seen them all. Necrotizing spider bites, however, are all different and each is more gut-wrenchingly disgusting than the last. You can't unsee some things. Don't say you weren't warned.
So, this morning, I found what I'm pretty sure was a brown recluse spider in my kitchen sink. I know that the brown recluse has the distinctive violin marking on its back, but I didn't have my glasses or contact lenses, having just awoken a few minutes earlier, and I certainly wasn't going to get close enough to it to examine and identify any pattern that might or might not have appeared on its back.
It looked up at me, calmly and expectantly. It seemed to be waiting for me to offer it a cup of coffee, or maybe some orange juice and toast. As I said, I'm not particularly afraid of spiders, and perhaps this one, accustomed to human encounters accompanied by shrieks of terror, mistakenly thought that my silence indicated welcome.
The thing was already in the sink, not far from the drain. Problem solved, I thought. Instead of the hoped-for coffee and Continental breakfast, the spider got the business end of the faucet hose. Then, after a few minutes of the deluge, I turned on the garbage disposal, just for good measure. I thought for a moment that I'd probably be remembered among the brown recluse community as a monster, a fiend so cruel and wanton that mere drowning of an innocent spider wasn't enough to satisfy me; I had to torture the poor dying thing, too.
Imagine my surprise, then, when 20 minutes or so later, I found a spider in my sink again. Notice that I didn't say "another spider" because I'm not sure, in fact, if it WAS another spider, or the same one, tougher and more resilient than I could ever have imagined. What doesn't kill a spider might make it stronger, I thought, so this time, I squashed it. THEN I ran the water and turned on the disposal again. I tried not to think too hard about either of two distinct possibilities:
1. A new breed of bulletproof, kill-resistant, super spider that can withstand all extermination attempts
2. Spider infestation
No sightings since. Maybe word of this morning's incident has spread, and the spider community is wisely avoiding my house of death. Or maybe they're plotting revenge. I'll find out soon enough
PS--I thought to accompany this post with a photo of a brown recluse, maybe with a funny caption ("Actually, do you have soy milk? I'm lactose intolerant.") but if you've never done a Google image search for brown recluse spiders, then do yourself a favor and don't. It's not the spiders, because if you've seen one, you've seen them all. Necrotizing spider bites, however, are all different and each is more gut-wrenchingly disgusting than the last. You can't unsee some things. Don't say you weren't warned.
Wednesday, September 2, 2015
Don't cry for me, Argentina
Today was a surprisingly productive day. I crossed a larger-than-expected number of things off my unrealistically long to-do list, kept work on deadline, and serendipitously timed my swim to end at the very moment the thunder rumbled, prompting the lifeguard to whistle swimmers out of the pool. Success on every front.
Not every day is like this, because I have the attention span of a fruit fly. Yesterday, for example, I was working peacefully as clean clothes tumbled in the dryer. When the timer buzzed, I got up to fold the clothes, then I noticed some dirt on the family room floor, so I abandoned a t-shirt mid-fold and plugged in the vacuum cleaner. As I vacuumed, I wondered what the family room would look like if I moved furniture piece A to spot B, and then furniture piece B into spot A. It didn't work as well as I thought it would, so I moved the furniture back to where it had been. Not, however, before vacuuming the spots where the pieces had been, and then moving a few other furniture items to vacuum underneath,
Back to work. But wait, the clothes weren't folded!
The report that I was copyediting contained a discussion of a country whose fiscal position is untenable; however, that country continues to increase spending and cut taxes ahead of looming elections. The day of reckoning will come, I suppose. As I worked, I thought that I saw a metaphor for my life amid the talk of debt-to-GDP ratios and impending fiscal collapse. I should have written it down, but at just that moment, I noticed some dirt on the kitchen floor. The kitchen floor, once clean, made the countertops look pretty squalid by comparison. By the time I had brought the countertops up to my standard, the metaphoric connection between my life and a South American economic disaster, which was already tenuous to begin with, had evaporated altogether. All wasn't lost, though. The laundry was done, the kitchen was pretty clean, and I met my deadline. South America should be so lucky.
Not every day is like this, because I have the attention span of a fruit fly. Yesterday, for example, I was working peacefully as clean clothes tumbled in the dryer. When the timer buzzed, I got up to fold the clothes, then I noticed some dirt on the family room floor, so I abandoned a t-shirt mid-fold and plugged in the vacuum cleaner. As I vacuumed, I wondered what the family room would look like if I moved furniture piece A to spot B, and then furniture piece B into spot A. It didn't work as well as I thought it would, so I moved the furniture back to where it had been. Not, however, before vacuuming the spots where the pieces had been, and then moving a few other furniture items to vacuum underneath,
Back to work. But wait, the clothes weren't folded!
The report that I was copyediting contained a discussion of a country whose fiscal position is untenable; however, that country continues to increase spending and cut taxes ahead of looming elections. The day of reckoning will come, I suppose. As I worked, I thought that I saw a metaphor for my life amid the talk of debt-to-GDP ratios and impending fiscal collapse. I should have written it down, but at just that moment, I noticed some dirt on the kitchen floor. The kitchen floor, once clean, made the countertops look pretty squalid by comparison. By the time I had brought the countertops up to my standard, the metaphoric connection between my life and a South American economic disaster, which was already tenuous to begin with, had evaporated altogether. All wasn't lost, though. The laundry was done, the kitchen was pretty clean, and I met my deadline. South America should be so lucky.
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