Just a Pinch

I am sitting in the patient chair, making a fist as the lab technician ties my upper arm with a band and swabs the soft skin at my elbow juncture with alcohol. The slight shock of cold is the most unnerving part, the sensation of the body being touched by another. Deftly, the technician inserts the tip of the needle into my vein to draw my blood.

I remember back to when I was young, fighting my mother as she hauled me by the arm into the doctor’s office to have my blood drawn for routine examinations. I screamed and threw the full weight of my body against her to resist being taken into the exam room, but I was so small and she was so strong. The more I cried, shouted, and flailed my limbs, the stronger her grip became on me. How could I resist this force? The more I tried to pull away, the harder I was drawn to it, meshing into her body as a single unit as she picked me up and held me close, her arms wrapped around mine to discourage the thrashing.

“It’s just a pinch,” she’d say to calm me, “a bite from a tiny little ant.” Tears traced rivers of salt down my cheeks, dripping off my chin. I stared at the needle in the nurse’s hands, this giant metal tip that would soon stake claim in my body, taking away my blood, my essence. The room smelled of antiseptic and the nurse was dressed in sterile white, the color of mourning and death. The crisp wax paper on the exam bed crinkled loudly beneath me every time I shifted positions. There was no escaping two strong, full-grown women in a closed room. Terror magnified in my head and reached invisible tendrils to bind me, knotting up and entangling around themselves, rooting me down. My mother steadily pinned my arm in place and held it out to the nurse, exposing the vein, her gentle words breaking through the dizzying cloud of fear to soothe me.

There is just a pinch as the technician injects the needle, and I am a grown woman, calm and collected and watching my dark-red blood fill the test tube before gauze and bandages are put on the tiny pinprick wound. I think of how often in aikido fear can magnify itself within the limitless constructs of the mind. When I run out of breath and my test is only half over; when a technique is called that does not quite register in my head; when a very large, mountainous uke grabs me by both arms and flings me aside like a pillow and I lose all motor control, or I have to perform a koshinage or force myself to take a high fall on my bad side, or when I’m sitting seiza at one end of the dojo, that split second before I am charged at for a round of jiyu-waza--I am a lost little girl with all the world against me, and fear rears its monstrous head, threatening to tie down my flailing courage.

This is when I think, “It’s just a pinch.” Over before I know it. The pain will be fleeting, the hurt will be little, and I would have overcome all this within a few minutes’ time. There is that soft, distant little voice that quells my fluttering, frenetic thoughts. And I stop resisting. And I let them in. And this is how we grow to conquer our fears.

Alum Rock Park Hike

In the brisk month of February as the winter sun peeks shyly through the clouds in herald of a new spring, we took a hike in Alum Rock Park.

From where we parked, we could see horses.

 

The first cherry blossom buds are coaxed into blooming.

Tung & David walking the trail.

Winter White Coat

The creek flows with gentle water.

Hawks circle overhead.

View from on top of the trees.

A Rustic Log Cabin

A Perspective of Tet in America: A Letter to My Nieces and Nephews Born in this Country

I step into my parents’ house, the first one they owned in America after living with relatives and in rentals during the earlier years as they carved out a living for our family. It was the house I grew up in before I moved away, and when I arrive for Lunar New Year’s Eve, “dem giao thua,” as the Vietnamese call it, we begin lighting red candles on the Buddhist and ancestral altars. As is the custom of arriving on a night dedicated to an ancestral prayer session, I bring a few portions of food as an offering to the spirits. Sweet-and-sour soup, papaya salad, claypot-cooked eggplants and tofu. We set these out on the low offering table along with rice, seafood salad, salt-steamed chicken, cupcakes and traditional sweet cakes for dessert, along with bowls, spoons, chopsticks, and fresh-brewed tea.

The altar has been decorated for Tet with sweet-smelling, white velvet tuberoses and red-and-yellow gladiolus stems. I watch my father light incense amidst the droning voice of the sports announcer as the TV broadcasts the 49ers football game. Three joss sticks for the Buddhist altars: Quang Am Bo Tat, the Goddess of Mercy, Quang Cong, my father’s patron god, and Ong Dia, the Earth God. Four for my grandfather’s altar as his spirit is being called back to join our Tet festivities and share in our family meal.

Sitting there watching the scene, I wonder how long it has been since I have made it home for a prayer session. I spend my days in front of a computer screen, my nights working out, my weekends running errands and doing chores. Sometimes I drift from the roots that supposedly bind me, from my mother tongue, from my tiny country across the sea. In front of the altar, as an adult woman, I feel small. How many times have I gazed upon the familiar pictures and icons of worship as a little girl, feet bare and hands clasped to show my respects? But when you start drifting, you start forgetting, and I am afraid that one day I will forget how to pray, forget how many times to bow at which altar, in what order, how to formulate the words in my head.

When we were young, my little brother asked me how to pray in front of an altar. What do you do up there? When do you start and end your bows? I was eight years old, and, lacking an adult sophistication to formulate an eloquent explanation, I told him, “Your prayers are your wishes. You stand before your ancestors to tell them what your wishes are.” Perhaps I corrupted them then, so that the spirits of our ancestors became no more than Santa Claus, who only hear from the children of their children, “Dear Ancestor, during this prayer session I pray for a new bike, a better cell phone, and for a big-screen TV.” But in truth, there is some sense in that—your prayers are your wishes, selfless wishes that extend beyond your sphere of control. Sure, you pray for your family’s health and success. But for others,’ too. For how well this year should work out for everyone. For misfortune and all the past hurts and ill luck of the last year to vanish like incense smoke dissipated into thin air.

I stand in front of the altar, the first in line to pray after my parents, as the eldest sibling. In my head, I formulate the prayers in Vietnamese as I have always done. When I was young, I figured that my ancestors would not understand English, and so to get my prayers granted, I must use Vietnamese. I tell them my given name so they would recognize who stands before them, what the occasion is, and why I have come to pray.

“Nam mo a di da phat. I am Luu Hong Cuc, and today I come before you to show my respects for Lunar New Year, to invite you to share in our family meal and grace us this year with your blessings.”

I end with a wish. I wish to be rooted, to not forget. I wish to pass on this tradition to my future children, to be wise enough to answer their questions of why we do what we do, and that my current nieces and nephews, born in America, will retain some sense of culture and at least understand our ways even if they choose not to partake in them when they are grown.

I am almost a married woman. Traditionally, married women stop receiving li xi, the lucky red envelopes, and pass them out to the children in her extended family, or her own. Weeks before Tet, I take out new money from the bank, the bills crisp and sharp with their new-money smell. Tet is a time for rebirth, for ushering in a spring that starts everything anew, a time when all old debts are paid, all ill luck washes out, and everyone gets another chance. I stuff the bills into little red envelopes and label each with the name of a younger sibling, niece, or nephew.

And so, little ones who have joined our extended family within the past few years—this earth is still a new place to you, and there is still much to see, taste, hear, touch, and learn. These three days of Tet in the Year of the Dragon, I will spend my time in an office, as will your moms and dads. We busy adults cram our traditional celebrations on the American work schedule. It’s not like in Viet Nam, where all shops would close in honor of one of the most heralded holidays in the country. But on New Year’s Eve, you will hear the firecrackers exploding in the distance to ward off evil spirits, and it will make you wonder. In the next few days, you will get a bright red envelope from your Auntie Daisy. Inside is a crisp new bill just for you. As you grow up, you will look forward—as I have—to getting your own money to spend on sweets, treats, toys, clothes. But even as you grow, think not just about the money inside, but the red envelope itself. See the colorful pictures or the words and characters with their traditional wishing for your well-being. This year, I will not be there to hand it to you. I will not get to hear your sweet, high-pitched voices stutter over the Vietnamese words to pay me back with a blessing. But when you are old enough to wonder why we do this and what it all means, ask your parents, who in their youth have prayed with me at our ancestral altar. Ask how we exchanged stories and laughter over a table filled with traditional foods and how we united and celebrated amidst each other’s company. Ask about all our traditions, and they will tell you the meaning of the spirit of Tet.

Global Winter Wonderland

Great America brought a Winter Wonderland light show to the Bay Area this Christmas. We went to see trees ablaze with LED lights and inflatables of the Wonders of the World. We also enjoyed garlic fries and hot chocolate to warm us in the brisky night air, saying so long to another Christmas and welcoming the year 2012.

The Way to the Gate

Taj Mahal

Snaking dragon made from porcelain. We saw many of these structures on display during our '08 Viet Nam trip.

Mom & Dad with the Peacock

Mom & Dad at the Eiffel

Wonders of the World

Tung & Dad at the Pyramid

Hugs from a Cuddly Snowman

The Scorpios

Ode to my Car

Her name is Little White, and I started my journey with her. All through high school when I first got my driver’s license, to my undergrad and graduate degrees in college, to my first few internships leading to a fulltime, permanent career. I talked to her in my loneliness of starting things anew—new schools, several interviews, fresh jobs—and she’s also experienced the laughter of friends and family whom I chauffeured around. She has been broken into three times, and during the first, she was crashed into a street light pole, abandoned in the middle of the intersection, and declared “Salvaged” when I reclaimed her from the towing station. She’s had her original license and registration stolen, and I went to the DMV to get her a new identity. Her original radio broke down, and a thief attempted to take out her first after-market radio before being deterred. She’s been through five accidents, including a time when a driver fell asleep behind the wheel, bulldozed down our house’s steel gate, and ran into her as she was parked in the driveway.

People say a car like this must harbor negative energy. Some even tried to convince me to give her up since the first theft and opt for a newer car with better security features. But she kept running and hardly ever gave me a real excuse to get a new car. Insurance and maintenance costs decreased for her over the years, and she saved me money that went toward other, more immediate things. She’s been through a lot. She sports many battle scars that remained unpatched. I think of all the heavy rains and harsh suns that she has had to endure, having spent the majority of her life parked outside of a garage. I think of the crooked radio antenna, the brittle plastic parts that have gradually crumbled, the faded fabric of her seats, the automatic mechanisms that eventually stopped working, worn with age.

Some may think it’s a pity borne by anthropomorphism. Cars don’t feel. They live to perform, and then they die, without fear, without pain, and you are saved the grief of having to hold them by the hand to help them make it through. She’s taught me a lot during her life and all that we have been through together. That you wear your battle scars with pride, because every hurt, though it’s ugly and mars the superficial surface, is a lesson that will bring you wisdom. That you can endure more than you think you could and still keep chugging along. That integrity is not measured by newness or beauty, but by a weathered soul and how well you serve those who mean something to you.

Her death began at the start of winter; like me, she was never a fan of the cold. A yellow-orange fluid started leaking out of her, which we discovered to be rusty water. The mechanic confirmed that it was radiator fluid bleeding out of the brittle hoses that snaked under her hood. He replaced one major part and sealed up another, but the leak continued through a few weeks of pouring water into the radiator before driving. Eventually, not enough fluid was maintained in her system, and the heating within the car also gave out. It became evident that in time, the rust will infect the more important parts such as the engine, like poisoned blood running through her arteries and veins.

With a “Salvaged” title, she doesn’t have much hope. I did the last thing possible so that she could do some good in her last run—I donated her to the Humane Society of Silicon Valley. The proceeds will at least help the animal shelter get some funds to benefit their cause. I cleaned her out, removing old items of sentiment: a stuffed animal faded by sun, addresses and driving directions to friends’ old houses when they have long moved away, back in the days before GPS, when directions were hand-written. She sits now along the curb, engine parts splattered with rusty remnants, aged and retired and waiting for the donation tow truck to take her away. And I thank her for all she has gotten me through, for the roads we traveled together, for everything she has done for me.





Rest in Peace, Little White.
Age: 20 years
Odometer: 144,908 unforgettable miles

Ikkyu Test

 

Test for my First-Kyu rank at Aikido of Silicon Valley
December 10, 2011

Snippets from my Pre-1st-Kyu Dreams

The nights are cold in the dojo, the darkness comes down fast, and I prepare to test. I watch others on the mat who will go up for the same rank, the way they struggle and brain-freeze through their practice sessions, and I fear that it will be me. I throw my all into my own preparations, absorbing advice, releasing tension, trying to get it right. In jiyu-waza, I adjust distance, timing, speed.

“Keep your distance, but don’t back off.”

“Draw out our uke, but don’t get in too close.”

“Be grounded, but don’t bend over when throwing.”

“Harder, softer, faster, slower.”

I take all these mis-matched jigsaw pieces of advice, pondering over how to make them fit.

After class each night, my overworked brain and body know only the carnal desires of a hot shower, a simple meal, and a good rest to heal up. When I sleep, I dream the exhausted dreams of someone who has spent hours preparing, weeks of practicing, months of anticipating. Under the covers, there is not enough air. I am doing jiyu-waza and gassing out fast. I run out of techniques, forget to blend, am incapable of keeping it up. I run into a rock, something hard and immovable. I am holding my breath, putting my strength into it, but something is wrong.

“Where is your shihonage?” someone asks. “Find your shihonage.”

I am standing before a great iron door, rapping on it with my small knuckles. The knocks sound feeble and hollow, echoing down the long halls on the other side. The door swings open, and it is cold and dark within. An invisible presence impatiently awaits my question.

“Where is my shihonage?” I ask it. “I cannot find it. Please, will you help?”

The darkness comes toward me, swallows me whole, and I am falling. I grab onto an arm with a morote grip, and I am launched into a stemi. The hard ground comes up quickly to meet me, and I struggle to turn my body the correct way.

“Tuck your head. Head down, feet over.”

I land with both feet sunk into the mat, elbows resting on knees as a weight on my back pushes me down.

“Bend your knees. Get down lower. Look away and whip it!” This is koshinage, do or die.

Someone is telling me something, half prose, half song. I try to grasp onto the voice, but a jarring sound cuts through my dreams. My alarm clock is waking me up for another day. Another step closer to the Ikkyu test this weekend. Ready or not, here it comes. Soon, it will be go-time.