Shau Mei-Mei - Growing up "Half Chinese"

When our first born was still getting around on all fours, we moved to Taipei, Taiwan.  Up until her birth we had both been full-time school teachers.  If you know any such beings, you understand that full-time is putting it lightly, as teachers spend their evenings, weekends and midnight dreams focusing on their students’ work.  After having a child we realized that somebody needed to be a parent, too.  So we packed up our lives and moved across the world where my husband could earn enough as a teacher to support a family of three, and I could be a stay-at-home mom.

While he adjusted to his new job at the International School, Delaney and I explored the markets, alleys and playgrounds of our new neighborhood.  Each morning we would venture out from our comfortably air-conditioned apartment to one of the many nearby playgrounds to melt in the heat and humidity.  We played on the swings and flew down the polished concrete slides countless times with a “Wheeeee!”  We met many other families out for their morning fun, and did our best to make friends.  I studied Mandarin and became quite adept at my Mommy Chinese.  I could discuss the basics of age and gender, nationality and language limits, and of course the all-important snacks.

Delaney, a fair-skinned, sandy-haired kid with blue eyes and curly-whirly hair, was quite an attraction everywhere we went.  She stood out among the local children, who all had very straight black hair and sparkly brown eyes.  Daily she was asked to pose for pictures with other children and families.  Whenever we went into the crowded downtown we had to plan extra time for the conversations and photo shoots.  At one holiday celebration in the city square we had a line of at least 30 people waiting to pose with our Shirley Temple look-alike.  My friend who visited from the states commented that it was like traveling with Michael Jordan.

In Taiwan, as in most asian countries, all children are cherished.   And when said child’s appearance makes her a near celebrity, the child is downright spoiled by strangers.  At every shop she was given a special treat.  On every corner people would pinch her cheeks and rummage in their pocket for a gift.  Often a tiny jello cup or piece of brightly wrapped candy, we would accept the gift with a “Syeh-syeh, ni!” and go on our way.  In America we tell kids to not accept candy from strangers.  That was NOT our world, at home in Taiwan.  

Once, on a weekend get-away in the mountains, the three of us were enjoying a picnic.  While enjoying the panoramic view of the marble cliffs and lush greenery, amazed at all the beauty this island had to offer, we noticed a tour-bus pulling into the hotel. We watched as at least 50 young women poured out of the vehicle and made a bee-line to the polished stone picnic table at which we sat.  Each college-aged girl needed to squeeze our child, pose for a picture and give her a treasure.  We had to make many of these treats disappear before Delaney consumed them all at once.  We were never concerned about the safety of the gifts, just the sugar content!  After each and every one of them met Delaney, the mass of young ladies then re-boarded the bus and disappeared, bus and all.  Then our picnic was quiet once again.  Apparently, we were the tourist attraction of the moment.

After a year in Taipei Delaney was ready for more stimulation so we decided to put her in an english speaking preschool.  We had the option of going to a Chinese preschool, but we felt that she was getting enough exposure to the language and culture on our daily excursions.  It was time for some social experiences without Mom, and a chance to make friends in her own language.

Twice a week I would pack up a little lunch box, hoist my petite child onto my back in her aluminum framed pack (the closest thing we had to a vehicle while living in Taiwan) and hike the mile-and-a-half to school.  To avoid the noisy, congested and polluted main road, each day we tried a different route.  My favorite became the patch of rice paddies sandwiched between multi-storied buildings an all sides.  These green fields, dotted with lean-to shack residences, had raised paths that zigzagged the soggy terrain until they spat you out onto a paved alley very near the school.

One particular day it really struck me that our Delaney was integrated into this lifestyle and that life here was so NORMAL to her little self.  We were trying a new route through a quiet alley when she perked up and muttered, “I smell…” she hesitated and sniffed a couple of big whiffs and repeated, “I smell…a temple!”  A moment after this declaration we turned a corner and guess what?  There stood one of the small neighborhood temples that you’ll find all over Taipei, with wisps of incense smoke curling up to the sky.  Yes, my tiny daughter could find a temple with her nose.

When she was three years old we returned to the Pacific Northwest.  The distance between us and the grandparents had become too great and we were all hankering for extended family.  As we were reunited with aunts, uncles and cousins, we heard Delaney telling people, “I am half-Chinese!”  We laughed SO hard and tried to explain that sure, she knew some Chinese language but that she was not, indeed, Chinese.  I look back at that and realize how wise and simply true her statement was, and that we were wrong, at least in a sense.  We, in our adult brains, jumped to the definition of Chinese race and ethnicity, when that was not what our innocent little daughter was saying at all.  She was totally adapted to living in a Chinese culture, her sensibility was Chinese, and she learned to value what is valued in the Chinese culture.

I am sad that so many of her childhood memories are fuzzy.  Our now adult child feels 100 percent American, complete with stranger-danger fears and the need for personal space.  At least, for a time, she was very sweetly Half Chinese.

Feeling Root-bound

I have this plant perched on a cabinet that grows skyward without complaint.  The internet tells me that she is called a Dragon Tree and maybe that is why she never complains - she is fearless.  My other plants of this type are happy in my home, but tend to drop their lower leaves as they grow upward.  But this plant hangs onto every single spiked leaf as she produces more at the top. 

In recent months I noticed that her roots had run out of room in the pot, and the dirt was rising vertically, maintaining the cylindrical shape of the pot as it rose up with the plant itself.  She couldn’t find space in her confines and was searching outside her ceramic walls for more room. 

On this day I could relate.  I felt buried in the daily chores to keep my household running.  Laundry was piling up, the kitchen may be clean, but not organized, and my piles of clothing and extraneous household crap earmarked for a Goodwill donation were becoming a full-on mountain.  At every turn I noticed another unfinished project that would have to wait another day.  My responsibilities were starting to feel too big for my skin and I was feeling root-bound myself, looking for a way to rise up and out of this mess.

One of the many chores today was to buy groceries for our family and also for my mother-in-law who is  house-bound these days.  While I was at the one-stop shopping place, I wandered off to the garden section and bought an attractive, roomy pot for my green leafy friend along with some fresh black soil.

Later, with the spare moments between this and that, I spent a few short minutes moving this terribly root bound housemate into her new abode.  Surprised at the huge tangle of root fingers wrapped and twisted around and around, I felt guilty for ignoring her plight for so long.  I had always been a solid green thumb, something I inherited (and learned) from my Mama.  While I was at it I decided to liberate another neglected green beauty. A tropical plant in an itty-bitty pot inherited the Dragon's old pot and was able to stretch his roots as well.  My husband commented that it is too bad that houseplants aren’t like hermit crabs who line up by size and take over the shell next size up in an orderly fashion, all by themselves!

Now each time I look at these plants I imagine their twisted roots reaching into the fresh rich soil while yawning and stretching, feeling the relief of space and peace of mind.  And at the same time I, myself, stretch and feel the satisfaction of accomplishing one, maybe two, tiny things from my endless list.

This helps me to remember that moving forward merely takes one foot in front of the other, one inconsequential step at a time.  Although we’d all love a magic wand to wave our troubles and chores away in one big swoop, that is never going to happen!  To not feel root-bound, we just need to keep moving forward, one little step at a time and know that we will see the sunshine and start reaching out for the sky, too.

Happy in her new home.

The Best Dog Ever

I’ll bet that if you are smart enough to have a dog in your life that calls you their own, you hold the belief that YOUR dog is the best dog ever.  I’m sorry to disappoint you, but that is not possible.  Why?  Because MY dog, Riley Bean, is THE Best Dog Ever.

Close your jaw, un-slap your cheek and be prepared to stifle your disbelief because I am about to prove that my dog is the best.  First of all, my girl is not a cute little puppy, innocent of all things.  This dog has been around the block.  Foggy eyed and partially deaf, Riley is what we call mature. In fact, she is less than four months away from her Quinceañera.  And although there are countless reasons that she wins the Top Dog prize, I will list the top 5 here to prove my point.

1. Riley is always by my side.  Always.  When I’m sitting here on my computer she is within reach.  She can be found next to the stove, nose-a-twitching, when I’m sautéing beef.  At all times my loyal pooch will be right there.  Whether I’m sitting on the toilet, having an intimate moment with my honey or lacing my shoes for a run, my trusted pup is present and prepared for what ever might be coming next.  Especially when I’m cooking meat.

2. No need for a leash!  She doesn’t even wear a collar because I can trust her to heel for the entire outing (this might be due to my pocket filled with cookies that, more than occasionally, land in her mouth if she stays close by).  The only exceptions to this perfect behavior occur when a squirrel crosses our path, she gets a whiff of something interesting and follows her nose to somebody’s back yard, or she needs to take a dump but doesn’t want me to watch so she squats under the front window of a nice home and then I have to attempt a stealth retrieval, bread-bag on hand, before we both get caught and scolded.  But mostly she stays by my side on our daily walks.

3. Missy Perfect will only sleep on her dog beds or the carpet, and never jumps up on furniture.  In each of our main rooms she has her designated spots and is perfectly content to sleep on the soft pet beds.  There was just one winter when she was a little confused and was sure that the love seat was for her - after all it is the perfect size for a labrador.  Who could blame her?  Oh yeah, and the few times we caught her jumping on our bed because we had asked her to stay in there when we had people over for dinner.  I think when we said “stay!” she heard “play” - an honest mistake.  Otherwise she always sleeps on her own beds…when we are home.

4. Riley has never destroyed anything in the house.  In her whole life with us, (mind you, we adopted her as an adult so we have no puppy stories) Riley has never chewed a shoe, shredded a stuffed animal or scratched the floor or walls.  That one time when she ripped the cat-flap out of the door and chewed the surrounding wood was not really her

fault.  You see, we had gone to the neighbors for a barbecue where the sizzling meat smelled TOO delicious.  She thought we had forgotten about her and she didn’t want us to feel guilty for leaving her behind, so she found a way to get herself to the party without troubling us.  We forgave each other.  In the absence of such misunderstandings, we can trust her with anything.

5. She would never raid the garbage can.  Unless we leave it out in the middle of the floor - that would be an invitation and completely our own fault.  And when she raids the kids’ bedroom garbage cans for dirty kleenex (gag) it just means that the human girls are slacking and need to clean their rooms.  Nope, our Riley is no garbage eater!

Now, you might be saying, “My dog does all of those things and more!”  Well…does your dog gaze at you with twinkling eyes that say I love you with all my heart?  Or is your puppy so happy when you come home that he/she wiggles uncontrollably from nose to toes, quivering with pure joy?  Okay, okay.  So maybe, just maybe, your pooch can pull these things off to an adequate level that pleases you.

You can love your own dog and believe what you want to believe, but I know one thing for sure.  My dog, Riley Bean, is the Best Dog Ever.

Set Creepy Santa Free

Dog walks in December are best taken at night.  The path is illuminated by the twinkling holiday lights throughout the neighborhoods.  Some houses go classic, with tiny yellow-ish white lights on trees and roofline.  Others splash color everywhere like Fourth of July fireworks.  A few choose flashing lights and blow-up animated figures to adorn their lawn.

My daughter and I try to see as many displays as we can within walking distance, taking a slightly different route each time.  The dog doesn't seem to care as long as she gets to sniff and tinkle along the way.  Sometimes we argue over which lights are the most cheerful.  I prefer the classic warm incandescent color over the colder LED bulbs, and I generally don't enjoy animation.  She likes displays that use colors in interesting ways, particularly the deep purply-blue LED lights.

One thing we do agree on is the "Creepy Santa" on the end of the block.  Modeled after mannequins in an old fashioned department store display window, this Santa is real enough to catch your eye, but once you look he sends a shiver down your spine.  His face is plastic and peachy, a little too peachy, with rosy pink paint on his cheeks and the tip of his nose.  His white curly hair dangles in an unnatural way from beneath is red hat.  His mechanical, well dressed frame sits upon a throne on the lawn as he slowly turns his head from side to side, waving a rigid arm at passers-by.  Over and over  he looks our way with fluid movement until the slight jerk and tremor when his head and arm stop and reverse direction.

Well...now it is January.  The Holiday Season has ended and my daughter is back in her dorm at college.  My dog and I walk alone.  There are a few light displays still twinkling to light the way.  Some houses even have lit trees showcased in their living room windows while a few have the dark silhouette of an decorated evergreen with the lights unplugged - the family not ready to admit the holiday is over, or just too busy to undo Christmas yet.

And then there is our friend, Creepy Santa, who hasn't returned to his home at the North Pole.  The lights on his host's house still flash in a festive frenzy.  Of his two inflatable friends, The Grinch is still full of hot air, but his snowman companion lays limp and lifeless on the lawn.  Santa himself appears to have taken the brunt of our recent wind storms.  His throne has tipped forward.  If it weren't for the fence the red elf would be face first in the mud.  Instead his peachy neck is caught in the crook of the fence.  Santa is pitched far forward with stringy white curls obscuring his rosy cheeks, hat flung forward with the white pom-pom covering one twinkling eye.  He has been this way for several days.

I am rather relieved that I can't see the expression in his eyes anymore.  I imagine that they would be full of panic because our fat, red hero seems to be caught in a guillotine.    No longer moving, he has stopped trying to wriggle free and silently awaits his fate.  The only thing missing is the blindfold.  I'm sure that all of the children in the neighborhood would feel better if the neighbor who lives in that house would rescue our Dear Santa before he loses his head.  

as seen this morning (Jan. 6)

Until then our long winters nap will be tainted with visions of red and white tragedy dancing in our heads.  Please, neighbor, we want nothing to dread.  I wish for a Happy January to All, and to All a GOOD NIGHT!