Secret Saturday - 2/25/12: "Changing Colors"

February is Black History Month. Some of my fondest memories are of a black family that lived across Coolidge Street, where I grew up:

     When I was a little girl, some of my friends wanted to be Cinderella. Some wanted to be a nurse. One even wanted to be president. Me? I wanted to be black.
     On Coolidge Street in California, we lived across the street from a black family who, like my family, had five kids. But they had five girls, and we had four girls and one lucky brother. (Though he'd probably disagree.) I didn't really know the three older girls, but Maria and Nina became good friends of my younger sisters.
     Being the mean-no-fun-prudish-brainy-band-freak-oldest-sister, I wasn't included in most of the fun, and usually watched them "play" together from afar. Maria had the best laugh in the world, and Nina moved with the grace and spirit of Tinkerbell. When I say they were two crazy girls, I mean it in the fondest, happiest way.
     Perhaps I noticed these things about Maria and Nina because of my upbringing by my Japanese mother. I was brought up to be hypersensitive to what others would think of my behavior, overly cautious not to do anything that might cause me to "lose face."
     Maria and Nina laughed, danced and joked with such unabashed joy and freedom that it drew my sisters out of their cultural shells. I wanted to join in the fun, too. But, often, I couldn't make myself let go.
     So, I stood by and watched. And sometimes I wished I was black.

Thanks to Facebook, I'm still in touch with Maria and Nina, and have even gotten to know one of the older sisters, Donna, through Facebook. Maria is currently helping me with the voice of my Broken Dolls character, Terrence. Someday soon, we hope to have a reunion.

We were lucky to have grown up with a family like Maria's and Nina's, lucky to experience a culture different from ours. For anyone who has not been so fortunate, different cultures can also be experienced through reading. Thanks to one of my blog readers for sending me the following link to a list of 25 Novels to Honor During Black History Month:


http://www.accreditedonlinecolleges.com/blog/2012/25-novels-to-honor-during-black-history-month/

As the article says, these books "contribute to a greater cultural understanding of 'blackness' and its heterogeneous nature."


Do you have cultural stories from your childhood to share?

My Valentine Box

In honor of Valentine's Day, I'm replacing my Telling Tuesday post with a Valentine post, to "show and tell" about one of my favorite memories of one of my favorite holidays.

Do you remember making Valentine's boxes?

In elementary school, I looked forward to the event for weeks. I honestly can't say if I looked forward more to decorating my shoe box or to the Valentine's that I hoped would fill it. Of course, there was always that one special Valentine I hoped for, too.

Weeks before the big day, my mom would take me to Wonder World (that was Fairfield's answer to Walmart back in the day,) and I would peruse the aisles, looking for red construction paper, doilies, aluminum paper, crayons, glue . . . whatever I could possibly think of to make my box the prettiest box in the classroom.

I'm sure the boys thought it was stupid, but some managed to make a box even a cootie-vaccinated boy (as evidenced by "C.V." marked on his hand) could be proud of.



Valentine's morning, I carefully packed my box in a brown shopping bag and carried it to school. Once inside the classroom, my heart beat with anticipation, and my hands trembled as I drew it out of its hiding place for its grand debut. I just knew mine would be the most beautiful, not only in the classroom, but surely in the entire school . . . heck, in the whole universe.

Of course, when Sally Smith put hers on her desk, I could tell she thought the same thing. Hmph. No way.

The next best part of the day was passing out Valentine's. Like I said, there was always one special person in the classroom for whom I'd saved my very best Valentine, and from whom I hoped to receive one, too.

Oh, of course, all those store-bought Valentines were all pretty much the same, but there was always one or two that had a secret code to let someone know they were more special than the rest. ("Strike up a match?" Now, you couldn't get more "special" than that.)

And what about "Popping the question?" Yep, that was a secret code, all right.




After all the cards were passed out, after we'd had our cupcakes and our tongues were red with icing dye, after the last bell of the day rang, I ran home. Inside the brown paper bag I carried, my full box rattled with Valentine's, and my heart raced faster than my feet, in my rush home to open my cards.

I tore open each envelope, scanned the card and read each name.

"Nope. Nope," I said, then tossed the card aside and reached for another. "Nope." My hopes began to fade. Had he not even given me a card, even one without a secret code?

Then, there it was:

To: Janice

From: Your Secret Admirer

"I just want to be your Valentine." Was that not the sweetest thing anyone could ever say?

Even if Sally Smith did win the Valentine Box Contest, I was the one with a Secret Admirer.

Do you have a favorite Valentine's memory? Hope you'll share it in my virtual Valentine's Box.

Secret Saturday - 2/4/12: "Closet Secrets"

Well, I'm a day late with my new feature, "Secret Saturday," because the Internet Squirrels quit running at the farm yesterday. But, now that I'm back in the virtual world again, here we go:

I love secrets. I love to hear them, and love to tell them . . . to the right people. I see secrets as tidibits, juicy morsels of information that bring us closer to each other.

So, I decided to start a new feature, "Secret Saturday," where we can all share a little secret. It doesn't have to be a big secret, just anything we might not already know--about you, about history, about the world. Share a secret from your childhood, if that feels safer. Or a secret recipe. Or, what the heck . . . give us a whopper.

In Broken Dolls, when my character, Sachiko, finally reveals who she "really is," she writes this haiku:

A porcelain mask

Once broken, but now removed

My true face revealed

We can all remove our masks, even in tiny ways. It can be fun, but it can also be freeing. Share something with us . . . anything. And feel free to share a link to your own website or blog, too.

By the way, did you know that on average, a woman can only keep a secret for 32 minutes? Read about it on the Huffington Post. Click here.

THIS WEEK'S SECRET:

When I was a young teenager, I had a secret place where I went to write things that I didn't want anybody else to know. But today, I'll take you with me, back to my house on Coolidge Street in California . . . to my bedroom . . . into my closet. There, behind my hanging clothes, I would write on the wall. Yes, the wall, where I wasn't supposed to write, which made my secret place all the more delightful, all the more mine.

Of course, as a young teen girl, most of what I wrote was who I had a crush on:

J.M.

+

R.R.

But I also wrote down my dreams, wishes and other things I thought people would think silly if they knew. I wished my parents would not argue. I wished we didn't have to move to Japan. (That wish came true, but now I wish we had moved there -- an experience lost.)

I wrote down my anger about things I couldn't outwardly be angry about, like every time I wanted to scream at my mom for grounding me.

After I'd written what I held inside, I moved the clothes back in place, and my closet held my secrets safe. When it was time for me to leave home, I took a big, pink eraser, shoved the hanging clothes aside, and erased what I'd shared in my secret world.

I don't know if anyone ever knew about that tiny place where I spilled my heart, but I suspect not. I was a typical teenager with sisters and a brother, and that information was too valuable not to use as ammunition against me in sibling battles. None of my co-combatants ever used it against me. So, either they never found it, or they had bigger hearts than I gave them credit for.

Train Sounds

Last night, I fell asleep to the sound of a train in the distance. With the rumble of the engine and the mournful song of the horn came a flood of memories. For much of my life, I lived in the proximity of train tracks and I was surprised by how its sounds returned memories to me.


When I was a child living in California, my house was only a block away from a track. Several times during the day, the windows and doors in our house rattled as the trains passed. I remember walking along the tracks, imagining where they would lead me if I kept walking. When I felt the ground rumble with an approaching train, my heart quickened with anticipation for the frightening energy of what approached.


And for more than 25 years, I lived within hearing range of a train that passed by our neighborhood several times a day. Often, as I lay in bed at night, I would listen for the train. Sometimes it came as a lullaby, soothing me to sleep with its deep rumble. Sometimes it was a soundtrack to my dreams, taking me to far away places. Sometimes it serenaded my loneliness.

Last weekend, my poem , "Sayonara," won second place at Ozark Creative Writers Conference. It is in the Tanka form, (Five lines, not to exceed 31 syllables) which is a form of Japanese poetry similar to Haiku (Three lines, 5-7-5 syllables):

Comes a sudden storm,

Words crash like thunder

But silence rings louder.

A train whistles far away,

I hug my pillow closer.

Does the sound of a train return memories to you? Are there other sounds that bring forth recollections of the past?

First Love

This morning, a Facebook friend asked the question, "If you could choose your ring tone, what song would it be?" Funny, my first thought was the song, "I Could Have Danced All Night."

I found it curious that this song came to mind, and I'll admit, I was a little embarrassed at my "old-fashioned," even corny, choice. Why that song, of the thousands and thousands I might have chosen?

The film version of My Fair Lady came out in 1964. I was only six years old, and I suppose when I first watched, it was no more than an adult version of a fairy tale, Cinderella or Beauty and the Beast, perhaps. But as I watched it through the years, particularly in my young teenage years, it came to define what it would be like to be fall in love, to feel a happiness so full, one must dance.

I suppose it's a good thing, old-fashioned or not, that even today, it's the first song that comes to mind when defining myself by a ring tone.

What song would you pick?

Word of the Day - "Tchotchke"

Today's Dictionary.com word is tchotchke: 

\CHOCH-kuh\, noun:

1) A trinket; a knickknack

Tchotchke. I've never heard the word before, but it brought all kinds of memories of favorite trinkets to mind. My earliest recollection is of a charm bracelet I had as a child. It had silver charms from places I had visited-- Disneyland, the San Francisco Aquarium, the Grand Canyon--as well as places around the world that my father had visited as a pilot. Sadly, that charm bracelet was lost in one of many moves we made as a family while my father was in the Air Force.

One of my very favorite knickknacks was a simple little present my sister, Tami, gave me when for my 16th birthday. She took a little pebble and wrapped it in a piece of toilet paper, and called it "Rock Hudson." It still remember how impressed I was at her cleverness, and I still have that little knickknack today.

When my children were young, my shelves were full of favorite trinkets--like this turtle dish that Adam made in second grade:

Or this flower ornament that Andrea made when she was in her hungry years in college:

One of my favorites is the first thing Stephen ever gave to me:

It's funny, the things we treasure. For me, it's usually something associated with a memory. A piece of jewelry, a framed photo, or something as simple as a sentimental note written on the back of a business card. Whether I still have these tchotchkes or not, I will always have the memories associated with them.

Do you have a favorite tchotchke?

Music Time Machine

This morning as I drove in to town, I listened to Gayle King interviewing Jimmy Webb. I must admit, I almost changed the station, thinking he was a new artist I probably was too old to appreciate. But I told myself, "Oh, just listen for awhile. You might learn something."

Boy, did I.

Jimmy Webb is the creator of two of my favorite songs, "Wichita Lineman" and "MacArthur Park." The very sound of their first chords can whisk me back to a time when I was ten years old and my parents were about to divorce. And though at that age, I'd never been in love, I'd certainly had crushes and therefore, thought plenty about love. (Or, what I thought was love, anyway.)

For me, these songs defined lost love in such a poignant way, that now that I think about it, they must have been a spark to my desire to put my own feelings in to words.

Wichita Lineman

And I need you more than want you.

And I want you for all time."

Does that not just rip your heart out?

 

MacArthur Park

Someone left the cake out in the rain.

I don't think that I can take it,

cause it took so long to bake it.

And I'll never have that recipe again.

I'll admit, when I first listened to the lyrics of "MacArthur Park," I did not yet understand about metaphors. So, I couldn't understand why someone would write about leaving a cake in the rain. And what was it doing in a park in the first place? However, many years and many life experiences later, I see the words as a powerful representation of loss.

Thank you, Jimmy Webb. Your lyrics takes me back in time, and they still inspire me today.

Happy 80th Anniversary, Grandma and Grandpa

My Aunt Carol reminded us via Facebook that today is my grandparents' 80th anniversary. I still remember the celebration we all had for their 50th, and I found it hard to believe thirty years had passed since then. It was a wonderful, warm gathering, complete with a renewal of their wedding vows and a decorated car to drive away.

I remember thinking to myself how special it was that they'd been married all those years, though they'd had plenty of hardships. Even back then, I admired their commitment. And I have no doubt that if they were alive today, they would still be married. So, why not celebrate this anniversary, too?

HAPPY 80TH ANNIVERSARY, GRANDMA AND GRANDPA!!

WE LOVE YOU!!



Grandma and Grandpa and their children



Grandma and Grandpa and their grandchildren

Here's a story I wrote several years ago about one of my best memories of the time I spent at their house:

     Each summer my parents piled us five kids and our dog into the station wagon for the long trek across country, from California to my grandparents’ farm in Kentucky. Arriving after our long journey, we rushed out of the car to the welcome of Grandma’s and Grandpa’s hugs and wet kisses.
     Their house was small, with three little bedrooms, one bathroom, a living room and a kitchen. But it was warm, and as filled with love as the lingering smells of Grandma’s cooking – coffee, biscuits, bacon, fried chicken, cookies.
     Every evening, Grandma made beds for us on the living room floor. She spread her handmade quilts over sun-dried sheets and goose down pillows. We’d lay our heads down and quickly fall into slumber, our bodies exhausted from days filled with hiking in the woods, chasing cows we weren’t supposed to chase, and getting muddy catching pollywogs in the pond.
     Morning arrived with the sound of a rooster and the mooing of cows. Grandma hummed softly and her slippers swished as she walked across the kitchen floor.
     I closed my eyes again and snuggled under my quilt, savoring the feel of the morning. The smell of the coffee and bacon. Grandma cooking in the kitchen. My siblings and cousins on the floor next to me, snoring quietly in their sleep.
     Grandpa came into the kitchen next, and I heard Grandma greet him with his cup of coffee on the table. The chair scooted out, and his newspaper ruffled. Slrrrp -- his first sip of the hot brew.
     Over the next several minutes, the procession of Dad and Mom, aunts and uncles entered the kitchen. They talked quietly at first, and their gentle mumbling was often hard for me to hear. But this was their time, and they didn’t want us to waken! Soft laughter mingled with slurps of coffee.
     There was something wonderful about being in this secret world of my own, while the other kids slept, and the adults sat around the table sharing conversations and coffee, while Grandma cooked her famous biscuits and gravy. I lay there quietly in my cocoon spun of comfort and love.
     The chatter from the kitchen crescendoed, as everyone shared stories from the past. Muffled laughter was broken by an occasional guffaw, quickly caught and quieted at its first escape. I knew another round of coffee was on its way when I heard the percolator gurgling and smelled the fresh roast drifting from the kitchen.
     When sunlight began to dance on the curtain sheers and the talk and laughter from the kitchen rose to full volume, I knew it was okay to get up. Although hungry to eat biscuits and gravy, I also loved my comfortable world under Grandma’s quilt. So I lay there indecisively for a moment. Then the special feeling that came with being the first grandchild to rise drew me to the kitchen.
     I walked in sleepy-eyed, to the chorus of “Oh, look who’s up,” and “Bless her little heart.” What a glorious welcome to my day.
     Daddy opened his arms to me, and I sat on his lap. My sleepy energy level was not yet a match for all of the adults who were now on their second and third cups of coffee, so I laid my head on his shoulder and watched the happy scene in the kitchen.
     “Jan, you want some orange juice?” Grandma asked, pitcher in hand. Her hair was still wound in curlers, her pink cotton house dress dotted with the flowers of summer.
     “Yes please, Grandma.”
     She handed me my juice and smiled, her dark brown eyes warm and soft. Then she walked around the table pouring more coffee for everyone. I watched the steam rise from each newly poured brew, and the smell whipped up my hunger.
     “Come over here, you little corker,” Grandpa said in his mischievous tone. Still in a half-awake state, I wasn’t sure I wanted to leave the comfort of my dad’s lap, but I knew if I didn’t go to Grandpa, he’d come after me, fingers itching to find something to tickle. I walked to the other side of the table and Grandpa put his arm around me and planted a wet kiss on my cheek. I wrapped my arm around his neck and stood next to him while he sipped his coffee and read the paper.
     “Grandpa, can I have a taste?” The coffee smelled good, and I was hungry.
     I saw Mom give Grandpa a look that said, “I don’t think so.”
     But, Grandpa was never one to take a hint, especially one he saw no need for. “It’s hot. Just take a little one.”
     I was excited to make the sound of the delicious slurp, like an adult. Slrrrp.
    Yuck! It was hotter than I expected on my upper lip, and the bitter taste lingered on my tongue. What in the world did they see in that stuff?
    Many years have passed since the days of those fondest of memories, and today I’m one of those adults sitting around the table sharing stories over coffee, early in the morning while the children sleep. Grandma and Grandpa, their farm house, and the voices from the past are gone now, but they’re all part of the best I hold inside me.



Super Summer Movie

How shall I say this without sounding strange? I love movies about boys coming of age -- like Super 8. Here's a synopsis from IMDb.com:

After witnessing a mysterious train crash, a group of friends in the summer of 1979 begin noticing strange happenings going around in their small town, and begin to investigate into the creepy phenomenon.

Some would call Super 8 a sci-fi-action-adventure movie, but to me, it was a sentimental story of lives perched on the precipitous edge of the innocence of boyhood and the fast-approaching machismo of manhood, so reminiscient of other favorite movies of mine: Breaking Away, Stand By Me, The Sandlot, October Sky.

Awkwardness around girls. Battles with fathers. The longing to fit in. Misadventures. All are common themes to these movies. So why do they appeal to me more than Girl-coming-of-age stories? I'm not really sure. Is it because there aren't as many "Girl" movies? Here are a few that come to mind: The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants and The Secret Lives of Bees.

I, too, experienced some of the feelings and events reflected in many "Girl" movies, so maybe the answer lies simply in the fact that movies like Super 8 allow me an "inside view" of the endearing, albeit goofy misadventures "the other side" experienced growing up.

In the introduction to Stand By Me, Stephen King wrote:

"In all our lives, there's a fall from innocence; a time after which we are never the same."

"Boy" movie or "Girl" movie, it is the experiencing of that moment that I love.

A Priceless Editor



My mother, Age 8



I'm not sure why, but I'd hesitated to ask my mom to read the manuscript for Broken Dolls. One might think that strange, since she is the inspiration for my character, Sachiko Kimura. Sachi is how I imagine my mom to have been as an 8-year old Japanese American girl struggling with her identity through her family's internment during World War II.

So why did I hesitate? These are some of the things I feared:

1) The story would bring back painful memories of that time in her life.
2) Though some of the story is based on fact, most of it is fictionalized. I was concerned she would take offense that the story was not as it had been in "real life."
3) Mom is not a big reader, and I didn't want to pressure her to read a full manuscript.

Through the four years it has taken me to write Broken Dolls, I have talked to Mom about it; asked questions about what happened during those years and filled her in on some of the chapters. But it was only last week that I loaded a .pdf file on her iPad so she could read it.

Honestly, I thought it would sit on her iPad, unread.

But a few days later, my sister called me and said, "Mom has not taken her nose out of your story. I finally had to tell her she needed to take a break or her neck would start bothering her."

I was thrilled. Though many have told me they've enjoyed the story, to have my own mother -- who lived through those years and who is not a "big reader" -- read it and be unable to put it down means the world to me.

Yesterday, I went to visit. When I walked in to her bedroom, I found her with iPad in hand, so engrossed in the story she hardly noticed me. She'd been taking notes about how I could improve the intricacies of the Japanese culture in the story -- something I could not have gotten from anyone else who has read the manuscript.

Priceless.

And my mom is smart as a whip. Dozens of people have read or heard the chapter in the story where Sachiko is stacking rocks on a fence post at Rohwer, one stone on top of another. It was something Papa taught her once -- a way to calm herself when she was troubled. Only my mother caught that there was no way Sachiko could have reached the top of the fence post at Rohwer.

To know that she was that "into" the story? Well, it was priceless.

My mother with her mother

ADDENDUM - JULY 9, 2011

On many mornings, before I get out of bed, my mind fills with thoughts. This morning, I was thinking about this blog entry, and something occurred to me: It was presumptuous of me to assume my mom was so "into" my story that she could visualize the fence post being too high for Sachi. The truth is, she was THERE.

She knew how high those fence posts were.

"REAL SIMPLE Quote of the Day" Post: Relating

“Just because we were related

didn’t mean we were any good

at understanding each other.”

                   ― Anne Tyler

Circa 1973

I receive a "Quote of the Day" each morning from Real Simple magazine. This morning's quote immediately brought to mind my relationship with my sister, Cyndie. Being the oldest sibling, I was the "no fun disciplinarian" of the bunch, and the quote has probably been appropriate for each of my siblings at one time or another in our lives. But Cyndie is who first came to mind.

Since I was the oldest and she was next oldest, we were destined to share bedrooms all of our childhood, and you could not have thrown two more different girls together in a small space. "The Odd Couple" does not sufficiently describe us.

Cyndie was the free spirit - the "Oscar Madison" - the popular party girl with lots of friends. Probably her attitude about high school was to enjoy, to have fun, to "find" herself.

I, on the very opposite other hand, was the "Felix Ungar" - always living by the code of "should", neat freak, studious and hidden behind a wall of what was expected.

Though our tastes in clothes and boys were so different we thought the other to be "gross," somehow we still managed to argue about not "borrowing" each other's clothes. Fortunately, we never "borrowed" each other's boyfriends - not that I know of anyway.

A perfect example of the antagonistic nature of our sisterhood:  Several times after a date, one or the other of us extended beyond the bounds of our curfew, at which time the front door would be locked. Of course, the very few times it happened to me, I assumed the resolution to my dilemma was to climb the back fence and knock on our bedroom window. Surely my dear sister would let me in. No way.

But I didn't let her in either.

I'm not sure what Cyndie's reaction to that "knock-knock" cry for help was, but mine was to lie in bed snickering and thinking, "Serves her right."

Though we are still as different as can be, our story has a happy ending. From previous blogs, (Sister Left, Sister Right) many of you know that Cyndie's political leanings are to the left, and mine are to the right. When we travel, she prefers to dive in to the culture - to meet residents, even live with them. I prefer to remain with a group and stay in a hotel. She is still a free spirit, and I still work to tear down the wall of expectations.

But today, we are as close as sisters can (and "should") be. We admire, respect and learn from each other. It has taught me that whether we're related or not, accepting and learning from our differences in fact, leads to better understanding.

Circa 2009

Love

Jan with Mother-of-the-Groom, Susan

I attended the wedding of Drew and Anne-Elise this weekend. Drew is the son of my "life" friend, Susan. We have shared the lives of our children grorwing up from the time they were in high chairs; the trials and tribulations of toddlerdom through teenagerhood, through proud college years, and now weddings. One day, we'll share the joys of being grandparents.

Our little girls,
Meredith and Andi



Our grown-up girls,
Andi and Meredith

The wedding and reception were beautiful; the couple loving, loved and lovely. It was a weekend of tears, smiles, laughter, memories, dreams. I love weddings.

One thing I will always remember about this very special wedding was what the priest said prior to beginning the ceremony, before the groom walked in, before the bridesmaids' procession, and before the beautiful bride, Anne-Elise, walked down the aisle with her beaming father.

The priest walked to the front of the church and welcomed everybody. He said, "I would like to welcome all Catholics. Welcome to all Christians. Welcome Jews and Muslims. Welcome to those of you who believe in the Asian religions."

I must admit, I began to wonder how he would welcome those who might not believe in any religion.

Then, he said, "And for those of you who do not believe, we welcome you, too. For today, what unites us is that we all believe in love."

At that moment, surrounded by many people I'd never met before, I felt a connection to everyone. And I thought about how nice it was for a couple to begin their lives with such a message - a message that love could unite us all, if only we would believe that to be true.

Peep-Peep!

Today, we begin a new adventure - chicken farming! I can't help but remember a story from my childhood when I stare down at our ten cute, red balls of fur -- the Rhode Island Reds that Stephen picked up yesterday.

Oh, how their little peep-peep noises take me back . . .

I was probably about six years old, which means my parents had already been blessed with four daughters and at last, a son. We ranged in ages from newborn to six.

I'm sure the whiney noises we made when we saw the cute little chicks for sale at Easter time were not nearly so sweet as the peep-peep noises coming from the crate in the parking lot.

I begged. "Oh please, Daddy. Can't we have one?"
"Pleeeeeease, Daddy? They're so cute," pleaded Kim, tugging on his pant leg.
"I promise I'll take care of it," Cyndie guaranteed as she nodded her head.
Tami, at two, just smiled down at the brood, while Mommy swaddled Chuck and shook her head.

Daddy shook his head, too. "No. I don't think so. Little chicks grow up to be big chickens. Then what will we do with it?"

"PLEEEEASE, Daddy!"

He drew a deep breath and glanced at Mommy. "Well, okay."

Mommy objected. "Robert, I don't think--"

"Oh, come on, Honey. What's wrong with just one little chick?"

"Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy!" we all chimed, then proceeded to argue about which was to be the Chosen One.

As we piled in to the station wagon, we bickered about who got to sit by the window, then we argued all the way home about what to name the chick.

"Tweety!"
"No, Fluffy!"
"I don't like Fluffy. How about Bunny?"
"Bunny? That's dumb. It's a chick."
At last, Mommy spoke. "Peep-Peep."
We pondered the name for only a moment. "Yeah! Peep-Peep. That's perfect!"

At home, Daddy set up an area in the bathroom for Peep-Peep, complete with newspaper on the floor, a plate of chicken feed and a cup of water. We watched, like proud new parents and patiently picked up spilled food, blotted spilled water, until the dreaded call came from down the hall -- time to go to bed.

"Oh, it can't be time for bed yet."
"Can't we stay up just a little while longer?"
"Peep-Peep isn't sleepy and either am I."
"But she'll get lonely. Can't I sleep in here?"

Daddy came to the bathroom to shoo us all out and off to bed. When Peep-Peep followed with the rest of his brood, he bent to pick her up. "Oh, no you don't. You stay in here." He gently placed her on the toilet seat, then hurried out behind us.

Daddy shut the door just as we turned to say "goodnight" to our new pet. We should have named that little chick "Speedy," for she was faster than any of us could have imagined.

I cried, "Wait," then closed my eyes when I realized it was too late.

We heard one final "peep," then heard Daddy click his tongue and say, "Oh, my goodness." Not sure what was the more pitiful sound.

That night, I don't know who I felt more sorry for, Peep-Peep or Daddy.

It's a Small World After All

It's a world of laughter

A world of tears

It's a world of hopes

And a world of fears

There's so much that we share

That it's time we're aware

It's a small world after all 

 

When I was a child, my family made annual treks to Disneyland, where my favorite ride was "It's a Small World," a magical boat cruise through world villages, serenaded by the theme song in a variety of languages. True, it might have been considered cheesy by some. But I still remember gazing at the happy faces of the singing dolls and feeling a lump in my throat as I wished the world really could be that happy.

Every once in a while, though not often enough, I experience a moment that makes me realize that our world really is small, and I am grateful to find how similar we can be, even to someone who lives half a world away.

On Friday, I met Zehui, a University of Arkansas student who is here from China to obtain her master's degree in Communications. She is working on a research paper on the Japanese-American internment camps and after finding my blog and website, emailed me to ask if we could meet to discuss my research.

I don't know what was more exciting - that someone other than friend or family had spent some time on my website or that someone was interested in the subject matter of my book, Broken Dolls.

I asked Zehui how she became interested in the internment. She told me she had originally planned to do her paper on the Nanking Massacre, but while researching the special collections of the university library, she became intrigued by information she found on the internment of Japanese Americans. I understood, having also found fascinating archives, including journal entries, letters, newspaper articles, etc.

Zehui told me she was surprised that so few people know very much about the internment, and that most did not know there had been two camps in Arkansas, Jerome and Rohwer. In doing my research, I too, have been surprised at how unfamiliar people are with this part of our history. However, most people I've spoken to have a desire to learn more about it.

But my real "small world" moment came when Zehui told me she thought it was important for history to be reported objectively and without personal opinion or emotion. It is the very thought I have had myself about history, an opinion that was born fom reading the book, "Lies My Teacher Told Me," as well as traveling to other countries and seeing the contrasts in how history is reported.

Zehui and I both believe that the past must be reported objectively. It's tempting to teach historical events with a "nationalistic" tone, and I will admit that I have been one to be drawn to the nationlism. But we both agreed, that if we don't report history as it happened, without spin or fear of how it will "make us look," we will not learn its lessons and are destined to repeat it.

Zehui's and my histories are likely very different. Not only are we from different countries, we are from different generations. In fact, she is probably younger than my own two children. But, I left our meeting feeling we had much in common, and I was grateful for the chance to get to know someone who is from the other side of our very small world.

There is just one moon

And one golden sun

And a smile means

Friendship to ev'ryone

Though the mountains divide

And the oceans are wide

It's a small world after all

Creative Non-fiction and the Paprika Incident

Wikipedia defines creative non-fiction as a genre of writing that uses literary styles and techniques to create factually accurate narratives. Creative nonfiction contrasts with other nonfiction, such as technical writing or journalism, which is also rooted in accurate fact, but is not primarily written in service to its craft. As a genre, creative nonfiction is still relatively young, and is only beginning to be scrutinized with the same critical analysis given to fiction and poetry.

In this blog post, I will attempt to show the difference between "technical writing" and creative non-fiction. First, the technical writing of an incident that happened yesterday:

STEPHEN: What are you doing?
JAN: Making egg salad.
STEPHEN: Why don't you make deviled eggs?
JAN: Egg salad is easier and it tastes almost the same. It just doesn't have paprka.
STEPHEN: I love deviled eggs.
JAN: (Laughing) I remember an argument that Mary and I had once about whether paprika had any flavor or not.
STEPHEN: Yeah? What was the argument about?
JAN: Mary thought paprika did have a flavor, and I said it was only for decorative purposes.
STEPHEN: How old were you?
JAN: Probably about fourteen.
STEPHEN: I can't believe you can remember that far back.
JAN: Of course I can remember. I remember both times in my life I was wrong.

Jan and Mary almost 40 years after the "Paprika Incident."

Now, here's the creative non-fiction version:

     One spring morning, Jan decided she was in the mood for an egg salad sandwich for breakfast. Her mouth watered in anticipation as she peeled each egg.
     Her husband, Stephen, watched from the kitchen table. "What are you doing?" he asked, then took another sip of coffee.
     "Making egg salad," she said, tossing the last peeled egg into a bowl.
     "Why don't you make deviled eggs?"
     Jan mashed the white orbs with a fork and scooped a dollop of mayonnaise into the bowl. "Egg salad is easier and it tastes almost the same. It just doesn't have paprika."
     "I love deviled eggs," Stephen said, turning a page of his newspaper.
     Recalling a conversation from high school, Jan laughed. "I remember an argument that Mary and I had once about whether paprika had any flavor or not."
     "Yeah? What was the argument about?"
     "Mary thought paprika did have a flavor, and I said it was only for decorative purposes."
      "How old were you?"
     She stopped mixing and thought about the day she and Mary sat in the cafeteria at school, talking about paprika when other girls their age were talking about boys. "Probably about fourteen."
     The newspaper rustled as Stephen folded it. "I can't believe you can remember that far back."
     Jan tasted the egg salad, deciding it needed a little more salt. "Of course I can remember. I remember both times in my life I was wrong."
     Stephen rolled his eyes.

My Worst Valentine's Day Ever

I was watching CNN this morning, and one of the "on-the-street" questions asked was "What's the worst Valentine's Day gift you've ever given?" Some of the answers were pretty funny - like the man who answered, "a toaster."

I tried to think of the worst gift I'd ever given or received, and I couldn't really think of anything. I did, however, quickly recall my worst Valentine's Day ever.

It happened in my senior year of high school. I was the president of the "S" Club, a girls' service organization.

One of our major fundraisers every year was Val-o-Grams. Upon receipt of a paid order by any student, we made Valentines by hand out of  red construction paper and white lace paper doilies. These Valentines were then delivered to classrooms throughout the day by one of our "S" Club members. When the happy recipient received it, inside he or she found the heartfelt prose of a secret, or not-so-secret Valentine. Either way, for those of you who can remember "being in love" in high school, it was a VERY big deal to receive such a message in front of all of your classmates.

So, what made it so awful, you ask?

Imagine ordering one, full of expectation of gratitude from your Valentine - but your Val-o-Gram wasn't delivered. Or, imagine expecting to receive one, your heart beating with anticipation as the "S" Club cupid enters the classroom - but your name wasn't called for delivery.

Now, imagine being president of the organization that misplaced an entire page of Val-o-Gram orders.

Frantic complaints by two or three very unhappy people was all it took. Their love notes had not been delivered! I shuffled through stacks of paper, and to my horror, discovered that we had neglected to make Valentine's for an entire page - approximately 30 people.

Valentine's night, some of my fellow "S" Club members and I, sacrificed our own Valentine celebrations to complete the orders we'd missed. We issued sincere apologies the following day, and with faces as red as the Valentines, delivered them.

The saying, "Better late than never" didn't make me feel any better.

The event has gone down in the annals of my most awful moments. At the time, I thought I'd never live it down. Today, thankfully, I can look back on it fondly as a typically traumatic teenage event. I can even smile about it.

Still, at times I wonder if those missing Val-o-Grams might have changed history.