If you ask Southeast Asians what they’re afraid of, they will most likely say: ghosts, snakes and lizards. I can certainly understand why ghosts and snakes would be a legitimate concern.

But geckos and lizards? Why would Thais and Khmers fear them? It took a little sleuthing, but eventually I figured out through talking to many students over the years. But I still don’t get it. I like lizards. I suppose it goes back to being raised in Hawaii where geckos are common and part of everyday merchandise.

As children, we used to go lizard hunting. We never hurt them, but catching them can be quite difficult. My younger brother was great at it. We did this outside, as I cannot imagine trying to catch them in the house as they scale walls. So, while I never enjoyed a childhood winter, I was lucky to have played outside all year around, climbing trees, running, bicycling, and thriving in a tropical climate (free of snakes I might add, Hawaii does not have them).

After we caught them, we held the lizards gently, but firmly between our thumb and index finger just below their necks, so they can’t bite you. We knew how to open their mouths, and we pretended they talked when we held them up. Then we let them go.

I watched one hatch from its egg once. I noticed that a mom had put them in one of the holes of a volcanic rock wall. Curious, I poked at it, and in surprise saw that it was opening. I was afraid that I had hurt the little guy, but after he was free from his shell, he scurried off.

So, it turns out that these little buggers sometimes fall on you, and that’s why SE Asians don’t like them. I had it happened when I was washing the dishes, but I didn’t scream. I did recognize how that might scare people though.

The mating noises (that sound like kissing/chirping sounds) they make are also peculiar. Especially in a dark house, it might seem a bit spooky or even bothersome. But honestly, I think it’s the large tokay geckos that most SE Asians fear. They’re mighty defenders and have a way of getting into your house.

When I first moved into my Chiang Mai cat cave (aka wooden house in the bamboo woods), I couldn’t believe how much nature got into my house. When I squeezed a mop, a frog jumped out, mosquitos hungrily dined on my flesh, cicadas buzzed so loudly in the trees I thought there could not be a louder insect in the whole wide world until I heard the frogs in the nearby pond.

Unfortunately, my cats liked to play with them claw and kill. They were, however, proficient at killing little field mice, so I suppose they earned their keep. Although, I really needed them to do their work when a hearty tokay found its way into my upstairs bathroom. And here is when I discovered why they are so feared.

The one in the bathroom would not get out. I found this terrifying because he opened his mouth in defense, was large, and freaky scary, and I used this toilet often. I wanted the cats to be useful and chase him out, so I threw the first cat into the bathroom. He nonchalantly sauntered back out. Then I tossed the second cat in there. He, too, promptly left.

Next, I tried holding Romeo as close as possible to the tokay. But Romeo, my fighter, would have nothing to do with the lizard that knew better and stood still with his jaws wide open. I fetched Pippin, and by this time was sweating in stress and nerves, plus the cats were on the generous side, so I was getting quite the workout. I held him to eye level with the tokay, but Pippin simply left, again.

I grabbed a broom and tried to shoo the tokay out. Luckily, he snapped on to the broom bristles allowing me to carry him out while he clamped on snapdragon tight. The distance from the toilet to the outside patio never seemed farther. I’m glad he never let go.

My coworker-at-the-time, husband, loves lizards, fish, and frogs. He had them as pets. (Okay, he raised and bred them. He’s hardcore.) But I didn’t know this about him yet.

Well, one day, he decided to have a little fun with me and he stuck a toy rubber tokay lizard on my work locker. I guess he wanted to see me scream or something, as those toys are made exactly for that purpose and you can get them at the market. Instead, I saw it, laughed, then stuck it on my back shoulder and taught my following classes with the dang thing on me.

The rest you might say is history—heh, heh. We eventually moved in together and when we lived in Chiang Rai, our first house was a kind of tokay haven. We lived in a traditional wooden house, and at one point we had about 4 or 5 coming into the kitchen. I have to admit that was enough for me. I don’t mind an occasional one, but they were outnumbering the humans. He, on the other hand, was delighted.

It’s strange that I ended up with a husband who loves lizards and classrooms full of students who fear them. But I’ll happily be the bridge between those two worlds.

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Once upon a time, there was a king and a queen who desperately wanted a child. It seemed like an eternity, but then one perfect day, the queen became pregnant. During the height of her term, she craved a particular kind of vegetable that happened to be growing in their neighbor’s yard. (Do kings and queens have neighbors? Never you mind that for now.)

The neighbor was an old lady, or a witch, which is pretty much the same thing. (If two witches were watching two watches, which witch would watch which watch?) The queen became green with vegetable envy and ordered her husband, the king, to fetch her some rampion. The king was none too pleased about this executive order, but there was little else he could do since it was considered bad form to deny a pregnant woman what she wanted.

So instead of asking the witch, or getting a boot-licking lackey to do the deed, he decided to get some fresh air, and climb over this insanely high wall to fetch those tantalizing greens for his wife, the queen.

The first time I tried to do something with my hair was around 11 or 12 years old. I must have pleaded with my mom to take me to a salon because that’s exactly what she did, which is not like her, especially given the fact that she left me alone in the hairdresser’s chair.

Before this, I simply combed my long straight hair once in the morning, and ran around with my younger brother like a wild animal until the sun decided to call it a day.

But on this special day, I was determined to get my hair feathered. I grew up on TV shows like Charlie’s Angeles, Dukes of Hazards, and Dallas, all of which promised beauty and glamour from hairspray and feathered fringe.

“I don’t know,” the hairstylist said as she looked in the mirror, “your hair is pretty straight.”

The look of crushed hope was all she needed to give it a try. After she cut it, the salon, it seemed, held its breath as she combed it back, and when it stayed like a raven’s wing, tears formed in my eyes.

~ ~ ~

The king was successful (duhhh!), but once the queen, his wife, got that sweet taste of rampion on her lips, she had to have more, more, and more, until one not-so-fine day, the king was caught stems in hand. The witch, who never had a child of her own, and probably drove men away with her strong ways, made a bargain with the king.

“Give me your daughter.”

“I don’t have a daughter.”

“The child your wife is pregnant with, you nitwit!”

“I’d rather not.”

“Give her to me!”

“But..”

“Give!”

“The queen…”

“Her!”

“Will kill…”

“To me!”

“Me,” ended the king lamely.

We do not know how long (or short) the king and crone argued, as this is an old tale that spans back to the 1800s, but eventually, the king shrugged and said, “Suit yourself, woman. I’ve got a beheading to attend to.”

~~~

In high school, I decided to stop envying my friends’ purple or red-hued locks, and learned to dye my hair from a box. Since then, I’ve dyed my hair many times throughout the years. I even did blond streaks (but at a salon), but I researched the color carefully since I didn’t want it to look like a yellow highlighter. What I learned was, for Asians, a wheat color looks best. It gave me an instant tan, magically, flattering my skin color, and I loved how it turned out.

Another time my friend Jen and I decided to dye our hair together. We went to the drugstore, picked out our colors, and returned to her house.

After our heads were full of tacky dye, and as we were waiting our 20 minutes before rinsing the color out, Jen picked up one of the boxes, “Hmmm. My color’s Crystal Brown that sounds like a porn name.”

We laughed.

“What’s your color?”

“Chocolate Cherry.”

~~~

After the queen gave birth, they named their beautiful child, the child they always wanted, Rapunzel. (Oddly, they named her after the vegetable the queen craved as Rapunzel means rampion.) The witch didn’t waste any time and showed up in the queen’s bed-chamber to take Rapunzel away. The queen and king cried and suffered for their stupidity.

The witch, on the other hand, was over the moon. She raised Rapunzel as if she were her own, and like the deranged old bird that she was, locked Rapunzel in a tower. Rapunzel never saw another single soul, so she never knew that her hair was longer than most.

She had some pipes on her though, and sang to keep herself company. It was her voice that attracted a handsome Prince who was riding through the woods, one bright day. But as much as he tried, he couldn’t find his sweet lark. Until! He heard…

“Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair!”

Through the hedges, he spied a beautiful blond throw her long, long hair out of a tower window – and then (ta-dum!) an old woman climbed up her hair! Who’s to say if this was the strangest thing he had ever seen, because he seemed alright about it and waited until the old bat had left the tower so that he might try the same trick.

We were living in Chico, California, a college town known for its big trees and parties. During a lunch break, I decided to check out a new hair salon. All seemed normal until the stylist disappeared. My wet hair was dripping on the floor as I sat staring at my self in an otherwise empty salon.

From the back room, I could hear noises. I shifted in my seat, using my hands to billow out the plastic barber’s cape. I was young and polite enough not to yell, “Is everything alright?” because these days, I probably would have walked back there to see what was going on.

Then, as if it was my birthday, the stylist came out with a large bowl of popcorn with red Twizzlers sticking out.

“Oh.”

“I hope you like popcorn!”

She was so elated that I didn’t want to admit that I hated both popcorn and licorice. Instead, it sat between us and my reflection like the awkward gift that I never wanted or expected. We made small talk skirting around the mound of food. I felt bad, but I also was annoyed to be put in a position to eat a massive bowl of (salty and sticky) snacks while someone tried to cut my hair?!

The ordeal ended with her curling my ends as if it were the 1960s rather than 40 years into the future.

~~~

“Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair!” The confident Prince cried.

Rapunzel, not recognizing that her mother’s voice had deepened, let down her hair. To be sure, she looked away, possibly filing her nails or playing cat’s in the cradle, ignoring the heavier pull on her hair, for when the Prince entered, Rapunzel was shocked. She had never seen a man before!

If you are under 18, then Rapunzel and the Prince did nothing but talk, fall in love, and plan a future together. This plan entailed Rapunzel secretly fashioning a ladder so that when the time came, they could both climb out of the tower.

Time passed and Rapunzel became too contented because one day when the old crone climbed up her hair, she foolishly said, “Why can’t you climb up as fast as the Prince?”

The old bird was quick to pounce, “What Prince?”

“Oh! Oh, no!”

So, she cut off Rapunzel’s golden locks and kicked her out of the tower. (Heartless!)

If you’re over 18, the old witch noticed Rapunzel’s baby bump and booted her out of the tower. Regardless of which version, the old woman waited with Rapunzel’s hair. She didn’t have to wait long.

“Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair!”

The witch let down Rapunzel’s hair and the Prince, not knowing any better, climbed up his true love’s hair to discover the witch on the other end.

Was it attempted suicide that made the Prince jump out of the very tall tower? Or did the witch push him? Whatever happened, the Prince fell upon thorns that blinded him. He wandered, then, for years trying to find his true love.

I was only 9 years old, so how could I be blamed? I remember hiding in my friend Angela’s bathroom while she cut chewing gum out of my hair. She might have playfully stuck it in or it might have been an accident. I thought that was the end of it, until mom found out. She was furious, so angry that she cut my long hair that ran down my back into a chin-length bob. I cried while she cut it, and so did she.

I guess she was mad that I let someone else cut my hair. I thought the cut was well-hidden, but apparently not. Later, after her madness was spent, she apologized profusely, encouraging me to shampoo my hair often to bring my long hair back.

Strangely, snipping long hair became something I would do to not only Barbie dolls, but myself. I understood that my hair grew back relatively quickly. I started to mark turning points with dramatic haircuts: my first heartbreak in college, my second year of teacher training, and at the end of a long term relationship. Perhaps this was my way of saying, I’ve changed.

~~~

The Prince wandered for years. Rapunzel gave birth to twins in the desert. Thankfully, the Prince found his way to the desert, where he was reunited with Rapunzel. However, she was horrified to learn that her dear prince was blind. She held him in her lap and wept, but miraculously her tears fell upon his eyes, restored his sight, and they lived happily ever after.

~~~

I used to laugh at my mom’s hairpiece hanging on the towel rack. Then we visited a Japanese wig shop owner who talked her out of buying a wig entirely.

Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair.

And for the first time in my life, she’s decided to stop perming it. I wish I could say the same with my hair ~ with my menopausal locks that now feel baby fine, with the errant white hairs. But I’m not ready to go salt and pepper just yet. I dye and pluck the strays, but age always wins.

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Oh, sure, it’s not auh-mazing, but it feels fitting to post the last chapter of Misfortune Cookie on my 53rd birthday. I told myself sharing these stories was what I wanted to do before I die. I know—so dramatic—but we all have that something. This was mine.

Next month, my mom and nephew will visit Thailand, and after that vacation has passed, and I’ve had time to soak it in, I might add an epilogue. We’ll see, because as of now, I’m pleased with the thematic thread that runs through both prologue and last chapter.

When I was 52, I’d say, “I’m a full-deck-of-cards years old,” but apparently 53 is where the magic begins. 53 is the age Brits report peak sexiness. Turning 53 has been on my mind, whereas normally, these things don’t capture my attention.

Except 42, because 42 is the answer to everything.

And obviously—money—shit tons of it.

Which is why I created a Support page, so I could give you an easy place to send me that sweet, sweet cash. Now, now, don’t click away, let’s not be hasty. I’m not asking. I’m begging. Well, let’s just hope this isn’t your first read from me because I’m not sure if my humor comes through. Ahem.

Anyway…I’m not sure what’s next. I have some ideas, but I haven’t sat with them long enough. Ideas are not the problem. Time is. OH, and MONEY. MONEYYYY!

For now, though, I’m sitting with the strange satisfaction of finishing something that once felt impossible and messy. But alongside that relief is the familiar urge to move on, to know what’s next, and where I go from here.

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The day I stopped wanting to be Thai happened in the winter of 2012 when I was visiting family in Lamphun. I set my sights on Sukhothai, the Angkor Wat of Thailand.

My first suggestion was Mae Hong Son, but the road is dangerous (their words, not mine) and because the old Toyota van could not be trusted through the mountains. So, my uncle got new tires (but couldn’t fix the AC?), and we were revving to go to Sukhothai.

When I arrived in Lamphun, I realized I was in the middle of a debate as to when to leave. I read that the trip took only about three to four hours. Surely there was no reason to leave at an ungodly hour? But by the time we went to bed, it was decided we would leave at 1 am.

1 am!

I couldn’t imagine what in hells-bells we would do in Sukhothai at 5 am, but maybe we’d catch a nice sunrise or take our time. I had no clue, and there was nothing I could say about it. So at midnight-ish, we received our wakeup call, and I thought, sweet baby Jesus, I’ll just sleep in the van.

I decided to wear these cute blue leggings that looked like tight jeans and a black top my mom gave me, so I could keep warm and be fashionable. But it didn’t matter because it was freezing outside, even in the van, despite being nestled in with ten of my closest relatives and tagalongs.

Two were strangers, my cousin Ung brought a friend, and Uncle Tong brought a co-pilot for the long midnight drive. I was relieved the teenagers were in the backseat because I tend to toss my Girl Scout cookies or uuak in the back of cars, vans, trucks, planes, and trains. Mom and I shared an army poncho liner to keep warm, and soon, we all dozed off after a few good-natured comments and laughs about our journey.

The trip became a series of gas station stops. We sat there as Uncle Tong’s co-pilot rocked the faded blue van back and forth to get as much gasoline into the vehicle as possible. Any jokes about “if this van’s a rockin” were stuck between my mind trying not to breathe the fumes and my unhappy stomach.

The next stop was so I could run to the loo, and as everyone else soon followed, I wondered if everybody was waiting for someone else to speak up. We were all women except for the drivers. I believe it has been scientifically proven that women urinate more frequently than men. It was that kind of road trip.

Oh, did I forget to mention that it was decided we were going to Ayuthaya instead of Sukhothai? All I knew was Ayuthaya is closer to Bangkok, and thus much farther than Sukhothai, our original and much closer to the road trip destination. But what did I know?

I didn’t even know Ayuthaya was on the table, but it had ancient temples like Sukhothai, and maybe our drivers had hit that open road and just wanted to drive. And since I ripped the pages out of my guidebook for Sukhothai (as Rick Steves suggested for when you don’t want to carry the entire guidebook with you), I had no idea how long the drive would be, except it was like driving to Bangkok—which is located in a different part of the country.

Somehow, I managed to sleep, until the sun rose.

We stopped for breakfast at a gas station. One of my second cousins leaned over a garbage can and threw up. She was given water from the communal dipper, and I turned away, making a mental note not to use the communal dipper.

Aunt Sanjun cooked a whole chicken and brought sticky rice for the drive. Mom laughed. I suppose this was the equivalent of packing sandwiches. And as I stared at the chicken with its head still thoughtfully attached and feet curled in the plastic bag, I decided to check out the local convenience store with Mom.

Back in the van, we were starting to slowly roast as the sun rose higher. I could feel the temperature change down here, and the fact that we had no AC was starting to make me feel like I wore too many clothes and very much like the cooked chicken behind the last row of seats.

Uncle’s co-pilot crept ridiculously slow along the highway as we got closer to the Ayuthaya exit. He made several wrong turns, and it became increasingly difficult not to be a backseat driver. It was hot. The city around us was a concrete block. This day-old sticky rice wanted out of the stupid van.

Finally, we found a temple, some old-looking 14th-century wat, and we scuttled out like ants in a can to stand around with the other tourists taking pictures. I read the sign “Wat Yai Chaimongkohn”, and decided to climb the steep, seemingly precarious steps of the main chedi with one of my younger cousins. Next, we walked around the grounds among rows of Buddha statues and the reclining Buddha.

I liked it. But I was uncomfortably hot and wondered what my family was going to do next, as they seemed detached from the whole experience.

Some travelers like to read about where they are visiting, some take copious amounts of photos, and then there’s my family; the ones that look like they’re waiting for you. They looked bored, which if you think about it, is what a lot of people look like when they are sightseeing.

Then we went to the floating market. The noodles were good, and I could have done more exploring, but everyone except my mom, two cousins, and I had gone back to the parking lot. And it’s hard to enjoy a new place when more than half your family is hanging around a gravel parking lot waiting for your tourist ass.

We’re going to find a hotel now, right?

Mom looked at me in such a way to let me know that, well, there would be no hotel. The family, or democratic mob as I like to call them, had decided after eight hours of driving it was time to add a few more in.

They wanted to go to Sukhothai.

I couldn’t believe we were going to climb back into that hot tin bucket and hit the highway at the hottest time of the day, but there was nothing to do about it. Getting angry at my family or my mom—the messenger—would be futile. Resistance was futile.

So, I started thinking, well, maybe this is good. We’ll get to Sukhothai at night, wake up there in the morning, and spend the day exploring before everyone has to be back for work.

Nope.

If you’ve ever been to Ayuthaya or on any road trip in Thailand, then you know. You’ve seen them. The dried fish stands all along the highway. Mom has this thing about dried fish. She’s always looking for dried fish, and I’m somehow always with her during her quests for fish that have been sun-dried.

I won’t exaggerate and say we stopped at all the fish stands, but we stopped along many because as much as it might LOOK like they’re selling the same thing, they’re not. So I took these opportunities to take pictures, stretch my legs, and watch family members buy dried fish in bulk quantities for resale and what I could only imagine was pleasurable and ecstatic eating.

If I wasn’t a perpetual tourist in Mom’s home country, I would have gotten bored. I got a little bored.

After the family sated their appetites and the fish sellers with their purchases, we got back into the dilapidated van, and I sat back wondering if this was the best part of the road trip for them because they became so engaged and animated.

We stopped for dinner at some gas station strip mall. The men cleaned up in the little boys’ room, looking refreshed. I tried not to think of my misery, and then I received the next kicker.

“They want to drive back to Lamphun tonight.”

“Seriously.”

“Nobody wants to pay for a hotel room.”

“But everyone can afford one, right? They knew this was the plan.” I looked at all of our bags at the back.

“Yes, but they don’t want to.” She whispered.

I understood I was being watched. “Okay.”

Was I such a spoiled rotten American? Why did everyone else suck it up, and I wanted to pitch a fit? It made no sense. No fucking sense. Was everyone insane?

She hugged me, and I wanted to cry.

Later, when we were in that damn van, Mom asked, “You’re not mad at me, are you?”

“No,” I looked at her, surprised, “it’s not your fault.”

“It’s hard to travel with a lot of people. You have to go with everybody else.”

I was once again struck by how much I hated democracy. I’ve hated “majority rules” ever since I was in the eighth grade when we took a vote where to have recess, outside or inside, and I was outvoted and was stuck inside like some caged animal.

I watched the landscape for as long as there was daylight because I knew it was going to be another long drive. Eight hours again. How many hours did it make it being in the van? 16 out of 24? Two-thirds of our time shoulder to shoulder osculating between hot and cold, left butt cheek or right.

But what I didn’t know was, when we returned at 2 or 3 am, Aunt Sangla, who had the keys to the house, who thought we were in Sukhotai, would be in Chiang Mai. She wouldn’t answer her phone, but we stared, nonetheless, at the gold padlock on the sliding wrought-iron gate that was between the outside and our hot showers and beds inside.

Luckily, Uncle Noop lives next door, heard us scuttle out of the van and greeted us. And once it became clear that Sangla was out partying and wouldn’t answer her phone, he tried to help us get into the house.

First, he attempted to saw through the thick padlock, but it was clear, as it was dark, that it wasn’t going to cut it. We started laughing. Mom and I were punchy at this point, but we’d have laughed over our predicament regardless.

That’s how we did it, I think, through laughing. She’d be explaining over the phone how she was trying to use the ATM, when the machine spit her card out because it said she was too slow to respond, and I’d snort, then laugh, and she’d join in.

Or that time we watched a farang guy admonish his Thai wife about how you need to stand in line at the airport. I acted and pretended to do the same with her, and we giggled. Or when Mom tried to drive a car in Thailand, but ended up being too American, going the wrong way, towards traffic. We screamed in unison, then exhausted ourselves with laughter.

Then there was when we went to Taco Bell, I didn’t know what to order; what do we know about Mexican food in Hawaii? I tried the quesadilla, and when we unwrapped the sliver of soggy tortilla with cheese, we were filled with disappointment, then horror over such meager fare, we snickered over our embarrassment. Laughing is our way through.

Then, her brother found some bolt cutters, he held them up high, we cheered, and just like that, we were in.

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A colleague once told me they could tell I wasn’t Thai by the way I walked—shoulders back, head high, like I belonged somewhere. Although, I think it’s my clothing that sets me apart.

Sometimes I’m mistaken for Japanese because of the way I dress. I think it’s about being different from your parents. After all, Mom referred to bras as brassieres.

In 2009, when I first moved abroad, I was in Bangkok getting my TESOL (Teaching English) certificate, and I needed a new bra. (Bet you never heard those two things stringed together before, huh?) My favorite place to shop and eat was at MBK in the Siam shopping district because of my fond memories from 1989.

If you’re an American, you’ll find yourself either pleased as pudding or put off by the pudding with the amount of attention you get when you shop in Thailand. Generally, I’m in the latter department. One of the first things I learned how to say in Thai was, “I’m just looking” in attempts to get the sales people to back – the – f - off.

Standing this close to someone in Hawaii can get you punched. But this is Southeast Asia. Sigh. It’s cultural. They’re just doing their job. So you pretty much have to be okay with them shadowing you, practically mouth-breathing in your ear while you have a look-see.

At first, I popped into the Tokyu Department Store (which sadly closed during the pandemic), but I panicked when I saw that the bra sizes were numbers I didn’t recognize. I didn’t know my EU or international bra size. The tags had numbers that started around 70 and went up to 100+. Whaaat?

Although, I had a strong suspicion that I was nowhere near three digits. Quickly, I found the smallest cup size, but my brain boggled over these numbers – 70 is nowhere near 32. Then the approaching sales ladies speaking Thai to me caused me to jump like a rabbit about to be skinned.

I rolled away from them, as if I was carrying an American football. They weren’t going to tackle me before I reached the end zone. I might have run out of the store. But after my heart rate returned to normal, I braved another shop. This one seemed less scary and sold only intimates.

Taking a deep breath, I announced, “I don’t know my size.”

The sales ladies surrounded me, fascinated by this new species that looked like them, but spoke only English. But they were not afraid. If anything, my experiences have been, they lean in, curious, almost smelling you. In fact, one of them (their leader?) took matters in her own hands.

She grabbed me.

It happened so fast I didn’t have a chance to defend myself. The leader was like Flash Gordon, there, then here, giving my girls her palms-up “assessment”. I didn’t have time to be upset, or laugh, or anything. Instead, I stood there mouth agape by the interception, my American football no longer in my possession.

Oh, but did she get my size right?

She did.

And since I was a touch embarrassed by this event, I figured I better buy something.

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I didn't realize how American I was until I got on a motorbike. Although for the first nine months I was in Thailand, I didn’t drive. It was too terrifying. I kept thinking of my dad. It took a lot of nerve to be a passenger on the back of a bike.

The main reason was I didn’t trust the Thai traffic situation.

Back home we have so many road rules, but it turns out there’s a good reason why. There’s actually a period called the “Seven Deadly Days” in Thailand that refers to the new year’s holiday, as well as the Thai new year, a time that sees an uptick in accidents and fatalities.

I was working at Little Caesars Pizza during my community college days, but Mom didn’t like me walking home at night after my shift was done. Even though Mililani is a safe town, she insisted on picking me up. By this point, my hand-me-down car had kicked the bucket. One night, Tim showed up at the back door of Little Caesars Pizza to whisper, “Your mom’s been in an accident. She’s at the Kuahelani intersection. You better walk over there.”

“What? Is she okay?”

“Yeah, but she’s pissed. She won’t stop attacking the Korean who hit her.”

“What! Why can’t you take me home?”

“Cause you need to go see your mother.”

“Shhh-it.”

It was a short walk, but I could see the police lights. Everyone was still in the intersection. Our Honda Accord looked okay, it wasn’t totaled or anything. After assessing the situation, which was indeed my mom hurling pontificated profanities at the poor Korean woman, I went to sit in the car. The Korean had hit Mom’s car when she was turning onto the road which led to the shopping center, and Mom was letting the woman know exactly what she did wrong.

Usually it’s funny to hear her swear in English, but I was tired from my shift, smelled of bleach and pizza dough, and wanted to get home. I wished Mom would act a little calmer, but back in those days her temper was unreal. Maybe it was menopause.

The police officer came to my window, big local guy.

“You da daughter?”

“Yup.”

“You’re mom’s crazy.”

“Yeah, I know.”

We talked about logistics and basically he said we could go home. Then he said something my 19 year old self never forgot, “You’re cute.”

But eventually the time came when I wanted to get over my fear of driving a motorbike. My friend Julia was a great teacher, but I didn’t get the hang of it as quickly or naturally as others.

Why was it hard to start the bike? Was I really so weak? If grandmas and 12 year olds could do it, surely could I. Why was it that when I started to give it a little gas, I felt like I was suddenly on a runaway horse? And why did I mix up the gears and the brake? Was I that clumsy? I envisioned killing people because I couldn’t seem to master what seemed terribly easy for everyone else.

Yes, I had a lesson. And yes, I was fine in traffic. The traffic here is what spooks the pants off most Westerners. Everything is oh-hell-we’re-going-to-die different. Take all the traffic laws you’ve been trained to do since day one and back up over them because you ain’t gonna need them over here. I had been sitting on the back of motorbikes for about a year, so I understood how traffic moved.

But when I realized the reason for my handicap! I felt the clouds of confusion part, the gods of thunder quiet. I wasn’t an idiot! Not this time! I am left-handed and left-leg dominant.

This realization came about the same time I saw a friend on FB post how excited she was to learn that her son is left-handed. I restrained myself. Being left-handed is seen nowadays as something unique and wonderful, but as I have learned, it can really suck the handlebars off a bike.

As a child, you don’t really think about why the desk arm is on the other side, or why your hand is mashed against the coils of the notebook, or why you can’t seem to write without smearing the ink.

As I was driving home with a white board under my butt and a dish rack in my basket, I realized I was undergoing another motorbike initiation. First you learn how, master maneuvering through traffic, a long drive, and then you take a passenger, or you’ll be three on a bike, or if you’re a woman in a skirt, sit side-saddle because it’s more ladylike.

Then sooner or later, you’ll drive with lots of stuff on your bike, bags of groceries hanging from the handlebars, so much stuff in your basket it blocks the front light, or with heavy objects that pull the weight of the bike to the left or to the right. Bungee cords are your friend.

You see people carrying ridiculous things like a TV, live chickens, or Styrofoam boxes piled so high you wonder how it’s all staying up there. I thought it was crazy to carry a bicycle upside down (the passenger is holding it between the driver and them on the seat) until I decided to try it. Yes, it was insane, and we might have lightly tapped another car.

Then there was that time in Siem Reap I saw a passenger carrying an IV drip bag on a pole for the driver. And forget seeing four or five on a bike, how about a mother driving with a baby in her arms?

But the craziest thing I’ve seen was this gang of young men on Canal Road. One of them was lying down, with his belly on the seat and his legs behind him like he was Superman, flying along, and as we took a wide turn, I thought, Holy basil, Batman.

You see that kind of stuff online, watching the X Games, not in the next lane over as you are returning from exercise at the park. I thought sitting on a white board, with my feet barely touching the road when I stopped, was balmy. Oh, wait a minute, it is. But folks here do this kind of thing all the time. So are we Westerners insane with our safety society, or are we insane for trying to be more Thai?

But here’s the really crazy thing. Thais (and Cambodians) are very chill when it comes to minor accidents. There’s hardly any good ‘ol fashioned screaming matches and guns being waved when someone else failed to make space so you could merge.

A near head-on collision? Just a nod and a smile and you’re on your way again. Cutting you off when you are trying to turn? Typical. Fender-bender? Take a quick look at the damage, if there is any, and you’re on your way.

No matter how many times I see a near accident, the locals greet it with the same indifference they would if they were pulling up to a petrol station. I’m sure some of this has to do with “saving face”, not showing emotions, and maybe the relief that it wasn’t anything serious, but also these kinds of things happen every day.

So here’s what happened to me before I decided years later that riding a moto wasn’t worth the risk. Whenever a bike, car, what have you, got too close to me, I’d swear. Whenever someone didn’t let me into the lane, I’d swear. Of course, I swear under my breath, behind the safety of my helmet shield. Then I’d immediately feel stupid for letting external forces bring the American out of me.

I first wrote it years ago, but it lands differently now, and looks different from when it was originally published. Thanks.

1.

When I was about 13 years old, my family and I went on a road trip across America. Once when we were in a McDonald’s and after I had ordered (Mom let us do that), the nice woman behind the counter leaned forward and smiled.

She said as proud as a teacher, “Your English is very good.”

I was confused. I stared at her for a moment, trying to comprehend a compliment that I hadn’t earned, but I remembered my manners and said, “Thank you.”

2.

I had some sort of fantasy that I’d be able to speak Thai well when I moved to my mother’s home country. I used to think it was me, that I wasn’t practicing enough, that I hadn’t found the right ingredients to get me speaking like a local, but now I realize that it’s the Thai language to blame.

Thai is a tonal language and it has five tones like Mandarin Chinese. Many foreigners can get away with using mainly the mid tone, but look at my face. Look at me, I cannot.

Watching their faces while I try to speak is like watching cats trying to hang on to curtains, or misjudging the jump from the kitchen counter and flopping into the trash can. Meanwhile, if a white person fumbles with their language they clap, cheer, and confetti drops from the sky because they’re OBVIOUSLY a foreigner making an effort. I, on the other hand, am an Asian who should know better.

One time, Mom and I were leaving the mall and taking a red truck taxi back to my apartment. When the driver asked where I lived, I said Chiang Moi which is a street that runs parallel to the famous Thae Pae road in Chiang Mai. But I knew I used the wrong tone because Mom started laughing so hard she slipped off the backseat bench and started to fall out of the truck.

I rushed to her to help her back in, “Oh, god, what? What did I say?”

It took her some time to stop laughing, the driver shook his head, then got in the front and started the taxi. She didn’t know the word in English, so through hand gestures and halting English, and my exasperated guessing, I finally discovered I said pubic hair.

3.

I teach English. I do what most foreigners do in Southeast Asia, but as you can imagine, I’m not exactly considered the face of English language learning.

For example, when I first enrolled for intensive Thai classes at Payap University, my receipt from the Foreign Language Center enrolled me for intensive English. Apparently, someone concluded by looking at my photo (because photos are attached to every kind of form there) that I must have checked the wrong box.

So whether it was in Ecuador, Cambodia, or Thailand, I started each class with, “Guess where the teacher is from!”

My students are usually teens, but it wasn’t unheard of to teach adults or even retirees. It depended on what school I taught at and often classes were a mix of students in uniforms and adult professionals.

Anyway, when I first walk in, I take in their raised eyebrows, whispers to their classmates, and sometimes, their smiles. I relish this moment because I’m not the typical foreign teacher, and I can see the curiosity written all over their faces.

“Teacher, where are you from?”

Tilting my head, I smile, “Where do you think I’m from?”

“CHINA!”

“Noooo.”

“Taiwan.”

“Japan.”

“Singapore.”

“No, good guess though.”

“Korea?”

I put my hands on my hips, as if to say, “Really?”

At this point they have started to slow down their guessing and have become confused.

“What other countries are there besides Asian ones?” I ask.

“Australia?” They sound less confident now.

“England?”

When someone is finally able to guess, “America,” I can say, “Yes!” and then I try to get them to guess which state. They know California and New York and sometimes they know other states like Washington, or Florida, but generally speaking, I’ve stumped them.

After my poor hula dancing impersonation, someone guesses Hawaii. It helps to be from the islands because as they accept the way I look, with the way I speak, Hawaii feels like a kind of compromise, something to hold on to, someplace that makes sense—a bridge, and then we can begin.

4.

I was waiting for my punctual friend at a popular restaurant in Chiang Mai when a waitress brought me two menus.

She placed a menu in Chinese and a menu in Japanese in front of me. Then, she leaned back satisfied.

I wanted to laugh, but instead I asked in remedial Thai, “Could I have a menu in English?”

5.

Another reason why speaking Thai is challenging is because most folks can meet you halfway. They know enough English, so we end up speaking a kind of Thaiglish, or they grab their English-speaking friend from the next shop over, and you start the transaction all over again.

Most folks want to be helpful, so when everyone’s struggling, they’ve left before you can continue to struggle—and that is a huge part of learning—struggling.

But the outside world isn’t a classroom where teachers speak slowly, clearly, pause, and wait for your answer. So unless you have some patient interactions, practicing in the real world can feel impossible.

6.

When I was teaching in Siem Reap before the pandemic, one of the new Khmer teachers asked, “Are you Chinese? Are you from China? Are you China?”

And when a new expat teacher saw me hovering near the teachers’ room because I was fumbling for my key card, she gently asked, “Can I help you?”

She assumed I was a student, but she wouldn’t be the first, or the last to make that mistake. I’ve had a student walk in and say, “Where’s the teacher?” Everyone laughed.

My colleagues would sometimes walk in my room to ask to borrow something or ask a question, only to look around the class baffled, until they spot me. “Oh! There you are!”

7.

Portland Oregon has a Saturday Market that is located in the Chinatown-but-not-really-Chinatown area that I used to go to regularly. This was when I was in my early 30s. On this particular day, I was snaking in and out of the rows of vendors, enjoying the food smells and looking at what the booths had to offer, when I came upon an Asian woman’s booth.

She saw me looking at her stuff and excitedly asked, “Do you speak Chinese?”

“No, sorry, but I wanted to ask you…” I held up an item of interest from her table, but she had already turned around.

“Oh.”

She turned around.

And stayed that way.

8.

When I first started to learn Thai, despite hearing it all my life, I was overwhelmed by the strange sounds, but gradually I started to hear the nuances, and better still, I began to learn Thai-isms.

For example, in American English it’s common to ask, “How are you?” We don’t even think about it, as it’s part of our culture, and it’s a greeting that sometimes replaces Hello. But in Thai, they don’t want to hear about how you feel, they want to know where you’ve been, where you’re going, or whether you’ve eaten or not.

All the times my mom asked me, “Did you eat yet?” or “What did you eat?” came flooding back. I thought she was being motherly, but no, she was being Thai.

I began to dissect common Thai greetings. Perhaps asking a feeling question (How are you?) was considered a luxury. “Where are you going?” and “Where have you been?” is about action and a friendly curiosity probably stemming from simpler times. I don’t know. Of course, the irony is those questions in America would be considered intrusive, and maybe even offensive, depending on the context.

It took some getting used to, being asked about my business and my whereabouts from strangers or people I hardly knew. I even noticed that when I came back from the market, Thais would look at my plastic bags to see what I was carrying. Sometimes, I’d even be asked what I purchased. All friendly conversation, as Thais love small talk.

By now, most Thais are used to foreigners asking them, “How are you?” They’ve grown accustomed to our way of expressing interest. But I love asking them their questions, especially, whether or not they have eaten. I like seeing their faces light up because when you ask “How are you?” there’s a different feeling behind their response. I suppose one that has little cultural significance. But to ask if you have eaten or not! Well, now, that shows you care!

Thai also uses a lot of onomatopoeias. Words can sound like what they are, as in tuktuks (3-wheeled moto taxis) or words are named after the noise they make, jip jip is a bird singing, laughing is hahaha, and tokay is based on the mating call of the Tokay geckos. Suddenly, Mom calling a train, a choo-choo train, or a mouse, Mickey Mouse didn’t seem so bizarre and out of place.

9.

When I’m in Lamphun, visiting family, there’s no English menu. It’s the quiet countryside. It’s where my uncle, one of my many uncles, has his chicken and rooster collection, next to my aunt’s beauty salon. A few houses down is where my great aunt lives with her daughter who speaks enough English so that we can communicate a little.

A few blocks further is where my other aunt and uncle run a modest store selling local produce and curry dishes in to-go plastic bags, snacks, 20 baht fish, cold drinks, whiskey and rice wine by the shot glass. It’s where I’ve watched my uncle give a rooster a bath and where I’ve seen them boil dead chickens, so they can pluck the feathers off their bodies.

It does no good to engage because my Thai isn’t good enough to open doors. Because once I respond, the dam is cracked, and I am slapped into shape by my limitations. Northern Thai isn’t the same as Central Thai. My Thai is good for the city where many folks can meet me halfway with their English. But in Lamphun, they expect me to understand everything with none of the patience and pacing of a language learning program. So, it’s best if I play the deaf mute.

I am a deaf mute in my mother’s culture and country. It’s invisibility, relief, and shame. It’s where I sometimes choose to belong and where I sometimes disappear.

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Hope as surrender

Occasionally, I’ll do what norms do and scroll through my phone. Now, I usually regret it, but this last time, I noticed the middle-of-the-night-restless-fright that the news triggered. It also pop-tarted its ugly itch in the morning, acting as a kind of residual negativity that permeated my headspace.

These thoughts were accompanied by feeling nauseous, which I’m sure had to do with the ice cream and chips I ate the night before, possibly the extreme heat we’ve been dealing with, and not anything else. So, I’m kind of glad they were in tandem because the association locked in. Hopefully, I’ve learned my lesson.

As I told Eric, garbage in = garbage out.

Hope as an act of service

When I’m feeling more positive about the world, I feel freer and happier. My students pick up on that. My colleagues, too. I know this, but I seem to consciously forget this. I figure whenever I can counteract the pulse of what the glowbox says, I’m not living in denial, I’m choosing to take control of the moments that make up my life.

Hope as renegotiation

Where I used to struggle with the idea of aging, I’m now in the throes of making peace with my menopausal body. Who knew estrogen did so much! I can’t eat like I used to, I can’t eat certain things anymore, or lose weight as easily. And I certainly can’t bounce back like before. Nevertheless, I’m hopeful I can relearn and discover what my body needs as it transitions. Serenity now!

Hope as a muscle you have to flex

I live with hope, despite the barrage of bullshit. But if I think about what that really means, I realize hope is a lifestyle choice. It cannot be something I only feel when I need it or want it, hope has to be like exercise, a routine that I cultivate so that I feel nourished.

Fear is pervasive, but it also divides. Hope, on the other hand, has depth and scope. It has something to offer. It comes down to trusting what you believe versus what others tell you—and that’s no small feat considering The Age of Emptiness.

I guess what I’m trying to say is, if you want hope in your life, you’ve got to show up for it. In some ways, I live it every time I step into the classroom. Because no matter how shitty of a class I might have had last time, I show up, ready to begin again, to experiment, to let go.

In a recent video, the AI commentator Mo Bitar compared Anthropic’s model rollouts to Apple iPhone launches, where every year they resell you the same product with minor improvements. “Except here,” he adds, “the product is existential dread.”

And we keep falling for it. — Cal Newport

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When we lived in Siem Reap back in 2016, we discovered that one of the best places to workout was at Prince D’ Angkor Hotel because the pool was bangin’, yo. And on this particular day, after my workout, I started to look for a ride home.

It looked like it was going to rain, so Sivutha Road was particularly empty. Normally, Cambodian tuk-tuks (motorbikes with a carriage attached to it) could be found under a scrawny tree along the road, but not today, today my only choice was a mess of motorbike taxis.

Grudgingly, I walked over to the men, feeling vulnerable without makeup, and ready to put up a fight as many taxis relish ripping off foreigners, seeing us as cash machines who are foolish and free with our funds. Different part of the world, different rules. You’re considered clever if you can outwit your customers, buyer beware indeed.

Some would argue that these taxi drivers are poor souls and what’s a fist full of dollars to us? And I’d say that’s not the point. We’re guests in their country and is this how to treat a traveler? Are we not equals? Plenty of people spend months, years saving up vacation time and money to travel to SE Asia. Not everyone who travels is rich. Yes, it’s a privilege to be here, but not to be cheated. And those who live abroad are not always better off. I speak in my halting Khmer.

“How much?”

“Where are you going?”

“Lok Danuey”

The drivers discuss. Sometimes my Khmer is good enough to understand they’re talking about the location, the distance, but I wonder if they’re speaking in a kind of code, one that hinges on how much they should fleece me for.

“8,000 riel,” he offers.

“What?” I jerk back, “4,000.”

“7,000.”

“Oh my god!” It was as if I was bargaining for all the foreigners (expats and tourists) who gave in after a long day of sightseeing or ignorance.

I marched off, indignant.

My math cannot keep up with the exchange as 1000 riel is 25 cents.

A similar conversation happens with another gang of motorbike taxis. The men are dark from hanging out in the sun and smell strong of sweat. They’re also as eager as a cat settling down for a nap. They’d lick themselves between the legs too, if they could, to show how uninterested they are in my bargaining skills.

He generously offers 6,000 riel, but as I’m convinced that he is taking me for a sucker (not this gal!), I scuttle off to see if I can find someone else, but as the clouds gather, and I walk to the river, I can see that my options have been filed down to walking 1.5 miles (2.5 km) home.

Unfortunately, walking in SE Asia is a hot, humid, dirty affair—and that’s why no one does it. I once watched a man drive from one side of a small road, to the next, to use a payphone. It took longer to turn on the bike. Sidewalks are often an afterthought, as is maintenance of said pavement.

When the heavens finally decide to release, I duck under some awning on Wat Bo Street. I tried to wait it out, but it was raining heavily—pissing all over my dumb ass who can’t do simple math. Pissing down on dum-dum who didn’t want to be taken for a fool. Pissing with the sweet release of a drunk who’d been holding it until he could find a tree or a wall to lean on.

I looked out on the street in misery. Tuk-tuks with rolled down plastic sheets to protect their customers drive by. The occasional motorbike driver either drenched in their jeans (they do love their jeans here) or wearing those stupid useless raincoats that were as effective as putting on garbage bag. You know, the raincoats that tear easily, the ones I’ve bought countless times, those hot contraptions that made me feel like Asian American stereotypes of genius can go to hell.

Then I attempted to make it to the next building without getting too wet which was impossible because this is a monsoon, and I am a miser. 2000 riel is 50 cents. Finally, I walked out in the rain and embraced my outsider status.

Later I realized, it wasn’t really about 2,000 riel. It was about not wanting to be seen as someone who didn’t know the rules.

Even after all this time, I don’t feel better adapted to handle these bargaining situations. I’m probably being a little hard on myself, but, really, I feel like such an amateur when I can’t control my emotions. Sometimes, I’d walk away. Sometimes, I’d be in the mood to play the game. Other times, I’d get frustrated, even angry, which is a no-no in these parts, but that damn American side comes out like the little mouth in the alien’s bigger mouth.

I resent that I have to be vigilant about not getting fleeced. A fair price seems like a right, not a luxury. Nevertheless, I’ve come to admire and appreciate my mom in a new way.

When we had to buy a new car (because the old one got into an accident), I remember how long she took negotiating with the dealer. I was probably around 8 and Larry 4 or 5. We arrived when the sun was above our heads and we were still there long after the sun went down. We were hungry, and eventually, we sat on the curb outside of the Ford dealership waiting for a miracle, waiting for our mom to be done. We hoped that by sitting outside, we could hurry the process. Then, all of a sudden she was out of the door. Bam!

“Mom! Are we done?” Larry and I stood up, my voice raised in hope.

“Get in the car,” she barked.

We scurried after her.

“Mrs. Cox! Mrs. Cox!” One of the car dealers was running after her waving a sheaf of papers.

“Please, Mrs. Cox!” he yelled into the night, defeated. “You can have your price!”

She stopped marching and turned around.

Damn. Longest night of my life.

There were a lot of those moments from living in Thailand and Cambodia when I looked back at my mom and finally understood. The bargaining. The persistence. The refusal to be taken advantage of. It wasn’t simply stubbornness. It was survival.

And arguing over fifty cents? I realized I was becoming her.

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R E L A X

I could write it on every mirror in the house, as we’ve somehow managed to acquire a few of them. But if I wrote that down, it would remind me of The Shining’s REDRUM and that would have the opposite effect.

Yet, despite these humanizing moments—peaks and valleys, kids, peaks and valleys— I’ve been doing alright. I’ve been trying to balance headspace with heartspace.

You see, after we moved into our new place, I was forced to make some adjustments. For example, I no longer could walk to work, I had to go by tuktuk taxi, which is fine, but that meant losing about 1.5 hours of exercise over the week. So, I added 5 minutes on the rebounder.

Then this led me to discovering that strength-based exercise is very important for menopausal women to counteract declining estrogen levels. As a result, I got heavier weights and changed my exercise routine.

I also learned we need more protein and finally developed a skin-care routine. And I’m looking at this newsletter through my updated pink glasses on my new monitor. It’s funny how one change cascaded into many others.

This is why I chose momentum for this month’s word. Life has been filled with this kind of fine-tuning, improvements, and learning—and I love it because I enjoy taking care of myself.

Such a Taurus, I know.

It does not matter how slowly you go as long as you do not stop. —Confucius

It’s tough though. I can feel my mind’s familiar pull toward the dark side, especially with travel coming up and a head full of plans. I waver between stress and trust.

But maybe this is where momentum matters most—not in perfect routines, but in returning, again and again, when I drift. Relax. Adjust. Keep moving.

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Thanks for being here. I always appreciate your thoughts and reflections.

Remember when Luke Skywalker says, at the end of The Empire Strikes Back, “Ben, why didn’t you tell me?” That’s what I wanted to say to my mom after realizing how different Thailand is from America.

The idea existed purely on an intellectual level. Live and work abroad, learn Thai, and connect with Mom. Although, stepping into reality was very different from what I anticipated.

But that 2007 vacation pretty much spurred Brad and I to get our lives out of America, which we did in 2009. We were tired of moving around the US, trying to figure out where we belonged. We were restless and feasted heavily on long walks fueled with future daydreams.

Moving overseas was not something I took lightly, but at the same time, I was completely ignorant as to what exactly it would involve. Logistically, we put all of our belongings away with his family, not sure if we’d be hightailing it back to the US of A in three months, two years, or never. It was exciting in a “I have no idea what I’m doing” kind of way, but then it became all my stuff sitting over at my ex-boyfriend’s parents’ place in a “waiting for me to do something with it” kind of way.

We used to adore watching travel shows, living vicariously through the host’s senses, soaking in the sights and sounds, and imagining the smells, tastes, and sensations. I felt so ready to get out there into the wide world, but we had little money, so I waited on the couch ready to pounce for my day to come. Those were long years when I felt everyone but I was getting the chance to accumulate Sky Miles. So when we finally made the leap, that glorious jump into the void, I wasn’t ready to be afflicted with any problems, let alone, culture shock.

Culture shock is when you’re waiting in line for the toilet and the grandma behind you walks into another stall, takes down the broken sign sitting on the toilet and uses it anyway. It’s when you realize that no one around you is forming a queue. Culture shock is watching a child urinate in public, in front of your home, or behind your home. It’s seeing what looks like a dog roasted on a spit.

It’s watching traffic move in every direction, without “rules”. It’s being confronted with your vulnerability. It’s being treated differently because you’re different. It’s the locals talking to you in another language. It’s a lot of people staring at you. And feeling lost.

It’s also the realization that most of the food around you is unrecognizable and even if you knew what it was, you wouldn’t know how to order it. It’s not knowing how to perform basic tasks that everyone around you takes for granted. That you took for granted back home, before you were stupid enough to leave.

Things don’t make sense. That’s culture shock.

Back home, you know the social rules for engagement. You have a fairly good idea of how things are supposed to go, and if you don’t, you know how to find out. Society has trained us. It’s civilizing. Rules create order. We know the right way, and the wrong way to do things. But in Thailand, I didn’t know whether to shout or remain silent, to push or pull. So, I did it all.

For example, trying to get my education visa was extremely time consuming and confusing. I lived for days without electricity in my new apartment, but instead of calling the electric company to find out what was the problem, the landlady sent over her assistant to find out if what I had told her over the phone was true.

I was also used to doing my own laundry. In fact, how apartments and homes are set up in the States is very different than in Thailand (and many other places, I’d learn!), and that’s a kind of shock in itself. What do you mean there’s no kitchen? What kind of shower is this? Where’s the bathtub, oven, dishwasher? And what is this strange hose next to the toilet?

So, I had to communicate as best as I could with the laundry lady downstairs. Things that I could have easily controlled like washing my own clothes were taken out of my hands and that made me feel even more inadequate, helpless, and frustrated. When will my clothes be ready? How much is a kilo? Why is the shop closed? It was peculiar to give my clothes to a stranger and even weirder to see that my underwear and jeans had been ironed.

When it came to diet, it felt like we were eating the same things over and over again. Gravitating towards items we recognized and knew how to order. We craved McDonalds and felt like fools.

Yet after all this time, beginning struggles seem as hazy as the Bangkok skyline. I take for granted that all of the knowledge that I have now, had to be gained through trial and trip-ups. Chiang Mai has changed a lot during the time I was there, too, making the ease of living in SE Asia softer and more similar to what I was used to.

Until then, I learned to appreciate America like never before—and still do. I thought about Bob Barker from The Price is Right and his seemingly sweet and innocent end of the show message: “Help control the pet population. Get your pets spayed or neutered” when I saw horribly neglected street dogs (and cats) roaming the city. There is no population control. Packs of dogs surround bitches in heat. They bark throughout the night. Many people abandon their pets at temples.

Pet dogs are allowed to bask in the middle of the street, attacking passing motorists and pedestrians. The idea that the owner is responsible for their dog’s behavior is considered ludicrous. This was something I’d never predicted when moving to Thailand. Of course, not all pet owners are like this. I’ve also seen dogs wearing clothes, diapers, and in baby carriers.

But they all eat rice.

I started to appreciate the fact that I was raised under a different set of rules, regulations, and Western culture. This was something that I never would have realized until I left. Because even though I didn’t feel like I belonged in the US, it turns out that I did.

It’s strange because I never considered myself very American. I wasn’t even sure I knew what that meant. I always thought being an American had to do with stuff. We have a lot of stuff, even if we don’t consider ourselves wealthy. But Thais have plenty of stuff, too.

Culture is a way of life, but it’s also a set of assumptions, and living within a new culture is learning a new set of assumptions. There’s a quality of life we buy into when we travel or move abroad that we don’t know is part of the bargain until after the purchase.

Maybe culture is nothing more than the belief that we have one—an invisible, elastic boundary that makes us feel separate, even when we aren’t. The ground we assume will always be there, until it isn’t.

Moving helps me remember my life.

I’ve lived in about 40 different homes. And I’m not counting the places before I can remember, like Oklahoma and Kansas. Nor am I including when I hauled my junk around FLC’s campus, or those times we literally moved to the next apartment over in Chiang Rai, Thailand or Siem Reap, Cambodia.

Childhood homes in Hawaii feel brown. We lived in four different houses: one on Hickam AFB and three in Mililani. Oahu’s reddish brown dirt is not to be taken lightly. It gets everywhere, on your clothes, shoes, cars, and is tracked into your house.

Renters ruined one of my childhood homes. When we moved to California, we left our townhouse for rent. When we returned in the middle of my ninth grade year, our tan carpet had become browner, shittier, dirtier. We’re fairly confident they let their big dog run throughout the house even though we had a perfectly decent fence and wall surrounding our home, complete with a front lawn and shady backyard.

As I walked around, Tim pointed out the blood on the walls. I stood there trying to figure out how and why. My face mimicked the hole under the sink. Angry. Gaping. Pointless. I was confused by this landlord’s nightmare. I didn’t know that someone could live in our house and not care for it the same way we did.

So Mom, Larry, and I moved into a small apartment in the next town over, Waihawa, while Tim ripped out the carpet and tried to fix the house to sell. We’d never be able to live there again. Even after he ripped out the carpet, the house still reeked of dog and piss, and the concrete underneath had to be bleached, the stairs destroyed, and reconstructed again. The extent of the damage was mind-boggling and costly.

Because our apartment in Waihawa was temporary, we slept on a mattress on the floor. Mom didn’t bother to make the bed either, and since it was simply a mattress, it slid around. I felt poor living in Waihawa, a rough military-influenced town without the decency of sidewalks.

The contrast between Mililani and Waihawa is as striking as a before and after crack cocaine user. Mililani is a planned town. All of the telephone and electrical wires have been buried underground. There are large trees everywhere, parks, recreation centers, rarely are there potholes or problems with the pavement. It’s a walk/run-friendly town with hills and cool breezes.

Waihawa, just next door on the way to the beach, is between Wheeler and Schofield military bases. Pawn shops, bars, and fast food restaurants line the broken streets. Ugly wires dangle overhead. It’s thug-life meets military boys looking for fun and trouble. It’s the younger sister who never made anything of her life. When I went to high school there, I felt like I had entered a kind of Hunger Games arena.

At the time, I don’t think it even had a library. Maybe it was under construction. After attending prim and proper Barstow High, Leilehua felt wild, a mix of military kids and locals, with lots and lots of fights.

When I showed up for PE, one of the girls asked me where I was from and when I told her Mililani, I was surprised by their reactions.

“Oh, you’re a rich kid?”

“Mililani! That’s the rich place.”

“I’m not rich.”

Is that how they saw us?

After that, I felt like I was some sort of untouchable. Tanner, more confident girls didn’t bother to condescend to talk to me.

We didn’t really have to play sports. After the obligatory turn around the basketball courts, we could sit in the bleachers and wait it out, so eventually, my friend and I left to wander the school. We found Jenny (she wanted to kick my ass) in history class and made faces and flipped her the bird from the doorway. We also visited my boyfriend Willie and his friends. I don’t remember a single teacher from my time at Camp Leilehua.

But one day in the PE locker room, I brought in a Giorgio paper bag, you know the kind they give you when you buy their perfume. I thought it was nice, so I took it from Mom and brought it to school.

“I thought you said you weren’t rich.” The leader said.

“I’m not! I got it from my mom. It’s just the bag. I don’t have the perfume.”

She gave it a look. “It’s pretty.”

We looked at the bright yellow and white design.

“You want it?”

“Really?”

She could not have been more transfixed.

“Sure. Take it.”

“Thanks!”

She held it to her chest. “I love it.”

I smiled back.

Gym class got better.

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Our next home in Mililani was the typically-built Hawaii home. One story, front lawn, and backyard modified to be more of a concrete or screened-in lanai back porch. Mom transplanted her gardening skills, as well. We had a lovely mango tree in the front, and at one point, I counted twelve papaya trees around the house. She had so many growing things that I took for granted.

I didn’t grow up in a Sears or Liberty House department store catalog home. I grew up in an Asian Americanized home. Mom kept it tidy, and no cans of Toasted Grain, Wishful Blue, or Aspen Mist dared show their colors on our walls. I don’t think I saw wallpaper until I was in my late-20s while in Connecticut visiting my then-boyfriend’s family. I brushed my fingers over the smooth patterns and stared at the endless quantity and coverage like some slack-jaw yokel.

We had a couple of oil paintings to look at, thanks to my father. One was large and hung over the couch. He bought it in Thailand, and it depicted wheat farmers in a field. I loved to study the colors and brush strokes. The other one was a still life of a jug and scroll. It was boring, but Mom kept it for a while. Other things that were hanging in our house were enormous oriental fans hung in the master bedroom, and paintings of traditional wooden houses that she brought back from Thailand. I liked looking at them as well.

Of course, what Thai home wouldn’t be complete without a calendar of the King and Queen and/or some celebrity? That was in the kitchen. We had a variety of Asian decor like embroidered silk pillows, the large heavy carved wooden chest from Thailand, and Mom’s peculiar collection of little Chinese vases and figures in the entertainment center.

We had a few high school photos of Larry and me in the living room as well, but not like when you go into other people’s homes and their walls are dedicated to a gazillion family photos going up and down the staircase, sitting on end tables, fireplace mantels, and breathing down your eyes at every turn.

If there’s a photo of somebody hanging up in a Thai home, chances are it’s a graduation or they’re dead. Growing up, I had to go through the family photo albums to see a picture of all of us together, or of my dad, but I was reminded of his absence every day. The US Air Force gave us the American flag that was folded during Dad’s military funeral, along with his metals, and rank insignias in a glass case. It seems wrong to call it decor, but it was part of the stuff in our home.

Mom’s Thai newspapers and magazines were always around in a pile or two on the living room carpet. At one point, we had an encyclopedia set. The TV wasn’t always on like other people’s homes. We didn’t grow up with books and stories being read to us. But I think because we saw our mom reading often, and Tim with his fiction paperbacks, Larry and I became readers, too.

I was also acutely aware of any Asian-ness when visiting Mom’s friends’ homes. Some houses lacked anything ethnic other than the incessant jabbering of Thai being spoken or the rich aroma of something rotting (aka Thai cooking). Others looked like a Chinese furniture store with more lacquer than the lipstick counter at Macy’s. Some homes were messy, while others were picture perfect neat.

I’m not ready to see this generation of Thais who made it to America during the Vietnam War pass away. I grew up in their homes as much as I grew up in mine. I’m not sure how it all worked, but errands always involved stopping over one of their houses, or stores, or workplaces. We called them auntie or uncle and spent a lot of time hanging out while Mom did what she did.

Part 2 begins the following day ~ when the house opens itself to the village.

The next morning the household was busy getting ready for the monks to bless the home. Lunch would be served to guests, and dinner and entertainment would be provided in the evening. I was astonished by how much work was going into our open house.

Someone turned on the radio while the living room area was being prepared. There were seat cushions lined against the wall along with eight large spade-shaped hand fans propped up behind them. In front of each cushion were alms bowls filled with small gifts like yellow candles, breath mints, and bottled water.

A large tripod object was brought inside that looked like a teepee without the canvas. It was placed in front of where the monks would be sitting and was decorated with colorful tissues and silver paper wrapped around the poles.

Round tables and blue folding chairs were being set up throughout the front driveway and out in front of the stage and continuing down the street. There were people cooking outside in the yard at various stations. Brad and I helped scoop hot sticky rice into small plastic bags for individual use on a low wooden table with other ladies.

We couldn’t talk since we didn’t speak a common language. When we did it was through pantomime, simple words we picked up, and smiles. Mostly smiles.

Mom was continuously asked by neighbors and friends, “Why doesn’t your daughter speak Thai?”

Over the years, Mom has admitted she should have taught Larry and me. Fear had something to do with it. She arrived in America at the end of the Vietnam War, when she and my father were often mistaken for Vietnamese, English felt safer.

The monks arrived wearing their golden robes and settled in the living room. I noticed a PA system had been set up so the monks could be heard by everyone in the neighborhood. Various drinks were placed on each table for guests filtering in, and Aunt Sanglaa told us to sit down under the tripod along with Mom and grandfather.

We sat on the cold tile floor as comfortably as we could with our hands in a wai (hands pressed together), heads bowed. I was careful to be conscious of where my feet were pointing because Thais believe that the feet are dirty or low, they should never be used to point or indicate direction. The feet shouldn’t touch another person either.

A white string was wrapped around Brad’s head and mine like a halo. I then realized that I had seen the same white string being hung around the roof, inside the room, placed around the heads of Mom, her dad, and Aunt Sanglaa. The same string continued around the tripod we were sitting under and between the clasped hands of each monk. And it ended (or began) in a ball sitting beside the monk who led the ceremony.

Upon further reflection, I realized the string was the same type of string that would have been attached to my wrist after visiting the temple or receiving a monks’ blessing. Then after the ceremony was over, the string was tied around each household members’ wrists.

As the monks began chanting in unison, I looked outside and saw that many people had arrived and were sitting around the tables listening. My eyes wandered back to my immediate surroundings and rested on Brad. I wondered what he was thinking. How different this experience was than anything else he had encountered. How a practicing Southern Baptist found himself here in Northern Thailand participating in a Buddhist house blessing ritual.

I shifted uncomfortably, trying to look reverent despite the fact that I had no idea what they were saying. I had been to many religious services of this sort, but I had never been in a place of honor. And I certainly had never been to one in Thailand. I hoped Brad didn’t think this was un-Christian of him.

But I caught his eye and he smiled.

The blessing took a long time. When they finished, gifts were given to the monks from our family. Small electric fans still in their boxes with a decorative flower arrangement sitting on top were ceremoniously given to each monk. We sat in front of a monk and slid a box to him as flash photography was snapped.

Next, food was brought for the monks on low round tables. We expressed our thanks and we’re ushered outside. I learned during lunch that Mom paid for everything.

“I can’t believe how many people are here.”

“Just wait till this evening, more will come.”

There might have been around a hundred people enjoying the catered meal that afternoon, and as Mom predicted that evening there would be a few hundred more. The food was brought to us by a courteous staff. There were several dishes to choose from like steamed fish to heaping vegetable stir frys and curries. Different kinds of bottled soda and water were set out on the tables along with a bucket of ice.

After our meal, we sat on the patio as people came up to Mom to pay their respects and drop money into a large silver bowl. The bills were tucked away in envelopes.

“Why are they giving you money?” I asked.

“To help pay for the meal, the party.” She said, “Everybody does this.”

I then became obsessed over what everyone thought of us. I wanted her family and friends to know that we struggled, too. Perhaps I was becoming self-conscious and uncomfortable with all this attention. Did they know Mom’s a housekeeper for a hotel?

The caterers cleared up the dishes and began to set up for dinner.

“They don’t think we’re rich, do they?” I said.

Mom spoke in Thai to her friends and family explaining what we were talking about.

“What’d you tell them?”

“I told them that you and Brad had to work hard and save up a lot of money to come out here.” I felt better after that. But the longer I stayed in Lamphun the more I understood how family and this corner of town felt to have us there.

They were flattered, and we were well-liked. Some people simply stared at us, others smiled, and some even shook our hands or patted us on our backs. I hoped they were proud of Mom. One of their very own—an American citizen, she was like a local celebrity.

But she’d snort if I said this, because she remembers the village gossip, the ones who were jealous and pleased after my father’s accident. The Thai entertainment industry needs to look no further than their own backyard for drama.

On the day of the wat or temple opening, I had no idea what to expect, but I didn’t expect to find bright flags hung in front of the house.

“What are those for?” I pointed to them and noticed that they were in front of some houses, but not all of them in the neighborhood.

Mom said, “It lets people know that they can stop by our house on the way to the temple for food.”

“But why are they in front of some houses and not others? Who decides?”

“Everyone takes turns. During an event it might be my turn and the next one is yours.”

Soon there’d be a long procession to the new temple where everyone would end up and gather. In the meantime, people stopped by the house, said hello, ate, and socialized. It was an all-day affair.

Despite the fact that there are many temples in Lamphun, especially in the downtown part of the city, this particular temple was one that folks in the neighborhood attended, not unlike churches in America. These temples are privately funded. People donated money to see this new temple built, and Mom was one of them.

Every household, it seemed, would carry a money tree to the temple during the procession. The money tree was an offering or donation to the wat. Later on, I’d discover money trees of peacock, flower, and spade designs.

I joined a few of the women on the floor of the beauty salon helping to make the limbs of the tree, sliding the bills between split sticks (thin like incense sticks) and gluing tissue paper on the ends.

When we were finished, we placed the tree on a wooden cart that the men would carry. It also held a framed picture of my deceased grandmother and a silver bowl filled with fruit.

As we were getting ready to join the parade, we were greeted by a group of 11-12 year old boys.

They were wearing black jackets and slacks with colorful threading detail – one boy carried a large drum around his waist and others had cymbals. A few of them performed a dance with a curved sword.

Their dance depicted a long ago battle scene that took place in Northern Thailand. My favorite part was when two of them put the curved sword in their mouths while dancing and swinging another sword.

After the performance, we slowly made our way to the main street and joined up with other people getting ready to head over to the temple. Inch by inch we made our way down the street walking past homes and a smattering of onlookers.

The boys provided the music and the katoys (Aunt Sanglaa’s friends) the entertainment, as they liberally drank the local moonshine from coolers and cups. They danced and laughed wildly. One of them in particular was fat, pock-faced, and obnoxious. She accidentally bumped into a boy when the procession stopped. After apologizing, she sashayed away saying something that got the katoys howling with laughter again.

“What did she say?” I asked Mom.

Mom was laughing as well. “She said the kid might have nightmares tonight.”

A large silver bowl was placed in my hands. One of my uncles made a throwing or tossing motion. Inside of the bowl were coins that had been wrapped in cellophane like Hershey kisses to be thrown to the crowd once we entered the temple walls.

Mom carried her own bowl filled with cellophane-covered money as we approached the wat. The boys’ music was drowned out by a band playing on a high concert stage. Once we entered the courtyard, I tossed the coins. It was as fun as throwing Christmas candy in a parade. Kids rushed forward and quickly hit the ground feeling for the coins.

Next, red firecrackers on very long bamboo poles held by men were lit and exploded in noise. A touch of chaos also erupted as people ran away, so they were not caught by one of the firecrackers popping.

I ran over to the dewy grass for cover. The shiny new temple and the stairs leading up were covered with people. There was another much smaller stage in the courtyard. The procession of people that had just entered gathered as we lined up with our offering in front of a different monk. A blessing or prayer was recited, and then I watched the money trees being carried away.

We walked around the new temple, admiring the craftsmanship. The brilliant colors set off the whiteness of the walls and stairs leading high to the top. It took many years to build. Inside, the life of Buddha was depicted in bright colors through paintings and tiny print. The centerpiece was a large gold statue of Buddha surrounded by flowers, offerings, and smaller statues.

Friends pointed to one of the window shutters where an elaborate gold-colored carving was located with white lettering. Through minimal English we learned that it was Mom’s name along with her mother’s.

As Brad and I walked around, we decided that the other window shutters must be other people’s names who had donated significant amounts of money. These shutters were encased in glass to protect the artwork and person’s name.

Later, after he had wandered off on his own, Brad found me again, and said that my brother’s name, Dad’s name, and my name were on the temple as well. Mom and he had discovered it. I looked at him, speechless.

When I found my voice, I said, “Where?”

“Downstairs. We only saw the main temple. Underneath it are eight pillars with plaques on them. Your mom gave money in your name and your brother’s in honor of your father.”

He showed me the pillars below the temple. My eyes watered. I ran my hand over the columns covered in river pebbles, while recognizing that our names would be there for as long as it stood.

For eighteen years, I didn’t feel lucky. I pitied myself for not having the grand travel stories my friends collected so easily. I wanted the world, but never seemed to have the money or the time.

Standing there with my mother and Brad, I no longer felt deprived. I felt exactly where I was supposed to be.

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Last month, we moved, and life began again. Belongings were packed, unpacked, and placed around our new space. I’ve had to create new routines and keep a few. I expected change, but I didn’t expect to feel—content.

It’s not that I was always chasing sensation, but a small part of me believed that stationary = stagnant. I no longer feel that way.

Happy Quiet Life remarked on a recent post about my ability to balance drama, hardships, and humor in my memoir. This got me thinking about resilience.

Years of living abroad—adapting to pivots in place, work, and friendship again and again—have given me a kind of turtle-shell resilience, protective but mobile, in the best sense. But I inherited part of it from my mother, who ignited my imagination early and modeled what a wounded warrior looks like: someone who never learned the word quit and somehow kept laughing along the way.

I used to believe humor was my shield, my weapon, my dance to gain attention. Now, I see it as so much more. It’s been a great teacher. Demonstrating how to bend in the wind and crack the ice.

I’ve witnessed the cross-cultural magic it can bring. I studied it like a school subject, looking up at the TV, howling with delight over comedians’ abilities to coax and control the narrative with a wink.

And how could we forget the King and Queen’s fool? Only the fool can dare speak the truth, whereas the court can only cringe and comply. But not everyone listens to the fool because—well, the clue is in the name. Methinks you talk too much ‘ol fool.

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Mom had gone back to Thailand many times since 1989, but I never had the money or the time to join her—so after 18 years I finally made it back.

In 2007 the timing was right, and my then-boyfriend, Brad, wanted to see Thailand as well. I wanted to go back because I had changed so much. I was still the girl who missed her father, but I was no longer the sullen teenager too young to appreciate the gift of travel and her family.

Mom was heading “home” to see the house she had built for her father and sister. There was also going to be a new temple opening in her village. It seemed like a unique opportunity too good to pass up.

Although, I wondered how Brad would fare. He lived in Okinawa while he was a Marine, but he pretty much remained on base. The closest experience he had in a developing country was tagging along with a friend who was going to Baja California while dropping off donations to an orphanage for the blind.

This isn’t to say I was some sort of expert because after Thailand, I never left America again (and no, I don’t count Canada). If anything, he had more experience than me, but going to Thailand when I was a teen changed me.

During my senior year, I remember suddenly feeling overwhelmed by tears outside of my drama classroom.

“What’s wrong?” Mrs. Brown said.

I sniffed. “It’s nothing. Oh, I’m being stupid.”

She waited.

“It’s just... I feel so bad. I don’t know, so guilty for complaining about my stupid problems when there are so many people with worse ones than mine.”

Mrs. Brown helped me to see that just because my problems seemed less serious it didn’t mean they weren’t important. My emotional outburst confused me though, and it’s only in the looking back do I recognize a young woman processing a world, not only in regards to where my mom came from, but one that was very different from what I knew.

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We waited outside Chiang Mai Airport along with a handful of Thai military men with AK-47s for Mom’s family to come get us. It was a long wait and became anticlimactic. But when my uncle’s van pulled up with friends and family, the wait was forgotten and forgiven.

I barely recognized my family, everyone seemed new. Eighteen years was a long time.

We loaded up our luggage in the van and while Mom caught up with them in rapid fire Thai, Brad and I stared out of the windows watching our new surroundings.

My memory was jolted when I saw an outdoor restaurant, then all of a sudden, I remembered it was night time and the restaurant was nearly empty. Mom, Larry, and I were eating a late dinner. Other times, I felt disoriented and dreamy. But most of the time though, I just couldn’t believe how much the city had changed.

Loud motorbikes rode alongside vehicles between sidewalks and wove around the lanes. As we continued to move towards Lamphun, I noticed more shops had popped up along the road. They told us that there was now a freeway that ran parallel connecting Chiang Mai and the smaller towns.

When we drove through a nondescript intersection, I heard, “Daddy,” and was snapped out of my reverie. Aunt Sangjun pointed to it, and I looked back.

“That’s where the accident occurred.” Mom explained.

I stared at the intersection which now had lights, and a strange feeling came over me. I realized I was the same age Dad was when he died here ~ 33 years old.

We continued to drive along the main road a little longer before turning off to another. Now it was wide open spaces, everything looked browner. I remembered green rice paddies, but now everything looked dried up. I asked Mom what happened, and she said everyone plants longan trees now.

I was surprised to see that the road where Mom’s family lived had been paved, but I don’t know why. It’s not as if time stands still after you leave a place, but it does in our minds.

A full size concert stage was being erected in the semi-darkness for the open house party that Mom was throwing in honor of the house she built for her father, sister, and herself.

As I stepped out of the van, I noticed that the old wooden house on stilts was still there. Uncle Nup lives there with his family. The new house, however, was made of cement, raspberry red tiles, and wood from the old house. Adjoining the new house was my aunt’s beauty salon, and in the front driveway there was a mini celebration going on, karaoke style.

My favorite hairdressing aunt emerged to greet us. She had aged more than I expected, but I figured I must look different to everyone else, too. Yet, I was mostly surprised by the sight of my grandfather.

Mom hugged her father, and then introduced us. As he smiled we could see a few teeth left against his brown wrinkled skin. His skin was so wrinkled that it reminded me of a walnut or oak tree’s bark. It was hard to tell how old he was, but you could tell he had lived a hard life. Around 5’2 and painfully thin, his words came out slurred. I watched his saliva hit the tile floor unbeknownst to him. Discreetly someone wiped it up.

But there he was standing on his own two feet greeting us. I wondered if he remembered me and what he thought of Brad.

Both my aunt and grandfather pointed to a picture of my father that I hadn’t noticed upon entering the living room. It was a black and white picture and as soon as I saw it, I burst into tears. I was dumbfounded and embarrassed by my reaction.

Quickly I broke away from everyone and headed to the bedroom where Brad and I would be sleeping.

“Are you okay?” He asked.

I wiped my eyes. “I don’t know what’s come over me.”

There was a knock at the door. Mom peeked in, “Are you okay? Everything okay?”

“Yes. I just wasn’t expecting there to be a party outside! It’s so weird to be back.”

“How do you like the house? Your room?” She asked.

“I really like it. It looks much better than I thought it would.”

I was half expecting the same concrete and cinder-block bathroom that I had used many years ago. I was wondering if we’d have to use a squat toilet and bucket bath. Both of which had shocked my sixteen year old self.

There were three bedrooms and two bathrooms. Our bedroom had the only adjoining bathroom which had a western style toilet, shower, and sink. Mom shared the other with her father and sister.

Strangely grandfather slept in what was supposed to be the indoor kitchen, but he didn’t like the bedroom. He was used to sleeping on the floor in a communal space, so he slept on a cot in the “kitchen”. The functional kitchen remained outside.

All of the furniture in the bedrooms smelled new. Our bedspread had a cartoon sun and moon pattern, and our headboard was adorned with stuffed animals. I thought this was odd, but then I thought about how poor Mom’s family was. I’m sure none of them had toys or playthings growing up. It seemed natural that my aunt would want these kinds of things now that she had money.

After we showered, Brad and I lay in bed listening to the music. Tears formed in his eyes and immediately I threw my arms around him. I had been watching him carefully and this was the first time I had seen him react this way since we had been in Thailand.

“What’s wrong? Is it the music? It’s only for one night. At least we’re here.”

“No. I mean—it’s everything. It’s so different. Your grandfather. . .” He trailed off.

I understood. Frail old people in the United States had more meat on them. I think he saw what hard working people from a developing country looked like in their old age. Standing nose to nose, not from a distance or some removed realm of peering through a screen. It wasn’t romantic or dignified as is often portrayed. It was as he said, different.

I held on to him, and eventually we fell asleep to the intermittent sounds of Thai karaoke.

“Can you dig it?”

“Will you stop saying that!”

I looked up at Jason from the bottom of a pit we were digging on the deserted beach. He laughed wildly and repeated for the umpteenth time, “Hey, Lani! Can you dig it?”

I never should have told him that I wanted to be an archaeologist. I stabbed the shovel into the sand and started to climb up. This is what happens when you decide to spend the night on Oahu’s north shore with your high school theater friends: you bring alcohol, you strain your lower back while helping to free a couple of sand-stuck cars, and you dig a hole the size of a moon crater, so you can bury a message in a bottle.

“Next!” I yelled for someone else to take over.

I grew up learning a lot about Native Hawaiian culture but almost nothing about Native Americans beyond school plays dramatizing the first Thanksgiving. It wasn’t until I moved to Colorado to study anthropology that I learned about the different tribes and, specifically, the Native Americans of the American Southwest.

If my junior high years in the Mojave Desert were the launch, then Southwest Colorado was the landing on another planet.

After graduation, I took my first paid archaeology position in a nearby town, close to where the excavation would take place on the Ute Mountain Ute Reservation.

It was one of the most memorable summers of my life, filled with archaeological discoveries like a square kiva when the dwellings were typically round, pottery in the shape of a dog canteen, and an unexpected burial I got to help dig. There were Friday poker nights, casual get-togethers, and even romance.

Our work was known as “contract archaeology” or quick-and-dirty excavation. We’d work ten hours, four days a week, in three crews of roughly ten-person teams. Every morning, each armed with a tool box filled with stuff like tape measures, string, and trowels, we’d pile into dually trucks (that were of the breaking-down temperament) and head toward the res.

The Sleeping Ute Mountain dominated the landscape, but the rest of the reservation was largely flat and uninspiring with brush, sage, and scrub oak dotting the desert grounds. It was hot and dry, and we’d have to provide our own relief from the sun.

Once on the res, we’d stop by the local jail and wait for a round of inmates to join us.

The first time this happened, I asked, “Why are we stopping here?” I looked out the window and saw a man in an orange jumpsuit washing a police car. I wondered what he was thinking.

“We’re picking up a few who are on work release,” Nancy explained. Nancy had been an anthropology classmate of mine, and I was really happy when she was on my crew.

“Work release?” I asked.

“Yeah, work release is when you’re released from jail for the day to work,” Dave chimed in, scratching the hair under his hat.

“Oh.”

“Don’t worry, they’re completely harmless,” Nancy said. “These guys like a day away from the cell. And believe me, they aren’t about to do anything stupid to jeopardize that.”

Silently, I watched, and then heard, the plain-clothes prisoners loading up in the back of the truck.

The rest of my coworkers were women and men, mostly white aged <30, but a few Native Americans who lived there worked with us, too. We were a motley crew. The older men sported full mustaches, and the women tended to be petite. It was a challenging lifestyle, physical, and semi-nomadic.

Once the prisoners were settled into the truck bed, we’d drive off to our various working sites in the middle of the high desert. The parolees usually kept to themselves—at least in the beginning.

My crew had two Native Americans, Cheryl and Becky. Cheryl was little, and her arms were covered with tattoos. She looked like a scrapper, tough, and silent. Becky was larger, her hair always in braids, and she was outgoing with a sweet smile. Cheryl and Becky looked out for me like sisters.

The crew chief, whom everyone called Big Jim, taught me how to use the EDM survey equipment, since I was not able to move as much earth as quickly as contract archaeology demanded. As a result, I did more mapping than the others. The resident geologist, affectionately called Little Jim not because he was little, but because he was slimmer than Big Jim, took me on a tour of the area to help me create my map drawings.

Over time I remembered to turn my baseball cap toward the back so as not to bump my bill into the EDM before looking through it. For others, it was an automatic habit and a funny one to watch until I got the hang of it. Just another reminder of how green I was, kind of like when I showed up on my first day with my squeaky clean tools from the local hardware store.

Sometimes I felt uncomfortable that Big Jim had taken me under his guidance and allowed me to work less physically hard than the others. But I was definitely relieved, too. After my first day shoveling dirt, my lower back was in the kind of pain that I imagined old people experienced. From ground level, I’d watch as piles of dirt fly out of a kiva with uncanny precision. I’m not sure how long it took me to develop some muscles, but it wasn’t until I had, that I attempted to shovel dirt out of a deep pit. Heck, I didn’t realize how hard it was to shovel dirt into a wheelbarrow until I tried it.

I also had no idea that moving a wheelbarrow full of dirt was so difficult! The further the summer days stretched, the higher the mounds of dirt became. There were times I was able to maneuver a full wheelbarrow between the kiva digs or gaping holes to the area where we screened for artifacts, but one day when I couldn’t keep my wheelbarrow from falling over, Cheryl quickly stopped what she was doing, picked it up, and finished the route for me.

“Oh,” I said in surprise, since if anyone was going to help me, I figured it would be one of the men. I looked around, but no one was paying attention.

“Thanks.”

Cheryl smiled.

“I don’t know how you do it, you’re just as small as me.”

Cheryl set the barrow down and flexed her muscles while I laughed.

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Nancy and I shared the driving. In the early mornings, we had to keep our eyes out for deer. Skid marks were a common sight. But I never grew tired of dawn breaking over the San Juan Mountains or watching the approaching Sleeping Ute as we got closer to our destination. Southwest Colorado’s changing landscape from peaks to high desert was nature’s playlist—and I listened with my whole body.

Looking back, I wondered what folks thought when Nancy and I would stop off at City Market, fresh after a full day of digging in the dirt. My clothes would be covered in it. My ears became perfect hiding places for more dirt. My skin was flaky and gritty with salt from sweat and the dirt that I tried to brush off in layers.

And while everyone was helpful and became friends, I sensed a different kind of belonging from the Native American crew members. For one, Becky and Cheryl either kept to themselves or hung out with me—and then there was this incident.

One of the men from work-release asked me, “What tribe?”

“What?”

“What tribe are you from?” He pointed at me.

“Uhhh,” I stared at him in disbelief. “None. I’m Chinese and Thai.”

“Really?” he smiled. “I thought maybe Navajo.”

I stood there utterly shocked to my core. Ever since Mom told me how Chinese I looked, I assumed it was obvious to the rest of the world.

Later I told Becky and Cheryl, “He thought I was Navajo! Isn’t that crazy?”

“Nahhh,” Becky said. “You could pass.”

“He was talking about dressing me up in some porcupine quill dress. It was starting to creep me out. I thought he was married.”

“He is, he’s got two kids, too.”

Becky and Cheryl started laughing, “Oh, Lani, relax. You look like ruffled chicken. We thought you were Native American when we first met you, too, or at least half.”

I shook my head. I identified very much with my ethnicity. It was strange to think otherwise. Once again I was dumbfounded.

“Would that be so bad?” Cheryl said.

“I think she’s offended,” Becky smiled.

“I’m not offended,” I protested. Then I realized they were joking, “Oh, stop it.”

Becky and Cheryl were always giving me a hard time, playing around and offering some glib remarks. This was the way my family bonded. Sometimes I was afraid they were picking on me, but Becky would put her arm around my shoulders whenever I started to doubt their intentions. They were helpful, and I fondly recall spending a lot of time laughing together.

Then there was the time when the whole crew except the three of us (plus Marc) went to visit another site. After the truck left in a cloud of dirt, we sat in the bottom of one of the biggest kivas because it was cooler. Becky grinned and asked if I wanted to get high. I panicked, worried about getting caught, but she waved me off.

Any further doubt about their friendship was wiped away when all of the crews were invited to the Ute Mountain Ute Sweet Corn Festival. Normally crews break for lunch and eat while sitting on the ground, or on lunch coolers, or under the tarp for shade from the sun. Afterwards someone might sneak in a nap. Then everyone smoked cigarettes, except Big Jim, who had quit after 30 years. I felt bad that Jim was stuck with the all-smoker crew.

The festival was a welcome break from that routine. All of the crews eagerly waited in the long line that formed from the metal barn building. I was starving at the back of the line, as we somehow ended up being the last crew to show up.

Then Becky and Cheryl excitedly pulled me away and brought me over to where the women were making flatbread. They introduced me to their family and friends, who also were attending the festival. I felt honored. I watched the flatbread dough bubble in the large pans of oil.

Summer passed quickly, and soon the archaeologists who once started their days wearing t-shirts and baseball caps were donning knitted hats and thick jackets. We’d spend extra time warming up the cars while holding thermoses of coffee between our hands. Still, as the sun rose, everyone would shed layers because the physical labor warmed up our bodies.

We were in an elevator in Bangkok with a couple of foreigners, when I started laughing at a man’s t-shirt. She laughed, too. I told the guy, “I love your shirt”, then we all got off the lift. Mom later asked me what his shirt said. It said, “Sorry ladies, I’m gay.” Then I asked her why she laughed, if she didn’t know why. She said she understood a little bit, but I was confused.

Mom’s lack of confidence, command, and comprehension of her adopted tongue didn’t really enter into my consciousness until I was older. I’m not sure if I should be mortified by this. Your mom is simply your mom, and you don’t think about it beyond that.

I used to speak to her like I would any native speaker, using varied vocabulary, talking fast, and living under the assumption that she understood what I was saying. Rarely, would she admit that she didn’t understand. I remember having this mind-blowing thought when I was younger. One day I asked her, “Do you think in English or Thai?”

These were the small, humble beginnings in awakening to how little and sporadically Mom understood her American children. In college, for one of my anthropology classes, we read a study on the different levels of language comprehension.

“Getting humor” in another language or even your native tongue can require a different skill set and a particular level of understanding. Growing up, Mom seemed to understand humor, and if she didn’t, she recognized when something was funny and laughed along anyway.

When I was in school, she’d ask me to read bank statements or letters that were beyond my grasp. Out of frustration, when I told her I didn’t understand what they meant, she’d get angry and spat, “What are you going to school for?”

Sometimes I gave it another read. Sometimes I could help. Sometimes I could tell it was junk mail, but I always felt like I was reading another language, that I had failed her instead of the other way around.

I grew up thinking my mother was fiercely independent — a woman who crossed countries, raised children alone, and left a cheating husband at gunpoint. That’s what made the limits of language harder to understand later.

Like that time she was summoned for jury duty.

Do you read, write, and speak the English language? (Check the appropriate box.)

NO.

Do you have any physical or mental disability that would interfere with or prevent you from being a juror?

YES.

Did another person help you fill out the form?

YES.

Of course, they summoned her anyway. Only when the judge asked her to approach the bench, and Mom replied, “Yes, your highness,” only then she was excused. Over the courtroom laughter, the judge said, “You are excused to go, Mrs. Cox.”

We tried to tell you, the State of Hawaii. We tried to tell you.

These days, my mother is better about telling me when she doesn’t understand, but this doesn’t always make for better communication especially since she’s been able to function in America with remedial English since the 1970s. Any attempts by me or her former boyfriends to help her help herself have been futile.

I’ve taught her countless times how to use an ATM. Once she attempted to do it on her own, but the ATM said she was too slow and spit her card out.

We’ve had to disengage the answering machine because she couldn’t remember how to replay messages. Yes, I realize there are only three buttons: play, delete, and record, and yes, we told her what to do many, many times. But she couldn’t get the hang of it.

When I was trying to teach her how to use voice mail on her cell phone, I thought this is what insanity is. Then I thought I had found the answer (!) and was gleefully patting myself on the back as I called the phone company to ask for a Thai speaker. Ah, ha! Their customer service department offered help in a wide variety of languages and when I got a Thai woman on the line, Mom was able to speak freely like Thais do. Success never felt so sweaty and smug.

They talked forever, as Thais do, and when she hung up, I asked, “Well? How did it go? Do you understand how to use voicemail now?”

“No. We didn’t talk about that.”

“What?! What do you mean you didn’t talk about it? What did you talk about?”

“We talked about where she’s from, where she’s at, and…”

“What…? GAHHH!”

I might have cried out to our Heavenly Father. At least I don’t remember screaming, or yelling, or running around in circles laughing maniacally. I certainly didn’t slug her, so good on me for not resorting to violence.

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Years ago, when I was in Hawaii visiting, she was having a “poor me” moment because both her children lived overseas. She was feeling vulnerable. She’s retired and single. The Asian way is to have kids so they’ll take care of you when you are in the twilight years of your life. My brother and I are not typical Asians.

“You guys don’t love me. I took care of you, and now, I get nothing. Nothing.”

“Mom.”

“What have you done for me?”

“Mommmm.”

She started to cry.

“I find it so ironic that you are saying this when I’m visiting you.”

She started to walk around the apartment, pretending to be busy and not caring. She was upset that my brother or his wife never seemed to call. She felt ignored, and I was in the wake of her sad storm, being swept up in her need for answers and blame. I was being cursed for my brother’s seemingly lack of interest, and my mother’s lack of satisfactory answers as to why her children don’t live in Hawaii, holding down high-paying jobs, spending all of our free time with her.

“What have you guys ever done for me?”

I ran through a short list to remind her. I know what she wants, but I’m not the child to give it to her. Many Thais major in medicine or law because their parents want them to. They follow that path. But we were raised in America and for whatever reason, she has a daughter that stubbornly walked in her own direction. Just like her. She may be Thai, but she knew she wanted to leave, to be different, and she is.

“What have you done for me?”

There are so many things parents want for their children, and my mom is no exception. The problem is, I’m not what she wanted.

She wanted me to have children, just one, like they were some sort of confectionery that I could try and develop a taste for. She wanted me to work in a bank which is utterly absurd for a creative person like me, but to her it’s the best job ever. It’s an air-conditioned environment where I can sit all day counting money.

Never mind that I’m bad at math and working at a bank would be like kicking back at the Gulag. She also wanted me to be an air hostess, another “good” job by Thai standards, never mind that I get motion sickness.

She wanted me to get a boob job. She wanted me to dress up more. When I was a kid, she’d get mad if I didn’t have my purse. I’d deliberately leave it in the car because I didn’t want to carry it. But then we’d stop in the parking lot and she’d make me go back and get it.

But most of all, she wanted me to come home, back to the States. Over the years, I’ve tried to explain to her why I’ve chosen a life overseas.

I started to cry, too, because I don’t want to see her crying and because I love her, and I’m visiting her, and I don’t want to fight. I don’t want her to be unhappy.

Finally, I had enough of her pity party. I’m too angry to be quiet anymore. “How do you think I feel?”

She stopped pacing.

“I come home and all I see is Larry’s stuff. Not one of my things has been saved by you…Do you know that every time I talk to Grandma she tells me how proud she is of me? You never tell me that you’re proud of me. I don’t think that you are. I’m not who you want me to be.”

I have her full attention.

“I wrote a book,” I gestured towards the five copies that I bought from Amazon sitting in her bedroom. “And you will never be able to read it. And you’re my mother.”

Silence.

I grab a tissue. I fucking hate crying.

“What’s it about?”

Dabbing my eyes and crumpling up the tissue, I was astounded by her question. It’s grammatically correct and appropriate. And most of all, it shows she understands and cares.

“My experience as a Waldorf teacher.”

She sat down on the armchair next to me, and we talked.

The first month of the year seems to bring with it the pressure to start over and reinvent yourself, which has created a culture of anti-resolutions, intentions, and intensive planning.

I used to write out big dreams and desires, chose a word of the year, join challenges, and while there is nothing wrong with any of that, this year I’ve decided to meditate on seasonal themes. Because maybe January isn’t so much about resets, as it is about doorways and invitations.

During the last few months we’ve been entertaining an offer that involved leaving Cambodia. This life-changing decision permeated our lives from all-consuming to a low level awareness that hovered in the background of daily activities. Then, at Christmas we were finally able to arrive at our decision—to stay.

I was disappointed because there was a lot of hope riding on that move, but at the same time, I was able to finally land, to put both feet on the ground. We made the choice, the choice didn’t make us, and I believe, deep down, that staying made the most sense. I may love taking risks, but I also need to be smarter.

At the same overlapping moment, my friend announced she was returning to Scotland, and would we be interested in her apartment a few blocks away?

Yes, yes, we would.

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So, during our third year back, it’s another apartment. As I say in an upcoming chapter, moving helps me remember my life. Years don’t get the chance to blend into one another. It also helps us declutter and start over without returning to square one.

But don’t get me wrong, I envy the stability of others. I didn’t set out for a semi-nomadic life, but I did set out to enjoy it, to live it as fully as possible, and to have a good ‘ol fashioned adventure in my small way.

Here’s to the pause before stepping through the threshold. I’m excited. I’m ready. I’ve been waiting. Let’s goooo!

What’s going on in your January? How has your relationship changed with new year resolutions?

You don’t need to read it first, but it explores body, love, and the quiet harm we inherit ~ threads that echo through this chapter.

Voiceover is mine.

We used to tease my brother because he was such an ugly baby. He slept on one side in the womb, so when he was born, his face was smooshed. After Mom gave birth, Dad apparently said, “You gotta see your son.” This was followed by jokes about switching babies.

Throughout childhood, we’d crack open photo albums to look at Larry’s baby pictures.

“Hey, Larry! Come look!”

“Wow. Look at that face.”

“What a mug.”

… Yeah, you can stop feeling bad for him ‘cause he’s totally good-looking now.

Dad wanted a girl, and Mom wanted a boy. And can I say I love him even more for that. Who wants a girl? Ever? Okay, maybe after you’ve had too many boys. My point exactly, a small percentage of the world does, that’s who!

When we were going through the delightful ordeal of getting Mom’s Thai citizenship, we had to travel over 900 km from her hometown to where she met Dad because the first official document said, “Hey, I exist!” was her marriage certificate.

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Thankfully, at school, Larry was a few years behind me because he was smarter and better at everything. He found it annoying that everyone always asked, “Your Lani’s brother, right?” but at least he could bask in the pleasure of knowing that I was average, at best, and unremarkable.

In the 6th grade, he was cast as Thomas Jefferson, the only Asian Thomas Jefferson that I know of, and a snapshot of the school play with his picture ended up in the local newspaper. I was jealous and would have to wait until I was in college to have my photo from a school play put in the local newspaper, but I was no Thomas Jefferson, I played Death. You see the difference?

Meanwhile, I was out there collecting failures like merit badges. During my junior year in high school, I got the harebrained idea of running for class vice president and lost miserably. I vaguely remember standing on stage in the bright sun in front of my classmates giving some sort of speech. It was alarming, really, how I jumped into these kinds of things. I’d end up adding it to my list of failures. Yes, I wrote a list, but I also added what each faceplant taught me.

I took a lot of risks in high school from auditioning for musicals (can’t sing) to Shakespeare competitions (chose a man’s monologue ~ and for Romeo and Juliet, I auditioned for the Prince) to asking boys out to the proms (they all said no).

Larry, on the other hand, took up photography and ended up taking photos for the local paper and yearbook. He lost his virginity to a beautiful young woman. He ended up MC-ing for a Japanese festival and becoming some sort of honorary member of their fancy club (We’re not even Japanese!), all very inexplicable and highly exasperating.

He could sing and dance. I was thrilled when I was no longer in the house to experience his greatness. But long after we had graduated, I spoke to our drama teacher, Mrs. Abrigo, and I asked about the difference between Larry and I.

“You’re both funny, but in different ways. Your humor came quick and snappy, while your brother’s was said unexpectedly, after a long pause from the back of the room.”

Misfortune Cookie ToC

College only widened the gap. He was accepted into one of the oldest universities in America where he took up ballroom dancing and debate. Meanwhile, my extracurricular activities involved inhaling out of three-foot water bongs, desperately trying to lose my virginity, and gaining weight.

I know every child tells their mom, “You love so-and-so more than me,” but in my case, I had compelling evidence, and I truly believed it, which is basically the same thing. My brother got the pampered prince treatment while I struggled to cut my own steak.

Knives are not a part of the regular dining experience in traditional Asian households. Nobody taught me. I simply tried to mimic Tim, but ended up sawing and hacking through my meat with the finesse of a barbarian. These days, I’m slightly stronger, but my lack of skill means I basically rock the table back and forth. It’s embarrassing, especially when you dine with the British who are so posh and fancy with their fork and knife.

“Who invited Genghis Khan to dinner?”

I’m three and a half years older, so maybe I was expected to do these things. Maybe Larry was incapable of doing his own laundry because it was too complicated. I just remember one day Mom said I had to do my own.

Or maybe this is one of those cases where I felt inequality and injustice when there was none. After all, the perks of being the older sib meant I sat in the passenger’s seat, had control of the radio, and later inherited the old Isuzu Impulse.

But the clincher was when we were in the car having an animated discussion when suddenly Mom said something about Larry’s college fund.

“What!?”

Silence.

“How much money have you saved up for Larry?” I pressed.

“Not much.” My mom’s eyes suddenly focused more on watching the road.

“How much?”

Another pause.

“About 2,000.”

“Two thousand!”

“How much money have you saved for me?”

Larry slid back from sitting between the two front seats and became invisible.

“I can…” Mother began.

“You mean to tell me that you have been saving money for Larry’s college, but not mine?” I was furious. “Larry’s not even going to school for another three or four years! And I’m going this year!”

“Thanks,” I spat out. “What am I supposed to do?”

We rode the rest of the way home in silence.

Obviously, I knew what I was going to have to do—work.

One of the sucky things about having an under-educated immigrant mom was I had to figure out a lot of things on my own. Financial aid for college was one of them. I went to the library and tried to learn about all the ways I could get money for school. I was in tears trying to figure it all out. I wasn’t the right kind of minority to receive money. I wasn’t Latino, Black, or a super smart community-saving Asian. I was very average and thought school was a waste of time. Not exactly the kind of student that scholarships and grants wanted to give to.

But because Dad died while serving the military, we were eligible to receive money from the Veterans Administration. This money didn’t cover all of my expenses, but I was shocked and then really grateful for the help. I was keenly reminded that despite the flaws of my government, it helped me achieve something that I desperately wanted to do.

After I graduated high school, I put away my pride and went to community college while all my close friends went out-of-state. I focused on getting my grades on track and learning English and math, both subjects I was behind on. I saved money and worked at Little Caesars Pizza, because damn it, I dreamed of going to college in rugged Colorado.

It was my dream ever since the end of my sixth grade year when we drove from Barstow, California to Cedar Rapids, Iowa. I was the girl in the backseat of our Isuzu suddenly stirred back to life, noticing the steep inclines of the mountain passes and looking out the window daydreaming of cowboys and horses.

Where are we?

Colorado.

My brother ended up going to New Jersey. Isn’t that where they had chemical plants spewing toxins into rivers? Wasn’t that like a dump? Just so he could be in a good school?

Bah!

I chose a no-name college because it had a good archaeology program and was in the state of my girlhood dreams. He chose a big city. I chose a small town. He chose a proper university with an NCAA Division I football team. My school’s football team didn’t return after winter break because they failed their classes.

His school is rich in tradition, chartered in 1766, while mine is often confused for a small military base in Washington. Its nicknames were Fort Leisure and Fort Loser. The school’s unofficial motto was, “When the snow flies, so do the students”.

But I’m not knocking down, not for one minute, the COLLEGE I went to. I loved it.

“A liberal arts college? Oh god, Lani. Really?”

I was too embarrassed to ask what liberal arts meant, but I made up my mind to find out as soon as our phone call was done.

“What? I like it here. It’s a good school. It’s so beautiful here.”

Larry laughed.

“How was last night’s drum circle?” More laughter.

We were raised in the same house, but we could not be more different except when we were together. We share the same strange sense of humor, which I’m sure was born out of necessity from living with my mother. There’s no one else in the world that makes me laugh harder. We cry from laughing so hard.

My sister-in-law remarked on this.

“He’s different when you’re around.”

“How so?”

“You make him happy.”

Thank you for reading and listening. If you feel moved to share a thought, comments create conversations.

“Am I beautiful?”

“No.” She cracked open a chestnut from Shirokiya with her teeth. “Why do you want to be beautiful?”

I stared at her wondering why she’d ever ask that question. Why do I want to be beautiful?

“Because…” I didn’t know how to explain something that felt like asking why I wanted to have two feet.

“Beautiful causes problems. If you date a handsome man, you will always be worried he will find another woman because the girls will be fighting for him. You can never trust him.” She popped out the brown flesh from the chestnut shell and ate it.

“You’re not beautiful, Lani. You’re cute. Cute is good enough.”

It wasn’t until I was much older, did I realize how much those few years in the middle of the Mojave Desert, away from my Hawaii, changed me. Because we lived on the edge of a new housing development, I had no friends. I found books instead. I kept a diary and attempted to mimic the stories I read through writing.

Although, the problem with spending copious amounts of time at home, is you can overthink yourself into some false beliefs. You know, like there’s a problem with the way you look.

Finding solace in magazines, turned out to be a bad idea, it was my Instagram, reshaping what I thought I should look like. And while I saw myself in Mom’s movie star magazines from Thailand, I gravitated towards Teen and Seventeen. Material I could read, understand, and breathe a culture that checked all the boxes and then some.

But what I learned was I wasn’t pretty enough. I wore t-shirts too big to hide my body. I’d get super close to the bathroom mirror and turn the outside corners of my eyes up. I was trying to open them more and see what they looked like rounder.

Did all Asian girls do this? I ingested the knowledge that hapa or mixed-race Asians were considered a more desirable beauty. Or maybe it was because I was at the crossroads of I-15, I-40, and the old Route 66 that I didn’t want to standout in a sea of sand, scrub, and those long bone-colored horizons.

Mom told me to pull my nose. Even as a child, I laughed because I knew this could not miraculously reshape my nose. My habit was to smash it when it was itchy.

“Lani! Stop it! Pull your nose up.” She’d demonstrate by pinching hers.

“Mom! That’s not going to change it!”

“You never know!”

Of course, her “good advice” further confirmed that something was wrong with it.

When I was tugging at my eyes and contemplating the form of my mouth, I also discovered my profile in a three-part bathroom medicine cabinet mirror that allowed me to create a dual reflection. I was mortified to see how flat my nose really was.

Apparently, it was mortifying for others to see as well. In high school, I got into a nasty fight with a classmate, Roddy. This was after we returned from our Thailand vacation in 1989, so I was in full hippie mode, probably wearing some shapeless billowy dress. A classmate asked if I was pregnant.

We were getting ready to take a test, when Roddy sat in the next row over and started to harass me, so I told him to fuck off. Then he let me have it, he winded up and threw the pitch, the biggest ball of hate.

“Fuck off? Fuck you. Wait a minute, who would fuck you? Flat face, flat nose, flat eyes, flat chest, flat hair, flat dress, flat feet. You’re so flat, the walls are fucking jealous…”

So, after barely enduring this tirade of “flats” that didn’t appear to be coming to an end, I screamed at Roddy, “Fuck youuu!” To which Mr. Hu calmly responded, “Lani, if you can’t behave yourself then I’m going to have to send you to the principal’s office.”

It wasn’t until I was in a Physical Anthropology course in college that I learned how typical my “flat” face was. Our terrier-loving (she had a van full) grandma professor had laid out skulls from different ethnicities and discussed their characteristics. I learned how Chinese my flat nose was and suddenly didn’t feel so bad about it. A flatter nose was beneficial in particular climates, and hell, it was a racial feature, a racial profile (heh, heh). Could I continue to feel ashamed with what millions consider normal?

Mom always seemed to be an advocate for plastic surgery. I’m sure if she could inhabit my body for a week, I’d have the full Kardashian/Hollywood special with bigger boobs. Yes, she has asked me if I wanted them, too.

Anyway, all of these thoughtful suggestions seem to feed into this monster of an idea that the way I am is flawed, or not good enough, that something is wrong with me. But I don’t think my mom sees it this way. She sees cosmetic enhancement as a way to improve your looks and elevate your status in the eyes of others.

She loves to say, “change your looks, change your luck.” For her, these things are natural.

Not too long after Dad died, she underwent double-fold eye surgery. Of course, her eyes were fine before, but since I was six years old when she did this, I remember feeling horrified and afraid with the way Mom looked with her puffy eyelids and stitches. Fresh from my dad’s funeral, I was scared to lose her, and when I asked her what happened, said she “got her eyes cleaned”.

So when I was 16, Mom convinced me to get cosmetic surgery. She meant well, she always means well, but I’d regret this for the rest of my life.

I had a rather cheeky face, and at the time, we wouldn’t know that I’d lose all that baby fat as I aged. In any case, Mom thought a chin implant would be the solution to having a more defined jawline.

She took me to Chinatown, always a GREAT place to go for surgery, and I’m not talking about one of those historically preserved tourist Chinatowns. I’m talking a functional “pig-heads on ice, don’t go there at night, flower-sellers and fish smells” Chinatown. Certainly not what I was expecting, and I had no idea we were going, but Mom must have been on a mission to get her daughter new and improved.

I found myself in a doctor’s office while they all tried to talk me into it. Mom brought reinforcements, a friend of hers who happened to be in the neighborhood.

The doctor was mostly quiet, but I felt ganged up on, and wanted to leave. And just when I thought I had won an uneven battle, Mom’s friend asked the one question, the right question that put me in the patient’s seat, “You want to be beautiful, don’t you?”

After I quietly said, “Yes,” I was equally surprised to hear that the good doctor had time to do the surgery now. Like, right now. So I was ushered into another room, and placed in a chair like you sit in at the dentist. A female assistant appeared by his side.

The doctor numbed my chin with a syringe. I sat gripping the seat, not thinking, not knowing what to expect, or what would happen. Nobody explained what would happen.

Then he opened my bottom lip, cut open the skin where it attaches to my gums, and pushed in a small plastic implant that looked like a retainer into my chin, and sewed me up. He worked quickly. My eyes were wide with horror. I didn’t cry so much as leak — a silent, stunned reaction to the shock at being sliced open.

If there was blood, I don’t remember. They bandaged my chin up. And what followed next was the kind of shame you expect to happen to someone else.

Ironically, the implant didn’t reshape my face, in fact, the implant didn’t conform correctly and so a little piece stuck out. Imagine having something under your skin that didn’t fit, but was small enough that no one noticed.

I was told to push it, in hopes that it would eventually mold. The only other option was for the doctor to open me up, and I didn’t want to go through that again. So the implant remained, imperfect.

That Thanksgiving, Mom didn’t want to cook, so we went to the officer’s club on Hickam AFB and joined their buffet. I was embarrassed to have a big white bandage on my chin in public. My brother and Tim didn’t say much either. I came up with a weak lie, but no one believed me. It became something we all pretended didn’t happen.

I don’t know how much my mom paid, but she, too, was disappointed after the bandage was removed. I looked the same and no one noticed. Why would they? I never told anyone. I played with it from time to time, pushing in the side, until I accepted it.

And it was my shameful secret until I had to have it removed. After college, I went to see a dentist to get my wisdom teeth removed, the x-ray showed the implant as a mysterious blotch, and after watching Dr. Johnson stare at it from different angles, wondering out loud, “What the hell is that?” I finally had to have an open talk about what it was. As it turned out, the implant had been eroding my chin bone.

When I called Mom to tell her, she went quiet in a way I’d never heard before.

“They have to take it out,” I said. “It’s eating away my chin.”

More silence — long enough for me to wonder if she understood, or if she was trying not to.

“I’m sorry,” she finally said, soft and small.

The words landed, heavy. Too late to fix anything.

“Forget it,” I said, though neither of us would.

Dr. Johnson explained they would remove the implant along with my wisdom teeth. I was extremely grateful he found the implant in time. When he showed me how little of my chin was left, I was scared. I was petrified by the idea that I could have fallen, or gotten hit in the chin, and then what would have happened? Would the lower half of my face shatter like glass?

He was also understanding and calm, and I might have developed a crush on him. I might have blurted out during a visit, “Is it me, or is it hot in here?”

At the local hospital, I was put under. What a bizarre feeling, counting backwards, and then passing out, knowing you were unconscious and everyone was working on you. I woke up with dried blood all over my mouth. And as I was wondering why they hadn’t bothered to clean me up, Dr. Hottie showed up to tell me that everything went fine. When he started to wipe the blood away, I realized I had just gotten out of surgery.

Thankfully, my friend Jen was there to take care of me. She had to fight with the local pharmacy to get my medicine because they said she wasn’t me, and even though she explained that I couldn’t come, they still were assholes about it. Nevertheless, it was heart-warming to have her looking over me from my futon bed in my loft apartment.

Dr. Johnson warned me, though, that it would take time for the feeling to return to my chin. It’s weird to poke a part of your face and not feel anything. Yet, over time pinpricks eventually gave way to full recovery. Although my chin never looked the same. The skin puckers in places, a permanent reminder, but it’s out.

After I was healed up, I joined Jen and our mutual friends for a work reunion downtown. Unbeknownst to me, I had an admirer, who, I later learned, after spotting me from across Main Street ran across to get a closer look, and then proceeded to follow me for the entire evening.

He watched me have dinner with a friend, and then later when we joined the rest of the gang at a local bar, he boldly came up to say hello and introduce himself because as luck would have it, he knew my friends, too! But I barely glanced at him, I was catching up with friends I hadn’t seen in a while. I was also leaving Colorado in three short months, so I was hardly in the mood.

But he was patient, he joined our game of pool and we got to know each other through small talk. It was flattering and fun. Then he enigmatically disappeared. I was a little disappointed, but then I saw him again as I was leaving.

“Hey, I thought you left!” I exclaimed. “What are you doing?”

“Waiting for you.”

He was sitting by the front door with friends, making sure he caught me when I left. He was tall with long brown hair pulled back in a sensitive ponytail. Soft-spoken but adventurous, having hitched-hiked from Michigan to here. He turned out to be all those sexy things you’d want in a summer fling ~ younger and better looking than I thought I deserved.

Between our intoxicating love-making and compatibility, feeding me grapes, or tiny spoonfuls of honey, showing up at my apartment unannounced, he had this peculiar habit of nibbling my chin.

Thank you for reading and listening. If this chapter brought up memories or questions, you’re not alone. I welcome the conversation.