Repost and Share

I spend too much time on Facebook. It is my number one vice and I suppose I need to go cold turkey on it. I've not quite figured out how to see everybody I actually like on Facebook and am convinced that the Facebook scientists have conspired to keep only a few of my friends in my view.

It also would like me to repost stuff from my friends. You know the type of post. These are things that I'm completely heartless about:

I don't love my kids.
I don't hate cancer.
I don't love my parents.
I don't love my country.
I don't read my friends' posts because I don't give them the one word answer as to how we met.
My children do not make me proud.
I am not a proud mom.
I will not try to break Facebook algorithms (particularly because I don't know how to spell algorithms with confidence.)
I don't care about what I'd look like as a movie star or as an old woman. (I actually do these but don't share them typically. They usually turn me into a old white lady so it doesn't make sense.)
I don't support the military, the homeless, the clinically depressed, the gender fluid, the marginalized people, the Bernie Bros, the (fill in the blank, really).

And this is why I don't repost and share.

But... you can repost and share if you agree!

Birds at the DNC

It's been a long time coming. I watched the DNC nominate Hillary Clinton for president from my mother's house in Hawaii. For probably the first time ever, I watched the roll call of states so I could see the actual moment -- the moment when a woman was nominated for president. Like many ex-pats of Hawaii, I still watch for my home state's delegation like they're my own. I wish I could say that I saw the moment that this post is all about as it was actually happening. I didn't. The channel we were watching went to commercial and the Hawaii delegation was in a tiny picture in picture. But here it is in case you didn't see it either.

There was a woman from the Hawaii delegation who flipped off the convention when giving their vote at roll call. She's a white woman. She is a Bernie Sanders supporter. She stood directly behind former Governor John Waihe'e and Senator Maisie Hirono. When Senator Brian Schatz announced, "And fifteen votes for the next president of the United States, Secretary Hillary Clinton," with absolute glee, while watching herself on the ultimate selfie camera jumbotron screen, she flipped the bird.

Glee.

Here is what glee looks like. 

Need another look at that? Here is her face seconds later.

I'm shocked at this woman's privilege but not surprised by it. I find myself seconding the cries of "effing haole," as news stories of this woman's protest and refusal to apologize surfaced. She was stripped of her credentials and barred from attending the last day of the convention. She was decried as not being from Hawaii but Texas.


I know that being a diversity manager, I see the world through the lenses of social justice, of racial and ethnic clashes. I'm keenly aware of culture and privilege and how it changes our interactions in this world. I know it is because I have this racism hammer so everything looks like a racist nail. So maybe I'm biased. But here is what I know, if I had embarrassed my delegation, sure as shit I'd be apologizing.

So why? Because I'm a local? Because I'm a woman? Because I'm Asian? Because I'm compliant? (note: I've never been described as compliant in my life.) Because when I don't follow proscribed rules as a person of color I'm more likely to reap severe punishment than my white counterparts?

A white woman would be unaccustomed to have the constant lessons I had growing up of representing my family, my race, my hometown, my ancestry. Chelsea Kent has never had to be the representative of her race or her ethnicity -- that is the mark of her privilege. She is white. People won't make sweeping generalizations about how all white girls are this way or that. She gets to represent only herself, Chelsea Kent.

Privilege -- it's a tricky term because people think of caviar and champagne, but that's not what it means. It is recognizing that because you are a member of whatever group -- gender, religion, sexual orientation, race, ethnicity, and more -- you may have been blind to other people's struggles. Better writers than I have talked about how Bernie Sanders supporters who are comfortable abstaining from voting this coming fall to avoid voting for Hillary Clinton are showing their privilege. Maybe for them, it isn't their family members who will be deported. Maybe for them, it isn't they who will lose affordable health care. Maybe for them, it isn't they who will be prevented from traveling into the country because of their religious beliefs. Maybe for them, it isn't they who will be endangered or marginalized for wanting to use the toilet.

Chelsea Kent was chosen to be the representative of our state at this event. She crowdfunded her trip to the convention. The trust given her to represent us makes me angry. How many people was she representing and she didn't have the decency to hold them and their wishes with respect?

You might make the argument that dissent is patriotism. That it is important to be able to protest when you feel a system is unjust. I agree with you; I think dissent is good. But could her dissent have been accomplished in the loud boos every time Hillary Clinton's name was spoken, starting at the convocation prayer the first day? Could it have been achieved by the signs held around the Hawaii speakers -- #stillsanders, or "Democratic ? National Convention" the question mark written in by hand, or even the Bernie campaign sign held right behind the head of the former governor?

Here is what is lost.

Every time a kid from Hawaii succeeds -- Barack Obama, Bruno Mars, Marcus Mariota -- we say, "local boy (or girl) does good." The word local is what's important here. Hawaii is a place where so many different cultures came together and while we still maintain our own racial and ethnic identities in many ways, there is a prevailing local culture. I'm reminded of Marcus Mariota's acceptance speech for the Heisman trophy. He broke it down eloquently for us in his gratitude to his o-line, his linemen, his d-line, his team, his coaches, his university, his teachers, the city it is in, the fans of the football program, his high school, his friends, his hometown, his state, his race, his ethnicity, and his family. For that shining moment, he was Hawaii's son -- because he belonged to all of us.

Every local kid carries that with him or her -- that you will represent Hawaii. You have an identity beyond your own person. You respect other peoples culture and tradition and do no harm. You remember that you represent all locals -- all us.

So Chelsea Kent didn't realize that her actions could be generalized to our entire state. She was and is an outsider. Her privilege was showing.

Auwe.

Her eyes are wide open

It was our younger daughter’s birthday on Friday. Our traditional yearly visit to the beach for this occasion was foiled by the weather; 100% chance of rain was the forecast. Instead we strung together a bunch of her favorite things for her birthday. She could invite a friend and we would do all the fun things she could think of. On the agenda:  Riding the monorail to Seattle Center, walking around Pacific Science Center, dining at the Old Spaghetti Factory, wandering the outdoor art exhibit from SAM, and lastly riding the Seattle Great Wheel. All of which was bookended by rides on the ferry across the sound which is its own kind of excitement. 

When we landed in Seattle, the two teens complained that we weren’t going to start the outing with food. They were both hungry so I sent them off with some pocket money and they promised to meet us at the Pacific Science Center. 

When they finally arrived at the Pacific Science Center, I was surprised to find my 14 year old daughter unashamedly jumping into my arms and hugging me like she had been spooked. I hugged her, happy to be embraced but then aware that this wasn’t normal for her out in public. 

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Something’s wrong. What happened?” I asked into her hair, her cheek pressed against my neck. 

“Some guy grabbed my ass when I was walking off the ferry.”

My baby girl had been assaulted by some slimy guy. Sure I felt rage, sure I wanted to cut somebody. But I kept my voice even and asked, “Did you see who did it?”

“No, he got into the crowd before I could react. It was just as we were leaving the terminal, right as we get on the overpass. My brother was walking in front of me so I didn’t look like I was with him.”

This alone broke my heart. The idea that she’d be safer if she were "owned" by a man -- a boyfriend, brother, or father -- was already indoctrinated in her somehow. I’ve never consciously told her that this is how to protect yourself from unwanted attention but I’ve done it myself. I wore fake engagement rings when I was in my early twenties; I remember to arm myself with my wedding set whenever I’m traveling or going out for ladies night. It somehow keeps unwanted attention away. Except that sometimes even that doesn’t work. The whole concept is a holdover from a time when women were chattel and men were our owners. Isn't the fact of our personhood enough? The fact that we are complete human beings should give us the right to control our bodies and be allowed to walk around unmolested.

In the end, she could only remember that he was wearing a hoodie and jeans. She couldn't even tell what race he was. She was absolutely shaken. 

For the past couple of years, I've mentioned to her when I'd caught boys and young men noticing her. She's been oblivious to the attention. It's been really sweet -- this little bit of innocence still preserved in her. When she and I walked in Seattle in the past, we'd heard comments or whistles and while I bristled at the attention, she laughed. She never internalized the threat or recognized it as such. Perhaps it's because the scales fell from my eyes so long ago, I have always been aware of the danger.

But with this assault, her eyes have finally opened.

She recalled to me this past summer when she went to Girl Scout Camp with her troop. The girls were going swimming in Hood Canal and the rocky seabed they were walking on was covered with seaweed so she was trying to be careful where she stepped.

"I looked down noticed that the seaweed was moving funny. It turned out it was one of those green spider crabs. I was just about to step down on it so I'm glad I saw it. Then I looked at the rocks and what I had thought was seaweed was actually crabs. There were hundreds of them. They were everywhere. That's what this is like."

She told me of walking hand in hand with her brother through the pedestrian traffic of Pike Place Market and seeing for the first time the looks from men. The greetings and whistles she had so easily laughed off turned into dangerous situations. Despite her 6'4 brother, she felt afraid. The crabs were everywhere.

So I'm angry.

But the amazing Girl Scout she is, she said to me today, "Mom, this year I really want our troop to work on self defense and personal safety." The Girl Scout process is 3 steps:  Discover, Connect, Take Action. I wish she didn't have to discover and connect with the issue so intimately.

Watch out lecherous jerks, this Girl Scout is about to take action.



*UPDATE* A couple of you have asked me what my husband's reaction was. That evening he was not particularly demonstrative. He was quiet as is his way. But this morning he read my blog and the reactions to the post. He told me that he is certain he'd have been in jail had be witnessed the event. Violence begets violence. It's part of our animal nature. This is what violence against women looks like and why we react with anger and rage. This stuff has got to stop. 

Stars and barred

Last week was one of those homeostatic great times after tragedy. I really do believe that because the devastation of the Charleston, South Carolina mass shooting in which 9 people were slaughtered by a white supremacist 24 year old man, was followed by the SCOTUS ruling on marriage equality. Sometimes I think that our young people will rise above the crappiness of their elders -- that the irrational hatred of another group of people will just disappear. And then it doesn't.

After the shooting there was a call to remove the confederate flag from the capitol of South Carolina. Across the country, people were astonished that the flag still flew. Because they lost. Because the only banner that should fly is that of the United States of America. Because the USA won.

That much most Americans could remember from our 10th grade American History class. But this past week, the history of the Stars and Bars was splashed everywhere on social media and the fact that it was flying over the capitol of an American state is galling.

But I never knew.

Back in the early 90's, Hootie & the Blowfish played the Waikiki Shell. One of my friends invited me to go to the concert with her and some friends. Who didn't like a little Hootie? We didn't have seats as much as we had a picnic blanket and hung out on the lawn with our cooler and some pupus. The concert was going along swimmingly when lead singer Darius Rucker stopped the concert between songs.

The exchange went something like this:

"Miss, I see you are waving the confederate flag. Why are you doing that?"
"Because you're from South Carolina. I am too!"
"Yes, we are. But we don't stand for the kind of hate that flag represents. Please don't wave that here."

A cheer went up when she took her flag down. (You must forgive my dusty memories, but it went something like that. That at least was the gist of the interaction.)

In my ignorance, that little memory was tucked away until last week when it rose up and demanded to be polished. It reminded me how easily we forget the terrible things that have happened in our past. The Stars & Bars are a sigil not of Southern Pride, but of oppression and hate depending on which side of the flagpole you're on.

I'm with Hootie & the Blowfish on this one.

Happy Birthday to George, the 15 year old beagle OR How to tell when it's really a party

George (photo by Robert)

Our neighbors know how to do it up right. Robert and India have a 15 year old beagle named George who has the absolute sweetest smile I have ever seen on a pooch. He is a true southern gentleman with a great doginality and delightful demeanor. He's a little hard of hearing, but when you're that advanced in age I think you can be forgiven such things.

For his 15th birthday, Robert & India decided to throw sweet George a birthday party. Like a lot of kid parties, it really was a gathering of pet parents and their dogs. We brought our Rat Terrier Holly to the festivities. There was a silky Dachshund who spent most of her time in her owners' arms because of a severe dislike of dogs who are larger than she which pretty much meant all the other dogs at the party. Life can be tough when you're little.  There was a personable ~45 pound Cocker Spaniel and an older Benji looking dog who simply kind of felt like he "ain't got time for that," regarding the silliness of the other dogs. There was the year old Wren, a Great Dane. I love that this ~170 pound dog was named after a tiny fragile song bird, but Wren couldn't have had a more gentle demeanor. She was inquisitive and loving. She spent a good portion of the evening trying to engage other dogs with a play stance. That really is something to see!

Wren with John for scale
(photo by India)

India had put a lot of thought to refreshments for the canine and human attendees to the party. She grilled beef burgers which had nothing but beef in them so that they would be dog safe. She washed low sodium bacon in water so that she could decrease the amount of salt in them and grilled them up. The trail mix she set out had peanut butter chips and Reese's pieces in lieu of raisins and chocolate. There were Bugles, corn chips and bean dip for the humans. We pulled beer bottles from a large tub of ice water which turned into an impromptu water bowl for some of the dogs, particularly Wren who could reach the bowl the easiest.

At some point in the evening, I had to leave to pick up my older daughter from her friend's house. I was gone perhaps a total of 20 minutes doing this errand. It was one of those cases of perfect timing.

I returned to the party to the scene of our hosts and party guests with mops and disinfectant. The merits of no-rinse wood floor cleaner were being debated for this bio-hazard type situation. I walked through the house to see that the pressure washer was being used on the deck. I'm pretty sure that wasn't a planned thing.

Like a reporter coming to the state only after a tornado has ripped all the homes off to Oz, I started asking around.

"Ah, you missed it..." just about every story started. The following is taken from first person accounts of the Event.

Miss Wren the Great Dane had eaten before she came to the party. Amounts of the kibble she was given varies according to some accounts. She had been fed upwards of 4 cups of kibble to a metric ton. This reporter is not entirely certain of these facts as she did not see the remains of the Event.

Sweet Wren, delicate thing that she is, started feeling a little off near the front door of the house. A witness claimed that he could see her neck muscles tense and an ungodly plunger like sound alerted all the party attendees that something was amiss. By all accounts, Wren never slowed her stride as she went from the entryway, through the living room, swiped by the kitchen, went through the dining room and out on the back deck. All the while, she spewed, nay splattered the floor and all surrounding areas with the tonnage of kibble, water, and lovely dog treats from the party like nearly full pieces of low sodium bacon and little hamburger patties.

The disbelief of the humans was only second to the disbelief of the other dog party go-ers at their good fortune. There was a literal buffet of dog food on the floor. The humans quickly called on their dogs to "leave it," in regards to the partially digested hamburger patties and bacon. In the dogs' defense, it was the first time they could have gotten their paws on those high level treats without the help of their humans. I hope each one of those dogs got a piece of bacon that hadn't already been inside of another dog as a reward for good behavior.

To give you an idea of the scale of the vomitus that dainty Wren made, Robert wisely got his snow shovel out of the garage to aid in clean up. India said that she couldn't believe that there was still any vomit capacity left in Wren after she left the house and yet there seemed to be exactly the same amount of vomitus on the back deck. My husband said it was as if somebody had a huge sack of wet dog kibble over his shoulder and opened a corner of it while running through the house.

Turns out that sometimes swallowing ice can make dogs throw up. Also, Great Danes have to be careful with having too much water at a sitting. For Wren in particular, she cannot drink unregulated because it does make her vomit. Add to that, she's only a year old and as such is still very much a puppy.

Many of the human party go-ers seemed a little frazzled but for me, I left directly before the Event and returned after all the drama had happened. The clean-up was efficient and effective. India had owned a Great Dane in the past so she's experienced. I can only enjoy the humor.

But hey, how many of us have been to a party where one of the celebrants had a little too much to drink and threw up all over the place?

It might, however, be the first time a snow shovel was used to clean it up.

An Abundance of Julies

There is a new standing rule in my house. I'm not entirely sure how new it is, but my husband has gotten cross with me. This is how many of our conversations go now-a-days.

Me:  I just got a text from Julie. She's finally coming home.

Him: Which Julie?

Me: Julie M. She's been out of country for over a week with that injury. Oh, that reminds me. I need to call Julie.

Him: Julie M.?

Me: No, Julie G. She said she was out of town pretty soon.

I've got an Aunty Julie. My sister-in-law has a Julie sister. There are also the Julias, which are close enough to Julie that there is still confusion. There's Julia J. who sometimes I can remember to call "Hoolia," because that's how her mother-in-law says her name, and Julia S. who is friends with our son. There's even a Juliette but she doesn't come up in conversation nearly as much.

So now he's told me that I may not use the name Juli* without specification of which one I'm talking about. Even Lil't makes me specify which Juli* I'm talking about/to.

I may just have to resort to last names. Or maybe, he could just keep up.

Pigheaded

There is a frozen pig head in my refrigerator. 

In an effort to feed my family better and kinder meats, I split a hog with one of my friends whose brother is a farmer. He raises pigs the old fashioned way -- in the dirt and grass. They live in pens and do piggy things as opposed to being raised in sterile factories, where the workers must dress like lab personnel instead of farmers.

I'd done this once before and when my meat arrived in little packets of chops and roasts, I'd inquired about the pork cheeks, liver, blood, and pigs feet. I thought that if we were buying a whole hog, those things would be included as well. My friend was baffled that I would even consider asking for those parts of the pig. She said that her brother usually gives those to the farmhands. I was disappointed but knew the opportunity would probably present itself again.

This year I was prepared. I asked if her brother could collect the liver, the blood, the pig's face, and the feet. In fairness, he tried. The guy who slaughters the pigs for him put all the pig's internal organs into a huge bucket. My friend's brother looked at the bloody mess and couldn't conceive fishing around for the liver. At the suggestion that he just freeze the whole mess and send it to me that way, I was grateful he decided it wasn't worth the bother. He did his best to give me the pigs feet but they were covered in mud and stuff that surely wasn't mud. Despite scrubbing them in hot water repeatedly, he didn't feel like it was sanitary to send me those. But the head -- the head he could do. They simply lopped that off and froze it whole.

I'd asked for the face! The face! Not the skull. Those tender cheeks and the thought that I could try my hand at sisig was very exciting to me. But a whole head?!?

In theory a pig's head is not a terrible thing to have to cook. There is a long tradition of cooking pig heads in my family. My father would boil the heads before he would roast them. We'd all fight for the ears and the crackling skin. The cheeks were truly delights. There was a vinegary sweet liver sauce that went with the pig head and the next day we'd have a stew called paksiw. At my daughter's baptismal party, we ordered a suckling pig. My older brother took home the pig head as I simply could not bear to deal with the skull.

And now there is a pig's head in my freezer.

So I texted my brother the chef. "I have a frozen pig head. How do I cook it? It's the whole head, not just the face."

He was so excited, he called me right back. Told me that I could boil it then roast it like Dad did. Said that if it were him, he'd probably just roast it whole so it would be easier. But then he had to say the terrible thing. He said, "Oh, if you can, save me some brains. It's better than butter. It's rich and creamy. Some hot brains on toast is the best thing. So good!" I had him on speaker phone. My daughters and husband were in the car when David was waxing poetic on pig brains. I think every last one of us lost all the coloring in our cheeks and a collective shudder rocked the car.

Then I texted my friend Greg who is also a chef. This conversation happened after my phone call with my brother. By this point, I had googled cooking a whole head and all the pictures had me off. I was ready to simply conduct a funeral for the pig's head and have done.

Me: I have a pig head in my freezer. Your thoughts? My brother wants me to debone it. I requested the face, especially the cheeks of the hog. I got the whole head. I wanted to make sisig.
Him: Debone... Save me the brain or a piece... Stock for split pea...
Me: How the heck can I get to the brain??? And also, how do I do this while avoiding PTSD?
Him:  Use a sanitary saw.
Me: I have sanitary napkins. I do not have a sanitary saw.
Him: Do you have the sweet breads too?
Me:  I did not get the offal. You can have all the brains if you hold my hand through this process. And by hold my hand, I mean come over here and help me through it. Otherwise, I'm bringing the head to my brother's house and he can deal with it. I'm seriously out of my comfort zone. Haven't you ever wanted to make your own pancetta?
Him:  Ideally you need a bandsaw.
Me: We have a bandsaw but Rob says no. This experience has the potential of putting me off pork for a bit. 

So for now, there is a head in my freezer. It is thankfully wrapped in a white plastic bag that I cannot see through. But it sits there. Oh yes, like Poe's telltale heart, it sits there daring me to defrost it and get out the brains for the chefs in my life.