road trip in utah

beautiful scenery
Originally uploaded by Jane.

I just returned from the Open Education Conference in Logan, Utah. Viewing fall foliage was a treat.

untitled memoir - version 1

Middle school – sixth grade. I had just returned to the U.S. the previous summer after living in Korea for four years. I had an insulated, pink Mickey Mouse lunch tote that was made in Japan, bought in Korea. It had a large compartment for rice and two smaller containers for banchan . Its Asian pedigree meant that all parts stacked perfectly; a clever, sliding compartment in the bottom hid a folding spoon. Usually, I bought lunch at the school cafeteria, but Mom had packed lunch for me that day. Mom's a great cook. I carried my Mickey Mouse lunch box proudly to school.

Lunchtime – sitting on the concrete stairs behind the library, peers surrounding me. I unpack my lunch carefully, setting the smaller containers next to me on the step. I felt very civilized with my chopsticks, white rice, and banchan. Compared to the aluminum tray of uniformly heated, sometimes unidentifiable food that I normally bought, my home-cooked meal was a treat to be savored.

As I was about to begin dining, I felt the eyes of my peers. They looked at my meal: white rice and a few banchan – I don't remember all the different types. Suddenly, someone yells, "Eww. What's that?" pointing to the tiny anchovies that my mom had fried and prepared. Their bodies had become translucent after contact with the hot oil, and the soy sauce and sugar had given them the color of caramel. Each individual anchovy – less than a centimeter long – was punctuated by two black dots, both the size of a period.

"Are you eating fish eyes? That's gross."

By now a small crowd had gathered. They proceeded to make fun of my meal and me, pointing, laughing, making faces. I suddenly felt helpless. I wanted to stand up and tell them how great my mom's cooking was, how tasty Korean food was… how stupid they were. I said nothing. Tears welled up in my eyes as I remembered how late my mom had stayed up the previous night to make that meal, how much work and care had gone into those crispy fish. I felt so degraded and alone. Satisfied, the crowd dispersed.

My best friend Jessica, a fellow Army brat, saw me and rushed over. She asked me what was wrong. In halted words, I tried to explain what had happened. I was crying so hard that my words didn't come out correctly. I don't know how much she really understood, but as far as she was concerned, all she needed to know was who had made me cry.

"Do you want me to beat them up for you?"

I shook my head.

I was so sad that I couldn't enjoy what my mom had worked so hard to prepare. For her, making those anchovies was probably no big deal; she could probably prepare them with her eyes closed with one arm tied behind her back. For me, however, that lunch represented all the sacrifices my mom had made for me and my sister. She had come to the U.S. after marrying my dad, leaving behind all her family and friends – everything she knew – back in Korea. I cannot fathom what both my mom and dad had to face in adopting a new culture and language. My dad learned English in the Army. Mom took ESL classes while I was in middle school.

As I get older, I am beginning to appreciate my mom and dad as real people with their own dreams, emotions, and problems. Are they happy with how their lives have turned out? Remembering the lunch box incident still makes me sad not because of the bullies, but because of the emotions it invokes concerning my parents and my relationship with them.

my assessment logo

I created this graphic to represent the integration of assessment and design. You may begin with either and spend as much or as little time as you want in that loop before moving to the other loop. The main idea is to recognize that assessment and design are part of a unified development philosophy. One cannot exist without the other.

untitled portrait

On most summer days, fog blankets the Outer Sunset district of San Francisco. Accompanied by wind and heavy with droplets, it can chill to the bone anyone foolish enough to walk on Ocean Beach without a thick coat and a winter hat. This was not one of those days. Hanging low in the sky, the sun cast everything it touched in an amber light. Elongated shadows mirrored the movements of their originators. The surf furled and unfurled, reaching for the shoes and pant-cuffs of passers-by who evaded a potentially soggy walk home with a quick side step. Their four-legged companions cared nothing for remaining dry and dignified.

Down the shore, near dunes draped in drought-resistant flora, a matrix of white figures stood at attention. Had someone collected sand dollars and propped them up in the sand like tombstones? What were the darker, larger figures that stood next to them? Craning my neck slightly, I squinted. Then I walked – slowly – thinking that one more step would satisfy my curiosity and allow me to continue the brisk walk that I had planned. A quick glance down to avoid tripping over an unseen obstacle instead revealed knitted patterns of tracks stamped into the sand. Bigger footprints mingled with millions of small ones, creating an expansive landscape of ridges and shadows in miniature.

What had appeared to be orderly and inanimate at a distance transformed into a vibrant and active scene as my pace slowed to a crawl. I was a cat sneaking up on its prey, legs stopping mid-stride if it sensed that it may have been detected. I spent the next fifteen minutes observing the little shore birds that I had stumbled upon, staying motionless hoping they'd come closer. I dismissed the urge to run through the flock and scatter the birds in a torrent of wings and feathers.

Taken as a whole, the flock seemed to flow like water from one place to another. It was as though the birds were connected by an invisible network of Slinkies. If one took the lead and moved, its neighbors were either pushed or pulled into maintaining their relative positions. When a larger bird decided to land in their midst, it resulted in an avian ripple effect: concentric circles of little birds radiating from the big bird. While the birds’ collective movement inspires awe, each individual’s movement makes me laugh. Watching their legs press up and down faster than a sewing machine needle invokes memories of watching the Road Runner blaze past Wile E. Coyote on Saturday mornings.

My reward for waiting patiently for them to get closer was hearing their voices. The sound of the surf drowns out their incessant chirping unless you are close enough to feel like you are eavesdropping on a private conversation in a crowded restaurant. Satisfied, I left and looked forward to our next encounter.

school lunch exercise

I was not prepared for today's class. I turned in an unfinished draft of my portrait, and I didn't do all the readings. Between the work trip to Chico and the family trip to LA, I didn't have the time or energy to put the necessary effort into my writing. I feel bad about that.

Still, I tried to participate as much as I could in the discussions without being dishonest or wasting anyone's time. Our in-class assignment was to write about a school lunch, preferably one we had brought from home. As soon as our teacher finished his sentence, I knew what I wanted to write about. This was in stark contrast to my experience with our first in-class exercise. I spent the first third of that period wracking my brain for something to write about.

This time, I wrote quickly, trying to capture all the snippets of ideas and memories that were flying out of my head. I didn't do a lot of editing on what ended up on my page. I post this first draft here; I'll be working on it for next class.

*********************

Middle school - sixth grade. I had just returned to the U.S. the previous summer after living in Korea for four years. I had an insulated, pink Mickey Mouse lunch "box" that was made in Japan, bought in Korea. Mom had packed lunch for me that day. Mom's a great cook. I took it proudly to school.

Lunchtime - sitting on the concrete stairs behind the library. Peers surrounding me. They looked at my meal: white rice and a few banchan. I don't remember all the different types. Suddenly, someone yells, "Eww. What's that?" pointing to the tiny anchovies - less than a centimeter long - that my mom had fried and prepared. Their bodies had become translucent after contact with the hot oil.

"Are you eating fish eyes? That's gross."

By now a small crowd had gathered. They proceeded to make fun of my meal and me. I suddenly felt helpless. I wanted to stand up and tell them how great my mom's cooking was, how tasty Korean food was...how stupid they were. Of course, I said nothing. Tears welled up in my eyes as I remembered how late my mom had stayed up the previous night to make that meal, how much work and care had gone into those crispy fish. I felt so degraded and alone. Satisfied, the crowd dispersed.

My best friend Jessica, a fellow Army brat, saw me and rushed over. She asked me what was wrong. In halted words, I tried to explain what had happened. I was crying so hard that my words didn't come out correctly. I don't know how much she really understood, but as far as she was concerned, all she needed to know was who had made me cry.

"Do you want me to beat them up for you?"

I shook my head.

I was so sad that I couldn't enjoy what my mom had worked so hard to prepare. Remembering this incident still makes me sad - not because of the bullies, but because of the emotions it invokes concerning my mom and my relationship with her.

*********************

I read this aloud in class. It was my first time volunteering to read, and I was scared. The emotions are still so real for me and it's so personal. My voice shook a bit, and I forgot to breathe as I often do when I'm nervous. Trying to squeeze out the last few words of a sentence when you don't have air left in your lungs is extremely difficult. My classmates and my teacher were supportive and gracious in their comments. They were very encouraging, and I am looking forward to my task for this week.

warts and all

I am writing from a beautiful hotel in downtown Chico, California. Last night I attended the second meeting of the creative nonfiction workshop that I am taking through UC Extension. We began with a discussion of two portraits. Then we exchanged our own with a partner. Mary Roach, bestselling author of Stiff: The Curious Life of Cadavers treated us with anecdotes and advice about writing.

As I explained last week, I am posting my writing assignments on my blog in order to open myself up to constructive criticism and to try to accept the notion that it's okay not to be successful on the first try of anything. I am not perfect, no one expects me to be, and that's fine. Maybe if I keep chanting that, I'll start to believe it. In any case, here's my first draft of a portrait -- warts and all.

*********************

On most summer days, fog blankets the Outer Sunset district of San Francisco. Accompanied by wind and heavy with droplets, it can chill to the bone anyone foolish enough to walk on Ocean Beach without a thick coat and a winter hat. Fortunately, this was not one of those days. Hanging low in the sky, the sun cast everything it touched in an amber light. Elongated shadows mirrored the movements of their originators. The surf furled and unfurled, reaching for the shoes and pants cuffs of passers-by who evaded a potentially soggy walk home with a quick side step. The four-legged varieties cared nothing for remaining dry and dignified.

Down the shore, near dunes draped in drought-resistant flora, neatly arranged white figures dotted the landscape. Had someone collected sand dollars and propped them up in the sand like tombstones? What were the darker, larger figures that stood next to them? Curiosity drew me toward the formation. Suddenly, I noticed the rich, knitted patterns of bird tracks stamped into the sand. Bigger footprints mingled with millions of small ones. At that moment, I regretted leaving my camera at home. With the sun positioned low on the horizon, the lighting would have been perfect for a close-up shot. How many others had missed their chance at a prize-winning photograph that day?

What had appeared to be orderly and inanimate at a distance transformed into a vibrant and active scene. Captivated by the flock of little shore birds that I had stumbled upon, I spent the next fifteen minutes observing them, staying motionless in hopes that they'd come closer. I didn't know what they were, but I had crossed paths – literally – with one of them before. In our first encounter, I stalked one of them for a while without even knowing it. Because their bodies are brownish except for their white undersides, they blend into the sand unless you're looking at them from the front or sides.

When I walk on the beach, I often find myself walking in the tracks left by the trucks of beach patrol. Perhaps my legs gravitate toward those machine-made tracks because it’s easier to walk in them. Or perhaps I am just a conformist who must stay within the lines. In any case, one day I noticed that another had walked the same tracks before me. Nothing had yet marred the freshly created prints; I was the destroyer-to-be. Looking ahead, I noticed movement away from me. I could only confirm the nearly invisible artist’s existence by the tracks it created in its immediate wake.

What I love about these birds is the way that they move. Their feet move incredibly fast when they're walking, yet their heads stay very still. It invokes memories of watching the Road Runner blaze past Wile E. Coyote on Saturday mornings. Observing the flock, I was struck by the way the birds’ collective movement reminded me of water. Taken as a whole, the flock seemed to flow from one place to another. When a larger bird decided to land in their midst, it resulted in an avian ripple effect: little birds moving away from the big bird in concentric circles.

good as gold

I spent Sunday with an old buddy from college. She has been out of the country for most of the last two-and-a-half years, so we haven't had many opportunities to hang out together. Some friendships are based strictly on proximity. These relationships usually wither and die when one party moves away. True friendships can withstand distance, periods of silence, and differences of opinion. I don't have a large circle of friends, but the ones I do have are as good as gold.

so the tale begins...

Thanks, Raymond, for your well-wishes!

The creative nonfiction workshop that I am taking is off to a great start. I am looking forward to our readings, and I feel like I've already gotten some pointers that will help improve my writing.

Our first in-class exercise required us to draft a portrait. I had a terrible time trying to decide what to write about. I was too shy to read mine aloud in class, but in the interest of learning to take risks and put myself out there, I post it here.

*********************

Tim always greets people in the proper way. He bows and says, "Ahn nyung ha seh yo?" That's typically the most he'll offer voluntarily. Whenever I see him, he offers the same greeting that he gives all adults. We are cousins, but I am older than he is; in Korean culture, that makes a difference.

Tim usually doesn't speak much unless someone asks him a question. He doesn't give verbal indications of his emotions or state of mind. My sister and I try to engage him in conversation; we are getting better at finding topics that interest him enough to carry on a short discussion. My aunt says that she can tell that he likes hanging out with us because she's seen the shy smile that escapes when he's having a good time.

summer begins

I woke up this morning to sunlight streaming through my window. In my neighborhood, that's a big deal. Before I brewed a cup of coffee for myself, I opened all the windows in the house. It's amazing how much weather influences my mood. Hopefully, this is the beginning of "Indian Summer" in these parts.

the problem with perfectionism

One word: paralysis. I can point to many instances where the fear of making a mistake affected the decisions I made in my life. Some of them are fairly innocuous - for example, my reluctance to write or draw in nice, new notebooks for fear of messing them up with frivolous marks. I used to tear out pages from diaries if I thought that the entries were stupid. I wish I still had a record of those thoughts.

Sometimes I shy away from taking on certain responsibilities or tasks because I'm afraid of the repercussions of failure. Part of this stems from the fact that I had to take on a good deal of responsibility as a young kid. I think this is pretty common among first-generation immigrant families. When the best English speaker in the family is a kid, what else can a family do except ask the kid to represent the family when English is required?

I am not really a risk-taker. That might surprise some people, because when the situation has required it, I have stepped up to the plate. I guess that goes with being ultra-responsible. Sometimes I wish that I could be wild and crazy and throw caution to the wind. Somehow, I just don't think it's in my nature.